8: South Carolina

Onetime, binnuh gal name Lacey. Him people frum Spartunbuhg, but w’en dat wah staat ‘e follow’um man down yuh.

“Who was her man, Gramma?” Baby J say. She pretty luk ‘e maamy.

He Tyrone, and ‘e binnuh mighty hansum colluh man. Skin pale luk a bowl’a rice. Smile jus’ as sweet as sweetgrass.

Well, dis’ as dey like to marry, dem Naby binnuh come take him yanduh, to Parrus Ile’n, n’up obuh dat in’igo watuh. So Lacey lean fuh Beefut, out to Sa’leenuh, and stan’ fo him frum dey dey shore, wait til dark and mebbe longuh, but he dun come, no suh.

Munt’ bin pass, n’Lacey study ‘e head til she fine d’ansuh, den’e go n’git all the sweetgrass she can fin’. She webe da’grass like so, obuh n’onduh, till it this big aroun’, den she make annuduh n’tie dey two tugedduh. She culluh in him eyes wid coal, n’use tah fo’um black black hair. Pres’n’ly, bin Sweetgrass Tyrone standin’ dey.

Baby J she worried. “What did she do with it, Gramma? What happened to the real Tyrone?”

We git der suguh, like as dem done. Now, Lacey yeddy she she talk ‘bout dem Naby men, how’um ketch’m culluh gal n’bring’um home, so dat Sat’d’y she dress ST up in khaki n’put dat gol’ stah on, den hire a cah to dribe dey two in.

De buckra ‘kacely see Lacey ‘tal, jus’ salute dat stah n’wabe’m tru. Lacey n’ST git out by de barracks, n’e call: “Tyrone, Tyrone.”

He leap outtuh d’winduh. Dem kiss, n’e take ST back inside. Den dem mek’ace luk Bruh Rabbit, straight’n fuh de boatyaa’d. Dem trow dat boat intuh de watuh, n’e lay down while Lacey row ‘cross the soun’ like as dayclean comin’ on. Gwine home lukkuh Michael tuh dat great great gyaa’d’n, rowin on tawwu’d Gabrull.

Dey heah trumpets in d’mornin, n’aftuhnoon da buckra come. He dun hol’out a picthuh and say: “Ma’am, we’re looking for a fellow went AWOL last night. People say you knew him. Last name Wilson; first name Tyrone.”

But Lacey, she shake her head and say no massuh, no suh. What a mighty handsome whiteman like dat want wit’uh?

“And then what happened?” Baby J smile as you tuck ‘um in. Happy-eyed lukkuh she gran’puh bin. Lawd’a mussy on’um.

Why, Lacey and Tyrone bin stay’uh on Sa’leenuh w’ile de wah happen fah’way. N’soon dey marri’d, man  n’lawfully lady, n’dey live forebbuh in  d’yuh and aftuh, A’min.

You knees creak down d’stairs, ol’ as houses. Yo baby in de kitch’n, sett’n dey. “Nana Lacey,” she say, “you’re not telling her that old story about Papa again. Everybody and their mama heard that one.”

Hush, chil’. Tie yuh mout.

7: Maryland

“Does the first trick take it,” your father asks, hand hovering over the card lying facedown in the center of the table, “or the first point trick?”

“First point,” your mother says, and sips her drink. “Like always, dear.”

“Oh.” He withdraws his hand. A pause. “We haven’t played with just three people in a while.”

He lays down the 7 of spades, and your mother follows with the 9. You sigh and play the three. It’s Sunday night and you’re at your parents’ house in Silver Spring. You wish you had anywhere to be but here.

“Didn’t you two have plans this weekend?” Your mother asks, leading with the Jack. “You and Miles?”

“No,” you say, and play the 10.

“That’s too bad,” your father says. “Those Asian guys are really good at counting cards. He’d be cleaning up right now.” He frowns and throws in the five.

“That was Drew, Dad,” you say.

Your mother finishes her drink and sweeps up the trick. “Miles was the black one, dear,” she says. “Fix a couple more, would you?”

He gets up and heads to the kitchen. You hear the freezer door open, the splash of the gin, the slosh of ice being shaken. Your mother holds out her hand, and rests it lightly on yours. “I never liked him, dear,” she says.

You met Miles at a bar in East Baltimore last fall. He said he was studying law at Johns Hopkins, and you fell in love with the way he put his hands on you, like it was natural, that you were his. You were both drunk, and you told him you wanted to go back to his place. Miles said there was a problem with his heater, or something, so you went back to your dorm instead.

Your father returns with two martini glasses, sets them down. “Can I get anything for you, Suz?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

You don’t remember exactly what happened. You woke up half-naked and Miles was gone, a few of his hairs on your pillow, your creased sheets thick with his smell. You saw him on and off for the next few months, and he was in your dorm when your mother came to pick you up for winter break, so you introduced them.

“There’s no law school at Johns Hopkins,” your mother said. You turned deep red and Miles smiled. He’d lied about everything – his job, his apartment, his age. He didn’t even live in Baltimore, but in Takoma Park, and studied criminal justice at University of Maryland University College.

Your father hesitates, fingers playing along the edges of his cards. “Have hearts been broken?” he asks.

“No,” your mother says. He plays the four of spades and she lays down the two.

You texted him on the car-ride home, but he never texted back. You saw him flirting with some other girl at the same bar in January, but he wouldn’t talk to you.

“Susie,” your mother says. “It’s your turn.”

The queen of spades is in your hand. That cold, black-hearted bitch. You close your eyes. The night is black outside, and cold. The moon is dark and new.

6: Massachusetts

If M and N are riding their bicycles down Broadway toward M’s apartment in Somerville, with M sprinting the final three-block stretch and N continuing at a leisurely pace of maybe two-thirds M’s speed and squinting at the sunlight glinting off the piles of snow while enjoying the unseasonably pleasant weather of just above zero degrees, then:


If O and P are inside their apartment already sitting on the couch where N sleeps sometimes and watching a movie while lifting bottles of beer from the coffee table to their mouths, O gulping twice as much and P sipping his half as often


If R shouts and S slams on the brakes, wheels locking tires skidding, screeching and speed decreasing, ice melting with the heat of friction


If P and O hear the tires screech first, and N after a fraction of a second


If M can see the car coming


If


If


If M feels sky beneath him


If N screams at a steady pitch, but feels his voice climbing like a siren


If O and P feel the couch drop away while the walls rush past at different rates, the front door contracting exponentially in their direction


If R and S reverse, lurch back to their seats and feel their panic decelerating as they skid back up the street with ice refreezing light retreating and O devouring her shouted words of warning as M leaps up and races backwards toward N


If Q (you) observe everything, measure the v of S and R, find the x and y of P and O, calculate the a of N, and plot the parabolic f of M; and if you watch it let it and make it happen because the solution just feels and looks and sounds so perfect beautiful and tragic, like the saddest word in any language, like the most heartbreaking song in the world, then: