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MARSHA HUNT
Joy
‘Three black sisters achieve fleeting fame but become embroiled in a sex and drug filled world which leads to their destruction. Fast mover, as exciting as a thriller.’
Oxford Mail
‘Eschewing the cliché-ridden morbidity of the pop world, Joy lives up to its title, adding its author’s name to those of Toni Morrison and Alice Walker.’
Scotland on Sunday
‘An exceptional first novel, worth reading simply for the narrative voice of Baby Palatine, whose Bay Area ghetto-speak and commonsense philosophizing turn Joy’s death into a dectective story of betrayed emotions.’
Interview
‘The extraordinary strength and naivety of Bible-toting, gospel-quoting Baptists underlines this tale, as small acts of kindness are suddenly revealed as monstrously selfish … full of delightful speeches and simple but loaded homilies … A rich engaging read with plenty of subtle wisdom and humour.’
The Statesman
For Eric and Bassam But most of all for Karis
Contents
Like usual, a few mornings ago I
If something bad really had happened to
Though I was glad Tammy had her
It seemed to me that Tammy was
Looking at Tammy standing in Joy’s Chelsea
When Brenda came over and sat at
No matter how bad things got, Joy
Joy was smart and knew she was
I looked over at Brenda setting the
It was eighteen whole long months later
England was our last stop on the
The first two numbers I dialed for
I was still reading my Bible when
Brenda had gone to a whole lot
When the police ushered me and Jesse
All families got secrets, but Joy’s had more than their fair share. Like a fool, I went around thinking that she let me in on all of them, since I can’t keep everything to myself and figured Joy was the same. But I found out she hoarded so many secrets, she kept them important ones from herself. So while I’m able to tell you what she did, ain’t no use me pretending that I know why. I blame myself for some of it, although my husband Freddie B says it’s wrong that I should shoulder all the blame for what done happened to Joy and her family, ’cause they was just born under bad moons. But I refuse to believe that God put some of his children on this earth to destroy theyselves.
What’s troubling is no matter what Freddie B says, looking back I can see I had more to do with the mess Joy and them made of their lives than I realized. But it’s way too late for ‘I’m sorry’.
Like usual, a few mornings ago I was laying in the bed next to Freddie B, staring at the ceiling and listening to him snore while I waited for his 6:45 alarm to go off. I always wake ’fore it buzzes, and sometimes it’s worrying to hear that old noisy clock of his tickety-tick by seconds that won’t never get another chance. But I’ve resigned myself to listening to it, ’cause he can’t rest good at night till he sees it set, even though he knows that for all them forty-some years we been married, I wake at least half an hour ’fore that alarm, don’t matter what time it’s set for. I rue the day I bought him that ugly square faced clock and wish I could throw it out sometimes.
What really don’t make no sense is that he likes to set it on the little built in shelf by my side of the bed.
‘What’s the good of that,’ I ask him, ‘when I ain’t the one needs waking.’ But he don’t bother to answer. That’s
