Read Online The Wisdom of Hair by Kim Boykin - Free Book Online Page A

chest. “I don’t think I can take much more of this, Sara Jane.”
    “He still has her things in the closet, and, honey, that woman had some beautiful clothes, I’m telling you. He didn’t have much in there, everything was on hangers from the cleaners, a couple pairs of jeans, a dozen or so shirts, and a dark-blue suit that looks like it hasn’t been worn in forever. It had dust on the shoulders, lots of it. Next time—”
    “No,” I said. “There can’t be a next time with you going in there like some kind of detective. It just adds fuel to the fire I already have for the man. Look, I need this place. I can’t afford to go and do something stupid. Tell me you’ll never go in there again. Promise me, Sara Jane.”
    “Well, you didn’t even let me tell you the juiciest part,” she said and then she was purposely quiet until I begged her to tell. “Emma…looks a little…like you.”

9

    I woke up early the next morning and went right to work, cutting shortening into the flour. I poured a tad of salt in my hand with a dab of baking powder and dusted it across the flour before I worked a little ice water into the dough so that it was nice and firm, not sticky because that can be a real mess. I can’t tell how much of this or that I put in the bowl because I always eyeball things the way Nana taught me. It took a lot of patience on her part for me to learn how to make anything that way, much less dumplings.
    They rolled out real nice, not paper-thin, mind you, just good and thin and ready to boil. I took the pot of chicken broth out of the refrigerator and turned the stove on high. Even though it was cold, I could smell the sage and the little bit of thyme I had added the night before.
    There was just enough time to set my hair in electric curlers before the pot came to a rolling boil. It was almost seven o’clock,already hot in that little kitchen. I stood there “glowing,” as Mrs. Cathcart would say, as I dropped those strips of flour into that good broth. I settled for a bowl of cereal as I watched those dumplings swirl about for a few minutes before it was time to finish getting dressed. I remember smiling to myself that day because I was making “lovin’” for Winston. When I was little I always called it “chicklin and dumplings,” but when I was real little, I called it “lovin’” because that’s what it felt like when Nana made it special for me.
    It was strange when I first moved to Davenport, how every time Winston crossed my mind, I felt like somebody had caught me playing dress-up in my mother’s clothes. I was embarrassed but mostly ashamed that I had a little seed of Mama inside me, a seed that had taken root and was growing faster than the kudzu overtaking the trees behind my apartment. But the harder I fell for Winston, the less I thought about Mama.
    I sang a little tune my daddy used to sing about the sun coming up over the mountain, took the rollers out of my hair, and twisted it up in a little knot so that only three or four curly little tresses fell across my face. I made a pouty face and put on some bright pink lipstick I had gotten from one of the beauty-supply salesmen, then went back into the kitchen to check the pot one last time.
    I remember it was a Tuesday because that was the day Winston had his eight o’clock class. I checked myself in the mirror before I went out my front door and walked at a snail’s pace down the steps because he hadn’t come out of the house yet. I was on the second step from the bottom when the back door finally opened. He was in such a hurry, I guess, he didn’t see me until he heard the gravel crunch under my feet.
    “Good morning,” I said when he looked up at me.
    “Morning.”
    It was the first thing he’d said to me since Miss Cunningham had introduced us and it wasn’t even a complete sentence. He had never once said thank you for all of the lovin’ I spent hours making him, most everything from scratch. He said nothing more