I shrugged. “Just a moment.”
That moment lasted eight years, longer than any woman. A moment that saw me saying I love you and for the first time meaning it. After I said it, I said I was going out for some shaving cream and never went back. I wonder if he thinks of me every time he shaves? I know I think about him. I feel my beard and know I think about him.
I deserve the vinegar, not the violets. It was why I left that queen-sized heaven and that man who made love like a Langston Hughes poem.
I couldn’t bear such a beautiful life, when Grand never got his. Him and Ryker had fucked, but they hadn’t loved—and that was what Grand missed out on. That is what Grand paid for.
It was the beginning of September and a few mornings after the unsuccessful stoning attempt, which was a moment that showed us what they were capable of but it was also a moment that showed us we could win. I suppose that’s why we didn’t pack up and leave. We thought we could win it all with a flower.
We were sitting at the table, having breakfast. Dad was pouring syrup on his pancakes and Mom was sizzling sausage.
“God bless the woman who cooks in such heat,” Dad said. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was something we just thought.
Sal was sprinkling cinnamon on his buttered toast and Grand was reading the newest edition of The New York Times. As Dad talked about the rising prices of gasoline, Grand tightened his grip on the paper until it pleated and the ink smeared in little wisps from his sweating palm.
“Food prices will be rising with all the drought,” Dad was saying as the paper began to tremble with Grand’s hands.
When he lowered the paper enough for me to see his eyes, they looked like a lot of something gathered in one place. A whole pile that towered too tall and wobbled, about to fall.
“What’s wrong, Grand?” I spoke under Dad’s voice, but still he heard me and stopped talking about rising prices.
He too saw the wobbling pile in Grand’s eyes and reached for the paper. “Bad news in the Times, is it, son? Another Dred Scott v. Sandford?”
Grand jerked the paper to his chest. I thought he was going to crumple it up the way his hands wanted. Instead he forced himself to fold it and lay it on his lap as he became determined to spread strawberry jam on his toast without shaking.
Dad was about to ask again for the newspaper, but Mom’s short exclamation stopped him. Grease had popped from the pan to her arm. She rubbed out the sting, saying she wished she had some yellow mustard. Sal looked down at his toast while Dad shook his head with a smile, the way husbands are quick to do at wives they love beyond measure.
Dad had forgotten about Grand and the newspaper, but I hadn’t. I watched Grand as he took a bite of his toast. The strawberry he piled upon it oozed out around the sides of his mouth.
“It looks like blood.”
I don’t know why I said it. I suppose I thought it would make him smile. But he didn’t smile. Instead his eyes fell strange.
“What?” He sounded hoarse as if in the span of those few moments, he had going on inside him an internal dialogue that had drained him of his voice.
“The jam. It looks like blood.” I gestured at the sides of my own mouth to mean his.
Mom was at the table by then, dropping off the carton of orange juice. She stopped by Grand and pulled up the dishcloth tucked into the waist of her apron to wipe the jam from his face.
He jerked back and grabbed her wrist.
“Did you get it on ya, Mom?” The angst in his voice is with me still.
“What?”
“This blood.” He wiped the red from his mouth.
“Honey, it’s just strawberry jam.”
“Strawberry jam?” He closed his eyes as he pushed his chair back and stood, the newspaper on his lap sliding down onto the floor and under the table. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”
What had happened to the well-rested boy we’d sat down to breakfast with? How could that hollowing, a dig away from reaching bone, come so fast beneath his eyes? His tan of that summer seemed to lift up and float on pale water that went nightmare deep. It was as if he would go on emptying, coming to nothing before our eyes. Just collapse or fade or vanish away.
“I didn’t sleep last night.”
“Oh, I know. I heard the typewriter.” Dad feigned typing. “One day, when you are a married man, your wife will say the typewriter is your mistress, so be prepared, young journalist.”
“Yes, my wife.” Grand said wife as if he was almost sorry she would not exist.
“Go lie down, son. Get ya some rest.” Mom started clearing his dishes.