Chapter 9

“Without A Song”

Violet

Greenville, 1927–1930

After Gray died, Violet discovered the power of words. Words could bring people together, as they had with her and Gray, but words were also useful for keeping people away. Violet developed her harpy’s tongue carefully, trying out various ways to make sure that losing someone would never make her feel the way she had when Gray died.

It was difficult at first, because she still had Merline to care for, and the girl was too young to understand the dangers of love. Some days Violet shuddered when she looked at two-year-old Merline, with her cheerful smile and her long, wavy hair. Beauty was part of the problem with love. Beauty drew people toward you, made them persistent and foolish. She would have to be very clever to save this girl.

Violet herself had once been pretty, too. But Gray’s death had dulled her eyes and left a permanent frown line between her eyebrows. She stopped caring about how she looked, and food became the only friend she would allow into her life. She did not cook except when absolutely necessary, and when she ate, she filled her stomach until it ached. She wore oversized, plain clothes that covered her thickening body, and she kept her hair in two tight braids on each side of her head. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and she stopped wearing the thin wedding band Gray had given her.

One of her neighbors ignored her better judgment and approached Violet one year after Gray’s death. It was almost Christmas, a holiday that Violet had not acknowledged in any way. The house, as always, was spotless and orderly, but there was no Christmas tree, no stocking, no ornaments to suggest that this time of year was any different from any other.

Paulette Cross lived less than a mile away in a cabin much like the one Gray had built for his family. In fact, her husband, John, had worked labor jobs with Gray. John Cross was the one who had led Gray to these plots of land available to colored families. There were fewer than ten families living in the area in 1927, but the number would grow until there was an entire neighborhood of Negroes who did menial work for the whites of Greenville.

Paulette and Violet had been friendly before Gray died, but not exactly friends. The Crosses were in their early thirties and had four young children and, in 1927, had another on the way. They were busy working and parenting. Violet and Gray had only Merline, but lived in a cocoon of love that Paulette secretly envied. She saw them walking once when Violet was very pregnant, and they were so wrapped up in conversation with each other that they walked right by without seeing her.

Paulette had been one of the women who had helped Violet the day she learned of Gray’s death, and she had cared for Merline during those early days when Violet was insane with grief and anger. Months had passed since then, and Violet had ignored or rebuffed Paulette’s efforts at friendship with caustic language and narrow-eyed stares.

But it was Christmas, a time for camaraderie. Paulette attributed Violet’s behavior to grief and went over to the Grimes’s cabin carrying a large tray of homemade cookies and a large, red velvet stocking she had sewn for Merline.

Violet tried to ignore the knocking at her door. Merline was playing with a set of wooden blocks Gray had cut and sanded before she was born. Her mother sat at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette. She had recently begun smoking to give her hands something to do, to keep her mind focused on the rush of nicotine instead of what she had lost. It took a full year before she realized that thinking was part of the problem and if she kept busy, there would be little time for contemplation, crying, and rage. Emotions were a luxury that Violet was willing to leave to the rest of the world.

The knocking stopped and Violet thought that whoever it was had gone away. But in a moment, the knocking returned and Violet heaved herself up from the table. She told a curious Merline to stay where she was and went to the door.

Paulette was determined not to leave without accomplishing her mission, and no matter what Violet said (Paulette disguised her shock at Violet’s rude language) and no matter what Violet did (planting herself in the doorway with a wide-legged stance), she was going to get inside that house one way or another.

The two women went back and forth in the doorway for a long while before Merline’s tinkling voice interrupted them.

“Cookie! Mama! Cookie!” She looked up at Violet, a pleading look in her eyes, her lower lip just slightly pushed out as if to show she was capable of a tantrum if pushed far enough.

Violet pursed her lips in what passed for a smile, rolled her eyes at Paulette and stepped aside.

After sending Merline off with a cookie in each hand, Paulette sat down at the kitchen table without waiting for an invitation. Violet sighed at the woman’s persistence and reluctantly sat down in a wooden chair across the table from her. She found her matches in her pocket and lit a cigarette. Paulette, a member of the Second Baptist Church Women’s Committee, did not approve of smoking, but she felt that a woman like Violet was entitled to a vice or two to get her through the days.

Paulette looked around the organized kitchen, with Merline’s pile of blocks in one corner and the neatly ironed curtains at the window, pleased to see that Violet wasn’t living in filth or neglecting her child, as was rumored. She knew better than to listen to gossip, especially from Second Baptist women who had been jealous of Violet’s face and figure since the moment they’d met her. Now, she noted, that figure had grown plump, and the face had a hardness about it that had not been there before.

Violet smoked and waited. She had let Paulette in, but she reminded herself that even a friendship could be taken away, and she was not planning on dealing with any more loss. She would not allow the kindness in Paulette’s dark eyes to beguile her. A tiny part of her yearned for someone to talk to, someone to laugh with, someone to fill the terrible quiet that filled her mind. But, no, it was too dangerous.

Paulette cleared her throat. “I’ve been worried about you. How are you, Violet?” Her voice was soft and sympathetic, but not pitying. She didn’t feel sorry for Violet, unlike other people in town. She felt sorry that Violet had lost Gray, and, in her mind, there was an important difference between the two.

Violet noticed this distinction, her eyebrows raising slightly. Others had approached her with pity or condescending offers of help. They assumed they knew how she felt, knew what she needed. Paulette was the first person in a year to ask her how she felt.

Because she believed Paulette was sincere, she took her time answering.

“I am angry.”

She was angry at the white men who had made an example of her husband. She was angry at her husband for insisting on what he called his “small moments of revolution.” She was angry at herself for not listening to Rose, who had seen the truth about love. Angry.

Paulette nodded slowly. Others who had been rebuffed by Violet had said she was stuck-up and considered herself too good for their help. They had called her proud and difficult, and they had abandoned their efforts without trying to see things from her perspective. When they imagined how Violet must feel, they put her feet in their shoes instead of the other way around.

Paulette remembered how Gray and Violet had looked at each other. They had each other and needed no one else. She had felt jealousy when she first knew them, but now she felt a secret relief that she did not love John in a way that would make it impossible to love anyone else.

“What will you do?”

Violet finished her cigarette and stood up to pour two cups of coffee, not offering any sugar or milk when she shoved the second mug across the table to Paulette.

Merline had toddled back into the corner to play, her belly full of sugar and chocolate. She smiled sweetly at Paulette and Violet and then resumed unintelligible chattering as she stacked and knocked over the blocks.

The two women watched Merline for a moment. Violet’s eyes were still on her daughter when she answered.

“I will take care of Merline. I’ll make sure she eats, goes to school, has a place to live,” she said, her voice low and cold. “But I can’t love her. I loved Gray and I lost him.”

Violet lit another cigarette, her eyes still on her daughter. Paulette looked from Violet to Merline, feeling overwhelmed by the tragedy that was unfolding before her eyes. She had never heard of such a thing, a mother who said outright that she would not love her child. She wanted to feel outrage, wanted to find words to shame Violet, to make her see that feeding and housing a child wasn’t enough. Children needed love to grow properly.

But who was she to lecture this woman who had lost the most important person in her life? Paulette knew what it was to lose a loved one, and she would love her own children no matter what. Paulette absently rubbed her rounded belly, feeling for the kick of the six-month-old boy or girl growing inside her.

Violet finally looked back at Paulette, giving her that pinched hint of a smile. “I’ll bet you’re hoping for a girl,” she said softly.

Paulette smiled. “After four boys, I think it’s time I got a girl.”

Violet nodded and stood, leaning over to snub her cigarette out in the ashtray. Taking her cue to leave, Paulette followed her over to the front door.

“If you need anything…” she began.

Violet shook her head. “You’re a good person, Paulette Cross, and I thank you for coming over. But I can’t be your friend. I hope you understand.”

Paulette did, although that understanding made her want to cry. They bade each other goodbye, and walking home, Paulette said a prayer for Merline and Violet.

* * *

By 1930, Violet thought she had hardened her heart for good against any sweet-talking man brave enough to approach her. Not long after Gray died, Violet had discovered the deadening pleasures of alcohol, and she got so she could drink just enough to become numb, but not enough to get drunk. Prohibition made drinking a bit more trouble than it would later be, but people like Violet, people who needed to drink, found their ways to do so with minimal fuss.

She practiced drinking until she perfected the approach to that perfect peak, the point when her cheeks started to feel numb and her joints felt limber. She knew she had achieved that perfect buzz when her fellow drinkers seemed to think her smiles were genuine, when people spoke in a friendly manner but did not talk more than was necessary to maintain civility in the local drinking hole.

Bigger cities had speakeasies that catered to fancy crowds, but in Greenville, there were just a few small cabins that served as normal homes during the day, social clubs at night. These were run by entrepreneurial Negroes, usually young men with the energy, creativity and savvy to figure out ways to make the law look the other way. Violet’s favorite spot was called Sonny’s. It was not far from her house and she could walk over for a few drinks on Friday nights after Merline had fallen into a deep sleep.

Mostly couples and older single men patronized Sonny’s. Violet was notable in that she was the rare young woman who drank at Sonny’s but was not discreetly offering her services as well. A couple of men passing through Greenville had mistaken Violet for a working girl. The look in her eyes quickly disabused them of this notion. Sonny’s regulars knew Violet and knew what she had lost, so they left her alone to her drinking. As long as Violet kept to herself and made no trouble for anyone else, people saw no reason to judge Violet’s love affair with gin and juice.

Violet had begun to believe she was invulnerable to men, to love, to loss. But one night there was a new face at Sonny’s. He was tall and lanky, a string bean of a man with sly eyes and a low laugh that sounded like velvet. Violet, as usual, spoke to no one as she nursed her drink, but she noticed that the newcomer came to Sonny’s every Friday night for a month. On the fifth Friday, he approached her.

“You always drink alone?” His voice was deep and smooth, his words like a whisper in her ear, even though he had slid into the chair across from her at the small table for two that she always occupied alone.

It had been a long week for Violet. Merline was now five years old and asking about her father. She had told her daughter about Gray, but the child wanted to hear things over and over again, and every time Violet talked about Gray’s life, she relived his death.

“I’m not looking for companionship. At least, not the kind that talks,” she said, giving the stranger her most withering glare. It would have been enough to send a local man away, but Violet didn’t know this man, who wore scuffed boots, a clean white shirt, and denim work pants. He had a closely trimmed goatee, which made Violet think he was vain.

Instead of leaving her table, he leaned back in his chair and grinned at her.

“You’re tough, huh?”

She ignored him.

“Can I at least buy you a drink?”

Violet looked at her glass, She could feel the telltale numbness in her cheeks, her signal to finish the drink she had and head home to check on Merline and fall into a troubled sleep before waking the next morning with a headache and a furry tongue.

“Come on. One drink can’t hurt, right?”

There was mischief in his smile, and Violet felt a flash of white pain in her belly, as it reminded her of Gray. She did not want to think of Gray, and now he filled her thoughts. Damn it.

She sighed. “Just one.”

Violet woke up early the next morning, her head pounding, her mouth wooly. She turned her head on the pillow, and saw the stranger from Sonny’s snoring next to her. She groaned softly with regret, remembering bits and pieces of the night before.

Nine months later, Duck was born. When her second daughter asked about her father, Violet refused to provide details, only saying there wasn’t much to tell. It was true, in a way. She hadn’t asked that stranger’s name, and he hadn’t asked hers.