overhead. She looked at her own arms and hands: thin, striped with muscle and sinew. Bones showing clearly, the shell of bone with skin stretched over it.
Black skin. She looked at it, pinched it between her fingers, rubbed it. It was black, and that was all. Her father’s blood, where would it be? It had to be somewhere, because it had gone into her. It would be inside maybe. Inside she would be white and blond-haired like him. … Her father’s blood now, maybe it had given her her liver and her heart and her lights. But none of them was any use. And maybe too he’d left her her bones, the shell over which her mother’s skin was stretched. …
Margaret watched a water moccasin swim slowly across the water and slither up a dangling branch. Congo, some people called them, because they were black.
She had always thought of her body as solid, one piece. Now she knew it was otherwise. She was black outside, but inside there was her father’s blood.
She thought about this carefully. And her body seemed to expand, to swell, growing like a balloon. She thought of all the distance between the two parts of her, the white and the black. And it seemed to her that those two halves would pull away and separate and leave her there in the open, popped out like a kernel from its husk. She bent her head down into her lap and fought against the separating until bitter tears poured off her face and the front of her stained pink dress was soaked with salt. She wrapped her arms tight around her middle to keep herself together, and her ribs quivered and shook under her fingers.
A tree frog fell on her neck. She felt the little pat of his suction-cupped toes. She didn’t dare look up.
There was a scab on her knee, an old one, half healed. She released one hand and scratched at it quickly. She wrapped herself up again and set her head so that one eye was close to the welling spot. She studied the dark red liquid that bubbled and finally flowed down the slant of black skin. And that was what white blood looked like. … She stuck out her tongue and nudged the edge … and that was what white blood tasted like. …
She watched until the blood lost its glassy color and clotted into dark streaks. She straightened up, releasing her body carefully, gingerly. The two parts of her seemed to hold together.
She looked around curiously, as if she had never seen this stretch of swamp before, surprised to find it familiar. There, a little way over, turtles lived: a small one was sunning himself on a fallen log. Farther over, across that second slough she saw dimly through the maze of vines and cypress and dead fallen trees, was a gator wallow. If she were closer she could smell the sweet sickish odor of those places.
She remembered. And everything seemed to be in its right place. Only she was different. No, that wasn’t even so; she was just as she had been all along, she just hadn’t known.
Margaret sat and looked at the rough splintery bow of the skiff. He had never intended to come back, her father. Of course not. Her mother was a fool. And that was why her family had always treated her with a shrug and a turn of the head, and a little gesture that meant moonstruck and sun-dry. …
There was Cousin Francine now, married ten years when her husband left to take work on the docks at New Orleans. He’d been gone a year, and no word from him, when she gave him up, and married another man. (That was three years past, and he still hadn’t come.) He might have been dead, and nobody thought to tell her. Or he might have found himself another wife in New Orleans, one he liked better, younger and without those four children.
It was the way things went, like it or not. Her mother ought to have taken another man and forgot the whole thing. After all, she had nothing to stop her. No other blood in her veins.
Margaret looked down at her own hand, at the black skin with the white blood under it.
Not like me, she thought. Not like me. She was all one
Black skin. She looked at it, pinched it between her fingers, rubbed it. It was black, and that was all. Her father’s blood, where would it be? It had to be somewhere, because it had gone into her. It would be inside maybe. Inside she would be white and blond-haired like him. … Her father’s blood now, maybe it had given her her liver and her heart and her lights. But none of them was any use. And maybe too he’d left her her bones, the shell over which her mother’s skin was stretched. …
Margaret watched a water moccasin swim slowly across the water and slither up a dangling branch. Congo, some people called them, because they were black.
She had always thought of her body as solid, one piece. Now she knew it was otherwise. She was black outside, but inside there was her father’s blood.
She thought about this carefully. And her body seemed to expand, to swell, growing like a balloon. She thought of all the distance between the two parts of her, the white and the black. And it seemed to her that those two halves would pull away and separate and leave her there in the open, popped out like a kernel from its husk. She bent her head down into her lap and fought against the separating until bitter tears poured off her face and the front of her stained pink dress was soaked with salt. She wrapped her arms tight around her middle to keep herself together, and her ribs quivered and shook under her fingers.
A tree frog fell on her neck. She felt the little pat of his suction-cupped toes. She didn’t dare look up.
There was a scab on her knee, an old one, half healed. She released one hand and scratched at it quickly. She wrapped herself up again and set her head so that one eye was close to the welling spot. She studied the dark red liquid that bubbled and finally flowed down the slant of black skin. And that was what white blood looked like. … She stuck out her tongue and nudged the edge … and that was what white blood tasted like. …
She watched until the blood lost its glassy color and clotted into dark streaks. She straightened up, releasing her body carefully, gingerly. The two parts of her seemed to hold together.
She looked around curiously, as if she had never seen this stretch of swamp before, surprised to find it familiar. There, a little way over, turtles lived: a small one was sunning himself on a fallen log. Farther over, across that second slough she saw dimly through the maze of vines and cypress and dead fallen trees, was a gator wallow. If she were closer she could smell the sweet sickish odor of those places.
She remembered. And everything seemed to be in its right place. Only she was different. No, that wasn’t even so; she was just as she had been all along, she just hadn’t known.
Margaret sat and looked at the rough splintery bow of the skiff. He had never intended to come back, her father. Of course not. Her mother was a fool. And that was why her family had always treated her with a shrug and a turn of the head, and a little gesture that meant moonstruck and sun-dry. …
There was Cousin Francine now, married ten years when her husband left to take work on the docks at New Orleans. He’d been gone a year, and no word from him, when she gave him up, and married another man. (That was three years past, and he still hadn’t come.) He might have been dead, and nobody thought to tell her. Or he might have found himself another wife in New Orleans, one he liked better, younger and without those four children.
It was the way things went, like it or not. Her mother ought to have taken another man and forgot the whole thing. After all, she had nothing to stop her. No other blood in her veins.
Margaret looked down at her own hand, at the black skin with the white blood under it.
Not like me, she thought. Not like me. She was all one
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