You Can't Keep a Good Woman Down Page 2

  You is been spying on me!

  But I don’t know what the fight was about, he said. Just like I don’t know what happened to your second husband. Your first one died in the Texas electric chair. Did you know that? Your third one beat you up, stole your touring costumes and your car and retired with a chorine to Tuskegee. He laughed. He’s still there.

  I had been mad, but suddenly I calmed down. Traynor was talking very dreamily. It was dark but seems like I could tell his eyes weren’t right. It was like something was sitting there talking to me but not necessarily with a person behind it.

  You gave up on marrying and seem happier for it. He laughed again. I married but it never went like it was supposed to. I never could squeeze any of my own life either into it or out of it. It was like singing somebody else’s record. I copied the way it was sposed to be exactly but I never had a clue what marriage meant.

  I bought her a diamond ring big as your fist. I bought her clothes. I built her a mansion. But right away she didn’t want the boys to stay there. Said they smoked up the bottom floor. Hell, there were five floors.

  No need to grieve, I said. No need to. Plenty more where she come from.

  He perked up. That’s part of what that song means, ain’t it? No need to grieve. Whatever it is, there’s plenty more down the line.

  I never really believed that way back when I wrote that song, I said. It was all bluffing then. The trick is to live long enough to put your young bluffs to use. Now if I was to sing that song today I’d tear it up. ’Cause I done lived long enough to know it’s true. Them words could hold me up.

  I ain’t lived that long, he said.

  Look like you on your way, I said. I don’t know why, but the boy seemed to need some encouraging. And I don’t know, seem like one way or another you talk to rich white folks and you end up reassuring them. But what the hell, by now I feel something for the boy. I wouldn’t be in his bed all alone in the middle of the night for nothing. Couldn’t be nothing worse than being famous the world over for something you don’t even understand. That’s what I tried to tell Bessie. She wanted that same song. Overheard me practicing it one day, said, with her hands on her hips: Gracie Mae, I’ma sing your song tonight. I likes it.

  Your lips be too swole to sing, I said. She was mean and she was strong, but I trounced her.

  Ain’t you famous enough with your own stuff? I said. Leave mine alone. Later on, she thanked me. By then she was Miss Bessie Smith to the World, and I was still Miss Gracie Mae Nobody from Notasulga.

  The next day all these limousines arrived to pick me up. Five cars and twelve bodyguards. Horace picked that morning to start painting the kitchen.

  Don’t paint the kitchen, fool, I said. The only reason that dumb boy of ours is going to show me his mansion is because he intends to present us with a new house.

  What you gonna do with it? he asked me, standing there in his shirtsleeves stirring the paint.

  Sell it. Give it to the children. Live in it on weekends. It don’t matter what I do. He sure don’t care.

  Horace just stood there shaking his head. Mama you sure looks good, he says. Wake me up when you git back.

  Fool, I say, and pat my wig in front of the mirror.

  The boy’s house is something else. First you come to this mountain, and then you commence to drive and drive up this road that’s lined with magnolias. Do magnolias grow on mountains? I was wondering. And you come to lakes and you come to ponds and you come to deer and you come up on some sheep. And I figure these two is sposed to represent England and Wales. Or something out of Europe. And you just keep on coming to stuff. And it’s all pretty. Only the man driving my car don’t look at nothing but the road. Fool. And then finally, after all this time, you begin to go up the driveway. And there’s more magnolias—only they’re not in such good shape. It’s sort of cool up this high and I don’t think they’re gonna make it. And then I see this building that looks like if it had a name it would be The Tara Hotel. Columns and steps and outdoor chandeliers and rocking chairs. Rocking chairs? Well, and there’s the boy on the steps dressed in a dark green satin jacket like you see folks wearing on TV late at night, and he looks sort of like a fat dracula with all that house rising behind him, and standing beside him there’s this little white vision of loveliness that he introduces as his wife.

  He’s nervous when he introduces us and he says to her: This is Gracie Mae Still, I want you to know me. I mean…and she gives him a look that would fry meat.

  Won’t you come in, Gracie Mae, she says, and that’s the last I see of her.

  He fishes around for something to say or do and decides to escort me to the kitchen. We go through the entry and the parlor and the breakfast room and the dining room and the servants’ passage and finally get there. The first thing I notice is that, altogether, there are five stoves. He looks about to introduce me to one.

  Wait a minute, I say. Kitchens don’t do nothing for me. Let’s go sit on the front porch.

  Well, we hike back and we sit in the rocking chairs rocking until dinner.

  Gracie Mae, he says down the table, taking a piece of fried chicken from the woman standing over him, I got a little surprise for you.

  It’s a house, ain’t it? I ask, spearing a chitlin.

  You’re getting spoiled, he says. And the way he says spoiled sounds funny. He slurs it. It sounds like his tongue is too thick for his mouth. Just that quick he’s finished the chicken and is now eating chitlins and a pork chop. Me spoiled, I’m thinking.

  I already got a house. Horace is right this minute painting the kitchen. I bought that house. My kids feel comfortable in that house.

  But this one I bought you is just like mine. Only a little smaller.

  I still don’t need no house. And anyway who would clean it?

  He looks surprised.

  Really, I think, some peoples advance so slowly.

  I hadn’t thought of that. But what the hell, I’ll get you somebody to live in.

  I don’t want other folks living ’round me. Makes me nervous.

  You don’t? It do?

  What I want to wake up and see folks I don’t even know for?

  He just sits there down table staring at me. Some of that feeling is in the song, ain’t it? Not the words, the feeling. What I want to wake up and see folks I don’t even know for? But I see twenty folks a day I don’t even know, including my wife.

  This food wouldn’t be bad to wake up to though, I said. The boy had found the genius of corn bread.

  He looked at me real hard. He laughed. Short. They want what you got but they don’t want you. They want what I got only it ain’t mine. That’s what makes ’em so hungry for me when I sing. They getting the flavor of something but they ain’t getting the thing itself. They like a pack of hound dogs trying to gobble up a scent.

  You talking ’bout your fans?

  Right. Right. He says.

  Don’t worry ’bout your fans, I say. They don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground. I doubt there’s a honest one in the bunch.

  That’s the point. Dammit, that’s the point! He hits the table with his fist. It’s so solid it don’t even quiver. You need a honest audience! You can’t have folks that’s just gonna lie right back to you.

  Yeah, I say, it was small compared to yours, but I had one. It would have been worth my life to try to sing ’em somebody else’s stuff that I didn’t know nothing about.

  He must have pressed a buzzer under the table. One of his flunkies zombies up.

  Git Johnny Carson, he says.

  On the phone? asks the zombie.

  On the phone, says Traynor, what you think I mean, git him offa the front porch? Move your ass.

  So two weeks later we’s on the Johnny Carson show.

  Traynor is all corseted down nice and looks a little bit fat but mostly good. And all the women that grew up on him and my song squeal and squeal. Traynor says: The lady who wrote my first hit record is here with us tonight, a
nd she’s agreed to sing it for all of us, just like she sung it forty-five years ago. Ladies and Gentlemen, the great Gracie Mae Still!

  Well, I had tried to lose a couple of pounds my own self, but failing that I had me a very big dress made. So I sort of rolls over next to Traynor, who is dwarfted by me, so that when he puts his arm around back of me to try to hug me it looks funny to the audience and they laugh.

  I can see this pisses him off. But I smile out there at ’em. Imagine squealing for twenty years and not knowing why you’re squealing? No more sense of endings and beginnings than hogs.

  It don’t matter, Son, I say. Don’t fret none over me.

  I commence to sing. And I sound ——— wonderful. Being able to sing good ain’t all about having a good singing voice a’tall. A good singing voice helps. But when you come up in the Hard Shell Baptist church like I did you understand early that the fellow that sings is the singer. Them that waits for programs and arrangements and letters from home is just good voices occupying body space.

  So there I am singing my own song, my own way. And I give it all I got and enjoy every minute of it. When I finish Traynor is standing up clapping and clapping and beaming at first me and then the audience like I’m his mama for true. The audience claps politely for about two seconds.

  Traynor looks disgusted.

  He comes over and tries to hug me again. The audience laughs.

  Johnny Carson looks at us like we both weird.

  Traynor is mad as hell. He’s supposed to sing something called a love ballad. But instead he takes the mike, turns to me and says: Now see if my imitation still holds up. He goes into the same song, our song, I think, looking out at his flaky audience. And he sings it just the way he always did. My voice, my tone, my inflection, everything. But he forgets a couple of lines. Even before he’s finished the matronly squeals begin.

  He sits down next to me looking whipped.

  It don’t matter, Son, I say, patting his hand. You don’t even know those people. Try to make the people you know happy.

  Is that in the song? he asks.

  Maybe. I say.

  1977

  For a few years I hear from him, then nothing. But trying to lose weight takes all the attention I got to spare. I finally faced up to the fact that my fat is the hurt I don’t admit, not even to myself, and that I been trying to bury it from the day I was born. But also when you git real old, to tell the truth, it ain’t as pleasant. It gits lumpy and slack. Yuck. So one day I said to Horace, I’ma git this shit offa me.

  And he fell in with the program like he always try to do and Lord such a procession of salads and cottage cheese and fruit juice!

  One night I dreamed Traynor had split up with his fifteenth wife. He said: You meet ’em for no reason. You date ’em for no reason. You marry ’em for no reason. I do it all but I swear it’s just like somebody else doing it. I feel like I can’t remember Life.

  The boy’s in trouble, I said to Horace.

  You’ve always said that, he said.

  I have?

  Yeah. You always said he looked asleep. You can’t sleep through life if you wants to live it.

  You not such a fool after all, I said, pushing myself up with my cane and hobbling over to where he was. Let me sit down on your lap, I said, while this salad I ate takes effect.

  In the morning we heard Traynor was dead. Some said fat, some said heart, some said alcohol, some said drugs. One of the children called from Detroit. Them dumb fans of his is on a crying rampage, she said. You just ought to turn on the t.v.

  But I didn’t want to see ’em. They was crying and crying and didn’t even know what they was crying for. One day this is going to be a pitiful country, I thought.

  How Did I Get Away with Killing One of the Biggest Lawyers in the State? It Was Easy.

  “MY MOTHER AND FATHER were not married. I never knew him. My mother must have loved him, though; she never talked against him when I was little. It was like he never existed. We lived on Poultry street. Why it was called Poultry street I never knew. I guess at one time there must have been a chicken factory somewhere along there. It was right near the center of town. I could walk to the state capitol in less than ten minutes. I could see the top—it was gold—of the capitol building from the front yard. When I was a little girl I used to think it was real gold, shining up there, and then they bought an eagle and put him on top, and when I used to walk up there I couldn’t see the top of the building from the ground, it was so high, and I used to reach down and run my hand over the grass. It was like a rug, that grass was, so springy and silky and deep. They had these big old trees, too. Oaks and magnolias; and I thought the magnolia trees were beautiful and one night I climbed up in one of them and got a bloom and took it home. But the air in our house blighted it; it turned brown the minute I took it inside and the petals dropped off.

  “Mama worked in private homes. That’s how she described her job, to make it sound nicer. ‘I work in private homes,’ she would say, and that sounded nicer, she thought, than saying ‘I’m a maid.’

  “Sometimes she made six dollars a day, working in two private homes. Most of the time she didn’t make that much. By the time she paid the rent and bought milk and bananas there wasn’t anything left.

  “She used to leave me alone sometimes because there was no one to keep me—and then there was an old woman up the street who looked after me for a while—and by the time she died she was more like a mother to me than Mama was. Mama was so tired every night when she came home I never hardly got the chance to talk to her. And then sometimes she would go out at night, or bring men home—but they never thought of marrying her. And they sure didn’t want to be bothered with me. I guess most of them were like my own father; had children somewhere of their own that they’d left. And then they came to my Mama, who fell for them every time. And I think she may have had a couple of abortions, like some of the women did, who couldn’t feed any more mouths. But she tried.

  “Anyway, she was a nervous kind of woman. I think she had spells or something because she was so tired. But I didn’t understand anything then about exhaustion, worry, lack of a proper diet; I just thought she wanted to work, to be away from the house. I didn’t blame her. Where we lived people sometimes just threw pieces of furniture they didn’t want over the railing. And there was broken glass and rags everywhere. The place stunk, especially in the summer. And children were always screaming and men were always cussing and women were always yelling about something.… It was nothing for a girl or woman to be raped. I was raped myself, when I was twelve, and my Mama never knew and I never told anybody. For, what could they do? It was just a boy, passing through. Somebody’s cousin from the North.

  “One time my Mama was doing day’s work at a private home and took me with her. It was like being in fairyland. Everything was spotless and new, even before Mama started cleaning. I met the woman in the house and played with her children. I didn’t even see the man, but he was in there somewhere, while I was out in the yard with the children. I was fourteen, but I guess I looked like a grown woman. Or maybe I looked fourteen. Anyway, the next day, he picked me up when I was coming from school and he said my Mama had asked him to do it. I got in the car with him…he took me to his law office, a big office in the middle of town, and he started asking me questions about ‘how do you all live?’ and ‘what grade are you in?’ and stuff like that. And then he began to touch me, and I pulled away. But he kept touching me and I was scared…he raped me. But afterward he told me he hadn’t forced me, that I felt something for him, and he gave me some money. I was crying, going down the stairs. I wanted to kill him.

  “I never told Mama. I thought that would be the end of it. But about two days later, on my way from school, he stopped his car again, and I got in. This time we went to his house; nobody was there. And he made me get into his wife’s bed. After we’d been doing this for about three weeks, he told me he loved me. I didn’t love him, but he had begun to look a little b
etter to me. Really, I think, because he was so clean. He bathed a lot and never smelled even alive, to tell the truth. Or maybe it was the money he gave me, or the presents he bought. I told Mama I had a job after school baby-sitting. And she was glad that I could buy things I needed for school. But it was all from him.

  “This went on for two years. He wouldn’t let me get pregnant, he said, and I didn’t. I would just lay up there in his wife’s bed and work out algebra problems or think about what new thing I was going to buy. But one day, when I got home, Mama was there ahead of me, and she saw me get out of his car. I knew when he was driving off that I was going to get it.

  “Mama asked me didn’t I know he was a white man? Didn’t I know he was a married man with two children? Didn’t I have good sense? And do you know what I told her? I told her he loved me. Mama was crying and praying at the same time by then. The neighbors heard both of us screaming and crying, because Mama beat me almost to death with the cord from the electric iron. She just hacked it off the iron, still on the ironing board. She beat me till she couldn’t raise her arm. And then she had one of her fits, just twitching and sweating and trying to claw herself into the floor. This scared me more than the beating. That night she told me something I hadn’t paid much attention to before. She said: ‘On top of everything else, that man’s daddy goes on the t.v. every night and says folks like us ain’t even human.’ It was his daddy who had stood in the schoolhouse door saying it would be over his dead body before any black children would come into a white school.

  “But do you think that stopped me? No. I would look at his daddy on t.v. ranting and raving about how integration was a communist plot, and I would just think of how different his son Bubba was from his daddy! Do you understand what I’m saying? I thought he loved me. That meant something to me. What did I know about ‘equal rights’? What did I care about ‘integration’? I was sixteen! I wanted somebody to tell me I was pretty, and he was telling me that all the time. I even thought it was brave of him to go with me. History? What did I know about History?