Bound South Read online

  Our exit should be coming up, but I’m not exactly sure which one it is. I ask Nanny Rose if she will look in the glove compartment for the directions. She starts pulling out all the folded maps that John Henry makes me keep in there.

  “No, it’s just the directions John Henry wrote out for me. Look for a yellow sheet of legal paper.”

  Nanny Rose fumbles around in there some more, pulling out several of Caroline’s CDs. One shows a close-up of a girl’s tiny pink shorts, the V of her crotch evident. Nanny Rose snorts.

  “They let any hussy put her picture up nowadays, don’t they?” she says.

  All I can think to say is “Yes, ma’am.”

  I spot the directions in the corner of the glove compartment, and I reach across Nanny Rose to yank them out.

  “You drive,” she says. “I’ll look at these.”

  She straightens the directions with her hand. “Turn left on Peachtree Circle,” she says.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, as patiently as I can. “I already did that. We’re all the way to where we exit off I-Twenty. Does it say which exit we want to take?”

  Nanny Rose runs her eyes down the page. She rests the directions on top of Gunther’s head, making it look as if he is wearing a paper hat. “All right now. Get on I-Seventy-five south.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ve done that.”

  “Get onto I-Twenty west,” she says.

  I have to hold myself back from snatching the directions out of her hands.

  Gunther barks, knocking the directions off his head and onto the floor. Nanny Rose bops him on his wet nose. “Bad boy!” she says.

  As she bends down to fish the directions off the floor, I pass the exit. That was it. That was where I was supposed to get off. Damn. John Henry warned me to follow his directions carefully. Otherwise, he said, it might be Bonfire of the Vanities all over again. I pull off at the next exit, hoping I will see an entrance ramp as soon as I do, so I can get back on I-20 heading east and backtrack to where I am supposed to be.

  Once off the expressway, I notice right away that the billboards are smaller on this side of town and that they feature black people instead of white. On the side of the road, just in front of a strip mall with a Dollar General and a check-cashing business, is a man selling socks. His sign reads “100 pair for $5.” He sits behind a cardboard table, bags and bags of socks stacked on top of it.

  If I bought everyone in my family a hundred pairs of socks, I wouldn’t have to do laundry for weeks.

  “I believe John Henry Senior once owned some property over here,” says Nanny Rose. “A sign. He rented it for twenty dollars a month.”

  It seems John Henry’s daddy owned some piece of every neighborhood in Atlanta.

  “John Henry Senior and I used to drive by his properties after church,” says Nanny Rose. “Sometimes he would need to collect rent. Afterwards we’d stop for a Frosty Orange at the Varsity on our way back home. He called this area Colored Town, though I guess people don’t say that anymore.”

  Where is that entrance ramp? Did I get so distracted by those damn socks that I drove right past it?

  “I don’t think I’d use that expression at the funeral if I was you,” I say, looking for a good place to turn around.

  Nanny Rose and I may well be the only white people there. I glance down at my brown Armani pants that I wear with a black silk shirt that ties in little bows around the cuffs. My outfit would pass muster at an Episcopalian funeral, but I start to worry I’m not dressed up enough for the Baptists.

  I turn down a side street that appears residential. Nanny Rose holds Gunther up to the window, looking to see if they can spot any dogs on the sidewalk.

  “Good heavens, Louise,” says Nanny Rose. “Why are you driving us through the slums?”

  We pass a house stripped entirely of its siding. We pass a boarded-up apartment marked with “No Trespassing” signs. We pass unadorned lawns, an old Cadillac, and a sleepy-eyed man in overalls whose gaze follows our car until we have passed him.

  “Are the doors locked?” Nanny Rose asks.

  I wish I hadn’t already thought the same thing. I wish I didn’t get nervous driving through poor black neighborhoods. I wish I wasn’t relieved that the Lexus locks automatically, which is such an improvement over when you had to lock the door yourself, drawing attention to the act both by moving your hand to the lock and by the loud clicking noise that accompanied the action.

  Up ahead by a stop sign is a group of black boys who must be around Caroline’s age. All of them wear long white T-shirts, which look as if they have been bleached and ironed, on top of jeans pulled down so low the seats cover their knees instead of their rears. All but one wears bright white sneakers. The other has on black sneakers with Velcro straps instead of laces, the straps flailing to the sides, intentionally left undone. A couple of the boys wear their hair braided into thick cornrows; one has an Afro with a comb stuck in it. It is he who looks down the street and notices our car coming their way.

  I grip the steering wheel even tighter while telling myself to calm down. These are only boys, only children Caroline’s age, and there is no reason, just because they are black, that I should be afraid of them. We studied the perception versus the reality of actual danger once in Sunday school and how it is our internalized racism that makes us scared of those who are—in fact—quite often the most vulnerable and disadvantaged. Still, it’s not as if Nanny Rose and I blend into the neighborhood. It’s not as if we are driving a rusty old car. No, we are driving the new silver Lexus that John Henry gave me for my birthday.

  “I would just drive on through that stop sign if I were you,” says Nanny Rose. “A group of boys is never up to any good.”

  The boys spread out, watching us come toward them. I tap the brakes. As we roll toward the group I lock eyes with the one who has the comb stuck in his hair. He raises his hand as if he’s waving me on by, then just before I drive past him, he steps in front of the car. I swerve, barely avoiding contact, and drive through the intersection without stopping. From my rearview mirror I watch him laugh and slap the hands of his friends.

  THE SERVICE WAS scheduled to begin at two. It’s almost two thirty by the time we finally find the church. The small parking lot is full, but we find a space across the street. Nanny Rose takes her compact out of her purse and reapplies lipstick while I wait for her outside the car. It is so hot I am beginning to sweat. I hope there are no rings of perspiration seeping through my silk top. When Nanny Rose has finished reapplying her lipstick she looks up at me through the window, indicating that I may open her door. When I do, she rotates her bottom once again so that her legs are sticking out. She holds Gunther in one arm and grabs my hand with the other. I pull her to her feet. It always surprises me when I stand next to Nanny Rose that she is a half foot shorter than I am.

  Nanny Rose fishes Gunther’s leash out of her purse, attaches it to his collar, and puts him down on the hot sidewalk. His toenails make a fast little clicking noise as we cross the street.

  The church is a plain white brick building, a perfect rectangle with a pitched roof supporting a metal cross. The cross looks like a lightning rod. Nanny Rose, Gunther, and I walk to the front door. Above it “Jesus Is the Answer” is painted in red, blocky letters. A short black woman, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and white gloves, holds the door open for us.

  “Welcome,” she says. “I’m Miss Ella Watson, Mr. Brown’s next-door neighbor. I’m also on the Mother Board here at Mount Zion.”

  “How wonderful,” says Nanny Rose. “I’m Mrs. John Henry Parker Senior, and this is my daughter-in-law, Mrs. John Henry Parker Junior. Sandy worked for our family for over thirty years.”

  “Call me Louise,” I say.

  “Well, it sure is good of y’all to come,” says Miss Watson. “And Sandy looks just as peaceful as can be, praise God. The undertaker did a fine job, a fine job indeed. Pastor’s not here yet, so there’s still time to look at the body.”

 
Nanny Rose bends down to pick up Gunther. I doubt he’s allowed in the sanctuary, but it’s too hot to leave him outside. His little brain would cook in no time.

  The church is packed. As I expected, Nanny Rose and I are the only white people in here. As we walk toward the viewing line, I notice that there are no hymnals tucked into the backs of the pews. No Bibles either. At All Saints there are kneelers beneath each pew, but of course Baptists don’t use those. There is a portrait of a black man in a white suit hanging behind the altar. At first I think the portrait is a rendering of a black Jesus, which I think is just wonderful, but as we move up in the viewing line I’m able to make out the lettering below the portrait, which reads “Pastor Williams.”

  There must be over a hundred people packed into this church. I have no idea who any of them might be. Sandy never spoke about her home life. I probably should have asked her about it, but I was always more comfortable having a business relationship with her. To tell the truth, I felt guilty having a black housekeeper. I felt as if I were holding a string that connected me to my mother and grandmother (both of whom had black maids), all the way back to the wives of slave owners. Maybe it is silly, but I’ve always felt more comfortable having Faye, who is white, clean for me, even though Faye comes with her own set of problems and Sandy was the much better worker of the two.

  The woman directly in front of us in the viewing line wears a blue hat with a white polka-dot band. She turns to look at us, and I detect a flicker of surprise on her face. I don’t know if she’s surprised because we are white or because of Gunther.

  “Can you believe that no-good preacher hasn’t showed up yet?” she asks.

  Nanny Rose sticks out her free hand. “I’m Mrs. John Henry Parker Senior,” she says. “And this is Gunther.”

  The woman looks at me, confused. “Gunther?” she asks.

  “No, ma’am,” I say, smiling. “I’m Louise Parker, Mrs. Parker’s daughter-in-law.” I point at the dog. “That’s Gunther.”

  “Lord have mercy,” she says. “I’m Mrs. Evelyn Brown, and that sure is the tiniest dog I’ve ever seen.”

  Gunther bares his teeth and starts barking at Mrs. Brown. Nanny Rose quickly slaps his nose.

  “Bad boy!” she says. “You’ll have to excuse him. He is just distraught over Sandy’s passing.”

  “Have mercy,” says Mrs. Brown. “That dog must have liked Sandy a lot more than Sandy liked it.”

  We edge closer and closer to her coffin. I remind myself not to touch Sandy’s face. Ever since I was a little girl and I went to my great-grandmother’s funeral, I have had a compulsive urge to touch the dead. I don’t know why. It’s almost as if I can’t believe the flesh will be cold instead of warm and I just want to feel it for myself. Some people, I’m sure, find it morbid to view the body after death, but I find it greatly comforting. It’s just so obvious that the person—his or her spirit—is no longer present. It makes me wonder if there is indeed a place the spirit might go.

  There is a stir in the church. I turn around and look at the entrance and see that the man whom I recognize from the portrait behind the altar is making his way down the center aisle of the church. Pastor Williams has finally arrived. The viewing line starts to move faster and faster until Mrs. Brown is saying a prayer over Sandy’s body, and then it is our turn.

  I take Nanny Rose by the hand and we walk to Sandy’s coffin, stand next to it, and peer over its edge. Obviously I expect to see Sandy in it—or rather, the shell of her—wearing her best dress and curly wig.

  Only, our Sandy isn’t in the coffin. In her place is a petite black man wearing a dark brown suit, a mustard yellow shirt, and a slightly darker yellow tie. Attached to the tie is a small metal pin shaped like a peacock.

  “Why, we must be at the wrong viewing,” says Nanny Rose, but it is too late. I have looked closer and realized that no, we are at the right funeral. Placed in Sandy’s hand is a pink leather Bible, just the Gospels, with her—his—name stamped on it in gold. The Bible was a present from Nanny Rose for Sandy’s sixty-fifth birthday. Nanny Rose gave Caroline one just like it.

  I make a quick decision. “You’re right,” I say. “This isn’t Sandy. Let’s go.”

  But no, Nanny Rose is peering into the coffin and reading the engraving on the front of Sandy’s Bible.

  She begins to shake her head. Gunther struggles in her arms, trying to get to Sandy, barking like crazy. I feel every eye in the church on our backs.

  “I don’t understand,” says Nanny Rose. She is too confused to shush Gunther. “I gave Sandy that Bible.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, “I recognize it.”

  Gunther is barking again and again at Sandy, and I surprise myself by reaching over and slapping his nose myself.

  Nanny Rose clutches my forearm. “Louise,” she says, her voice cracking, “that is Sandy.” She lets go of my arm and points an accusing finger at the dead man’s head. “That man is Sandy. My Sandy was a black man!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Hush now, people are watching us.”

  Nanny Rose’s eyes fill with panic. “Louise, that man helped me into my girdle! That black man helped me into my girdle!”

  She hands me Gunther, who is still barking his head off, rolls her eyes toward heaven, and faints to the floor.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Wherever You Go, There You Are

  (Caroline, Fall 1999)

  When we took the SATs, Jim got a 1560. A lot of kids in my class at Coventry scored high—our average, brought down by me, was a 1320—but Jim, it’s like he goes deeper than the rest of us. He reads the Bhagavad Gita and the Bible, and the Koran, and he can put himself into a trance through self-hypnosis. He says he’s working on levitation.

  Jim is going to be an analyst one day, combining Western and Eastern schools of thought. For inspiration Jim built a Christian labyrinth (Jim says the center stone symbolizes heaven) and a Zen rock garden in his backyard. He spends his afternoons in solitude out there, walking the labyrinth and meditating in the rock garden. He says all of the great spiritual teachers were devotees of meditation, Jesus included. Jim is teaching me how to meditate too. He says to close my eyes and clear my mind. If I can’t clear it of everything, he says to imagine a big, floating 10. Then I’m supposed to count down from there, picturing the numbers each step of the way. He says if I can just free my mind I’ll be a better student. I hope he’s right. I can’t fail math.

  JIM AND MY best friend, Amanda, started dating after they hooked up in the hot tub at Susan Ridley’s house. Amanda lost her virginity to Jim, although he lost his two years ago to a girl he met at this Emerging Philosophers gathering in D.C. He promised Amanda that he was safe; he told her that he wore two condoms the first time he had sex.

  About half of the girls in my class are infatuated with Jim. It’s something about his eyes. They fix right on you and seem to shine when you say something he approves of. Jim’s dad is Japanese, so he’s half Asian. It’s funny: if you were to describe Jim to me and then ask if I thought he would be popular at Coventry, I would say no chance in hell. First of all, the fact that he’s Asian is one strike against him. I mean, it shouldn’t be, but my school is so fucking WASPy that it is. Also, if you’re actually in class with him—and I’m only in one, religion, which isn’t tracked into regular and honors like all of the real classes are—you realize how scarily competitive he is, how brutally he will cut down your argument if it isn’t completely solid, how he’s willing to be a real asshole if it means winning the intellectual point.

  Plus, he dresses like a freak.

  He buys three-piece suits from this vintage store in Little Five Points, and he’ll wear the suits to class too, along with wing tips. Or else he will wear something completely crazy, like the time he came to school in a Cowboy costume, complete with Stetson hat, fringed vest, and chaps over his jeans. All the guys on the football team were high-fiving him at lunch. I mean, you’d think he’d be the biggest geek at the school, you’d t
hink he’d have to eat with Scott Seeger and Aaron Wolanksi, but he doesn’t. People worship Jim.

  Except me. Even though he’s supposedly one of my best friends, I don’t trust him. He can be mean, like the time we got drunk a few weeks ago and started talking about politics. He and I were sitting in the kitchen, drinking my father’s Scotch, waiting for Amanda to show up, and I was saying how happy I was that I have an early birthday, because that means I will turn eighteen at the beginning of next year (senior year, thank God!), and I can vote against the Republicans in the November election.

  Jim said I had no right to be a Democrat.

  “You can’t live in a two-million-dollar house and vote for the party of the Teamsters,” he said. “That’s idiotic.”

  “My parents’ house isn’t worth two million dollars,” I said, though I really have no idea what it’s worth. “And it’s not like I can help how they choose to live. Besides, my mother has never once voted for a Republican.”

  He snorted.

  “God, Caroline, you are so naïve. You were born rich, you are rich, and you always will be rich, so you might as well just face it and vote for the party that will let you hold on to more of your daddy’s money. I’m sure if your mother earned a salary, she would start voting Republican too.”

  I should have yelled at him, told him to shut up, told him to get the fuck out of my (parents’) house. But I couldn’t say anything. I felt so utterly exposed. I started to cry, and once I started, I could not stop.

  Jim’s words had the finality of a sentence being handed down.

  GOD KNOWS WHAT my father will do when he discovers I’m failing Algebra II. Midterm grades will be sent in a few weeks, and I know I’ll get a yellow slip, the color they use to indicate immediately that your average is below a 70. Dad says if I ever fail a class I can forget about going out of state for college. That means I’ll go to UGA. About twenty kids go there each year from my class. They all get apartments with other Coventry kids and join the same couple of fraternities and sororities and their southern accents get thicker and thicker and by their senior year they are engaged. That’s what happened to Amanda’s older sister, Sarah. She was sort of a hippie in high school, but then she went to Georgia, pledged Phi Mu, and started saying “Heck ya!” all the time, her head bobbing above her pearls.