Color Purple, The - Alice Walker [28]
Way after while, I act like a little lost baby too.
Grady and Mr.??? come staggering in round daybreak. Me and Snug sound asleep. Her back to me, my arms round her waist. What it like? Little like sleeping with mama, only I can't hardly remember ever sleeping with her. Little like sleeping with Nettie, only sleeping with Nettie never feel this good. It warm and cushiony, and I feel Shug's big tits sorta flop over my arms like suds.
It feel like heaven js what it feel like, not like sleeping with Mr.??? at all.
Wake up Sugar, I say. They back. And Shug roll over, hug me, and git out of the bed. She stagger into the other room and fall on the bed with Grady. Mr.??? fall into bed next to me, drunk, and snoring before he hit the quilts.
I try my best to like Grady, even if he do wear red suspenders and bow ties. Even if he do spend Shug's money like he made it himself.
Even if he do try to talk like somebody from the North. Memphis, Tennessee ain't North, even I know that. But one thing I sure miff can't stand, the way he call Shug Mama.
I ain't your fucking mama, Shug say. But he don't pay her no mind.
Like when he be making goo-goo eyes at Squeak and Shug sorta tease him about it, he say, Aw, Mama, you know I don't mean no harm.
Shug like Squeak too, try to help her sing. They sit in Odessa's front room with all the children crowded round them singing and singing. Sometime Swain come with his box, Harpo cook dinner, and me and Mr.??? and the prizefighter bring our preshation.
It nice.
Shug say to Squeak, I mean, Mary Agnes, You ought to sing in public.
Mary Agnes say, Now. She think cause she don't sing big and broad like Shug nobody want to hear her. But Shug say she wrong.
What about all them funny voices you hear singing in church? Shug say. What about all them sounds that. sound good but they not the sounds you thought folks could make? What bout that? Then she start moaning. Sound like death approaching, angels can't prevent it. It raise the hair on the back of your neck. But it really sound sort of like panthers would sound if they could sing.
I tell you something else, Shug say to Mary Agnes, listening to you sing, folks git to thinking bout a good screw.
Aw, Miss Shug, say Mary Agnes, changing color.
Shug say, What, too shamefaced to put singing and dancing and fucking together? She laugh. That's the reason they call what us sing the devil's music. Devils love to fuck. Listen, she say, Let's go sing one night at Harpo place. Be like old times for me.
And if I bring you before the crowd, they better listen with respect.
Niggers don't know how to act, but if you git through the first half of one song, you got 'em.
You reckon that's the truth? say Mary Agnes. She all big eyed and delight.
I don't know if I want her to sing, say Harpo.
How come? ast Shug. That woman you got singing now can't git her ass outthe church. Folks don't know whether to dance or creep to the mourner's bench. Plus, you dress Mary Agnes up the right way and you'll make piss pots of money. Yellow like she is, stringy hair and cloudy eyes, the men'll be crazy bout her. Ain't that right, Grady, she say.
Grady look little sheepish. Grin. Mama you don't miss a thing, he say.
And don't you forgit it, say Shug.
Dear God, This the letter I been holding in my hand.
Dear Cetie,
I know you think I am dead. But I am not. I been writing to you too, over the years, but Albert said you'd never hear from me again and since I never heard from you all this time, I guess he was right. Now I only write at Christmas and Easter hoping my letter get lost among the Christmas and Easter greetings, or that Albert get the holiday spirit and have pity on us.
There is so much to tell you that I don't know, hardly, where to begin? and anyway, you probably won't get this letter, either.
I'm sure Albert is still the only one to take mail out of the box.
But if this do get through, one thing I want you to know, I love you, and I am not dead. And Olivia is fine and so is your son.
We are all coming home before the end of another year.
Your loving