Perhaps they were never going to speak of it. Perhaps it would just be this little girl, a little bit different, who was their daughter, who was Marshall’s sister. Would they name her Cora? Did Cora know yet?
On Sunday June dared to hum to the baby. Until now, she had cared for her almost in silence, talking with Marshall as he played, answering Del’s questions about what she needed, but caring for the baby, holding her, nursing her, dressing her, washing her, in silence. It was as if her voice could break the spell, and she couldn’t risk it. But by Sunday, she’d begun to relax. She loved Del more than she had ever imagined she could love him. And even the love for Eddie seemed small, seemed tawdry, next to this: next to a husband, a proud man, who was singing to their baby girl—their Negro baby girl—in her nursery.
But that night, Del came into the bedroom with a basket. She had never seen it before. A baby basket, with a beautiful pink blanket. And her heart stopped.
“No.”
“There’s no other way, June.”
“No! Never. This isn’t the Middle Ages. You can’t take my baby.”
“I can take Marshall.”
June was standing, her body swaying, unsteady beneath her.
“Del, you can’t possibly mean this. You wouldn’t do this.”
“What do you think we should do, June?”
“Keep her. What do we care what people think? What do you care?”
“What about Marshall?”
“What about him? I don’t want him to be like these people anyway. You don’t want him to be that way.”
“That’s not the point. What about Eddie?”
“He’s in Cuba. He doesn’t even have to know.”
Del shook his head then. He looked away from her as she said, “It’s better if he doesn’t know. It’s safer for him.”
“Nothing’s safe for him now. Not now. Not with her.” He motioned to the baby. “This he would not survive.”
“But why? If you accept it?”
“It’s not what I accept. It’s the way it is.”
“No. No, Del. I will not give her up.”
“You will, June. You will. We will.”
“No!”
She was crying, she was shrieking, she was holding on to him, with the basket in his hands, with the baby now in it. Marshall wasn’t home. He had taken Marshall somewhere. He had known how this would go.
But Del didn’t take the basket out the door while she was crying, while she was screaming.
Like a man shot, he folded. His back to her, he was standing, holding the basket, and then suddenly, he set the baby on the ground, and folded to the floor. She could hear him start to cry, and then to sob. His sobs came in convulsive bursts, and June crumpled to the floor next to him, and they sobbed until they were spent, until the baby woke up. Until one of them—it was Del—lifted her from the basket, and she nursed, and they cried together watching her.
And then Del took the baby from June, and he bundled her softly in the basket, and June watched, depleted and desperate and silent, and then Del kissed June’s head, and her tears came faster, faster, and he stood, and he took the basket out the door.
Dr. Bruno came the next morning and showed her how to bind her breasts. He had kept Marshall for the night; he had known what Del was going to do.
The day after, the doorbell rang and the first of the bouquets arrived. “In Sympathy.” “For the Loss of Your Baby.” “In These Sad Times.”
Cora came over, but June drew the line. She told Del that she didn’t care what he said, what lies he told, but Cora could not come in. Nobody could come into the house; she would see nobody. She let Cora take Marshall for a few hours every day.
June understood that she owed it to Marshall to stay alive; the thought of him without a mother was unbearable. But for now, that was all she could do. She was not capable of anything else. She didn’t want Del to tell her what he told people about her, she didn’t want him to tell her how Marshall had reacted, she couldn’t bear to think of the questions or the answers.
One day, she was able to ask Del where their baby was.
He said it would be better if she did not know.
She said that she could kill him as easily as look at him.
He didn’t flinch. But he told her. The baby was in Alabama. With one of Eddie’s brothers. He was a nice man. It was a nice family. They hadn’t asked many questions. Del had given them money. A lot of money. He would give them more.
“Then Eddie knows.”
“I don’t know. They haven’t talked to Eddie in years. But they know she’s Eddie’s daughter. And they’re nice people. Two little boys.”
And June thought about the two little boys she had imagined. Riding bikes. Playing ball. Heading off to school hand in hand.
10
“Baboooppboop booopp booopp.”
That was good. That felt good.
He could hear it. And the little heat in his veins, that was good too.
The room tilted oddly, faded and blurred, moving. That was okay too. That was like being in the bath. Warm and woozy.
And someone was yelling.
“Eddie!”
“Eddie!”
“Eddie, shit.”
Stop yelling at me.
“Eddie, damn it.”
“Eddie, again?”
“Goldarn it, Eddie.”
Someone was always yelling. Women were always yelling.
Mama. The teacher. Wanda and Bertie and Patricia, and on and on and on. Some woman. Mad at him.
He didn’t want to hear those voices.
He took another drink. Another.
The room tipped the other direction.
His blood still ran warm. It was good.
He could feel his pants, wet where he had probably pissed himself, and his shoulder against something that protruded hard from the wall, but these didn’t matter. He felt these things, but they didn’t bother him. Like the voices: he heard them, but they didn’t hurt.
“Eddie, your daddy gonna get hanged. That’s what my daddy says. Your daddy gonna hang.”
Not that voice.
“Eddie, Daddy’s gone away. Daddy had to go away.”
Not that one.
“You nigga shit. You think you something? You think you can sing?”
Not that voice.
“Get your hands off her. Get your hands off before I count one, or you’re a dead man.”
“Eddie, don’t go.”
“Eddie, don’t leave me.”
“Eddie, I’m pregnant.”
“Eddie, he’ll beat me.”
“Eddie, stay.”
“Eddie stay, Eddie stay, Eddie stay.”
“God gave you that voice, child. God gave you that voice.”
“Whew. That cat can sing. That is some singing.”
“Eddie, can I sing with you?”
“Eddie, sing in church.”
“Eddie, that is the Lord’s voice.”
“Eddie, what you singing with that voice the Lord gave you?”
“Eddie, where’d you get that? Where’d you get that money, where’d you get that bottle, where’d you get that girl, where’d you get that dope, where’d you get that voice, where’d you get that face, where’d you get that song? Eddie, where’d you get that?”
“Eddie, where you been?”
“Where were you all night?”
“Don’t come around here, you gonna be singing that stuff.”
“God gave you that voice, and you give it to the devil?”
“Eddie, can you sing for me?”
“Eddie, will you sing?”
“Eddie, make it better.”
“Eddie, I got something for you.”
“Eddie I got money I got pussy I got champagne I got money I got dope. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, will you sing?”
11