You would think that having all of us together would heal old wounds. After three nights of gathering around Ma Charles’s table for supper, Vonetta wouldn’t soften. Uncle Darnell stopped looking her way while he told stories about his job at the textile mill over in Prattville. He stopped waiting for her to chuckle at the funny parts or give him the smallest forgiving sign. He finally said as he passed the biscuit platter, “Vonetta, I’ve already apologized. I was a different man then. But as far as I’m concerned I’ve made amends. That’s all you get.” And when he passed the gravy boat her way, he could have been passing it to anyone but his favorite niece.
“Vonetta.” Fern and I ganged up on her before nighttime reading, prayer, and lights-out. Vonetta rolled cow eyes up at us in place of answering as we stood over her.
“You make me sick,” I told her.
“You make me sicker,” she snapped back.
The quickness of her reply made Fern go, “Oooh.”
“Uncle was sick. He’s better now. Or he’s getting better.”
“And he’s sorry,” Fern said.
Vonetta fired off another one. “He broke my jar and stole my money.” From the shine in her eyes, it might as well have still been the Sunday afternoon that we had come home from church and found the jar broken and all the concert money gone, except for a few coins. “I didn’t get to see Michael, Marlon, Jermaine, Tito, or Jackie at Madison Square Garden.” She pointed a finger on one hand for each Jackson and was breathing hard when she’d stopped naming and pointing.
The disappointment and loss of not going to the concert suddenly overwhelmed Fern. “Yeah. We didn’t see Michael.”
“It wasn’t just your money,” I told Vonetta’s stubborn lip. “It was ours. All of ours. And we didn’t get to see the Jackson Five. We.”
“We surely didn’t.” Fern slid back to my side. I knew I could count on her for support.
“You weren’t the only one who missed the Jackson Five,” I told her.
“Surely weren’t.”
“Uncle said he was sorry, Vonetta. And he means it. He’s better.”
Vonetta’s neck went rolling along with her cow eyes. “If you want to accept his sorry, then go ahead, you sorry, sorry sisters.” And then she stood up to me like she was going to slug me. Vonetta had grown taller but not tall enough to stand eye to eye with me. She still had to look up.
“You’ll be sorry in a minute,” I warned her.
She stepped even closer. “Oh yeah?”
She pushed me with all her might and I tottered back a step but not much. I gave her a hard, swift push and she fell onto the bed. Then she let out her war cry, just like she did when she hollered in her crib. That only told me she was fueling up to spring back, so I met her fast and shoved her back down onto the bed. Uncle charged into in the room and pulled me off of her.
“What are you two fighting about?”
Big Ma was right behind him. “Don’t let me get my strap. Carrying on like hopping mad kangaroos in a boxing match. Delphine, you know better than to jump on your baby sister.”
Fern took offense. “I’m the baby sister. She’s the old middle.”
Before Vonetta could answer to being called the old middle, Uncle said louder, “I asked you, what were you two fighting about?”
I didn’t say anything and neither did Vonetta. But that didn’t stop Fern.
“Vonetta said she—”
Uncle Darnell held up his hand. “Didn’t ask you, Li’l Bit. I asked them.”
We both said in almost one voice, “Nothing.”
“Wild,” Big Ma scolded. “Just wild. Send them to Oakland to see their mother and they come back wild. Your father brings Miss Women’s Lib into the house spouting her nonsense and my grands they think they’re wild and free. No one knows how to be a young lady. No sir. No one knows how to be a young lady.”
“At least you still know how to be an old lady, Big Ma.” I do believe Fern meant to say something nice.
Uncle laughed and Big Ma swatted Fern’s backside, but not really. Not like a whipping. I felt myself easing up but Vonetta stayed tight-lipped with arms crossed.
“Shake,” Uncle told us. “Go on.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Vonetta sniped.
Then Big Ma, who’d been jollied out of her fussing, was once again sharp and angry. “You’re asking for my strap but my backhand will do just fine,” she told Vonetta.
Uncle said to Vonetta, “I’m your uncle, not your equal. Don’t you ever mouth off to me. Do you hear me, girl?” All I could think was how far from “Net-Net and Unc” they’d become. Now Uncle Darnell was more like Papa than Papa.
Vonetta nodded, but Uncle Darnell wouldn’t take her nod like he might have done before. Back when he was young with a face full of dimples and danced the Watusi even when that dance had been long out of style. He said, “What was that?”
“Yes.” The word dragged and hissed out of her mouth.
“Yes, what?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
I knew Vonetta was hurt to have to “sir” Uncle Darnell when Papa had only made us “sir” him once that I could remember. Neither Vonetta, Fern, nor I liked saying “Yes, sir.” “Yes, sir” was how Big Ma told us we’d better answer a white man, no matter how young or old he was.
“Now, shake,” Uncle Darnell said again.
Vonetta stuck her hand out to me and I shook it. Then we pulled our hands apart.