OTIS AND ANNIE, ANNIE AND OTIS

           My parents, then

She’s a gum-crackin’, bowlegged, church-decent gal, raised up,

looks like, by a mama who prayed and aimed her toward right.

I feel a rumbling ’neath that skirt tho, some rhythm of city

she left Alabama with, a little bit of Chicago that chile

just couldn’t keep outta her strut. Careful with this one, Otis,

cause that gold flashin’ in her mouth ain’t intended for God.

I’ll dress like a real upright Christian for a few days, let her see

me sharp and crease up and smellin’ sweet. I’ll say Annie

like it’s the first word I learned and the last one I’m gon’ say.

But I won’t be crossing the line, having that woman think

I’m the marryin’ kind. She start dreamin’ on a white dress

and babies wearin’ my face. Lawd, that ain’t what I want.

           Is there a life outside of Jesus? Then that’s what I want,

           at least for a few days. Nights. I wanna put my hair up,

           pour myself into something shiny, open my mouth and say

           what I feel like sayin’, for a change. Gon’ buy me a gold dress

           with pearl buttons, a split up both sides. Cause I ain’t a child

           no more, hanging onto Mama Ethel’s hand. Next time you see

           me, you won’t know who you’re staring at, no way you look right

           past me. I’m an up-North woman now. It’s about time Annie

           Pearl growed up, found work that ain’t in dirt, learned some city

           words. Don’t want nobody calling me country, folks thinkin’

           Alabama can’t be shook off and thrown out. So I pray to God

           every night for that dress money. And maybe that man. He named Otis.

So I iron my good shirt, clean up, say “My name’s Otis,”

and she smile behind her hand like she don’t already know. I want

to just rush thangs and feel all my body pressed on her, but God

still a somebody in my head, and Annie Pearl still be His child.

So she’s saying things I should be hearing, but all I can see

is stuff I’m not lookin’ at—that rumble in her clothes, moon up

’gainst her skin, all that down-South brown looking just right

up here on the West Side. I know she a little scared of the city,

she dressed up like a big girl, putting on airs to make me think

she more woman than she is. But she woman enough. I say,

“You know, you look real pretty in that dress . . . ,” though the dress

is plain, gray, and sewed flat. Then I add her name, “. . . Annie.”

           I go a little crazy at the way he say my name. He say, “Annie”

           like it’s the first word he learned. So I feel his name, Otis,

           in my mouth before it come out. Then I pull it out slow, and I see

           his eyes get real wide like he about to outright praise his God

           because of what I said and how I said it. Ain’t gon lie, chile,

           that felt good. But I ain’t foolin’ myself—he ain’t everything I want.

           Like me, he lookin’ for some kinda job, living in his one room, and I think

           I might not be the only woman he talkin’ to. But he’ll do me right,

           and I sho need some kinda strong man stand beside me in this city,

           while I find me a church and someplace better to live, a real address

           where folks from down home can find me when they take the bus up.

           So I say, “I been watching you a long time.” That’s what I say.

So I’m trying not to look at what I’m not looking at, and she say,

all bold, “I been watching you a long time,” and I say “Annie,

you sumthin’ else, you know?” but what I’m thinkin’ is, God,

we stuck in this little talk. “You know, Miss Annie Pearl, I think

we need to go someplace, have us some food, maybe up

there on Madison, someplace close like that chicken joint right

down the street from the tavern?” She smile and I swear I see

something I hope I see again, what I think I see is some child

in her, all worked up ’bout going someplace new in the city,

even a hole-in-the-wall with burnt wings most folks don’t want.

She say, stiff like white folks, “I-really-would-like-that-Otis,”

but I see her frowning a little when she look down at her dress.

           I woulda felt real slick walking into that chicken place in a dress

           with pearl buttons and splits on both sides, but Otis grin and say

           I look good in the dress I was in. That the first time I thank God

           for him, even before I took him in my bed, tasted his mouth, I think

           it was knowing he care ’bout me enough to lie, say I’m a pretty chile

           when I’m not. I feed him with my fingers, let him eat fried bread right

           off my plate while folks who know him whispering. I let them see

           who he was gon’ be with, the woman he was gon’ be pressed up

           ’gainst from now on. Wanted to yell at them women “I’m the one he want!

           Tell everybody you know, here and in Alabama too. My name is Annie,

           and starting right now I want you to know that this is my man Otis.”

           Don’t know what made me think crazy like that. Sounding like the city.

Done heard it before, and now I’m ’bout to believe that the big city

ain’t no place for a woman and man. Every day, that woman got to dress

my wounds, hear about the ways I done got beat down, she get to see

my head bowed all the damned time. I really try not to show my Annie

how small I feel on the factory line, try not to let on how much I want

just for me, before I even think of me and her. Like a fool, she lift me up.

I’m steady riding her shoulders, promising the world. It ain’t right,

that I can’t give her what she’s dreamin’ on. I know she startin’ to think

maybe I’m not the man who deserves her gold. I’m just a plain Otis—

damn if that ain’t a country name—and at night I hear her ask God

for something more. I play cards, sip my JB, run out of things to say

to her. Cause she thinks a baby will save us. Lord, she wants a child.

           I know, a woman got to be a natural fool to want to bring a child

           into this mess of broke glass and nailed-up doors, this goddamn city.

           That’s right, country girl lose Jesus now and then, you heard me say

           it, goddamn, sometime I close my eyes and can’t feel my God.

           I sit up at night, staring at them dirty city stars and waiting for Otis

           to knock on my door. I don’t have to wait long, never do, cause I think

           that wherever he is he can feel me wanting. I hear him coming up

           my stairs, seems like slower each time, and when I open the door I see

           what I’m afraid I’ll see, that maybe he got no idea at all what I really want.

           Maybe I done gave up on them pretty pearl buttons, that shiny dress.

           I don’t touch him. He put his rough hands soft on my face, says “Annie,

           you want all of me, think I’m a marryin’ man? Then let’s make it right.”

I can’t look in her eye, seeing all that lonely, and think I got a right

to keep being me instead of doin’ right by the bowlegged ’bama chile

I talked into loving me. My heart ’bout blows up when she say “Otis,

you mean it? You mean it?” And I hear myself say yes. I pick her up

and press her whole body to me and just for that second the city

disappears, Chicago and all its lies are gone, and I say “Annie,

you need to be my wife,” and I know I’m sayin’ it just so I won’t see

that longing in her no more. I can’t believe I was fool enough to think

I could have my drink and my fast city women, then come home, say

“Baby, it’s hard out there,” and she would hold me, wearing that dress

that’s plain, gray, and sewed flat, and that all she’d ever want

was just that—a cheater in her arms, steady making his promises to God.

           I don’t know how I’m gon’ handle this thick in my body, God,

           without Otis knowing it. He’s gon’ be a father, and he sho’ got a right

           to know that, to know that our lives gon’ be changed way before we say

           them vows, he got a right to know how many ways this big ol’ city

           gon’ get harder for us, the three of us. When he come home, say “Annie,

           it’s gon’ be all right,” he talking just ’bout just me and him—he adding up

           our money every week, trying to cut down on the times he see

           his other women, coming home for dinner most every night. Otis

           is probably somebody’s daddy already, somewhere, so why I think

           this gon’ hit him so hard? Maybe it’s because I think this child

           is gon’ be everything we have—I’ll feed it, rock it to sleep, dress

           it in pink or blue and pretend that it’s all we ever gon’ want.

So it look like Annie Pearl ’bout to get just what she want.

I done seen pregnant women before, how they walk, cry how God

suddenly got a place in everything they say. I sit her down, say “Annie,

I ain’t no boy. And I ain’t no fool either. I know you carryin’ a chile,

and I know that chile is mine. Folks have babies all the time in the city,

just like they did down South. Sure as my given name is Otis,

I’m gon’ be here with you, do you right, and I’m gon’ have a say

in how this child grows.” I know she scared. I know she think

I might be the wrong man, that I can’t hold still, and she right

’bout that, but a chile can make a man change. We gon’ fix up

our lives, make a place for this baby. I’m gon’ get her that gold dress

’fore she get big, before her belly out there for everybody to see.

           Otis could be the wrong man. So many folks saying I need to see

           that. So I pray on it. Most times, he’s just a little of everything I want.

           When he don’t come home for two, three nights, I ask God

           to change his ways, or at least keep him alive. When this hungry city

           open its mouth and he walk in again, I got no idea what words to say

           to get him home. When I hear ’bout them other women, how they dress

           tight, wear red lips and laugh with their mouths wide open, how Otis

           spend money on that laughing, how he rock me soft, saying “Annie,

           baby, it’s hard out there,” while I get bigger and bigger with this chile,

           I just cry. And then I scream. Cause there’s this pain like a knife slice right

           where my baby supposed to be. Whether that man here or not, I think

           this ’bout to happen. Chile moving fast, not giving me time to catch up.

Whenever I think about Otis and Annie, two stars orbiting the city,

there’s no way I can say how they found each other. But I can see

how the child who became Patricia Ann is equal parts of both of them.

Otis and Annie, maybe with the help of some fool’s God, etched a road right

up Chicago’s middle and placed a confounded child there. And that gold dress

that Otis, my daddy, promised his Alabama girl? It never stopped being a want.