Garlic walked with me to Mammy's room at the top of the stairs. He opened the door of what I remembered to be Other's room and said, simply, "It's hua's now." For a moment I thought he meant it was hers because she had died in it, or hers because she was laid out in it. As my eyes adjusted to the vanishing afternoon light, in the gloom of closed drapes, as Garlic closed the door between us, leaving me in and him out, I saw the gingham curtains, homespun upholstery, and rag rugs. I saw the few gewgaws and the many small labors: a quilt in the middle of being pieced together, a gown half-made, another rag rug on its way, and I knew Mammy lived in this room.
And she had died in it and would now be laid out in it.
Garlic closed the door and left me alone with her body. I crawled up in the bed and got closer than she would have let me get; closer than she ever let me get. I undressed her and put her into a clean white nightgown. Her huge belly, the white hair between. I looked at her belly and wondered how I had gotten into it and how I'd gotten out of it. I wondered if I had felt strangled inside. I wondered if her love of bigness, the pleasure she took in being immense, had anything to do with a love of carrying me. I hoped that it did.
I wanted to yowl. But my mouth didn't open.
After what seemed like a long while, after it seemed I could never get up from that place, it seemed like I had to get out right then. Get out or be pulled into the grave. Like the angel of death had come and might confuse us. I arose from her bed and smoothed away my presence with my hands.
Across the room from the bed, facing the window, was a high-back chair. She had seen the avenue of trees leading up to Cotton Farm from that window. I slumped into the chair and watched the road as Mammy had watched. Only I didn't know who I was watching for.
I was just there a little while before I could no longer bear the silence or the pain; I willed myself to doze. I don't believe I had been out for two minutes when the door opened.
Other didn't see me. The chairback hid me. I couldn't see her either. But I heard. First she sniffled and cried. Then she whined. She lay her head on Mammy's chest and told Mammy her troubles, like Mammy cared. Like she was telling her to fetch a shawl. She didn't see me at all. Not Other.
Maybe I slumped down low in the chair because I knew she would come. Maybe I sought to hide myself so she might be revealed. Everyone at Twelve Slaves Strong as Trees knew the story of how Other threw herself and some kind of vase at Dreamy Gentleman and of how R. heard it because he was lying down on a couch unseen. It was the one story he told me about her. And I told it to the community. Strange how on the pillow you get them to tell you—not the things you want to hear, but the things that may kill you. It was on the pillow he told me his soldiering tales.
I cleared my throat, paused a moment before rising—she could wait to see who had heard—then I rose. I stand a good three or four inches taller than she does. But her waist is smaller. Mammy used to tell me that. There are things of mine that she has taken. I could not let this hour, this visit be one of them.
She was scared, and for the first time in my life I saw her scared without her angry.
I knew if I said boo, she'd run out the room.
So I said, "Boo."
Or I said, "My mother and I want to be alone, ma'am. Captain R. sends his condolences, sho do. He sent some fruit for you. Sent some for me and all the folks here too."
Other ran out the room, crying.
I stepped to the door, calling softly, "Ma'am? What must I do to comfort you?"