The bell tinkles, but it isn’t Layla. Not yet, but she’ll come. She always does.
The dark scarlet peeling wallpaper in the coffee shop reminds me of Grandma Naomi’s home. I trace it with my fingertips. There was a similar paisley pattern of thick teardrops floating from top to bottom on each strip in the living room. The white of the design yellowed with age, the wood floors creaked and groaned when you stepped on them, but her house was always clean and warm.
You could breathe there. And smile. And laugh. Smell the fresh sunflowers in the vase on the table. Lebanon, my father, wasn’t watching and Mom wasn’t hiding her tears by bowing her head lower than normal while washing dishes, her sorrow in salty droplets hitting the water while she washed plates and cups and forks and sharp knives. I taste something nasty on my tongue like bile or soap or blood when I think of my connection to Lebanon, not one of love or admiration. Lebanon isn’t anything to love. He’s something to be overcome.
But when I sink somewhere deep and dark in my memories, I pull out something golden and good. And I remember Mom and me leaving, in the night, like our ancestors searching for a North Star. And we’d end up on Grandma Naomi’s doorstep, hundreds of miles away.
Sometimes God took pity and answered the prayer of a little black girl and it was peaceful when we’d leave the house with the apple blossom tree in the front yard. But Lebanon would come find us and stand on the porch, for hours or days. Three days was his record. He slept on the porch like a dog.
Then Mom would take pity. Then Lebanon would be nice and maybe make Mom smile or laugh. Lebanon might twirl her around and talk about how pretty she looked on their wedding day, or Lebanon might buy her gardenias and kiss her on her swollen cheek or blackened eye. And Mom would tell Grandma Naomi things were okay and we’d leave. Grandma Naomi would hold on to my arm, say, “Let me keep the girl until things settle.” Or Grandma Naomi would say, “You foolish! He means you no good! Don’t go, baby. Don’t go!”
But Mom would pry my arm from her grip. She’d kiss her grandma Naomi and we’d leave.
Lebanon would be nice for a while. Then mean. Then Lebanon said, “Sorry.” And then we’d all try to forget. Then something would happen. Like it always does. A bad day at work. Not enough money. Someone told him No.
When we stayed at Grandma Naomi’s in Tennessee, when Lebanon didn’t hunt us down right away, I liked to sit and absorb all the silence. There was no crying or fighting. No grabbing or bruising. I’d sit and my eyes would soak in all the details of Grandma Naomi’s home. The feel of the pine floors. The notches on the fireplace, each one its own piece of natural, world-worn art. And on the mantel of Grandma Naomi’s fireplace was one picture in a silver frame. There were three girls and they all smiled except for the girl in the middle. She seemed so familiar. I swear she even looked like me a little or maybe I recognized that same look of desolate sadness. I would make stories in my head about who these three girls were together.
Sunlight from windows bounced off the frame in sharp, naked pieces, and found the grim corners of each room filling them with life, enlarging the space of the tiny raised ranch house so much so that the small living room seemed comparable to a palace.
But I missed Layla. I’d talk to her on the phone. Mom would talk to Ms. Joanna. Mom and I enjoyed our time with Grandma Naomi, but we had our people.
We had our own friendships, and, in those friendships, we had our places, our pacts, our unspoken vows. We had our disagreements and reconciliations. We had each other and that was enough.
Mom had Ms. Joanna. I have Layla.
Layla is smart. People in church talked about that, still do. They remark on how smart Layla is and how pretty I am.
Smart. Pretty. Like no woman can be both. And I suspect church folk, in their own way, mean it as a compliment, but these are the only two attributes assigned to me and Layla.
One time when we were about twelve, in the basement of the church, Layla and I sat in her dad’s office. This was before there were scars marring the skin of my arms. Elder Alma came in with paperwork for Reverend Potter to sign.
“Layla, your dad told me you made the honor roll again. I’m not surprised in the least,” she beamed. “And, Ruby, you just growing up to be such a beautiful young lady. Mmm-hmm.”
And she left and Layla and I laughed. I reached into the pocket of my blouse and handed her a dollar.
“You were right,” I admitted. “Elder Alma just can’t help herself.”
“Or Sister Cullen or Sister Ellison,” added Layla.
“Who knows? Most of the time they’re gossiping anyway! Like we believe they’re discussing Jesus. They barely look at those Bibles!”
But I remember Layla’s face and how it drew down slowly, her smile disappearing. “You know,” she said, “for once I’d like to be pretty.”
“And I’d like to be smart,” I replied.
So it went. People say things so much we believe them, and Layla is good with strategy, but I don’t want her to scheme and plot and plan. I don’t want her to tell me things are going to be okay. I just need her to do something small but hard at the same time.
I just need her to listen. Even if I don’t talk much.
I just need my friend to look at me, be with me. Even if it’s only for a short time.
The bell rings again shaking me from my thoughts and Layla walks through the door. My friend is here.