in them woods, man? Ain’t you done outgrown dolls and hide-and-seek?’ Like I told you before, I reckon your granddaddy reacts like a demon when somebody stands on his own porch and calls him crazy. So Tom Henry commenced to beat the clothes off of Cherry and Shank. Off! You hear me?” Grandma was laughing hard as she could and smiling ear to ear. “And when the police came, Tom Henry was still beating both of them to the white meat until I calmed him down. He spent two nights in jail for that.”
Grandma got busy when it came to her sentences. With Grandma’s at-home sentences, it was like there was no screen between her mind and your ears. You got all of her, all of her voice. She could destroy anyone in the region in a sentence contest, including LaVander Peeler and me, as long as the judges were fair. I realized then, though, that Grandma’s at-home sentences and her in-the-car sentences were completely opposite of her at-the-mall-sentences.
“Hey Grandma,” I said. “Would you tell that story at the mall in front of that white lady, with the same dynamic sentences?”
“First of all, that wasn’t no story. And I don’t know nothing about no dynamic sentences,” she told me. “That’s the truth. And the truth ain’t got a thing to do with that damn white woman, City.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, knowing she was lying through her teeth.
T HAT W IRELESS .
Grandma and I walked up on the porch of her house. Hurricane Katrina tore up Grandma’s old shotgun house eight years earlier, but within a year, she’d gotten a new shotgun house built in the same spot. The house was raised off the ground about a foot and a half by some cinder blocks. The porch led to the front door, which opened to the living room, and from there, depending on what angle you looked in the house, you could see through the bedroom, the dining room, and the kitchen.
Grandma didn’t have a hall, either, like the houses on TV and in books. Grandma’s house had a living room with an old floor-model big-screen TV,a glass table with some Bibles and photo albums on it, a played-out stereo that only ever played Mahalia Jackson, and my Uncle Relle’s sleeping bag right in the middle of the floor. Uncle Relle stayed with Grandma probably four times a week. Anyway, pictures of our family, the ones live and dead, were all over the living room. Walk ten more feet, there was a dining room with a plastic chandelier over a round wooden table. On one side of the table were two big deep freezers full of dead animal parts and food from her garden. On the other side of the table were a washing machine and a basket filled with the white folks’ clothes Grandma washed to make a little more money. Fifteen more feet and there was a tiny kitchen. Four more feet and you were out the back door, under a clothesline, where there was a scary work shed I was never allowed to go in and a chinaberry tree.
I kept looking at Relle’s sleeping bag, wondering when he was coming home. I wanted to know what he thought of what I’d done at the contest the night before. I figured he was going to be the only person in my family who was actually proud of me.
“Grandma, do you get wireless yet?”
“Wireless? Wireless what?”
“Internet!”
“Naw, we ain’t got none of that mess, and you ain’t gonna be hooking up no wireless to my TV.”
“It ain’t got nothing to do with the TV,” I told her. “It’s so people can check their email. What does Uncle Relle do if he wants to check his email?”
“He heads up the road to the library like everybody else, I reckon.”
I wanted to push it more but I didn’t want Grandma getting mad at me. I know Melahatchie was only a bus ride away, but it felt like a time warp. It always felt like it was behind whatever time we were in up in Jackson, but after Hurricane Katrina, it’s like time went fast in reverse instead of just slowing down.
“Why you sweating, City?” Grandma asked me. “Go in the bathroom and
Grandma got busy when it came to her sentences. With Grandma’s at-home sentences, it was like there was no screen between her mind and your ears. You got all of her, all of her voice. She could destroy anyone in the region in a sentence contest, including LaVander Peeler and me, as long as the judges were fair. I realized then, though, that Grandma’s at-home sentences and her in-the-car sentences were completely opposite of her at-the-mall-sentences.
“Hey Grandma,” I said. “Would you tell that story at the mall in front of that white lady, with the same dynamic sentences?”
“First of all, that wasn’t no story. And I don’t know nothing about no dynamic sentences,” she told me. “That’s the truth. And the truth ain’t got a thing to do with that damn white woman, City.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, knowing she was lying through her teeth.
T HAT W IRELESS .
Grandma and I walked up on the porch of her house. Hurricane Katrina tore up Grandma’s old shotgun house eight years earlier, but within a year, she’d gotten a new shotgun house built in the same spot. The house was raised off the ground about a foot and a half by some cinder blocks. The porch led to the front door, which opened to the living room, and from there, depending on what angle you looked in the house, you could see through the bedroom, the dining room, and the kitchen.
Grandma didn’t have a hall, either, like the houses on TV and in books. Grandma’s house had a living room with an old floor-model big-screen TV,a glass table with some Bibles and photo albums on it, a played-out stereo that only ever played Mahalia Jackson, and my Uncle Relle’s sleeping bag right in the middle of the floor. Uncle Relle stayed with Grandma probably four times a week. Anyway, pictures of our family, the ones live and dead, were all over the living room. Walk ten more feet, there was a dining room with a plastic chandelier over a round wooden table. On one side of the table were two big deep freezers full of dead animal parts and food from her garden. On the other side of the table were a washing machine and a basket filled with the white folks’ clothes Grandma washed to make a little more money. Fifteen more feet and there was a tiny kitchen. Four more feet and you were out the back door, under a clothesline, where there was a scary work shed I was never allowed to go in and a chinaberry tree.
I kept looking at Relle’s sleeping bag, wondering when he was coming home. I wanted to know what he thought of what I’d done at the contest the night before. I figured he was going to be the only person in my family who was actually proud of me.
“Grandma, do you get wireless yet?”
“Wireless? Wireless what?”
“Internet!”
“Naw, we ain’t got none of that mess, and you ain’t gonna be hooking up no wireless to my TV.”
“It ain’t got nothing to do with the TV,” I told her. “It’s so people can check their email. What does Uncle Relle do if he wants to check his email?”
“He heads up the road to the library like everybody else, I reckon.”
I wanted to push it more but I didn’t want Grandma getting mad at me. I know Melahatchie was only a bus ride away, but it felt like a time warp. It always felt like it was behind whatever time we were in up in Jackson, but after Hurricane Katrina, it’s like time went fast in reverse instead of just slowing down.
“Why you sweating, City?” Grandma asked me. “Go in the bathroom and
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