An American Marriage Page 2

  I know that all of this is water under the bridge, and not a sweet little creek either. But to be fair, I have to tell this whole story. We were married only a year and some change, but it was a good year. Even she would have to admit that.

  A meteor crashed our life on Labor Day weekend when we went to Eloe to visit my parents. We traveled by car because I liked a road trip. Planes, I associated with my job. Back then, I was a rep for a textbook company, specializing in math books, even though my way with numbers ended with my 12 times tables. I was successful at my gig because I knew how to sell things. The week before, I closed a nice adoption at my alma mater, and I was in the running for one at Georgia State. It didn’t make me a mogul, but I was looking forward to a bonus hefty enough to start talking about buying a new house. Nothing was wrong with our current abode, a solid ranch house on a quiet street. It’s just that it was a wedding gift from her parents, her childhood home, deeded over to their only daughter, and only to her. It was like white people do, a leg up, American style. But I kind of wanted to hang my hat on a peg with my own name on it.

  This was on my mind but not on my spirit as we drove up I-10 on our way to Eloe. We settled down after our anniversary skirmish and we were back in rhythm with each other. Old-school hip-hop thumped from the stereo of our Honda Accord, a family kind of car with two empty seats in the back.

  Six hours in, I clicked on the blinker at exit 163. As we merged onto a two-lane highway, I felt a change in Celestial. Her shoulders rode a little higher, and she nibbled on the ends of her hair.

  “What’s wrong,” I asked, turning down the volume of the greatest hip-hop album in history.

  “Just nervous.”

  “About what?”

  “You ever have a feeling like maybe you left the stove on?”

  I returned the volume on the stereo to somewhere between thumping and bumping. “Call your boy, Andre, then.”

  Celestial fumbled with the seatbelt like it was rubbing her neck the wrong way. “I always get like this around your parents, self-conscious, you know.”

  “My folks?” Olive and Big Roy are the most down-to-earth people in the history of ever. Celestial’s folks, on the other hand, were not what you would call approachable. Her father was a little dude, three apples tall, with this immense Frederick Douglass fro, complete with side part—and to top it off, he is some sort of genius inventor. Her mother worked in education, not as a teacher or a principal but as an assistant superintendent to the whole school system. And did I mention that her dad hit pay dirt about ten or twelve years ago, inventing a compound that prevents orange juice from separating so fast? He sold that sucker to Minute Maid and ever since, they have been splashing around naked in a bathtub full of money. Her mama and daddy—now that’s a hard room. Next to them, Olive and Big Roy are cake. “You know my folks love you,” I said.

  “They love you.”

  “And I love you, so they love you. It’s basic math.”

  Celestial looked out the window as the skinny pine trees whipped by. “I don’t feel good about this, Roy. Let’s go home.”

  My wife has a flair for the dramatic. Still, there was a little hitch in her words that I can only describe as fear.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But let’s go back.”

  “What would I tell my mother? You know she has dinner cooking at full tilt by now.”

  “Blame it on me,” Celestial said. “Tell her everything’s my fault.”

  Looking back on it, it’s like watching a horror flick and wondering why the characters are so determined to ignore the danger signs. When a spectral voice says, get out, you should do it. But in real life, you don’t know that you’re in a scary movie. You think your wife is being overly emotional. You quietly hope that it’s because she’s pregnant, because a baby is what you need to lock this thing in and throw away the key.

  When we arrived at my parents’ home, Olive was waiting on the front porch. My mother had a fondness for wigs, and this time she was wearing curls the color of peach preserves. I pulled into the yard close up to the bumper of my daddy’s Chrysler, threw the car in park, flung open the door, and bounded up the stairs two at a time to meet my mama halfway with an embrace. She was no bigger than a minute, so I bent my back to sweep her feet up off the porch and she laughed musical like a xylophone.

  “Little Roy,” she said. “You’re home.”

  Once I set her down, I looked over my shoulder and didn’t see anything but dead air, so I trotted back down the stairs, again two at a time. I opened the car door and Celestial extended her arm. I swear, I could hear my mother roll her eyes as I helped my wife out of the Honda.

  “It’s a triangle,” Big Roy explained as the two of us enjoyed a corner of cognac in the den while Olive was busy in the kitchen and Celestial freshened up. “I was lucky,” he said. “When I met your mama, we were both a couple of free agents. My parents were both dead and gone, and hers were way in Oklahoma, pretending like she was never born.”

  “They’ll get it together,” I told Big Roy. “Celestial takes a minute to get used to people.”

  “Your mama isn’t exactly Doris Day,” he said in agreement, and we raised our glasses to the difficult women we were crazy about.

  “It’ll get better when we have a kid,” I said.

  “True. A grandbaby can soothe a savage beast.”

  “Who you calling a beast?” My mother materialized from the kitchen and sat on Big Roy’s lap like a teenager.

  From the other doorway Celestial entered, fresh, lovely, and smelling of tangerines. With me nestled in the recliner and my parents love-birding on the couch, there was no place for her to sit, so I tapped my knee. Gamely, she perched on my lap and we seemed to be on an awkward double date circa 1952.

  My mother righted herself. “Celestial, I hear you’re famous.”

  “Ma’am?” she said, and jerked a little to get up off my lap, but I held her fast.

  “The magazine,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell us you were making waves in the world?”

  Celestial looked shy. “It’s just the alumnae bulletin.”

  “It’s a magazine,” my mother said, picking up the shiny copy from under the coffee table and flipping it to a dog-eared page featuring Celestial holding a cloth doll that represented Josephine Baker. “Artists to Watch,” announced a bold font.

  “I sent it,” I admitted. “What can I say? I’m proud.”

  “Is it true that people pay five thousand dollars for your dolls?” Olive pursed her lips and cut her eyes.

  “Not usually,” Celestial said, but I spoke over her.

  “That’s right,” I said. “You know I’m her manager. Would I let somebody shortchange my wife?”

  “Five thousand dollars for a baby doll?” Olive fanned herself with the magazine, lifting her peach-preserve hair. “I guess that’s why God invented white folks.”

  Big Roy chuckled, and Celestial struggled like a backside beetle to get free from my lap. “The picture doesn’t do it justice,” she said, sounding like a little girl. “The headdress is hand-beaded and—”

  “Five thousand dollars will buy a lot of beads,” my mother noted.

  Celestial looked at me, and in an attempt to make peace, I said, “Mama, don’t hate the player, hate the game.” If you have a woman, you recognize when you have said the wrong thing. Somehow she rearranges the ions in the air and you can’t breathe as well.

  “It’s not a game; it’s art.” Celestial’s eyes landed on the framed African-inspired prints on the walls of the living room. “I mean real art.”

  Big Roy, a skilled diplomat, said, “Maybe if we could see one in person.”

  “There’s one in the car,” I said. “I’ll go get it.”

  The doll, swaddled in a soft blanket, looked like an actual infant. This was one of Celestial’s quirks. For a woman who was, shall we say, apprehensive about motherhood, she was rather protective of these cloth creat
ions. I tried to tell her that she was going to have to adopt a different attitude for when we opened up our storefront. The poupées, as the dolls were called, would sell for a fraction of the price of the art pieces, like the one I was holding. They would have to be sewn with a quickness and, once it caught on, mass production all the way. None of this cashmere blanket stuff. But I let her slide with this one, which was a commission for the mayor of Atlanta to be given as a gift to his chief of staff, who was expecting a baby around Thanksgiving.

  When I parted the blanket so my mother could see the doll’s face, she pulled in a loud breath. I gave Celestial a little wink, and she was kind enough to reset the ions in the air so I could breathe again.

  “It’s you,” Olive said, taking the doll from me, taking care to support its head.

  “I used his picture,” Celestial piped up. “Roy is my inspiration.”

  “That’s why she married me,” I joked.

  “Not the only reason,” she said.

  You know it was a charmed moment if my mother didn’t have a single word to say. Her eyes were on the bundle in her arms as my father joined her and stared over her shoulder.

  “I used Austrian crystals for the hair,” Celestial went on, getting excited. “Turn it to hit the light.”

  My mother did and the doll’s head shimmered as light from our everyday bulbs bounced off the little cap of black beads. “It’s like a halo,” my mother said. “This is how it is when you really have a baby. You ’ve your own angel.”

  Now my mother moved to the couch and laid the doll on a cushion. It was a trippy experience because the doll really did favor me, or at least my baby pictures. It was like staring into an enchanted mirror. In Olive, I could see the sixteen-year-old she had been, a mother way too soon but as tender as springtime. “I could buy this from you?”

  “No, Mama,” I said, pride barreling up from my chest. “That’s a special commission. Ten K. Quick and dirty, brokered by yours truly!”

  “Of course,” she said, folding the blanket over the doll like a shroud. “What do I need a doll for? Old lady like me?”

  “You can have it,” Celestial said.

  I gave her the look that she calls my Gary Coleman expression. The contract specified delivery by the end of the month. The deadline was more than firm; it was black-ink-notarized in triplicate. There was no CPT proviso.

  Without even looking at me, Celestial said, “I can make another one.”

  Olive said, “No, I don’t want to set you back. It’s just that he’s so much like Little Roy.”

  I reached to take the doll from her, but my mother wasn’t exactly releasing it and Celestial wasn’t exactly making it easy. She’s a sucker for anybody who appreciates her work. This was something else we were going to have to work on if we were going to make a real business out of this.

  “Keep it,” Celestial said, like she hadn’t been working on this doll for three months. “I can make another one for the mayor.”

  Now it was Olive’s turn to stir the ions.

  “Oh, the mayor. Well, excuse me!” She handed me the doll. “Put it back in your car before I get it dirty. I don’t want you sending me a bill for ten thousand dollars.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Celestial looked at me in apology.

  “Mama,” I said.

  “Olive,” Big Roy said.

  “Mrs. Hamilton,” Celestial said.

  “It’s dinnertime,” my mother said. “I hope y’all still eat candy yams and mustard greens.”

  We ate dinner, not in silence, but nobody talked about anything. Olive was so angry that she messed up the iced tea. I took a deep sip, expecting the soft finish of cane sugar, and choked on the hot taste of kosher salt. Shortly after that, my high school diploma fell off the wall, and a crack starred across the glass. Signs? Maybe. But I wasn’t thinking about missives from above. I was too distracted by being accidentally caught between two women I treasured beyond question. It’s not that I don’t know how to handle myself when I’m in a situation. Every man knows what it is to spread himself around. But with my mother and Celestial, I was actually split down the middle. Olive brought me into this world and trained me up to be the man I recognized as myself. But Celestial was the portal to the rest of my life, the shiny door to the next level.

  Dessert was sock-it-to-me cake, my favorite, but the tussle with that ten-thousand-dollar doll stole my appetite. Nevertheless, I pushed my way through two cinnamon-swirled helpings because everybody knows the way to make a bad matter worse with a southern woman is to refuse her food. So I ate like a refugee and so did Celestial, even though we both had pledged to stay away from processed sugar.

  Once we cleared the table, Big Roy said, “Ready to bring your bags in?”

  “No, Big Man,” I said, my voice light. “I got us a room in the Piney Woods.”

  “You would rather stay in that dump than your own home?” Olive said.

  “I want to take Celestial back to the first beginning.”

  “You don’t have to stay there to do that.”

  But the truth was that I did. It was a story that needed telling away from my parents’ revisionist tendencies. After a year of marriage, she deserved to know who she was married to.

  “Was this your idea?” my mother asked Celestial.

  “No, ma’am. I’m happy to stay here.”

  “This is all me,” I said, although Celestial was glad we were staying in the hotel. She said she never felt right about us sleeping together under either of our parents’ roofs even though we were lawfully wedded, et cetera. Last time we were here she put on a Little House on the Prairie nightgown, although usually she slept au naturel.

  “But I made up the room,” Olive said, reaching suddenly for Celestial. The women looked at each other in a way that a man never looks at another man. For a beat, they were alone together in the house.

  “Roy.” Celestial turned to me, strangely frightened. “What do you think?”

  “We’ll be back in the morning, Mama,” I said, kissing her. “Biscuits and honey.”

  How long did it take for us to leave my mother’s home? Maybe it’s the looking-back talking, but everyone except me seemed to have stones in their pockets. As we made our way through the door at last, my father handed Celestial the shrouded doll. He carried it awkwardly, like he couldn’t decide if it was an object or a living thing.

  “Give him some air,” my mother said, pulling back the blanket, and the sinking orange sun lit up the halo.

  “You can have it,” Celestial said. “For real.”

  “That one is for the mayor,” Olive said. “You can make me another one.”

  “Or better yet, the real thing,” Big Roy said, tracing an invisible pregnant belly with his big hands. His laughter broke whatever sticky spell bound us to the house, and we were able to leave.

  Celestial thawed as soon as we climbed into the car. Whatever bad mojo or heebie-jeebies were bothering her vanished once we were back on the highway. She undid the French braids over her ears, nesting her head between her knees, busy unraveling and fluffing. When she sat up, she was herself again, riot of hair and wicked smile. “Oh my Lord, that was awkward,” she said.

  “Word,” I agreed. “I don’t know what that was all about.”

  “Babies,” she said. “I believe that the desire for grandchildren makes even sane parents go left.”

  “Not your parents,” I said, thinking of her folks, cool as icebox pie.

  “Oh yes, mine, too,” she said. “They keep it in check in front of you. All of them need to go to therapy.”

  “But we’re trying for kids,” I said. “What difference does it make if they want kids, too? Isn’t it good to have something in common?”

  On our way to the hotel, I pulled over on the side of the road right before we crossed a suspension bridge that was out of scale with what maps called the Aldridge River but was basically a hearty stream.

  “What do you have on your feet?” />
  “Wedges,” she said, frowning.

  “Can you walk in them?”

  She seemed embarrassed by her shoes, an architectural construction of polka-dot ribbon and cork. “How was I supposed to impress your mother in flats?”

  “No worries, it’s close,” I said shuffling down a soft embankment as she baby-stepped behind me. “Hold my neck,” I said, picking her up like a bride and carrying her the rest of the way. She pressed her face into my neck and sighed. I would never tell her, but I liked being stronger than she was, the way I could literally sweep her off her feet. She wouldn’t tell me either, but I know that she appreciated it, too. Reaching the bank of the stream, I set her down on the soft earth. “You getting heavy, girl. You sure you not pregnant?”

  “Ha ha, very funny,” she said, looking up. “This is a lot of bridge for a little slip of water.”

  I sat on the ground and pressed my back against one of the metal pillars like it was the big hickory tree in our front yard. I scissored my legs and patted the space between them. She sat there and I crossed my arms across her chest and rested my chin where her neck met her shoulder. The stream beside us was clear; the water gushed over smooth rocks, and twilight outlined the little waves with silver. My wife smelled like lavender and coconut cake.

  I said, “Before they built the dam and the water went low, me and my daddy came out here on Saturdays with our lines and bait. In a way that’s what fatherhood is about: bologna sandwiches and grape soda.” She giggled, not knowing how serious I was. Above us, a car passed over the metal mesh, and the sound of the wind passing through the holes played a musical note, like when you blow softly over the mouth of a bottle. “When a lot of cars pass over, it’s almost a song.”

  There we sat, waiting on cars, listening for the bridge music. Our marriage was good. This isn’t just memory talking.