Odessa’s face as Dolly went on about Russ and the “colored man.” But Cynthia did see it, and she thought, My God , no wonder. Dolly forgets thatOdessa is there, or maybe forgets that she’s “colored”? No, Dolly could never forget who was colored, although maybe in a way she does; Odessa is just Odessa, not a strong, complicated, and often troubled woman. A Negro woman.
And just why is Odessa so upset over Russ? Even as she wonders this, Cynthia has a stroke of insight: she thinks, Odessa is probably as superstitious as I am, and she thinks Russ’s death is a bad sign for Horace, it’s Horace she’s crying about. She hasn’t heard from him for a while, he’s out in the Pacific.
When she looks back at Odessa, the hatred of course is gone; Odessa is passing around a tray of beaten biscuits spread with ham, Russ’s favorite. When she dies, Cynthia for one split second wonders, will anyone remember that her favorite food was oyster stew, from the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station? Well, Harry will. But so what, what will it matter?
Odessa had paused for a moment near the sideboard, Dolly’s most valued “antique,” of massive mahogany with walnut trim. “Pre-War.” Still holding her big silver platter, Odessa stood there for a moment looking around, checking out who needed more food. Cynthia went over; she touched Odessa’s arm in a friendly pat. She said, “Don’t worry, Odessa. Things’ll be better this year, I’m sure,” and she smiled with as much conviction as she could pull together. Her warmth at least was real.
And Odessa smiled back, even as she murmured, “Yes’m.”
Cynthia wished that Abigail had come down for the funeral, although she had urged her not to. “Wartime travel, you know,” she had said to her daughter. “Someone might ask you, ‘Is this trip necessary?’ Like all those signs.” But she didwish for Abigail and, more fleetingly, she wondered where in hell Derek was.
Curiously, Deirdre too had a fleeting thought of Derek; she thought, Now that I’m widowed, maybe Derek—? But what an evil thought, and with Russ just barely dead, and so terribly, killed by that colored man, probably. She began to cry again—even if Russ hadn’t really loved her anymore. And then for him to go off and die in Texas, of all places. That was where the train was when he fell, or that man pushed him or whatever happened. And then they couldn’t even get his body home. Or she let herself be talked out of bringing his body home: a lot of conversation with people in charge of transportation, all that, until it got to the point where she was just about told that it’d be unpatriotic for her to insist, Russ not being in the service or anything. So there was the coffin, empty, just weights in it, and Russ still back in Texas. Or the body of Russ was in Texas, decaying there: his immortal soul was up in Heaven, Deirdre had to believe that it was.
More or less accidentally, Melanctha and Graham were standing close to each other—so that everyone could see how much alike they looked. Russ’s eyes, and his hair, right there on the both of them. The brother and sister. Never mind all those years when Deirdre first came back to town and pretended that Graham was her brother; he was Russ’s son, no doubt in anyone’s mind about that anymore. The two of them looked especially alike that afternoon, with their dazed deep eyes, which were Russ’s eyes, dark blue, without tears.
Dolly Bigelow, who had drunk too much—as though toprove her own too often expressed view that women shouldn’t ought to drink—Dolly said, “It’s just like Russ was right here with us, don’t you-all feel it? Drunk as all get out and not really showing he was drunk, not showing anyone the first thing about how he really felt about anything. I’m going to miss Russ a whole lot, I just know that I am, but at the same time I’m not going to know who it is that I’m missing.” And then, as unaccountably as a
And just why is Odessa so upset over Russ? Even as she wonders this, Cynthia has a stroke of insight: she thinks, Odessa is probably as superstitious as I am, and she thinks Russ’s death is a bad sign for Horace, it’s Horace she’s crying about. She hasn’t heard from him for a while, he’s out in the Pacific.
When she looks back at Odessa, the hatred of course is gone; Odessa is passing around a tray of beaten biscuits spread with ham, Russ’s favorite. When she dies, Cynthia for one split second wonders, will anyone remember that her favorite food was oyster stew, from the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station? Well, Harry will. But so what, what will it matter?
Odessa had paused for a moment near the sideboard, Dolly’s most valued “antique,” of massive mahogany with walnut trim. “Pre-War.” Still holding her big silver platter, Odessa stood there for a moment looking around, checking out who needed more food. Cynthia went over; she touched Odessa’s arm in a friendly pat. She said, “Don’t worry, Odessa. Things’ll be better this year, I’m sure,” and she smiled with as much conviction as she could pull together. Her warmth at least was real.
And Odessa smiled back, even as she murmured, “Yes’m.”
Cynthia wished that Abigail had come down for the funeral, although she had urged her not to. “Wartime travel, you know,” she had said to her daughter. “Someone might ask you, ‘Is this trip necessary?’ Like all those signs.” But she didwish for Abigail and, more fleetingly, she wondered where in hell Derek was.
Curiously, Deirdre too had a fleeting thought of Derek; she thought, Now that I’m widowed, maybe Derek—? But what an evil thought, and with Russ just barely dead, and so terribly, killed by that colored man, probably. She began to cry again—even if Russ hadn’t really loved her anymore. And then for him to go off and die in Texas, of all places. That was where the train was when he fell, or that man pushed him or whatever happened. And then they couldn’t even get his body home. Or she let herself be talked out of bringing his body home: a lot of conversation with people in charge of transportation, all that, until it got to the point where she was just about told that it’d be unpatriotic for her to insist, Russ not being in the service or anything. So there was the coffin, empty, just weights in it, and Russ still back in Texas. Or the body of Russ was in Texas, decaying there: his immortal soul was up in Heaven, Deirdre had to believe that it was.
More or less accidentally, Melanctha and Graham were standing close to each other—so that everyone could see how much alike they looked. Russ’s eyes, and his hair, right there on the both of them. The brother and sister. Never mind all those years when Deirdre first came back to town and pretended that Graham was her brother; he was Russ’s son, no doubt in anyone’s mind about that anymore. The two of them looked especially alike that afternoon, with their dazed deep eyes, which were Russ’s eyes, dark blue, without tears.
Dolly Bigelow, who had drunk too much—as though toprove her own too often expressed view that women shouldn’t ought to drink—Dolly said, “It’s just like Russ was right here with us, don’t you-all feel it? Drunk as all get out and not really showing he was drunk, not showing anyone the first thing about how he really felt about anything. I’m going to miss Russ a whole lot, I just know that I am, but at the same time I’m not going to know who it is that I’m missing.” And then, as unaccountably as a
Similar Books
