Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction by Vanessa Russell Page B

decided if I want to be. The truth might set me free, yet as President James Garfield said, “but first it will make you miserable.” Mama would love that and I mean
that
in so many ways.
    I’ll start with this:
    My father died before I was born, long before I knew there was one. This corresponding male part surprised me about Mama. I thought she could do everything. I must’ve thought of her as all encompassing, a hermaphrodite of sorts. But instead she had a negative force to charge the positive, opposing qualities with stamens and pistils that somehow connected - sounds much more proper than saying the vagina and the penis coupled, doesn’t it? I had to look some of that up in the dictionary.
    Oh hell, I’m just going to write it like I talk it and stop trying to use big words like Mama. She wouldn’t approve any of those metaphors anyway. How’s this: It was like looking under the hood of a car for the first time and finding the engine, too, makes it run as much as the frame, tires, wheel and key. She’ll like that and even now her say-so is important to me. For years I was enclosed in her womb, all-consuming, hearing only one heartbeat, one Madonna above me, female life wrapped around female life until I was ready.
    It’s Autumn, 1943. I’m ready now. I think. I’m standing at the door. But as I did in departure from my mother’s womb, I cry now in departing from my mother’s home. I’m afraid I’m premature.
    “Katy?”
    “Yes, Mama?”
    “It’s time.”
    I head toward the car, inspect the tires, scoot in behind the wheel, Mama hands me the key.
    Mama. Always there pushing. Feeding me the food of the female:
Eat with care, take in that which is good for you, speak out that which is good for others. Walk straight, never slouch – the hunched back is subservient. Take caution with men, those with forced laughter have no respect for themselves, those with heated eyes have no respect for you. Give the day your best effort and the night will give you its best rest. Every woman has a purpose….
    She stands beside my window, silent yet her life-long words linger. Her strength is now a part of me.
    “Don’t worry, Mama.”
    I turn the key in the ignition and the male beast under the hood awakens and roars.
    Pickerville, Georgia 1943
    “Where the hell is your mama, girl?”
    I lick my lips, still tasting the Georgia dust, red and metallic tasting, like blood. How ironic. My uncle is as white as his bed sheets, looking like his own land is draining him.
    “Well, you see Uncle Joe, Mama is awfully busy at home in New York and Grandma Ruby is sick and needs looking after—”
    “Is she dying? Because if she ain’t - and I am - then who should come first? Now you just answer that, little lady.” His head returns to his pillow with a plop, eyes closed, energy spent.
    “That’s why she sent me, Uncle Joe. I’m your true kin, your real flesh and blood.”
Happy to donate some to you, Uncle
. I pat his hand, trying to warm up to him which is hard because he is indeed the bellowing blow-george Mama warned me about. His sagging jowls work with what I said, his jaw moving back and forth as if chewing on my last words.
    “Hell, I shouldn’t be surprised,” he says in an I’ll-give-you-that-much tone. “Bess run off from here like we were boll-weevils and she was a fluff o’ cotton. That was back in 1921 and she just sneaked out. About broke Harriet’s heart, God rest her soul. You’ll learn weak hearts run in this family. Your daddy died of one and your Aunt Harriet fell dead in the chicken coop. And now me.”
    He opens his blue eyes, colored like over-washed denim overalls, and points a thick-knuckled finger at me. “But I ain’t gone yet and I ain’t gonna go until I get this plantation settled. So don’t go getting your hopes up that the only place you have to put me is six feet under. My heart ain’t just going to quit but sort of sputter and run out of gas. I reckon I’m about on a quarter