SILVER CUPS
I remember the song playing on the radio when my father left: “The bells are ringing for me and my gal.”
My mother screaming at him in rage—the twins in saggy diapers crying, holding on to the edge of the crib. I stand next to them with eyes wide—my father tall, black, elegant.
“That’s it, Deliah, that’s it. I’m not going through this again.” He reaches for his hat by the door.
Mother in a white slip holds a drink, swaying as she walks. “You can’t leave me! You can’t leave me here! I stopped singing for you—made you these babies—I could have toured with Ellington that night but I chose you, you!”
She drops her drink, falls to the floor and hugs his leg—like I wanted to, just like I wanted to do, no, Daddy, please don’t go …
“Don’t leave me, Henry, don’t leave me. The children, what about the children, Henry?”
“You don’t cook, you don’t clean—this place is a dump—you just drink, drink! You’re washed up!” He shakes his leg like he is shaking off a horrid creature.
My mother falls to the floor. “You can’t leave me, you can’t leave me, Henry, you can’t leave—”
My father’s face is calm and in control. “Now, Margaret, you take care of these boys.” He nods his head, puts on his hat and leaves.
Mother throws her glass at the door. “You bastard! You’re all alike, you’re all alike!” Glass shatters, door shut, father gone. Twins crying, sagging diapers. I am five. My mother scans the room. I cower.
“It was you—you, Margaret, he left because of you, because you are a bad, bad ugly girl!” She staggers after me—I run and hide under the couch—
“You, come here! Come here!” She grabs for my limbs—I hide way in the back of the couch and press against the wall. Across the room, the twins wail so loud, enough to get her attention.
“Shut up!” She gets up. “Shut up shut up shut up!” She runs to them and I quickly roll out from under the couch. My mother lifts her hand to smack them—I stand between her and the crib as tall as I can be and she smacks me so hard, again and again—
“Shut up shut up shut up!” Until she is a pile on the floor again, the white slip, the shattered glass, the twins whimpering now. The radio still playing:
“The bells are ringing for me and my guy …”
In between my mother’s cries, I can still decipher the melody.
I roll on my side; my back is sore from last night’s beating. The twins are fussing in their cribs. Mother sweeps up the broken glass and changes the twin’s diapers.
“Margaret, give these boys their bottles.”
I slide off my bed, open the ice box and hand the twins their bottles. Their crying ceases as they suck hungrily. My tummy rumbles. “Mama, I’m hungry.” I brace myself, afraid of what she will do.
“I can’t do everything around here.” Her lips press into a line. She washes out a dirty cup, pours milk into it and places it on the table. I don’t move.
“So go on, Margaret, drink your milk. What are you expecting? To drink from a silver cup?”
I cautiously walk to the table. The twins peer at me above their bottles. “Mama, what is silver?”
“Silver is something you will never drink out of; it is what rich people have. Rich children drink out of silver cups, like kings and queens. Now drink up, we don’t want to be late for church.”
Silver cups. I think of little girls and boys with crowns on their heads, sitting at a grand table drinking milk out of magnificent cups. “Lloyd and Hank, you are the princes, and I am the princess, see—see my silver cup?” I lift my chipped ceramic white cup and the twins raise their bottles. “Cheers!” I say as I bump my cup with their bottles.
“Jeers, jeers,” Hank says, clicking his bottle against mine. “Jeers, jeers.” They both laugh, banging their bottles.
“Put on your crowns,” I command, pretending to put a crown on my head. “We are the rich children with crowns on our heads.” The twins giggle. My mother appears, transformed from the white slip mound on the floor to a beauty dressed in her Sunday best: hat, coat, skirt, pumps, stockings, red lipstick and piercing eyes.
“Now come on, baby Lloyd.” She picks him up, cradles him in her arms. “That’s my baby.” Lloyd, the color of coffee with cream, is my mother’s favorite. Hank, the dark one, she leaves for me. She gently places Lloyd down, lifts Hank out of his chair and motions me to get him ready. She kisses Lloyd on the cheek; I do the same to Hank and get him dressed as Mother dotes on Lloyd. “Margaret, get your dress on, it’s time to go.”
I quickly put on my Sunday dress and buckle shoes. Hank clings to my legs.
We walk down the steps of our flat. My mother holds Lloyd and I take Hank’s hand, trying to maneuver the stairs carefully. She pulls the stroller out of the garage and tucks the boys inside with a blanket. It’s a cool, spring morning, winter gone for the moment; the air stings my nose. The tree in the lot beside our building has angry buds ready to burst. It’s my tree, no one else’s tree, only mine. I let go of Hank’s hand and skip to the tree. I reach for one of the gray bare branches, swing my body back and forth and fall to the ground. Hank giggles.
“Come now Margaret, we don’t want to be late,” Mother says impatiently. Her heels click on the pavement as she pushes the stroller. We walk, a long way for me. Mother stops to light a cigarette. With each exhale she lets out a sigh—one hand pushing the stroller, the other hand clutching her cigarette.
We get to the church, the solemn building; Mother drops her cigarette and grinds it to the ground. “Come, children, let us light a candle for the Virgin Mary.” People fill the pews; the priest stands in front of the great cross. Mother lights a candle. “Margaret, make a wish and the Virgin Mother will grant it.”
I know what I want. I ask the Virgin Mother to please send us silver cups to drink so we can be like rich children, like kings and queens. The candle flickers. My mother kneels, crosses herself and enters the pew, and puts Lloyd on her lap. She gives him a pacifier and hands one to me, for Hank. I kneel and cross myself before entering, trying to emulate my mother’s moves. I place the pacifier in Hank’s mouth as he snuggles between Mother and me. Our neighbor Aunt Jo waves at me. I wave back and my tummy rumbles. The kids in the neighborhood call her Aunt Jo because she bakes cookies and gives them to us—that is, if we have been good boys and girls that go to church. Mother sits in a daze as the sermon begins, words mumbling out of the priest’s mouth. I fall asleep dreaming of silver cups.
It smells in the apartment and every so often at night, a rat scurries by on the floor. It must be morning, I can’t tell—all the blinds are drawn. A sliver of light pushes through the drab green curtains. Dust motes dance in the sun like snowflakes. My mother stumbles into the living room in her silk bathrobe, her hair in tangles, a drink in her hand.
“What are you looking at?” She shuffles, mumbling to herself. “That’s what happened. That’s what happened, lost my chance to sing. Oh—I never told you how it happened, did I? Never did. I was a featured singer that night—I felt beautiful—I was beautiful. Your father sat in the audience, summer at Old Orchard Beach Pier. I wore a sequined beige dress that sparkled in the light like diamonds. Yes, a beauty! I was beautiful!” She takes a sip of her drink and spins around. “We were the opening act for the great Duke Ellington! The number I sang was ‘I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good.’ I did alright, I did—sang the words like I meant them. I didn’t know the great Duke was in the audience, but he was, he was. Our time was up, I was leaving the stage and he stopped me—yes, the great Duke stopped me. He told me I sang pretty good and he invited me on tour with him! He gave me his card and your father took my hand and we danced that night to the beats of Ellington, danced all night …”
My mother sways back and forth dancing with an imaginary partner, with her drink. The rat runs past her and I quickly crawl up onto the sofa. I want to go outside and swing on my tree. I want to play with Hank and Lloyd. I don’t dare move, I don’t want to get hit. Mother keeps talking and I stay on the couch.
“We were in love!” She twirls around. “He was successful enough, educated, taught classes on auto mechanics, and fun, fun, fun—handsome—though Mama didn’t care for him. Too black, she said, worried about what our kids would turn out like, not like me, light enough, ’cause of my Irish father—
“Oh Papa, Papa, he’d sing to me every night, he would.” She sings to herself, real soft.
“Henry was going to take me away from there—the dirty distillery, barrels and bottles—he was going to make me his wife, take care of me. I was his wife, had his babies—your father, your father lied to me! My mother was right. I should not have trusted a dark Negro man. I could have gone on tour with Ellington. Your father told me he loved me, he was going to take care of me, take me away from that wretched home, smelly distillers …
“And I let him take me, I let him. I loved your father—Margaret, he lied. He left me to what, to what, Margaret? To this dump! This wretched stink hole and I could have been singing with the great, the greatest of the greats!” She hurls her drink against the door. She picks up the ashtray and throws it across the room. It hits the wall, shattering to pieces. Hank and Lloyd start to cry.
“Nobody cares about me anymore—nobody cares at all. Margaret, never trust them, they will lie to you.” She holds my face in her hand. “All men do is take from you and offer skeletons in return—skeletons! Remember that, remember that!” She picks up a bottle off the floor, carries it like a baby and walks to her bedroom.
It’s nighttime now. Mother is asleep in her room. Twins are whining, we are all hungry; there is no food. I walk into her room. She is passed out on the floor. I nudge her and she mumbles.
She opens one eye. “Is it morning? Time to go to church?”
“No, Mama, it’s nighttime. We’re hungry.”
“Well, I’m sorry we don’t have food. Your father did not leave us anything. Go ask Aunt Jo, go to Aunt Jo.” She turns around and curls up like a baby.
I walk back to the living room; the twins reach out to me: “Mama, Mama …”
I tell them I’m going to get us something to eat. I pat them on their heads and walk out the door to Aunt Jo’s. The streetlight is on; happy voices come from Aunt Jo’s place. My mother says they are Italian. I decide I want to be Italian when I grow up. I knock on the door, no answer. I almost turn back. I don’t want to interrupt the happy voices. My tummy rumbles. I knock again. Aunt Jo answers, brown hair pulled back, apron around a big tummy, jovial face and soft brown eyes.
“Yes, little one, what are you doing out alone?” She has a towel in her hand.
“For what, child? My, you are a mess!” My nose is running and my hair is matted in tangles. I wipe my nose on my sleeve and I start crying and I can’t stop. She presses me against her round warm body.
“There, there, what is it?”
“I’m hungry. My mother told me to come.”
She pauses and shakes her head. “You just wait right here.” I try and make out what Aunt Jo and the other adult voices are saying. My nose is running from all my crying. Aunt Jo comes back with a basket covered with a green cloth. “Now dear, you just take this basket up to your place. You can return the basket tomorrow. Here is a hanky, let me wipe that face. It’s going to be okay, Margaret, God always provides.”
“Thank you, Aunt Jo.”
“God bless you, Margaret.”
“God bless you, Aunt Jo.”
She closes the door. I carry the basket up the stairs, into the apartment.
* * *
I come home from school excited about a new book in my bag to read to Hank and Lloyd. Skipping as I sing my ABCs, sirens interrupt my song. An older neighborhood boy with freckles walks by me with his friend, a shorter stubby version of him.
“What’s that all about?” his friend asks.
“Oh, one of the nigger boys got hit by a truck.”
“Huh.” The stubby boy shrugs his shoulders and they walk by. I stop singing.
I run home and my mother stands in the apartment window waving Lloyd’s shirt at me shouting, “Lloyd! Lloyd! Oh Margaret, it’s Lloyd!” A truck is parked in the middle of the street in front of a small white blanket streaked with red. An ambulance and police cars with lights flashing surround my building. Hank sits on the steps dazed, holding a ball.
A skinny man talks to a policeman. “I didn’t see him, I just didn’t see him.” He runs his hand through his thin hair.
My mother hurries down the stairs, “My baby, my baby!”
She runs toward the street, the policeman stops her. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, seeing him will only upset you further.”
The policeman pulls her back. Mother wails. “My baby, my baby, let me see him—Lloyd! Lloyd!” She waves his shirt, heaving sobs into the policeman’s arms. I sit next to Hank. His tiny hands squeeze the red ball to his chest.
Lloyd is a white lump with red streaks in the street. They take him in an ambulance but he’s already dead. The policeman guides my mother up the stairs. She cradles Lloyd’s shirt. “They were playing ball in the street, just playing ball, they always play ball in the street. Oh my Lloyd, my Lloyd!” The policeman motions us to go inside. Hank won’t move.
“Come on, Hank,” I say; he doesn’t budge.
The officer lets go of my mother and bends down to Hank’s face and tells him that if he comes inside he will get a lollipop. Hank nods and follows behind him. I want one too. The policeman searches his pocket and takes out two red lollipops for Hank and me. My mother sits down on the couch.
“You just stay here until your husband comes home, okay? And ma’am, I am sorry for your loss.” The policeman tips his hat.
My mother mutters, “Officer, my husband is never coming home.” She takes out a cigarette and lights it. I am grateful for the sweet taste of cherry in my mouth. Hank sucks on his lollipop and cuddles the ball. The policeman leaves and shuts the door.
Neighbors bring food for us and try to help my mother. She’s making the funeral arrangements; I haven’t been to school since the accident. Hank searches for Lloyd, I can tell. Hank is lost.
“He’s in heaven now, Margaret, he’s in heaven with Jesus.” My mother has the phone to her ear.
Mother talks into the phone. “Yes, I need to make arrangements for my little Lloyd, to be buried in the church cemetery. Yes, well, we are members of the church and Lloyd was baptized there. What? We’re not allowed? Where am I going to bury my baby! Where? He needs to be put to rest! Don’t tell me you’re sorry! You’re not sorry! He left me, it’s not my fault, he left me!” My mother shrieks into the phone, bashing the receiver on the table over and over. “He left me! He left me!”
Mother doesn’t hear the knock on the door. I open the door; it’s Aunt Beah, her sister. “Oh dear, oh dear.” She rushes to my mother. Beatrice is darker than Mother and fuller figured, with deep brown eyes. She smells of perfume and wears red lipstick. Her heels make a clicking sound on the floor as she passes me.
“Deliah, Dee.” She takes the phone receiver out of her hand. “Dee, I’m so sorry, so sorry.” She embraces her, and Mother almost disappears in her brown arms.
“They won’t bury Lloyd, Beah, they won’t bury Lloyd! Because I’m divorced!” Mother spits out her words. “Now where can he rest?” Where is Lloyd now? Is he lying in a crib until he can get to heaven? I want to see Lloyd again, I want to tickle him and make him laugh. I want to hold his chubby hands and read books to him.
Aunt Beah tells mother not to worry, that she will call the Episcopalian church down the street for Lloyd, then he can rest there. She tells me to put the kettle on for tea. I fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove. Aunt Beah says that God wanted Lloyd for some reason. She puts a saucer and tea cup in front of mother, “Lloyd will rest in peace. I promise.”
Mother sinks down in her chair, waiting for tea.
At the Episcopalian church, we dress in black. Mother sits upright, her black hat and veil covering her eyes. My black patent shoes shine, and my dress is stiff. Hank pulls at the buttons on his black vest. The pew is hard. People come in, somber, to the sound of the organ. And there is Daddy, grander than ever with Aunt Beah by his side. She has her arm through his; I can see her red lips from my seat. I run to Daddy and put my face on his legs, hugging them.
“There, there, Margaret, you go and sit with your mother.” He shoos me away. Aunt Beah smiles at me. Mother turns her head and her expression hardens. I sit back down. The preacher talks a long time. Mother occasionally wipes her eyes with her handkerchief. The preacher stops talking and people rise to view the tiny box in front.
Mother takes our hands. “It’s time to say goodbye to Lloyd.”
We walk to the front of the tiny box. Hank says, “Lloyd? Where’s Lloyd?”
Mother pats his arm. “Hank, we are saying goodbye to Lloyd. He is going to heaven.”
“Lloyd, Lloyd.” Hank cries. She props Hank on her hip, the organ music rises. My mother leans over. Lloyd is faded and stiff like a doll. She kisses his forehead. Hank twists and turns in Mother’s arms. “Lloyd, Lloyd!” As if trying to wake him, he keeps shouting, “Lloyd, Lloyd!”
Mother shushes him. “He’s sleeping, shhh, he’s sleeping.” Lloyd is tucked in the box. I wonder if he’s in heaven now.
In the graveyard behind the church, there is a small rectangle ditch in the ground. The June sun is still bright. We surround the ditch. The preacher stands behind it, deep lines in his forehead, holding an open bible. There’s Daddy again, arm and arm with Aunt Beah. A tiny box is next to the ditch. That is Lloyd’s box. My mother drops to her knees. “Not Lloyd, not Lloyd, not my baby!” Maybe they could take Lloyd out of the box to see if he might wake up. “No! No! Not Lloyd!” my mother cries. Aunt Beah and Daddy hurry over to her.
Aunt Beah touches Mama’s shoulder. “Deliah, he’s in heaven now, heaven.”
My mother flicks Aunt Beah’s hand away. “Don’t talk to me about heaven, you whore! Couldn’t wait to get to him, could you? You’re nothing but a whore!” She starts to swing at Aunt Beah.
Aunt Beah moves back and Daddy comes between them. “Now, Deliah, calm down, calm down.”
“Don’t you tell me to calm down! It’s your fault Lloyd died! Where were you, Henry? Where were you? In bed with her?” She gets up and pounds her fists on Daddy. He catches her wrists. “Let me go! Let me go!” she howls. I hold onto Hank’s hand. All eyes are on Mother and not on the box. She falls to the ground, pulling out grass. “You should have been there, Henry, you should have been there. Our baby’s gone, gone.”
“I know, Deliah, I know.” Daddy lifts her up as Lloyd’s box is lowered into the ditch. “Only the strong survive now, Deliah, only the strong survive.” Mother is broken in Daddy’s arms, barely standing. Hank and I watch them cover the box with dirt and it disappears like a toy in the sand.