be tired.
She was surprised he wasn't wearing shoes. She expected him to come
to the table in them so he could be prepared to run out the door if his
brother woke soon-after kissing her hastily on the cheek and tossing
some hurried excuse over his shoulder, of course. Christophe was the type
of child to run from something for only so long, but she knew he was
no coward. He would face it. She reached for a shrimp, for the grayishsilvery pile before her, the quivering mass of glistening sea-bodies, and
peeled. The shell came away easily in her fingers; it was hard like plastic
in some segments and gummy in others. Christophe grabbed a shrimp
and followed suit. Ma-mee let the room settle, let the morning sounds gather around them. Christophe peeled the shrimp slowly and carefully:
that was his way around her, and it was the exact opposite of his usual
demeanor. She knew it for what it was: love. The shrimp smelled faintly
like tears beneath her fingers as she beheaded them, broke open their
backs, and made them shed their skins. She hummed a bit of Harold
Melvin and under the table, swung one foot back and forth. He surprised
her by saying something first. She smiled: she hadn't thought the silence
that uncomfortable.
"I got that on tape, Ma-mee, if you want to hear it." He coughed into
the back of his hand. "Uncle Paul gave it to me a long time ago." The
paper crinkled as he used it to wipe. "I could bring it in here and put it
in the tape deck so you could play it sometime. I know they don't play
everything you want to hear on the radio."
She decided to spare him the risk it took for him to go back into
the room he shared with his brother to dig around in the closet and
wake him. She was surprised he'd even offered to get the tape, or for that
matter, that he'd even mentioned he owned it. "Naw, that's alright. For
some reason I done had all these songs running through my head this
morning. I don't know what it is. But I don't want to hear nothing." She
took in a deep breath. "I like it quiet in the morning."
"I ain't really been up this early before-so I wouldn't know."
Ma-mee heard that he was smiling. She laughed in reply.
"Like I don't know," she said. "When your grandfather was alive and
we was younger, I used to hate getting up in the morning. And he loved
it. Woke up right after the sun rose. He had to work, you know; the
carpentry and the yard work and the little bit of corn field we raised for
the animals, so he had to get up early. And Lord knows I had enough
work so I couldn't have slept all day if I wanted to. I made myself get into
the habit of waking up before him, even if it was only for twenty minutes
just so I could come up here and sit down for a second before I started
on breakfast. Just sit and listen. Soak up the quiet. I was snappy as a
snapping turtle when I couldn't get it. And once I got started, I wouldn't
let go neither."
Ma-mee saw a stretch of white in the dusky tan of his face. A smile.
"I ain't no morning person, neither. Too lazy, I guess." He snorted.
She shook her head no, and her hair brushed along her shoulder with
the fine touch of insects.
"You ain't lazy, Christophe. You work good as anybody. You take after
Lucien with the yard work. You better than Paul at landscaping."
He was picking at one particular shrimp. The shell must have stuck
to the flesh. She knew he was trying not to yank away the meat with the
shell. He was trying to be careful, to conserve food. She had expected him
to say something, to reply to her in some way, but he didn't. He pried
at the sharp tail fin with his fingernails. Ma-mee could feel her hands
moving, could feel the naked shrimp falling away from her fingers into
her own neat pile that was twice the size of Christophe's, but it seemed
as if it was happening without her, as if the wet, lukewarm bodies were
sliding through another woman's fingers. She realized she was squinting
as if she could see him. He
She was surprised he wasn't wearing shoes. She expected him to come
to the table in them so he could be prepared to run out the door if his
brother woke soon-after kissing her hastily on the cheek and tossing
some hurried excuse over his shoulder, of course. Christophe was the type
of child to run from something for only so long, but she knew he was
no coward. He would face it. She reached for a shrimp, for the grayishsilvery pile before her, the quivering mass of glistening sea-bodies, and
peeled. The shell came away easily in her fingers; it was hard like plastic
in some segments and gummy in others. Christophe grabbed a shrimp
and followed suit. Ma-mee let the room settle, let the morning sounds gather around them. Christophe peeled the shrimp slowly and carefully:
that was his way around her, and it was the exact opposite of his usual
demeanor. She knew it for what it was: love. The shrimp smelled faintly
like tears beneath her fingers as she beheaded them, broke open their
backs, and made them shed their skins. She hummed a bit of Harold
Melvin and under the table, swung one foot back and forth. He surprised
her by saying something first. She smiled: she hadn't thought the silence
that uncomfortable.
"I got that on tape, Ma-mee, if you want to hear it." He coughed into
the back of his hand. "Uncle Paul gave it to me a long time ago." The
paper crinkled as he used it to wipe. "I could bring it in here and put it
in the tape deck so you could play it sometime. I know they don't play
everything you want to hear on the radio."
She decided to spare him the risk it took for him to go back into
the room he shared with his brother to dig around in the closet and
wake him. She was surprised he'd even offered to get the tape, or for that
matter, that he'd even mentioned he owned it. "Naw, that's alright. For
some reason I done had all these songs running through my head this
morning. I don't know what it is. But I don't want to hear nothing." She
took in a deep breath. "I like it quiet in the morning."
"I ain't really been up this early before-so I wouldn't know."
Ma-mee heard that he was smiling. She laughed in reply.
"Like I don't know," she said. "When your grandfather was alive and
we was younger, I used to hate getting up in the morning. And he loved
it. Woke up right after the sun rose. He had to work, you know; the
carpentry and the yard work and the little bit of corn field we raised for
the animals, so he had to get up early. And Lord knows I had enough
work so I couldn't have slept all day if I wanted to. I made myself get into
the habit of waking up before him, even if it was only for twenty minutes
just so I could come up here and sit down for a second before I started
on breakfast. Just sit and listen. Soak up the quiet. I was snappy as a
snapping turtle when I couldn't get it. And once I got started, I wouldn't
let go neither."
Ma-mee saw a stretch of white in the dusky tan of his face. A smile.
"I ain't no morning person, neither. Too lazy, I guess." He snorted.
She shook her head no, and her hair brushed along her shoulder with
the fine touch of insects.
"You ain't lazy, Christophe. You work good as anybody. You take after
Lucien with the yard work. You better than Paul at landscaping."
He was picking at one particular shrimp. The shell must have stuck
to the flesh. She knew he was trying not to yank away the meat with the
shell. He was trying to be careful, to conserve food. She had expected him
to say something, to reply to her in some way, but he didn't. He pried
at the sharp tail fin with his fingernails. Ma-mee could feel her hands
moving, could feel the naked shrimp falling away from her fingers into
her own neat pile that was twice the size of Christophe's, but it seemed
as if it was happening without her, as if the wet, lukewarm bodies were
sliding through another woman's fingers. She realized she was squinting
as if she could see him. He
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