beautiful. Men seem to start glowing with years. I wonder if they shine with the invisible candles that light up good leather when it ages. He wears his wealth on his face. Life has carved a leanness into the bones of my man that the years of plenty and the years of excess, drink and food, do not blightâcompletely.
Light in August. I used to be scared I would have a baby. Now I am scared I will not. My waist is narrow as a virgin's, and my stomach is babyless flat, my breast babyless high. I like to think I wear my years lightly. Virgins go dry and age quickly into brittle spinsters. Women who are touched by many different men become shopworn angels. You can see the smudges of bourbon breath mottling their eyes. Mothers grow flaccid, rich in baby love, each baby taking some of the mother's beauty as if the baby knows it needs to protect its babyself by making Mama less kiss-daddy pretty. Each baby knows the baby to come takes something away from the baby in arms, so little Jenny and little Carrie cry in the night just when Daddy's rising. They gray Mama's hair and suck the fullness out of her breast. Filling her heart with such love, she don't need to look in the mirror to see who she is. I learned all that at Beauty's. What the babies take away, the girls paint back on.
Me, I'm looking in the mirror, still. The mirror on the wall and the mirror in his eyes. I see Beauty grow blowsy; I see Other grow wider with the laying of three men and the birthing of three babies. MeâI've only had one man and no babies, and so my skin is not etched like marble with the pale wiggling seams where life stretched forth to cover lifeâbut I am greedy for weight, the weight of life growing within me, the relief the old cow knows when she delivers in July and is light in August.
"Do you ever think about marrying me?" he asks.
"No."
"I'm thinking about marrying you."
I sit up on the bed. I don't look at him. It's time to get my dress on. I smell dinner ready in the kitchen. I wonder if Cook did lard the turkey. R. kisses me again on the forehead. For the first time in a long time, I wonder how much I remind him of Other and how much in his eyes I resemble their child. He outlines the curve of my eyebrow, and I know he is thinking of them.
I had to get this down. But now I have to dress. I will put on the red gown and the large gold hoops in my ears. I had intended to choose a more subdued dress, but I feel, after R.'s declaration, it will be amusing to play with his notion of who I am and watch him squirm. He's playing with me. I will not play in the shadow of Other.
35
The Congressman was colored. And I could not have been more charmed. I wish I could have changed gowns. Unfortunately, all he did was find fault with me, too many faults for a different dress to have helped.
There were three of us at table. Instead of placing our guest between us, R. sat me in the middle as a kind of no man's land. Each man sat at a head of the table.
I wished from the moment I walked in that I hadn't worn my hoops. Under the Congressman's gaze the hoops felt niggerish and the deepness of the cut of the bosom of my gown seemed sluttish.
But R. seemed pleased. He expected the Congressman to admire me, so all he saw was admiration.
The dinner began slowly. There was some kind of soup, a hot soup served in handled cold creamed soup bowls that made me cringe, and the turkey was dry. We had chess pie for dessert, a recipe that come over from Tennessee, like pecan pie without the pecans. It was an after-the-war food, elegant in its unadorned poverty. The Congressman smiled at his first crispy-sweet bite.
R. caught this, and laughed. "You don't believe me. Cindy is not your ordinary ladyâshe's been on the Grand Tour."
"My goodness." For the first time the Congressman was impressed.
"You and Mrs. Hemmings?"
"Mrs. Hemmings?"
"Mrs. Hemmings who Jefferson took to Paris."
R. and the Congressman begin to share a laugh at my expense. To veer
Light in August. I used to be scared I would have a baby. Now I am scared I will not. My waist is narrow as a virgin's, and my stomach is babyless flat, my breast babyless high. I like to think I wear my years lightly. Virgins go dry and age quickly into brittle spinsters. Women who are touched by many different men become shopworn angels. You can see the smudges of bourbon breath mottling their eyes. Mothers grow flaccid, rich in baby love, each baby taking some of the mother's beauty as if the baby knows it needs to protect its babyself by making Mama less kiss-daddy pretty. Each baby knows the baby to come takes something away from the baby in arms, so little Jenny and little Carrie cry in the night just when Daddy's rising. They gray Mama's hair and suck the fullness out of her breast. Filling her heart with such love, she don't need to look in the mirror to see who she is. I learned all that at Beauty's. What the babies take away, the girls paint back on.
Me, I'm looking in the mirror, still. The mirror on the wall and the mirror in his eyes. I see Beauty grow blowsy; I see Other grow wider with the laying of three men and the birthing of three babies. MeâI've only had one man and no babies, and so my skin is not etched like marble with the pale wiggling seams where life stretched forth to cover lifeâbut I am greedy for weight, the weight of life growing within me, the relief the old cow knows when she delivers in July and is light in August.
"Do you ever think about marrying me?" he asks.
"No."
"I'm thinking about marrying you."
I sit up on the bed. I don't look at him. It's time to get my dress on. I smell dinner ready in the kitchen. I wonder if Cook did lard the turkey. R. kisses me again on the forehead. For the first time in a long time, I wonder how much I remind him of Other and how much in his eyes I resemble their child. He outlines the curve of my eyebrow, and I know he is thinking of them.
I had to get this down. But now I have to dress. I will put on the red gown and the large gold hoops in my ears. I had intended to choose a more subdued dress, but I feel, after R.'s declaration, it will be amusing to play with his notion of who I am and watch him squirm. He's playing with me. I will not play in the shadow of Other.
35
The Congressman was colored. And I could not have been more charmed. I wish I could have changed gowns. Unfortunately, all he did was find fault with me, too many faults for a different dress to have helped.
There were three of us at table. Instead of placing our guest between us, R. sat me in the middle as a kind of no man's land. Each man sat at a head of the table.
I wished from the moment I walked in that I hadn't worn my hoops. Under the Congressman's gaze the hoops felt niggerish and the deepness of the cut of the bosom of my gown seemed sluttish.
But R. seemed pleased. He expected the Congressman to admire me, so all he saw was admiration.
The dinner began slowly. There was some kind of soup, a hot soup served in handled cold creamed soup bowls that made me cringe, and the turkey was dry. We had chess pie for dessert, a recipe that come over from Tennessee, like pecan pie without the pecans. It was an after-the-war food, elegant in its unadorned poverty. The Congressman smiled at his first crispy-sweet bite.
R. caught this, and laughed. "You don't believe me. Cindy is not your ordinary ladyâshe's been on the Grand Tour."
"My goodness." For the first time the Congressman was impressed.
"You and Mrs. Hemmings?"
"Mrs. Hemmings?"
"Mrs. Hemmings who Jefferson took to Paris."
R. and the Congressman begin to share a laugh at my expense. To veer
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