But her ticket to trading had been derailed after her rst semester at UIC, when Gladys demanded she take classes around Gladys’s nursing schedule. She was going back to the day shift after years of working nights, and Nadia needed to st ep up and help out around the house. Her new responsibilities required picking up four-year-old Terry from day care and being home when nine-year- old Bryan got o the bus from school. At the time she’d had a used Pinto, but driving downtown early in the morning and trying to make it back in the afternoon to be with her brothers was too much on the car with all its other problems. Nadia was resigned to taking the bus and train downtown to class and driving only on the weekends as the inconsistent transit schedule didn’t align with her new responsibilities. She started taking night classes, once Gladys got home from work, which was ne until the year she began taking courses speci cally for her major and her troubles staying awake left her with gaps in instruction, assignments she couldn’t complete, and midterms and nals she did not pass. She had no choice. It was either fail out and let her 3.6 GPA take a hit or withdraw and let her transcripts remain intact. She promised herself she would get back. Her only bills were the maintenance on her car. One that gave out two years prior. She’d been saving ever since, but minimum wage minus state and federal taxes and social security didn’t leave her with much. Not enough for UIC, which she’d have to pay in full, out of pocket, as she’d already used her one chance for nancial aid. She thought about taking a loan, but Gladys made clear she for damn sure wasn’t cosigning for it. She’d now been out of college longer than she’d attended. Her rst semester walking the blocks of the downtown campus, when her only responsibility had been her books, was a dream she didn’t want to remember. A time when she’d smiled easily and laughed loudly. A carefree Black girl unbound and unburdened if there ever was one. Now, beaten down by life and her mother’s demands, all she had to o er were the same sour and surly expressions Gladys gave her. She pulled away from the window and the ache of her own abandoned plans and padded through the empty house. There wasn’t a lick of furniture in the living room. No sofa, no love seat, not even a futon. The kitchen wasn’t much better. It was more decorative than functional. A card table and two metal
folding chairs from a nearby church with the letters AME spray painted on the backs served as the dining area, formal, informal, and otherwise. Nadia passed by the manila envelope that lay on the card table on her way to the bedroom. Divorce papers his wife had him served with weeks ago. Though he tried to hide them, she knew what they were. And what’s more, he knew that she knew. They were evidence that his life was changing. No longer could he pretend he was giving her space, taking a break, or still working things out together but apart. They were parting. He just hadn’t acc epted it yet, as evidenced by the lack of homely touches. Furniture would admit defeat. His house was that of a man in limbo. One who hadn’t expected to be in the three-bedroom rental as long as he had. His denial was best of friends with Nadia’s own delusion that fucking a married man before his divorce was nal made some kind of relationship. “What are you doing up?” He rolled over on the bed. “Thinking,” she answered as she climbed atop the mattress supported by a squeaky metal frame. Similar to the rest of the sparely furnished house, the mere thought of attaching a headboard and footboard had not occurred to him, let alone investing in an entire bedroom set. “About what?” “Something Mama said.” He grunted. “What’s that?” “She asked me what I’m doing with my life.” “What did you say?” “Didn’t have an answer. Hadn’t thought about it in a long time. When I was in school I had a plan. Now... I’m just working.” “You could always come up with a new plan.” He was right. But the ease with which he suggested she adapt, adjust to the land mines life had thrown in front of her, made her ache even more. She was giving up a dream, and that deserved to be mourned. Nadia rolled away. He didn’t push for more. It was another reminder that they were living a fantasy masquerading as reality. At least when they had pretended to be j u s t f r i e n d s they had honest conversations, challenged one another in ways lovers rarely did. Like with all couples, real, imagined, or somewhere in between, sex clouded communication. Made what was once clear, hazy.
He rolled toward her and nuzzled her chin. His hands explored all that he had already conquered. Atop the hard, springy mattress they made a knot of their bodies. Hands and mouths found new and old connections to wring out every last drop of pleasure. It was more denial. A placeholder for pain. Nadia’s body a convenient rec eptacle as long as she was willing to participate. “You wanna get breakfast?” he asked when they nished. “Nah,” Nadia demurred. “I need to go home and change before work.” “You know, you could leave some things here.” “Why?” she demanded. “To play house with you? You barely leave your o w n clothes here.” The suggestion incensed Nadia to no end. She swung her feet to the side of the bed and walked to the bathroom. They showered s eparately. Nadia rst, then him. They dressed in the clothes of the night before, his dark suit and her yellow mini dress with the bou ant sleeves giving way more than what the morning required. Creatures of the dark, they squinted in the bright of the day as they scrambled into the tinted interior of his ruby-red Cutlass Supreme. It wasn’t until they were around the corner from her house, where she lived with her mother, father, and brothers, that the silence between them broke. “You comin’ back tonight?” he asked. “Maybe,” she answered, gathering her purse. He slowed the car to a stop in front of her door. He never pulled over to the curb, never parked. There was no need to pretend his time was languorous. That he didn’t have somewhere else he needed to be. Another house, a home, that held a wife and two children of his own. Nadia opened the door. He grabbed her arm. “See you tonight?” His pager vibrated against his hip. She shrugged out of his grasp and rolled her eyes. Not that he witnessed her indignation. His eyes stared at the tiny rectangular screen of the be eper lled with familiarity. “Bye.” “Tonight?” He looked at her brie y. “Maybe.” She slammed the door and he sped away. It wasn’t lost on her that the site of their rst indiscretion was inside his car. High o a funk concert, they
conscripted one another into sel sh service that rendered them mute save for the guttural grunts and soul-shattering screams emitted under the cover of night. Even then, they were moving in opposite directions. I NSIDE THE HOUSE, THE SMELL of bacon, eggs, grits, and black co ee hit Nadia at the door. She heard dishwater running, pots and pans clanging, and her brothers, Bryan and Terry, playing a game of hot hands while Gladys played referee. Eugene muttered his occasional L i s t e n t o y a m a m a , n o w as Nadia st epped into the kitchen. “Well, good morning to you too,” Eugene said. He sipped his co ee and read the paper. “You want some?” “I—” “I, nothin’,” Gladys interrupted. “Go take a shower and wash yo’ behind before you even think about sittin’ down at my breakfast table with last night’s funk on you.” “Ooooh,” Terry instigated. “Mornin’, Mama,” Nadia muttered. “Gotcha,” Bryan shouted triumphantly, with a stinging slap of Terry’s hand. “Stop,” Terry whined. “I wasn’t ready.” “Pay attention, then.” “Y’all cut it out,” Gladys r eprimanded. Nadia shook her head as she passed her siblings on the way down to her basement apartment. It was all fun and games until one wrong move turned hot hands into slap-boxing and Terry was in tears because Bryan, ve years his senior, had hit him too hard. She smirked to herself. Someone was always bound to get hurt in a game where there were no rules. At the time, she didn’t have sense enough to hope it wasn’t her. Nadia soaked her hair beneath the hot water spraying from the showerhead. An impromptu decision to wash and condition her strands, which smelled of sweat, sex, and his cigarettes. She luxuriated in the act as she massaged shampoo down to her scalp. It was as if four hands and twenty ngers went to work at once before she combed the conditioner from roots to ends. I f I m i s s b r e a k f a s t , I
m i s s b r e a k f a s t , she thought to herself. She didn’t rush her washing. It was a ritual she’d learned to enjoy since she started doing her own hair when she was a teenager. Where Gladys could just use setting lotion and the scrunch of her hands to form curls, Nadia had to employ more e ort. Gladys was never the hair-combing kind of mama. It wasn’t a skill Ruby passed down. Emma and Jubi wouldn’t allow it. Not that Nadia knew that. She’d never even heard their names. Nor was there a lasting memory of when she did. Her attention to her hair came from the relentless teasing she endured in school when the styles Gladys had pulled, tucked, and pinned inevitably fell apart, leaving her length springy, shrunken, and all over her head. As she got older, she got better. Especially once she dropped out of college and Gladys cut her o , save for the roof over her head. Nadia only messed up once. She left the relaxer in too long and cut too much, leaving scabby scalp burns and a lopsided style. That was all it took, after Gladys o ered her a smirking condolence of “It’ll grow back,” for her to realize that was not a satisfactory solution to accidentally bushwhacking her crown. Now she clipped her own ends, relaxed her new growth smooth every eight weeks, and even played around with color. She knew she was good when she got compliments on her style and questions of “Who did your hair?” from other Black women waiting at the bus stop. Smiling when she answered “I did” was the only point of pride in her life. Nadia wrapped a towel turban-style around her head and another around her body when she nished in the small bathroom Eugene had built just for her: stand-up shower, toilet, and face bowl. Even in its e ciency, it was still a luxury. In no rush to return upstairs, Nadia relished in moisturizing her skin as she tried to come up with an answer to the question Gladys was sure to ask. W h a t a r e y o u d o i n g w i t h y o u r l i f e ? When she emerged from her sanctuary, hair pulled into a hasty bun, Bryan and Terry were still tag-teaming the dishes. Eugene remained in his spot while Gladys sat in her corner against the wall where the rotary phone was mounted, a Jackie Collins paperback in front of her. “Anything left?” Nadia asked. “I left a plate warming for you on the stove,” Eugene said.
“Thank you, Daddy.” “I guess he the only one in here worth thanking, huh?” Gladys muttered, without looking up. Nadia sighed. “Thank you for breakfast, Mama.” Gladys humphed and turned the page. Nadia was using both the fork and a strip of bacon to scoop grits and eggs into her mouth when Gladys closed her book. She felt her mother’s eyes before her mouth gave the re that blazed their words. “You know,” she began, “if you ke ep on out there doing what you doing, something gon’ get done.” “Gladys, let the girl eat in peace, please.” “Eugene, you need to stop taking up for her when you know she in the wrong.” “In the wrong about what, Mama?” Nadia dropped her fork and met Gladys’s glare. Nadia was her mother twenty years prior, only without the gnawing toddler at her knees. Now in a housecoat and glasses, staring that same child in the face, the contempt she seemed to always have for her was discernible in the creased line scowl that contorted her face. “You know what you doin’,” Gladys said. “I’m livin’ my life. Havin’ fun. I ain’t hurtin’ nobody.” The lie sounded good in the moment, but its sweetness turned bitter in the air. Her wavering voice helped Gladys seize upon her suspicion. “You don’t know who you hurtin’,” she pounced. “If it ain’t nobody else, you still hurtin’ yourself.” “How, Mama? Tell me how?” “When the last time you even looked into going back to school, let alone talked to us about it, huh?” “That requires more money than I’ve got saved up. And you already made clear that y’all wasn’t helping.” Gladys sucked her teeth, irritated by the reminder of her own faults. She charged on, “Instead of blaming everybody else, you need to gure out what you gon’ do with your life, and it better be more than runnin’ behind some man.”
“You ran behind Daddy.” Terry dropped a knife to the ground. It pinged against the tiled oor. Running water in the sink where Bryan rinsed soapy dishes seemed to roar like a waterfall. The rustle of Eugene’s newspaper added to the din. He folded the pages together and cleared his throat. “Nadia,” he began, “I think what your mama is trying to say is that we don’t want to see you wanderin’ ’round here aimless, settling for any old thing when you better than that.” He sipped his co ee. “That goes for the job and the man.” “Eugene, she ain’t hearin’ you. She ain’t tryin’ to hear you. We been sayin’ the same thing for weeks.” “I’ll gure it out.” “When?” Gladys yelled. “Hold up,” Nadia said, raising a hand. “When I tried to move in with Toya damn near—” “Watch your mouth when you talking to your mama,” Eugene said. “Sorry, Daddy.” Nadia began again. “When I tried to move in with Toya two years ago, you begged me not to go. Told me you needed help with Bryan and Terry, when helping you with them is why I got so overwhelmed and had to drop out in the rst place.” “But what you been doin’ since?” Gladys demanded. “Trying to gure out what I wanna do, since what I w a s working for died. Y o u killed it.” “Delays are not denials.” Nadia humphed as the self-righteous tone Gladys used to make the church announcements took over her voice. She counted inhales and exhales, waiting for Gladys to rail, even though she ignored Nadia’s excuse as if parenting someone else’s children weren’t a valid complaint. “You wanna blame me for your failing out of school because you helped out with your brothers? That ain’t nothing but your own choices. I went to school, got my degrees, a n d held down my job at the hospital with three children. You ain’t had none.” “You did that because you had m e !”
“So I guess I’m to blame for you not doing nothing else with your life since then? Bryan fteen now. Terry ten. They watch themselves. And what you doin’? Nothin’?” “Workin’?” “But what you workin’ for?” “To get the hell up outta here,” Nadia muttered. “All right now, that’s enough,” Eugene admonished. His even-keeled intervention silenced everyone. Standing up from the breakfast table, he smoothed his hands over his pajama pants and white T-shirt and tucked the paper beneath his arm. “Y’all do this every weekend, and I’m sick of it,” he said. “Now, both of you ain’t right. And both of you ain’t wrong. Nadia, you either want to be here or you don’t.” “Your wife either wants me to stay or she wants me to leave.” “Gladys, she’s right. You can’t have it both ways.” Gladys didn’t respond. Instead, she burrowed her eyes into his face, wishing they were daggers, arrows, anything sharp to make him feel her anger, but she did not sharpen her tongue and wield her verbal sword. In his presence, she allowed him the last word. Eugene poured himself another cup of co ee and carried it, the paper, and himself through the kitchen and up the front stairs. Gladys waited until she no longer heard his feet shu ing above their heads before returning her attention back to Nadia. She softened. “Maybe I don’t say it right, but you can do a whole lot more than you doing. Don’t you want that for yourself?” “Of course I do. I’m just trying to gure it out.” “Well, what you got so far?” Nadia could never explain why she answered, “I don’t know, maybe going to hair school.” But it felt right in the moment. The dull ache in her belly she felt that morning with Roman seemed to disappear. She went with it, adding, “I always get compliments and people asking me if I do hair.” Gladys slapped the table with both hands, incensed. “Hair school? Really?!” she yelled.
It was an insult and injury if Gladys had ever heard one. There was only one person in her life she knew could do something with hair, and she had no control of her. Quiet as it was k ept, those who thought they did had no control over her either. But even though Ruby learned to braid by the spirit, she had no designs to make a life of beauty culture. She, like the women before her, was trained in the ways of agrarian society. She ran the farm like Jubi, like Emma, like Evangeline. The rst one to discover the talent hidden in the hands of this particular line of Dupree women. The rst one to witness the consequences of what could come of such talent if allowed to ourish. Gladys didn’t know the story. Not all of it. It was whispered in the old house between women who cast a cold eye anytime Ruby set hands to her head. What Nadia wanted to cultivate, they called wicked. The talent she wanted to train was rumored evil. It was bad enough her mama’s soul had been captured by sin, but for her daughter, she wouldn’t have it. Gladys paced the peninsula of the kitchen table, hands on hips, blowing air, trying to nd the words of reason and not the superstitions of the d eparted. Through clenched teeth, she said, “You can’t do no better than doing hair.” “This is why I don’t tell you nothing!” Nadia ailed in her seat. “When I do it’s always an issue. Dropping out. Working at the Plaza. You want me to gure it out, but you only want me to do it on your terms and your way.” “That’s not it at all. A t a l l . You ain’t never said nothing about doing no hair. Never in your life have you ever talked about you wanna do hair. That sound like some dumb idea that just oated to the top of your mind while you was in the shower.” “Or maybe God put it there,” Nadia sneered. “Then, chile, if it’s your God-given purpose, then go’n ’head, get to it, be the best at it, and get the hell outta my house while you doing it. You wanna play with the Lord, you best remember the wages of sin is death.” “Mama, I’ma be doing hair, not killing nobody.” “Whatever you doing, it won’t be here.” “No problem,” Nadia said, standing from the table. “I’ll enroll as soon as classes start.”
She walked her plate to the trash can against the back wall and scraped the half-eaten food into the garbage. When she handed it over to Terry and Bryan at the sink, neither of them looked her in the face. It was only when she placed the plate in the sudsy water did Terry chance a glance. “You really leaving?” he asked, bottom lip quivering. “I can’t stay here,” Nadia said. “She sure can’t,” Gladys added. Spite dripped from her tone like venom from a snake’s fangs as she returned to her novel. Later she’d sit in that same spot, the Bible in place of T h e B i t c h .
J u n e 1 9 9 5 Tati tried not to dget too much inside the graduation hall. The eyes from her family beamed on her as she waited in line to cross the stage and receive her diploma. She spotted Nadia, Mimi, her uncles, and their wives sitting at one of the white-linen-covered round tables that dotted the perimeter of the room as soon as she marched in at the beginning of the ceremony. Also at the table were Toya and Desirée’s little brother, Felix. “Tatiana Washington,” Mrs. Harrington called from the stage. In addition to being the history teacher, she was also one of the administrators at the Central City High School seventh- and eighth-grade academic center. She waited with a wide smile as Tati ascended the roll-away staircase to acc ept the fake diploma scroll tied with a ribbon. “Congratulations, grad,” Mrs. Harrington said o m ic in her raspy voice. They shook hands, and Tati looked up and smiled in time to see Nadia snapping pictures with her disposable camera. A camcorder was glued between her uncle Bryan’s hands and covered one of his eyes as he captured every moment for posterity. Tati shook her head as she descended the stairs back to her seat. It was rare to have her whole family together outside of a holiday. It almost made up for who was missing from her table. Though her uncles were great stand-ins, she still wished she had a daddy there rooting for her too. She couldn’t help but believe she was missing out on something. Even if she didn’t let herself dwell on the grand absence from her life, her young cousins believed it for her. Last Christmas, Brandon, her uncle Bryan’s four-year-old son, asked the same question she’d been asking for years. “Tati, where’s your daddy?”