Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [116]
Yeah, he agreed with that little one. As much as he believed in people’s rights to be unconventional, drop out from the world so to speak as he himself had done, these were still children. They should go back to Mae’s. He’d carry the middle one if need be. But they should go back to Mae’s.
27
Mae’s house was jumping. Typical of house-cramming gatherings kindled by some extreme event, happy or sad didn’t matter: People laughed to lift the spirits if there’d been a death or other catastrophe, cried tears of joy if there’d been a wedding or birth. Somebody always came by with a four-layered yellow cake with coconut icing that they’d made from scratch, likewise a pan of fried chicken always showed, a bag of ice for the Kool-Aid, large jars of Nescafé and Maxwell House and Pream nondairy creamer. A deck of cards for the back room, a half gallon of Four Roses whiskey for the center of the kitchen table, and the talk got loud and loose, the forty-fives started spinning, and the converted called for prayer.
Such was the scene as the quality-dressed, coconut-and honey-scented quartet pushed through the crowded porch to get inside the house. Til led the line, her thick gray and black hair pulled back in a bun, a sterling silver ornamental comb nestled in one side; behind her Blue, undoing his cashmere Burberry scarf from around his neck and muttering, “My goodness, it’s hot in here”; Ness was behind him, taking off her glasses, which had steamed up once she was inside the door; Show brought up the rear, his ten-gallon hat already off his head.
The ocean of people in the living room separated to allow the foursome through, the way it had been separating for the past hour whenever someone new came in to offer expressions of surprise and support over the missing girls. These four didn’t maneuver back to the kitchen, though, the way Hettie had done, and Darlene from the hosiery shop, Beanie, Miss D, even card-playing Clara Jane from downtown. These four just made a line in the center of the living room, and then Til cleared her throat and asked, in her most authoritative voice, who among them had the name Mae.
A hush moved through the living room as people began to notice the oddity of the four, obviously not from around here, certainly not with the short one holding that ten-gallon hat in his hands. Someone pointed toward the kitchen, said Mae was in the back, playing cards, probably, to help keep her mind off of her crisis; who should they say is calling? Now muffled snickers replaced the hush. And Til sucked the air in through her teeth and headed toward the kitchen with her sister and brothers right at her heels.
“I’m looking for Mae,” Til said as she walked all the way into the kitchen and stood right at the back of Mae’s head.
Mae didn’t turn around at first. She was too centered on the card game that was in fact keeping her from the moaning and hand wringing she’d be prone to right about now over her missing foster girls. “I said raise or fold, bitch”—she sneered across her kitchen table at her card-playing rival Clara Jane from downtown—“’cause you getting ready to lose your motherfucking gold ring in here today.”
Giggled comments about how that Mae can surely talk some shit circled the kitchen, and then Til’s voice got in the middle of the circle and silenced it with her tone, which was sharp and serious and completely different from the jovial air hanging over the table.
“If you are Mae, please put down those got-damn cards and talk to me about my babies.”
“Who might you be?” Mae asked as she started to turn around. “And who the hell are your babies?” She