The Twelve Tribes of Hattie by Ayana Mathis Page B

been able to save his mother from becoming a mule, at least he had never been one himself. For most of his life, this had seemed like the most important thing, not to be anybody’s mule. Then Hattie came along with all of those children, that multitude of children, and she didn’t have a mark of them on her. She spoke like she’d gone to one of those finishing schools for society Negro girls that they have down south. It was as though she’d been dropped into a life of squalor and indignities that should not have been hers. With such a woman, if he would only try a bit harder, he might become a family man. It is true that he had not met Hattie’s children, but their names—Billups and Six and Bell—were seductive as the names of foreign cities. In his imagination they were not so much children as they were small docile copies of Hattie.
    “What happened?” he asked Hattie. Ruthie kicked at her swaddling. She looked very like him. The old wives’ tale says babies look like their fathers when they are new to the world. Ruthie was light-skinned like him and Hattie, lighter than August. Of course, Lawrence had not seen Hattie’s other children and could not know that most of them were this same milky tea color.
    “Did August put his hands on you?” Lawrence asked.
    “He’s not that kind of man,” she answered sharply.
    “Anybody is, if his manhood is wounded enough.”
    Hattie looked up at him in alarm.
    “A lot of men, I mean,” Lawrence said.
    Hattie turned her face to the window. She would need money—that was certain—and they would be able to spend more time together now that August knew the truth. Lawrence could put her up somewhere. It occurred to him now that his choices were two: run from the diner and never see her again or become, all at once, a man of substance and commitment.
    “I’m so ashamed,” Hattie said. “I’m so ashamed.”
    “Hattie, listen to me. Our little baby isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”
    Hattie shook her head. Later that evening, and for years to come, he would wonder if he had misunderstood her, if her shame wasn’t at having a child with him but something larger that he didn’t understand, and if it wasn’t his failure to grasp this that had doomed them. But in that moment, he thought she only needed convincing, so he talked about renting her a house in Baltimore, where he’d grown up, and how they’d bring her children from Philadelphia and what it would all be like.
    Hattie’s eyes were red-rimmed, and she kept glancing over Lawrence’s shoulder. He had never seen her so skittish, so in need of him. For the first time, Lawrence felt Hattie was his. This was not proprietary but something all together more profound—he was accountable to her, wonderfully and honorably obliged to take care of her. Lawrence was forty years old. He realized that whatever he’d experienced with other women—lust? infatuation?—had not been love.
    Hattie was incredulous. She refused him.
    “This is our chance,” Lawrence said. “I’m telling you, we won’t ever get over it, we won’t ever forgive ourselves if we don’t do this. Baby.”
    “But …” she said.
    Lawrence had only discussed his gambling in passing. He had told Hattie that he made his living as a porter on the trains, which had been true for a few months many years ago. Hattie’s uncertainty made Lawrence understand that she did not take his gambling as lightly as he had supposed.
    “I’ll stop,” he said. “I already have, really. It’s just a game or two when it’s slow with the trains.”
    Hattie wept in heavy wracking sobs that shook her shoulders and upset Ruthie.
    “I’ll stop,” he said again.
    Lawrence slid next to Hattie on the banquette. He leaned down and kissed his daughter’s forehead. He kissed Hattie’s temple and her tears and the corner of her mouth. When she calmed, Hattie rested her head on his shoulder.
    “I couldn’t stand to be a fool a second time,” Hattie said. “I