Natashia Deon - Grace

Jeremy finishes his drink in one gulp, then looks over his shoulder at me standing behind him, say, “If it’s a girl, you gon’ sell her, too?”

I slap him hard in his face. My hand is sore when I finish. He stares me down and Cynthia tells him, “This a private party and you weren’t invited.”

“My pleasure to leave,” he say, putting his hat on, getting up.

“Wait! Just wait,” I say.

He stops.

“Just give me a minute,” I tell Cynthia. “Please. Just. . a minute.”

A look of sorry for me comes over Cynthia. She comes and stands so close to me, arm to arm, and in such a way that Jeremy cain’t see her face. But I do. Her expression’s not of pity, but of a mother. My mother. She say, softly, “Not everybody deserves your honesty, Naomi.”

I nod. “I won’t lie.”

“You could be quiet.”

“Just give me one minute,” I say. “Please.”

“All right,” she whispers, then yells toward Jeremy, “One minute! Then we closed.”

Jeremy brings his heel up on the footrest when she leaves. When I take a step toward him, he turns away from me. I grab his good hand, pull him back toward me, make him touch my belly. “ This is our baby.”

“Do you know what I been through? To get back here for you? How could you do it, Mimi? Whoring around?”

“You left me!”

“So you laid with the first man you see, some. . some nigger?”

“You calling me a nigga, too?”

“I didn’t say that. .”

“His name is Albert. And he ain’t a nigga. When you left, he was the only person to take care of me.”

“Is that your story?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Well here’s mine. You’re a whore. Just like the rest of ’em. ’Cause no man would look after somebody else’s baby unless he had a stake in it.”

“He did.”

He gets up slow from his stool and goes to the door. “Then Albert’s a better man than me.”

“It is funny, ain’t it?” I say, these pasts we reach for like ghosts. Sometimes, we just got to be happy we survived. “You’re right,” I say. “Nobody can go back to what’s gone. Like reaching out with a hand that’s not there.”

He holds the doorknob, ready to leave me again and I don’t care. “Well, maybe when the baby’s born, we can see who it favors.”

“Albert,” I say. “My baby’ll favor Albert.”

He opens the door. Gone. Gone again. And this time, it don’t matter.

I BEEN SPINNING THIS gold coin around my fingers for most the night ’cause the worse thing about being pregnant is sleeping. Better, not sleeping. Cynthia gave it to me after Jeremy flicked it at her a few days ago. She said it was for the baby now. For me.

I told her I didn’t want it. Not from him. Not for this baby. ’Cause there are things more important than money. Time is one. Peace, another. A good father for this baby. I’ve got all of that now without him. She said, “Don’t let nobody tell you money ain’t everything. Money keeps you from paying for things with your life.”

Before this baby, I took for granted sleeping on my stomach or sleeping on one side for as long as I wanted to. Cain’t even sleep on my back, now, for drowning. Like deep breathing through a reed. It’s how I feel when I remember Jeremy.

Cynthia told me not to punish myself for him, for still feeling love for him. “If a person never loved somebody pathetically and unrequited, they haven’t met themselves yet, so consider yourself introduced. And lucky. We don’t always get to touch the ones we want without losing everything.”

IT’S JUST AFTER midnight now, and I’ve been wasting time. Been folding clothes, counting unmatched socks. How does that happen? My mind’s been racing with thoughts and feelings that pass and re-pass. Not just about Jeremy. And Albert. Or Cynthia. Momma. Hazel. A chaos of faces. Bernadette’s, too.

Cynthia gave me her room like she promised. And in between time, Cynthia put Bernadette out in the shed across the road. Locked her in there for four days with only bread and water. Left her hollering and screaming like she was being murdered over and over again. When Cynthia finally got her out, Bernadette had throw-up all over herself, her clawing fingers were bloodied, and her screaming voice was gone. But she was cured of the leafs, though. Has been for almost a month and Bernadette say it ain’t easy. Say, the first thing she think about when she wake in the morning is the leafs. Then she spends the rest of the day trying to forget ’em.

I FELL ASLEEP in this chair with my folding still in my hand. Might as well get up ’cause it’s 3:00 a.m. and another couple hours of sleep won’t make a difference.

I shuffle up the hall, gon’ clean the saloon. Shouldn’t be much to do ’cause it’s been empty since Cynthia closed for business a few days ago — the day after her party. She’s been telling everybody she’s “renovating” but she tell me she need time to decide what she gon’ do next.

Sam still comes to work every day. Been unloading them crates that he never got a chance to unload for five years. Some of the crates are more full than others, a couple of ’em only got one bottle inside from him cherry-picking ’em the last few years.

He built a new drying rack closer to where he wash. “Doesn’t make sense to keep dripping across the floor,” he said.

A few of the girls are still here, too, some loyal, some hoping Cynthia will come up with a new way a woman can make money without being a wife. Bernadette’s making dresses. She’s got a ball gown on a wire frame in the windows and when sunlight hits ’em, it throws sparkles of yellow and white light around the room, mixing with Cynthia’s rainbows on the walls from her hanging crystals.

Cynthia and Sam are already up when I get to the saloon. “Evening, Sunshine,” Cynthia say. “Or should I say, morning.” She’s sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, still wearing her wedding dress. Been in it three days. “It’s about time you got up. Longest nap a person ever took.”

“It’s only three,” I say.

“Yeah, but you was ’sleep at noon yesterday.”

Cynthia’s just holding her drink in her hand. Usually, pouring it in her glass is the same as putting it in her mouth. Only a two-second delay between ’em. But this time, we’re going on a minute.

“I’ve been thinking,” Cynthia say. “Maybe marriage ain’t so bad. Maybe I could live with a man. A young sunflower like me gotta rethink her options. And Sam says he’ll marry me.”

“I didn’t say nothing about marriage tonight.”

He sets a glass of water in front of me.

“You don’t want to marry me, Sam? I already got a ring. You can get down on one knee at sunrise or in front of the fire, romantic like, and. .”

“See, that’s the problem, you’re too bossy. Most men find that intimidating.”

“The people you want to partner with should intimidate you,” she say, smiling. “Not because they’re a bully but because they’re that good and you know it.”

“And what makes you think I’d ask again when you’ve already said no?”

“I’m a new woman, Sam. You never know. I could’ve changed my mind.”

“All right,” he say. “Marry me.”

“No,” she laughs and shoots her drink. “I cain’t marry nobody. I’d eventually kill him.”

“I know thas right,” I say.

A look of calm rests on her face. She looks around the room. “Isn’t this a good feeling,” she tells me. “The stillness in here? Reminds me of the good ole days.”

“Naw,” I say. “Reminds me of the good days coming.”

“So what you gon’ do, then?” Cynthia say. “You welcome to stay here, make this house a home for you and Albert and Baby Peaches.”