looking straight at Margaret now, and squeezing the gun to make it stop wobbling. “You ... you ... bitch. Always thinkin’ you better than the rest of us black folk. Even talk like a white lady. And now you takin’ away what little I got left. Jesus God, I oughta k—”
“No, Gene!” Margaret’s voice rose to a shriek as Daddy lunged forward, throwing himself at Ned.
Grace, crouched in the hallway outside, felt herself grow very still. There was only the wild pumping of her heart, which had suddenly grown too large for her body. Something warm and wet dribbled down the inside of her leg, and she dimly realized that she’d wet herself. But it was as if this were happening to someone else. She watched helplessly as her daddy and Ned struggled across the room. Daddy was bigger, but Mr. Emory was wild, crazy. Strange gargling noises erupted from his throat as he twisted the arm Daddy held pinned, struggling to free himself.
As if hypnotized, Grace stared in horror at the gun, caught in a band of dusty sunlight that fell across Ned’s straining knuckles, a deadly jewel turning this way and that, twinkling with menace.
Suddenly there was a deafening crack—as if the room were being ripped in two—that brought a swift, jabbing ache to her ears, and jerked her legs out from under her. She landed on her tailbone with a jolt.
Through the buzzing cloud that seemed to be wrapped around her head, she watched Ned topple onto the bed. A huge red flower was blossoming at his throat, spreading across the white bedspread.
Blood. It was blood.
She clapped her hands over her ears, and began to scream. Or at least she felt as if she were screaming. But the only sound that came out of her mouth was a shrill gasping noise.
The floor beneath her spun and tilted. Her fear was huge, like some great monster that had gobbled her up, leaving no part of her to feel anything else. But then the numbness began to fade. Inside her underpants, she stung where she’d wet herself. Her bottom hurt where she’d landed hard on the floor. But when she tried to stand up, her legs folded under like a paper doll’s.
Finally, bracing herself against the wall, she managed to push herself to her feet. Grace was backing away when she bumped up against somebody. She let out a strangled yelp, and spun around. The lanky girl stood there, frozen in her path, her eyes no longer slanted, but round and silvery-pale as nickels. She had seen it, too. She had seen everything.
They both turned to stare as Margaret let out a wild shriek. Watching the gun fall from Daddy’s hand to the floor with a hollow thonk, and Margaret sink to her knees before the bloodied bed where Ned lay, Grace wanted to take an eraser and rub everything out, like when she messed up on her times tables. She wanted to make this not have happened. For her and Daddy and Sissy to be in his car, driving to the Maryland shore, where he would buy them lobster rolls and she would run along the pier, feeling the spongy old boards beneath her feet and collecting fishhooks in the heels of her Keds.
But, turning back to Nola, seeing her ashen face, Grace knew that there was no taking it back. Whatever happened next, Grace would never ever forget this. Neither, she felt sure, would the girl standing beside her, stiff and unmoving, her face expressionless except for those queer eyes that were like two holes burned in a blanket.
If a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand.
St. Mark 3:25
Chapter 1
Grace was reaching behind herself to button her dress when she noticed the spot—just over her right breast, a tiny watermark shaped like a Rorschach blot.
She felt a flicker of annoyance. Silk. It ought to have been outlawed, she thought, along with asbestos and No. 2 red dye. When was the last time she’d worn silk without having to run straight to the dry cleaner? When was the last time she’d worn silk, period?
An image from long ago flitted across her mind—swirls of taffeta
“No, Gene!” Margaret’s voice rose to a shriek as Daddy lunged forward, throwing himself at Ned.
Grace, crouched in the hallway outside, felt herself grow very still. There was only the wild pumping of her heart, which had suddenly grown too large for her body. Something warm and wet dribbled down the inside of her leg, and she dimly realized that she’d wet herself. But it was as if this were happening to someone else. She watched helplessly as her daddy and Ned struggled across the room. Daddy was bigger, but Mr. Emory was wild, crazy. Strange gargling noises erupted from his throat as he twisted the arm Daddy held pinned, struggling to free himself.
As if hypnotized, Grace stared in horror at the gun, caught in a band of dusty sunlight that fell across Ned’s straining knuckles, a deadly jewel turning this way and that, twinkling with menace.
Suddenly there was a deafening crack—as if the room were being ripped in two—that brought a swift, jabbing ache to her ears, and jerked her legs out from under her. She landed on her tailbone with a jolt.
Through the buzzing cloud that seemed to be wrapped around her head, she watched Ned topple onto the bed. A huge red flower was blossoming at his throat, spreading across the white bedspread.
Blood. It was blood.
She clapped her hands over her ears, and began to scream. Or at least she felt as if she were screaming. But the only sound that came out of her mouth was a shrill gasping noise.
The floor beneath her spun and tilted. Her fear was huge, like some great monster that had gobbled her up, leaving no part of her to feel anything else. But then the numbness began to fade. Inside her underpants, she stung where she’d wet herself. Her bottom hurt where she’d landed hard on the floor. But when she tried to stand up, her legs folded under like a paper doll’s.
Finally, bracing herself against the wall, she managed to push herself to her feet. Grace was backing away when she bumped up against somebody. She let out a strangled yelp, and spun around. The lanky girl stood there, frozen in her path, her eyes no longer slanted, but round and silvery-pale as nickels. She had seen it, too. She had seen everything.
They both turned to stare as Margaret let out a wild shriek. Watching the gun fall from Daddy’s hand to the floor with a hollow thonk, and Margaret sink to her knees before the bloodied bed where Ned lay, Grace wanted to take an eraser and rub everything out, like when she messed up on her times tables. She wanted to make this not have happened. For her and Daddy and Sissy to be in his car, driving to the Maryland shore, where he would buy them lobster rolls and she would run along the pier, feeling the spongy old boards beneath her feet and collecting fishhooks in the heels of her Keds.
But, turning back to Nola, seeing her ashen face, Grace knew that there was no taking it back. Whatever happened next, Grace would never ever forget this. Neither, she felt sure, would the girl standing beside her, stiff and unmoving, her face expressionless except for those queer eyes that were like two holes burned in a blanket.
If a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand.
St. Mark 3:25
Chapter 1
Grace was reaching behind herself to button her dress when she noticed the spot—just over her right breast, a tiny watermark shaped like a Rorschach blot.
She felt a flicker of annoyance. Silk. It ought to have been outlawed, she thought, along with asbestos and No. 2 red dye. When was the last time she’d worn silk without having to run straight to the dry cleaner? When was the last time she’d worn silk, period?
An image from long ago flitted across her mind—swirls of taffeta
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