Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

The reverend took Sheila where he needed to take her, then stopped and stood sentinel-still. I’ll wait here, ma’m.

Sheila entered the room. She saw the body, open in a casket already chosen. Lula Mae’s face was gray as the quilt that covered her. The dew of death on her breath. Sheila searched for the old image in the sunken face. Searched but did not find. The body had been emptied of both life and memory. She stayed as long as she needed to stay, then she went out.

We gon make everything perfect, the reverend said. He retook Sheila’s elbow. Miss Pulliam already made all the arrangements. If there’s anything you want to change or add … We’ll bring her over to the church Friday evening for the viewing. Come on in here and we can go over everything. I’ll just need you to give me cash or a certified check. My credit-card machine ain’t seem to be workin today. His hand was a crane lifting her up at the elbow. Boy, bring her some cold tea.

Yes, suh.

And check on that lady out front there.

HOW SHE LOOK? Gracie said. She was a long time rising.

Fine. They did a fine job.

How she look?

LULA MAE WOULDN’T LIKE THAT CASKET, Gracie said. She returned the brochure to Sheila.

Well, we can go back and you can help me find one that you like.

It ain’t about what I like.

It’s the one she chose.

They sat for a long time. Sheila felt the silence all around her. When she spoke her voice was lost. Well, I guess we better be gettin on to the church.

Gracie leaned forward. She put both hands to her face. She sat like that, both shoulders moving.

THE SLOW GRAY PREACHER took Sheila’s elbow to help her negotiate the collapsed steps leading up to the church. Gracie followed behind, carrying her heavy Bible like a suitcase at her side. The preacher took them into the small chapel and showed them all there was to see. The wake and funeral would be held here, the church that Lula Mae had attended just blocks down the road from her house.

Why we got to have it here? Gracie said. It’s old. Dirty. Unclean. Stinks.

Lula Mae wanted it here.

I don’t see why.

SHE WOULDN’T WANT TO BE BURIED IN THAT DRESS, Gracie said.

This is the dress she told me, Sheila said.

Well, she didn’t tell me that.

She didn’t have to tell you.

You know everything.

It’s what she wanted.

You always right.

Gracie, what’s wrong with you?

You always gotta have everything yo way.

I TALKED TO BEULAH. She’ll be here tomorrow.

They driving? Gracie said.

Yes. Rochelle’s husband rented a van.

That’s a long drive from St. Paul to here.

I know. But that’s the only way they can afford to come.

Beulah can’t stand no long drive.

I offered to send for her but—

That’s a long drive. Too long. Beulah is ninety—

Yes, well, Jacky and Lil Judy coming too.

Gracie half turned to her with some new complaint.

WASN’T NO LAUNDROMATS in the old days. Jus soap, water, and yo two hands. Wash the clothes in a big steel tub, scrub them hard across the scrubbing board, and lay em across the line to dry in the sun. Took a lot out of a person. That was the way Lula Mae had washed. That was the way Sheila was washing now. After she finished the laundry, she started on the floors, walls, and windows. She took little time to rest. Then she ironed the outfit she would wear Saturday, cut, color, and fabric chosen many months before. (She would wear it with Lucifer’s gift, the yellow bird made of unidentified Brazilian stone.) That done, she went on to her next task. She knew what she needed to do beyond knowing, and knowing, knew that she had turned knowledge into obligation, duty, and the fulfillment of that obligation and duty.

Her hands are anything but idle. She must put the house in order. The house will be rocking with people come Saturday. And she has to sort through Lula Mae’s belongings. What will she keep for herself? Those things dearest to her heart. Can she lug it all back to the city? What she doesn’t keep Gracie and Lula Mae’s friends can have. Whatever they don’t want, she will try to sell. She will—

What are you doing? Gracie said.

Sheila turned and faced her. Trying to sort through all these things.

Why you ain’t tell me?

Sheila looked into Gracie’s eyes and saw the calculation in them.

I already told you.

Gracie said nothing.

Why don’t you come help me? When Porsha gets here, she and Hatch can go through the attic.

Gracie said nothing.

They can do the little house, too.

Gracie turned and left the room.

SHE SAT ON LULA MAE’S BED and listened to the night frogs and crickets. She had accomplished all she could and deserved rest. She saw very clearly how her life had led to this moment. A moment that demanded perfection. It would take everything she had to grant a wish, but she would pay it. That much she owed Lula Mae. She had refused money from the Sterns, from Porsha, from George. She had bought her plane ticket and Gracie’s. She had paid for the wake, the funeral, the burial arrangements. She could breathe easy and Lula Mae could rest without worry, knowing that her death had been placed in Sheila’s loyal, dutiful, and determined hands. Sheila was the host that Death had promised her.

Tell Gracie to stay home, Lula Mae said. Don’t come here no mo. All she do is set up in that rocking chair and accuse and pity.

When Cookie died, Sheila had had to make all the arrangements, pay all the expenses. Gracie moved slowly and stiffly, her heart beating at a heavy cost, carrying in her blood the lead fact of the death of her firstborn. After the funeral, Sheila helped Gracie put Cookie’s wheelchair into the closet of the Kenwood apartment they shared. From there they pushed it to the patio of the May Street apartment and finally into the basement of the house on Liberty Island, where it waited in the corner, uncovered and empty. The house on Liberty Island with a real hearth where a fire could burn. Where Cookie’s photograph held command on the mantel above: a will-less face and loose eyes that looked in two directions at once; a white-and-pink bow; a pink dress with white collar and black belt; black patent-leather shoes; a white cloud surrounding her body, Cookie standing out like a gem against cotton.

She had defended Gracie from Ivory Beach, the wicked Houston stepmother who staked claims during Lula Mae’s New Mexico absence, the swamp woman who found daily satisfaction in tormenting Gracie. And, many years later, she exacted payment in Gracie’s name and memory. She saw a woman standing old and thin and alone on Sixty-third and Church Street. The sight slowed then stopped her feet. No, it couldn’t be. Surely her eyes deceived. Illusion. Mirage. She stood thinking that her cold desire for revenge and justice had caused the woman to crystallize. The woman’s eyes jumped with recognition. She started to turn her face away. Thought twice about it. Why, why, Sheila.

Sheila listened to the remembered voice and said nothing.

Is that really you?

After all these years, Sheila said. Sheila had heard no word about the woman since leaving Houston. Now to find her here, in the city, on this very street corner.

Yes. How you makin along?

After all these years.

Ivory Beach lifted her nose with her old pride. Yes. After all these years. You was a mean one.

Sheila punched Ivory Beach in the face, feeling the ancient brittle bones go soft under her knuckles.

Gracie had forgotten all of this. Remembered only what she wanted to remember, needed to remember, cause if she remembered it all the past might force her to forfeit her anger.

Sheila found Lula Mae’s Bible where she thought it would be.