had come from anybody else, they would have all been laughing and howling, holding their sides, covering their mouths, and slapping their thighs in ridicule. But this suggestion had come from our matriarch—leader of the clan herself—and therefore could only be taken very seriously. So, they agreed and began saving up as much money as they could, which Great-Grandmama Laura Mae squirreled away in an old tin can she kept hidden in her room, concealed by layers of clothes and knickknacks.
Time flowed from days to weeks, from weeks to months, and then to the first year. My daddy regretted deeply what he had done. He really did love my mother and wished to be reunited. However, Great-Grandmama Laura Mae prevented him from finding my mother and talking to her at every turn.
In his efforts to woo my mother back to him, daddy gave money for my mother, my brother, and me to my aunts and to the other ladies of the house. He didn’t know it, but the money he gave to the ladies wound up in Great-Grandmama Laura Mae’s tin can, saved toward their secret trip up north. My daddy didn’t know he was helping the plan to be rid of him forever. In his heart, he felt he had changed. He didn’t go out much anymore and had practically stopped drinking. He wanted to show my mother that he could be the upright, gentle, loving man she had married.
When the women saved five thousand dollars, they decided it was finally time to announce their plan to the men. It was followed by doubt and shocked silence. The first question was “Where y’all goin’ get duh money?”
“We done already saved duh money, from you and you and you and everybody here,” announced Great-Grandmama Laura Mae, pointing to everyone in the room and silencing the doubting curious. For most of the men in the room, it wasn’t a horrible thing—just not their idea! The men were accustomed to feeling as though they were leading and not being pulled around by their noses. How could all of this “money saving” have gone on without so much as a hint of it to them? It just didn’t make sense.
They were prepared, however, to take full advantage of an attractive idea. Many of them had harbored fantasies of going north to get away from the racism oozing out of the schools and businesses. But just as the men were becoming used to the idea and throwing suggestions back and forth, someone asked, “Where Willie Jr. and Little Buttercup?”
The entire assemblage fell silent. All eyes were on Great-Grandmama. Something was definitely wrong. My cousin Cindy Lou spoke up.
“Willie Son was here. He took them home, he said. He said to tell Aunt Inez he wanted to talk to her and to come home and tend to them if she wants to.”
My mother gave out a shrill cry and collapsed, sobbing, “Bring my babies back. I want my babies! God have mercy and don’t let him hurt my babies. Somebody help me to get my babies back!” She got up and lunged for the door. Some of the men restrained her and told her they were going to my daddy’s house to get us back.
Several possible plans of action were being entertained and debated when Great-Grandmama Laura Mae came out of her room. No one had really noticed when she left the front room to go to her room and get her pistol. She emerged and said, “I’m goin’ to get my great-grandbabies. I’ll be back.” Of course, the rest of the family followed her down the street.
As they approached my old home, everyone could see my daddy standing at the top of the porch looking at them defiantly. He was holding my brother and me, restraining us from running to jump into my mother’s arms.
“Give me my babies,” my mother screamed. “Please don’t hurt my babies. I’ll do anything you want, just let my babies go!”
“I want you to come home and be my wife again, Inez. I love you very much, and I’m sorry for what I did. Cain’t you give me another chance?” Willie Son pleaded.
“You done had plenty enough chance,” Great-Grandmama Laura Mae responded. “I’m not goin’ to let you do to my grandchile what you did before. Let my great-grandbabies come home now. I’m not goin’ to play with you, Willie Son. If’n you don’ let my babies go, Willie Son, I’m goin’ to shoot you.”
“Aw, shut up, you meddlin’ ol’ lady. Why don’t you mind your own business and leave my wife to me?” my daddy said.
“If’n you had treated Inez like a wife, she would still be with you. But you forgot who you were—just a man—and had to attack my baby for some stupid jealousy. I’m not going to stand for it. If’n you don’t let my great-grandbabies go, I’m goin’ to kill you, Willie Son, and I mean it. Let those babies go!” She was furious.
Then Great-Grandmama Laura Mae reached for her pistol and the crowd fell away. She aimed and shot one round that hit my daddy square in his shoulder, and he collapsed on the porch, releasing my brother and me.
Great-Grandmama Laura Mae walked slowly up the steps, her gun pointed at him the whole time. She looked at him and said, “I’m not goin’ kill ya, ’cause you my babies’ daddy, but I want you to know dat if you ever come ’round my house again and messes wid my babies, I’ll kill ya. I’m bound on dat and ya haves my word.”
Great-Grandmama Laura Mae stared at the wounded Willie Son and turned away. She put her pistol back in her bosom and descended the stairs.
A siren could be heard in the distance. Someone had reported the shooting. In just a short while, my daddy would be recuperating in the same hospital as a year ago, looking at the same four walls and asking himself the same question, “Why me, O Lord?”
THE NEXT DAY, GREAT-GRANDMAMA LAURA MAE SENT the men to purchase tickets for the first contingent to take the train to Ohio. That group was to include my mother, my brother, my little sisters, and me. We were to leave immediately. Great-Grandmama would come along later, she said.
In Youngstown, Ohio, the cars were faster, and the noise was louder. There were a lot more people around, and I wasn’t allowed to go out alone. I was enrolled in kindergarten. I didn’t have any friends, nor was I looking for any. At school, they didn’t think I could talk, or at least, not well. I chose to be silent. I had my own world of rules and regulations: success with no failure. In my mind, I spent my time with Granddaddy Saul, singing and minding his cane and letting the world go by. I moved away from the pain I carried from Alabama—the violence and the hurt.
I HAD BEEN SHELTERED ALL MY LIFE AND WARNED TO BE wary of strangers. Now the rules were different. My daddy had been considered a friend, indeed, an intimate family member. He was someone I knew, yet he had proven to be very dangerous. I now had recurring nightmares of my parents fighting. My dreams conjured up the dangerous kitchen knife that my mother used in her fight against my daddy, and gradually it took on a life of its own. The knife would fly through the air, and the rising blood would be everywhere, threatening to drown me. I would wake up in a cold sweat, struggling to breathe. Sometimes my mother would wake me up and sit with me to hold and calm me. She said that I was howling and singing “nonsense songs,” thrashing about. Because of those dreams and memories, even to this day, I’m wary of knives. As a child, I would insist on breaking my food into pieces with my hands, or with a fork, but never with a knife. My mother knew why and didn’t insist. Sometimes she would cut up my food for me. Some people thought she was spoiling me. But she and I both knew that she was making it possible for me to relax and behave in a normal way. When I had to do chores, like cleaning up the kitchen, she would always wash the knives herself. I was in my late teens before I reached a point where I could peel potatoes and cut up vegetables without starting to shake. Today, it would be called PTSD, but back then it had no name—it
