Read Online Sapphire's Grave by Hilda Gurley Highgate - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Hilda Gurley Highgate
Tags: Fiction
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graduation? Prince Junior’s manner toward their father, much like his mother’s, had no doubt kept him away. With each birthday, holiday, or special occasion that Prince missed, the light of Lilly’s hope for a reunion of their family faded but slightly. She would not hand him over to that brazen slut without a fight. On this inclement graduation day, Queen Marie had unwittingly declared war.
When Lilly cooked for her father, she felt the move of God within, a primal knowledge of calling and destiny. Everything turned out better when prepared for Prince. Fish fried firm and even-toned. Corn bread melted in one’s mouth. And the flavor of turnip greens retained its edge, delicately. Chitterlings satisfied. Shortbread delighted. Once, she made dumplings from three-day old bread, and Prince, having dropped by unexpectedly, made a meal of these and squash seasoned only with butter. They had known that he was coming, those dumplings, and Lilly swore that they had set themselves right for his consumption.
“Girl, you needs you a man to cook fo’,” Prince had teased. But Lilly had seen his sadness and dread at the thought.
“Oh, Daddy,” she had said, reassuringly. “What I need wit’ another man? I got you.” And she had hugged him around his waist, the way she had as a small child unable to reach higher. Now, she was becoming a young lady, and an artist of artifice and feminine wiles. If Sister did not know how to keep her husband happy, Lilly knew how to bring Prince home.
“You don’t have to cook for him,” Sister once told her, breaking the silence of a still night as they had washed clothing in cast aluminum tubs, working side by side on their knees. She had meant that Prince loved his daughter, in his way, and would always return, albeit less frequently, to indulge himself in the smile of his baby girl, if not her cooking, a delight for which he lived. Recalling her mother’s words years later, Lilly would understand this. But now, she regarded her mother sullenly from the corners of her eyes, biting her tongue. After all, Sister had cooked for
her
father, each year at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She had baked yeast rolls and sweet potato pies, and yams candied with brown sugar and nutmeg. Her sisters, too, Lilly’s aunts, had prepared for days in advance all of his favorite dishes. And at those family gatherings, when Grandma had shushed all of the children and seated everyone around a plank that masqueraded as a banquet table, no one had spoken until Grandpa had blessed the table and taken his first bite of this, and then of that, turning his plate for easier access to each course. Then, having taken note of what was and was not on that heavily laden plate, the sisters would raise a cacophony:
“Have some of these beans, Daddy.”
“You didn’ get none o’ my puddin’? Try some o’ dis puddin.”
And steaming cups and bowls of whatever and what not would surround his overflowing plate.
Prince may not have been as righteous as his father-in-law, but Lilly understood and loved him every bit as much as Sister had loved her own now departed father. Lilly would resent her mother’s remark for years.
But mostly, Lilly felt protective of her mother who, despite the cutting tongue and often caustic manner for which she had become known, had a vulnerability and despondency that shamed Lilly out of her sulking resentments and small youthful rebellions. Sister was an agonized woman, and the source of her pain was a knowledge personal, burdensome, and unutterable.
Prince Junior felt this, too. They had not forgotten Sister’s excursions from reality when they were both small children. And Lilly, a solemn child and wise beyond her years, had learned to be attentive to Sister’s changes in disposition, watching with the tremulous expectancy of three small girls waiting for deliverance—not their own, but that of their mother held captive inside the barn.
When Sister was “low,” Lilly picked up
When Lilly cooked for her father, she felt the move of God within, a primal knowledge of calling and destiny. Everything turned out better when prepared for Prince. Fish fried firm and even-toned. Corn bread melted in one’s mouth. And the flavor of turnip greens retained its edge, delicately. Chitterlings satisfied. Shortbread delighted. Once, she made dumplings from three-day old bread, and Prince, having dropped by unexpectedly, made a meal of these and squash seasoned only with butter. They had known that he was coming, those dumplings, and Lilly swore that they had set themselves right for his consumption.
“Girl, you needs you a man to cook fo’,” Prince had teased. But Lilly had seen his sadness and dread at the thought.
“Oh, Daddy,” she had said, reassuringly. “What I need wit’ another man? I got you.” And she had hugged him around his waist, the way she had as a small child unable to reach higher. Now, she was becoming a young lady, and an artist of artifice and feminine wiles. If Sister did not know how to keep her husband happy, Lilly knew how to bring Prince home.
“You don’t have to cook for him,” Sister once told her, breaking the silence of a still night as they had washed clothing in cast aluminum tubs, working side by side on their knees. She had meant that Prince loved his daughter, in his way, and would always return, albeit less frequently, to indulge himself in the smile of his baby girl, if not her cooking, a delight for which he lived. Recalling her mother’s words years later, Lilly would understand this. But now, she regarded her mother sullenly from the corners of her eyes, biting her tongue. After all, Sister had cooked for
her
father, each year at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She had baked yeast rolls and sweet potato pies, and yams candied with brown sugar and nutmeg. Her sisters, too, Lilly’s aunts, had prepared for days in advance all of his favorite dishes. And at those family gatherings, when Grandma had shushed all of the children and seated everyone around a plank that masqueraded as a banquet table, no one had spoken until Grandpa had blessed the table and taken his first bite of this, and then of that, turning his plate for easier access to each course. Then, having taken note of what was and was not on that heavily laden plate, the sisters would raise a cacophony:
“Have some of these beans, Daddy.”
“You didn’ get none o’ my puddin’? Try some o’ dis puddin.”
And steaming cups and bowls of whatever and what not would surround his overflowing plate.
Prince may not have been as righteous as his father-in-law, but Lilly understood and loved him every bit as much as Sister had loved her own now departed father. Lilly would resent her mother’s remark for years.
But mostly, Lilly felt protective of her mother who, despite the cutting tongue and often caustic manner for which she had become known, had a vulnerability and despondency that shamed Lilly out of her sulking resentments and small youthful rebellions. Sister was an agonized woman, and the source of her pain was a knowledge personal, burdensome, and unutterable.
Prince Junior felt this, too. They had not forgotten Sister’s excursions from reality when they were both small children. And Lilly, a solemn child and wise beyond her years, had learned to be attentive to Sister’s changes in disposition, watching with the tremulous expectancy of three small girls waiting for deliverance—not their own, but that of their mother held captive inside the barn.
When Sister was “low,” Lilly picked up
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