Once we learned that our great-great-grandfather on the Charles side was owned by his father, a white man, Fern couldn’t stop looking at Big Ma. Big Ma knew Fern had something on her mind other than when she could lick the cake batter from the bowl.
“All right, Fern. What you want?”
“Big Ma,” Fern said. “May I ask you a question?”
“You can ask,” Big Ma said. “Don’t mean I’ll answer.” Our grandmother knew a tough question when she heard it sneaking up.
“Big Ma, why you wear a wig and an Aunt Jemima rag?”
Big Ma wasn’t expecting that one. Neither was I. “Aunt Jemima, what?” She stopped stirring. “Where’s my belt?”
Instead of jumping behind me like I expected, Fern threw her head back and laughed, all teeth and her pink tongue showing. Then Big Ma laughed.
“Little rascal.”
“But why, Big Ma? Why?”
I knew what Fern was asking. She wanted to know why Big Ma covered her hair when she had nothing to hide. Her hair wasn’t too short or patchy and balding. She didn’t have sores or bumps on her scalp. And even though she insisted we fry our hair to a crisp for Sunday services, she only had to pass the hot comb once, maybe twice, through her own hair on the one day of the week she deemed was proper to wear it without the wig. These days she took to cutting her hair in the back with her dress-pattern scissors to keep it from growing. I used to think it was because she liked wigs better than her own hair or that she thought black people’s hair was bad hair. My mother felt differently about hair, which was one reason why she and Big Ma didn’t get along. Cecile let her hair grow and grow in thick, natural braids, and she stuck pencils and pens in it.
I didn’t understand Big Ma and her hair, but it would have never occurred to me to ask her about it, or ask why ours wasn’t exactly like hers. But Fern was suddenly full of questions, starting with Big Ma’s wigs, scarves, and hair.
“Fern Gaither,” Big Ma said. “What do I look like I’m doing?”
“Stirring cake batter.”
“That’s right. Stirring. Now, suppose you took a big bite of lemon pound cake only to find more of your Big Ma’s hair in it than lemon frosting?”
Fern knew when she was being outfoxed and wouldn’t stand for it. “That’s not what I mean, Big Ma. I want to know why you cover your own hair all the time. Except on Sundays. Then you only wear your Sunday hat with the feather.”
“Because,” Big Ma said, “no one needs to know my family business.”
“You mean about your father’s—”
“Never mind about my father’s people and what’s underneath this wig and scarf. Just you never mind! All you have to do is keep your hair clean, braided, and out of the cake batter.” She went on stirring and muttering, and telling Fern to stop asking about things no one needs to know or there would be no cake for her.