Toni Morrison - God Help the Child

“Bedbugs,” answered Queen. “Every year I burn them out before the eggs get started.”

“Oh. I never heard of that.” Then, feeling more comfortable with the woman, asked, “What kind of stuff did Booker send you? You said he sent some writings.”

“Uh-huh. He did. Every now and then.”

“What were they about?”

“Beats me. I’ll show you some, if you like. Say, why you looking for Booker? He owe you money? You sure can’t be his woman. You sound like you don’t know him too good.”

“I don’t, but I thought I did.” She didn’t say so, but it suddenly occurred to her that good sex was not knowledge. It was barely information.

Bride touched the napkin to her lips again. “We were living together, then he dumped me. Just like that.” Bride snapped her fingers. “He left me without a word.”

Queen chuckled. “Oh he’s a leaver, all right. Left his own family. All except me.”

“He did? Why?” Bride didn’t like being classified with Booker’s family, but the news surprised her.

“His older brother was murdered when they was kids and he didn’t approve of his folks’ response.”

“Awww,” Bride murmured. “That’s sad.” She made the acceptable sound of sympathy but was shocked to learn she knew nothing about it.

“More than sad. Almost ruined the family.”

“What did they do that made him leave?”

“They moved on. Started to live life like it was life. He wanted them to establish a memorial, a foundation or something in his brother’s name. They weren’t interested. At all. I have to take some responsibility for the breakup. I told him to keep his brother close, mourn him as long as he needed to. I didn’t count on what he took away from what I said. Anyhow, Adam’s death became his own life. I think it’s his only life.” Queen glanced at Bride’s empty bowl. “More?”

“No thanks, but it was delicious. I don’t remember eating anything that good.”

Queen smiled. “It’s my United Nations recipe from the food of all my husbands’ hometowns. Seven, from Delhi to Dakar, from Texas to Australia, and a few in between.” She was laughing, her shoulders rocking. “So many men and all of them the same where it counts.”

“Where does it count?”

“Ownership.”

All those husbands and still all alone, thought Bride. “Don’t you have any kids?” Obviously she did; their photographs were everywhere.

“Lots. Two live with their fathers and their new wives; two in the military — one a marine, one in the air force; another one, my last, a daughter, is in medical school. She’s my dream child. The next to last is filthy rich somewhere in New York City. Most of them send me money so they don’t have to come see me. But I see them.” She waved to the photographs gazing out from exquisite frames. “And I know how and what they think. Booker always stayed in touch with me, though. Here, I’ll show you how and what he thinks.” Queen moved to a cabinet where sewing materials were neatly hanging or stacked. From its floor she lifted an old-fashioned breadbox. After sorting through its contents, she removed a thin sheaf of papers clipped together and handed it to her guest.

What lovely handwriting, thought Bride, suddenly realizing that she’d never seen anything Booker wrote — not even his name. There were seven sheets. One for each month they were together — plus one more. She read the first page slowly, her forefinger tracing the lines, for there was little or no punctuation.

Hey girl what’s inside your curly head besides dark rooms with dark men dancing too close to comfort the mouth hungry for more of what it is sure is there somewhere out there just waiting for a tongue and some breath to stroke teeth that bite the night and swallow whole the world denied you so get rid of those smokey dreams and lie on the beach in my arms while i cover you with white sands from shores you have never seen lapped by waters so crystal and blue they make you shed tears of bliss and let you know that you do belong finally to the planet you were born on and can now join the out-there world in the deep peace of a cello .

Bride read the words twice, understanding little if anything. It was the second page that made her uncomfortable.

Her imagination is impeccable the way it cuts and scrapes the bone never touching the marrow where that dirty feeling is thrumming like a fiddle for fear its strings will break and screech the loss of its tune since for her permanent ignorance is so much better than the quick of life .

Queen, having finished washing the dishes, offered her guest a drink of whiskey. Bride declined.

Reading the third page, she thought she remembered a conversation she’d had with Booker that could have provoked what he wrote, the one in which she described the landlord and details of her childhood.

You accepted like a beast of burden the whip of a stranger’s curse and the mindless menace it holds along with the scar it leaves as a definition you spend your life refuting although that hateful word is only a slim line drawn on a shore and quickly dissolved in a seaworld any moment when an equally mindless wave fondles it like the accidental touch of a finger on a clarinet stop that the musician converts into silence in order to let the true note ring out loud .

Bride read three more pages in quick succession.

Trying to understand racist malignancy only feeds it, makes it balloon-fat and lofty floating high overhead fearful of sinking to earth where a blade of grass could puncture it letting its watery feces soil the enthralled audience the way mold ruins piano keys both black and white, sharp and flat to produce a dirge of its decay .

I refuse to be ashamed of my shame, you know, the one assigned to me which matches the low priority and the degraded morality of those who insist upon this most facile of human feelings of inferiority and flaw simply to disguise their own cowardice by pretending it is identical to a banjo’s purity .

Thank you. You showed me rage and frailty and hostile recklessness and worry worry worry dappled with such uncompromising shards of light and love it seemed a kindness in order to be able to leave you and not fold into a grief so deep it would break not the heart but the mind that knows the oboe’s shriek and the way it tears into rags of silence to expose your beauty too dazzling to contain and which turns its melody into the grace of livable space .

Puzzled, Bride raised her eyes from the pages and looked at Queen, who said, “Interesting, is it?”

“Very,” answered Bride. “But strange too. I wonder who he was talking to.”

“Himself,” said Queen. “I bet they’re all about him. Don’t you think so?”

“No,” murmured Bride. “These are about me, our time together.” Then she read the last page.

You should take heartbreak of whatever kind seriously with the courage to let it blaze and burn like the pulsing star it is unable or unwilling to be soothed into pathetic self-blame because its explosive brilliance rings justifiably loud like the din of a tympani .

Bride put the papers down and covered her eyes.

“Go see him,” said Queen, her voice low. “He’s down the road, the last house beside the stream. Come on, get up, wash your face and go.”

“I’m not sure I should, now.” Bride shook her head. She had counted on her looks for so long — how well beauty worked. She had not known its shallowness or her own cowardice — the vital lesson Sweetness taught and nailed to her spine to curve it.

“What’s the matter with you?” Queen sounded annoyed. “You come all this way and just turn around and leave?” Then she started singing, imitating the voice of a baby: