watched the shimmer of trees passing and heard Uncle Edâs anxious voice. âYou just smile if she donât come out. It take two to make ugly, and I done brought you up better than that.â But her mother had let her into the living room, winking, calling Helene names that rang in her ears like ghosts. A Mable in a blue dress, a Morning whom her mother scolded for staying away so long. The past flickered before them, different colors, until Helene reminded her mother she was her daughter and then Queen Ester put her out.
Between the name-calling, Queen Ester had stuck a glass of water in her daughterâs hand and Helene told her the things she thought a mother should know, her voice high and wavering while she tried to strike the note that would make Queen Ester give her tea or let her stay for dinner. Uncle Ed had stayed in the car, its purring engine drowning out the country silence. What Helene had to tell took no time, just a quick breath, a short exhale; everything important was said by the time her mother sat in the chair, except Helene wasnât sure she had been heard. Queen Ester had stared at her, waiting till Helene had to catch her breath. In the snippet of soundless air, the mother spat out, âI know something of mine is burning on that stove by now. You just get on.â But this time, not only did Helene have Annie bâs death but also the letter, its ripe invitation dangling at the end of the page.
âHelene?â Uncle Ed folded his hands over his stomach, his irritation breaking through her memory.
âYes?â
âYour mamaââ
âThose other timesâ¦â she interrupted, then dwindled to a close. Those other times, she thought, I didnât look so good, my shoes were run over with grass. âMamaâs not like that all the time. Donât you remember whenââ
âI remember. But your mama turn off and on like a switch.â
âUncle Ed, I know. Iâve been there.â She looked at him over the rim of the open car door. A soft hush settled on them that she quickly broke. âThank you.â
âI just donât want you coming back here looking like a broke heart. Now you got all that old hurt stuffed in your purse. What good is all that gone do?â
âThis time she asked for me.â
âThat come-on could mean just bout anything, coming from your mama. And that donât count for why you want to haul them letters with you.â
âI just want to show her Iâve got them. Every time I go down there I forget.â
âYou thinking both yâall gone lean over them and make it right?â His voice curled with concern. âShe ainât a bad woman, but you got to learn when to leave well enough alone.â
âUncle Ed, itâs just this one time more. I just want to know. I want to know it all.â Despite herself, she had become angry.
âAll of what?â Shame crept into his face.
âAll of everything.â
âAnd what good is that gone do you?â
âWhere was your father born?â
âGirl, you know all that.â Ed looked tired, older than his age, but Helene pushed on.
âTell me anyway.â
âVirginia. Galax, Virginia.â
âAnd your mother?â
âTexas.â
âWere they good people?â
âStop it, girl.â
âWere they?â
âYou know it.â
âThatâs all I want to know, Uncle Ed. Where my daddy was from and was he among good people.â
âI can tell you that.â
âI want to know all the things in the middle, too. Can you tell me that?â
âBaby girl.â He paused, sweeping his hand over his face. âAnd when you know all that, what you gone do then?â
She laughed. âWell, I guess Iâll get married then.â Uncle Ed thought, How somebody can be so grown and not grown at the same time just donât figure to reason. All those memories