Suzan-Lori Parks - Getting Mother’s Body

He says the hole he’s digging is hole enough for two.

He says he’ll put me down there in it

And put my boyfriend in it too.

He says he’s just pulling my leg, but I got to play it safe

He says he’s just pulling my leg, but I got to play it safe

I done packed up all my clothes, I’m gonna leave this big old holey place.

Everybody’s got a Hole. Ain’t nobody ever lived who don’t got a Hole in them somewheres. When I say Hole you know what I’m talking about, dontcha? Soft spot, sweet spot, opening, blind spot, Itch, Gap, call it what you want but I call it a Hole. To get the best of a situation you gotta know a man’s Hole. Everybody’s got one, just don’t everybody got one in the same place. Some got a Hole in they head. Now, you may think “Hole in the head” is just another way of saying stupid, but “Hole in the head” means more than that. It means that they got a lack and a craving for knowledge. Not just the lack, now, but the craving too. A man could have a Hole just about anywheres: in the head, in the wallet (which means he burns his money), in the pocket (which means he don’t got no money to burn but would like some), in the pants, in the guts, in the stomach, in the heart. You offer a person with a Hole in the head some knowledge and they gonna be in yr pocket cause you done gived him the opportunity to taste what he craves, but if a person’s got a Hole in they heart and you offer them knowledge, you won’t be able to sway them none. A Hole-in-the-heart person craves company and kindness, not no book.

I’ve never seen a girl so happy as Billy Beede walking out my store right now with her wedding dress and them matching shoes all wrapped up in my white store box. Mr. Jackson can say what he likes but it’s the formal-wear business that’s about making people happy. He says the funeral business is about making people happy but I’ve never seen no one smiling at a funeral. He doesn’t think Lincoln’s got the economy to support a formal-wear store and, tell the truth, I don’t turn a profit. If it weren’t for people dying, we would be out on the street. But, seeing as how folks do continue to die, I can, every once in awhile, afford to sell a hundred-thirty-dollar dress and a pair of twenty-dollar shoes for sixty-three dollars. Seeing as how the Funeral Home is doing so well, and folks is always continuing to die, and Jackson’s is the most respected Home, black or white, in the county, which means folks come out of their way to have us help them in their time of grief, and seeing as how Billy has her dead mother buried all the way out in Who-Knows-Where, Arizona, and seeing as how her Mr. Snipes, the man Jackson says is trash, has done right and asked her to marry him, I figure I can sell my showcase dress for the price she can afford.

Laz is gonna be broken up about it. He’s had his cap set on Billy Beede for the longest. Too long, I told him when he said he’d seen her running with Snipes. Much too long, Mr. Jackson said when we all seen Billy’s belly. Just cause you set your cap on someone, don’t mean she’ll set her cap on you.

You have to make the best of what God gives you, that’s what I say. That’s how I live my life. Married Jackson when I was not but fifteen. I was in the family way, but not like Billy Beede. My Israel had already spoken for me, and my mother and dad both were living. I was showing but I could walk around this town with my head up. Not like Billy Beede: shoulders pinched together, her head hanging down like a buzzard.

Me and Israel didn’t plan on getting married so early but we did. I had hoped to have a slew of girls. We had two boys. I had hoped Siam-Israel would run the Funeral Home with Israel, and Laz would be a doctor and deliver babies. That woulda dovetailed nicely, you know, cradle to grave with the funeral business we’ve already got. Nothing worked out like I hoped. Siam is doing time over at Huntsville and Laz, well let’s just say that Laz is doing his best. Doing the best with what we got. That’s the most that any of us can ask.

They call me bulldagger, dyke, lezzy, what-have-you. I like my overalls and my work boots. Let them say what they want. It don’t bother me none.

I take the letter back from Teddy. We’re still waiting here on his porch for Billy. She ain’t come back yet.

“Billy’ll be home directly,” Teddy says.

I lean my chair, tipping it back to balance on the two hind legs, like a stallion rearing up. Then I right the chair and get on my feet. “I don’t got no time to waste,” I says.

“I ain’t said nothing bout yr new truck,” Teddy says quickly.

“It’s a ‘Sixty-two. It ain’t brand-new.”

“Looks like you just drove it out the factory,” Teddy says.

“It’s just shiny,” I says. It’s last year’s model but the fella never drove it.

“You got all the luck, Dill.”

“I do all right.”

“Bet it runs good.”

“I don’t got no time for no jalopy.”

“Course you don’t,” Teddy says. “A Beede would have the time but a Smiles would not.”

I sit back down, taking the letter out of my front overalls pocket and resting it on my lap. We sit there quiet. Waiting.

“You gonna give me one of them new pigs you got?” Roosevelt asks.

“You can buy one, same as everybody else,” I says. My good sow Jezebel farrowed last night. Got up in my bed to do it too. She’s spoiled.

“Thirteen piglets and no runts. Dill Smiles oughta give Teddy Beede a free pig,” Teddy says.

“Thirteen’s unlucky. Why you want an unlucky pig for?”

“Thirteen ain’t unlucky for you,” Teddy says admiringly. “You got nothing but good luck, Dill, you got the luck of the Smiles.”

“I don’t got nothing like good luck.”

“Yes you do,” Teddy says using his greezy voice. He must really want that pig.

“I ain’t arguing witchu,” I says.

“Gimme a pig,” Teddy go.

I shake my head no.

“Hell, Dill, I’m practically yr brother,” he says.

“I ain’t no goddamn Beede,” I says and we both laugh.

We see a speck coming down the road. Too small and too slow for no car. It’s Billy.

“You think she got her dress?” Teddy asks.

“She’s Willa Mae’s child,” I says.

“Meaning whut?”

“Meaning by hook or crook Billy got herself a dress. Mighta got herself two or three dresses.”

“Billy don’t favor Willa,” Teddy says.

“Billy don’t favor me neither,” I says.

Teddy cuts his eyes to me, getting a good look at my profile without turning his head. I’m doing the same to look at him. His pecan-colored cheek is fleshy. Gray grizzle around the chin where he ain’t shaved this morning. Willa Mae told me once that I looked like an Indian nickel. Teddy’s mouth opens a little. I’ve brought him to his limit.

“Go head, Teddy, say it,” I says.

“I’m just taking a breath,” he says. He coughs and puts his eyes back front. Why the hell should Billy favor Dill Smiles? That’s what Teddy wants to say, but he wants me to give him a free pig more than he wants to give me a what for.

The Billy-speck coming down the road gets bigger.

“She’s whistling,” I says. We both hear it.

“Guess she got that dress,” Teddy says.

“Billy don’t favor Willa Mae but she’s got her mother’s heart and ways,” I says.

“Not completely,” Teddy says. “Willa Mae didn’t never like to work, but Billy had that good job over at Ruthie Montgomery’s.”

“Billy had a job,” I says.

“Well, Billy was doing pretty good in school,” Teddy says.

“Then she quit,” I remind him.