Page 27 of It’s Me They Follow

LATER THAT SAME DAY

U p North turned into Down South as they drove.

The ride continued with bouts of sisterly banter, bouts of passionate singing, a few petty arguments, and extended silence littered with philosophically maniacal meanderings—“Did you know that touch is the only sense that requires you to give and receive at the same time?”

“How is it possible that you know so much and so little about one subject?” her sister pointed out.

They decided to take the slower route with more trees, animals, water, and breeze.

But neither sister had planned for their ever-more-frequent need to pee.

And every time one sister had to pee, so did the other.

The two sisters pulled over two times, and on the third, they were both shaking and dancing.

They pulled over and followed their noses to a soul food spot that smelled of okra, smoked wings, cornbread, porgies, hush puppies, and shrimp.

“Home sweet home.” Elle rubbed her belly.

“Enter Here.” The Shopkeeper pointed at the rickety sign.

It was a beautifully ugly broken-down shack of a restaurant, with Christmas lights and church fans.

Portraits of women lined the walls. The restaurant had the same familiar aroma as their grandmother’s house.

It reminded them to stay awhile and take a proper break.

They got in, but Elle didn’t quite make it to the bathroom, so The Shopkeeper had to run back to the car and get her sister a change of clothes.

The Shopkeeper asked a wide-eyed, wide-hipped woman in an apron for some of the peach moonshine that everybody else in the shack appeared to be drinking.

“We already know just what you need,” the wide-hipped woman said. She put the jar down in front of The Shopkeeper.

The Shopkeeper took a sip. The drink was thick like molasses. I deserve sweetness , she reminded herself as it coated her throat and stomach. She hadn’t had much of anything besides apples, water, and tea, so the moonshine shot straight to her brain.

A thin man sat at the piano, playing a very fast rendition of what The Shopkeeper thought was “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now.”

“This used to be my favorite song,” she told the piano man as they clinked their jars in cheers.

“The right song played at the right time is my favorite song,” the piano man said.

A small group of elders two-stepped in the middle of the dance floor, lifting their glasses and their cares to the sky.

She waited for Elle to get changed so they could both eat in a booth in the back.

A steady hum of conversation and laughter played over the music.

Her sister found her and sat sideways in the booth in a silk muumuu that barely fit her. They felt at home.

“These are my pajamas,” Elle said.

“They looked big... and soft.” The Shopkeeper laughed. She had done her best.

“You want anything besides moonshine?”

“As far as I can see, there are no menus,” The Shopkeeper said. “I mean, there’s a lady with big hips over there passing out food, but I think you get what you get whenever you get it. You eat that, and you get some more. The woman over there said she already knew what I needed.”

Just then, the lady with the big hips turned around and gave them each their own bowl of okra.

“I love and hate it here,” Elle said, looking around the room.

“Forces you to let go.” The Shopkeeper noticed that, as usual, her sister couldn’t stand being out of control. She was amused by the organized chaos. “It’s my turn,” The Shopkeeper said.

“What?” her sister shouted over the music.

“To ask questions.” The Shopkeeper leaned in so they could hear each other. The moonshine gave her courage.

They ate their okra like popcorn, a few at a time. It was salty, slimy, crunchy. “Did you know okra is a natural aphrodisiac?” her sister told her.

“Probably have to eat a lot of okra to get somethin’ good goin’.” The Shopkeeper slurred a bit, feeling the slightest buzz. She wanted to dance, but she couldn’t risk it.

Next, piping hot cornbread came to the table. Her sister buttered it for them. “Ask me anything,” she said, stuffing her mouth and arranging her muumuu.

“What’s making you say YES this time when you could’ve said no?”

“To a baby?” her sister asked, licking her fingers. “Timing. No napkins?”

“You’re not afraid to try again?” She pointed at the lady behind her, holding a napkin out for her sister to grab.

“Never afraid. Always hopeful.”

“Do you feel a connection?”

“I do.”

“And it’s a boy?”

“I think so.”

The Shopkeeper took a hefty chug of moonshine, as she thought about them weeping in a hospital room a year ago.

“Now, this is cornbread!” Elle chef’s kissed her fingers to the sky. And as she ate the last bite, the skillet was snatched away, and the thickest candied yams were dropped in its place.

“How’s it feel carrying a human inside you?” The Shopkeeper asked with another swig. “That thing is touching your insides every second of every day. It feels what you feel. It eats what you eat. You’re a host for the seed of an alien invader.”

“It feels like I have a superpower.”

“A supermodel?” The music was getting louder and faster. More people were dancing, and her sister was talking with her mouth full of yams.

“No. Like a SUPERPOWER,” her sister screamed. “This is a baby who has asked to be here with me, and I’m honored to host.”

“But you know what must be hard?” The Shopkeeper was dancing in her seat. She blamed the moonshine. “What do you read to him? Sanchez? Hurston? Walker? Baraka?”

“I read him a poem almost every night, and he just stops all that kicking and settles in. Unless I read him Sanchez, and in that case, he never stops kicking and trying to punch through me.”

“Okay, another question: What makes a good parent?”

Elle looked at her sister as though it were a trick question. “Endurance,” she replied, stacking their plates. “You done?”

“Do you have that endurance?” The Shopkeeper saw the subtle shake in her sister’s otherwise steady hand. They held each other’s eye contact like two lionesses.

“Ribs?” The big-hipped woman placed a stack of ribs on the table.

“I’m certain the endurance is in me.” Her sister grabbed a rib and bit down into the fatty side.

“And if it’s not?” The Shopkeeper probed.

“Order in the court,” her sister said, banging her rib bone like a gavel on the table.

On the crowded dance floor, a couple began to have words.

“Don’t you ever touch me like that again,” a lady called out.

“Fried peaches,” the big-hipped woman interrupted Elle, placing before them warm peaches in small bowls. “My mama grew these,” the wide-hipped woman added with a grin.

“Thank you. They taste like... someone’s mama grew them,” The Shopkeeper said, chewing and grooving and turning back to Elle. “Was Mom a good mother?”

“She was the mother we had,” Elle said.

“If you could choose, would you have chosen someone different?”

“I would have chosen different circumstances.”

The Shopkeeper was getting full.

“Do you think you can be a better mother than she was?”

“I do.”

“And Dad?”

The Shopkeeper knew better than to bring up their dad. He was her sister’s sensitive subject. She didn’t respond. The Shopkeeper drank the last of her moonshine and raised her glass to the big-hipped woman for another.

“To parents,” she barely whispered as she raised her glass.

“When is ‘enough’ enough with you? You always have to go too far.”

The Shopkeeper felt the conversation heading in the wrong direction. “Do you think I had anything to do with this?” She pointed at Elle’s belly. “And all this?” She pointed at the growing excitement buzzing around the room. Barely anyone was sitting.

“I think there’s something in your book that touches people. We blame it on you. You blame it on Ms. Harriett. We all know how crazy it sounds. But it’s also real. That’s why I told you, no make pretend. It scares me.”

The Shopkeeper had given Elle the book as a beta reader.

“I’m no Teddy Pendergrass.” She laughed it off.

This wasn’t the first time someone blamed her for something she had no control over.

“ME nearly passed out reading it,” she told her sister, and then she wanted to change the subject.

“Do you think our parents were good examples?”

Her sister took a beat. “Well, they showed me that you can love someone who you don’t like.

That you can attach spiritually to someone, and that connection can never come undone.

It’s dangerous. I think they showed us what happens when you mix a lack of emotional control with substance use and religion.

But only you can choose whether you want to wallow in the river of their discontent.

That choice is totally up to you. You can always build your own boat, make your own way.

We need not wade in the water of the past unless we have no direction forward. ”

“One person’s wallow is another person’s wade,” The Shopkeeper rebuffed.

“Wallowing is the slow wade; you might want to cross before the next high tide.” Her sister sipped her water through pursed lips. “We should get back on the road soon. It’s getting late.”

“Salmon bites,” the wide-hipped woman interjected, clearing the other dishes from their table.

“Talk less, eat more,” she warned. Then, back-to-back, there were baked beans, potato salad, dirty rice, and seafood bisque.

They ate their emotions. The food came and went.

“My soul,” The Shopkeeper said, stuffing her mouth with food, “is full.” She held her spoon as though directing an orchestra.

The dance floor was filled. Her second glass of moonshine was empty.

“I can make things happen with my mind,” she confessed to her sister. “Like this moment. It’s all mine.”

“You need an imaginary friend to get you through life,” her sister mocked. “Is your soul full or full of shit?”

“You say ‘imaginary friend,’ I say a ‘guiding light.’ Tomato. Tomahto. And if I need one, so what? I have one.”

“You can have her without blaming our parents for why you need her.”

“They are at least partially to blame,” The Shopkeeper said. “And partially to thank.”

“So thank them for helping you find what you needed. Even if they drove you to Ms. Harriett, they got you to her just the same.”

“How does it feel to have no control?” The Shopkeeper interrupted with fire in her eyes. Her sister was clearly uncomfortable, squeezed into the tight booth and the solemn reality of no turning back. “I mean, you’re swimming in preeeetty deep water.”

“It’s freeing,” her sister began.

“You don’t look so free.” The Shopkeeper could no longer sit still; she stood beside her sister, dancing by herself to the rhythm of house music from the house band. “You look trapped.” The moonshine made her honest.

“In this little booth, I am trapped. On this road trip. Trapped. As your sister, trapped. It feels like I’m drowning in a small puddle of quicksand.”

“Dance with me, then.” The Shopkeeper coaxed Elle to get up, trying to ignore the shifting mood. “Come on.” She pretended not to have heard anything her sister had said. “See? Not wallowing.” She danced in circles. “Just being alive and free.”

“I can’t,” Elle said.

“I never have anyone to dance with. Dance with me and make up for all the mean things you just said.”

“I would. It’s just not smart. Have some water.” She pushed a pitcher toward The Shopkeeper. “Cool off.”

“I’m not.” The Shopkeeper spun in a circle, dancing. I’ll dance with the spirits in my head instead , she thought. “I’m not HOT. I’m just not wallowing.” She mocked Elle and pushed the water pitcher back.

“You’re wallowing in your own way,” Elle said.

“And you’re wallowing in yours.” The Shopkeeper mean-girl giggled but kept on dancing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“I mean, you went all those months without telling anyone because you’re wallowing.

You’re a wallower, just like the rest of us.

You were hiding in your room because you didn’t want anyone to ask you how you were and how you could put us all through this again so soon.

And you can’t admit that for once, you lost control, and you’re just like THEM.

We are THEM.” She picked up the water. Took a sip. “And YOU only think about YOU.”

“No, you’re like THEM!” Elle picked up the glass of water. “You’re the one chasing love. Telling people you have a phobia to escape responsibility.” Her sister held the pitcher tight. They stared at each other like enemies. “Is there even a ME, or are you just making him up?”

“Low.” It deflated The Shopkeeper. She stopped dancing and sat down. Elle took a sip of water. Smug, as though she’d won the conversation, and then, without warning, jerked her arm backward and splashed the water directly in her sister’s face.

The Shopkeeper screamed a shrill “Ahhhh!” in ice-cold shock. A few people turned around. But everyone in the shack was used to fights breaking out and ignored them. Elle slammed the empty glass on the table.

“Finally, the real you has arrived. You’re not a sunny day; you’re a hailstorm,” The Shopkeeper said to her sister, clapping.

“I have to pee!” her sister hollered over the milieu.

“Don’t follow me.” She jumped up to get out of the booth, and a flood of water and emotion splashed to the ground from between her legs.

Her sister had lost control. The Shopkeeper stood there, wet-faced and shocked.

She was happy to have won the argument but sad at what it had just cost them both.

She could not cry. Or speak. She was numb and dumb—stupefied.

Her heart raced. “I deserve sweet...” she tried to tell herself.

“I d-deserve s-sweet...” but her words stuttered and slurred.

She slumped and burped. She couldn’t lie, especially to herself.

It was the moonshine. She deserved what she’d gotten, an ice-cold bitter splash in her face.

“You deserve to be slapped.” Elle waddled her way back to the bathroom.

“‘Spare the rod, spoil the child,’” The Shopkeeper mocked. It was all those years of being slapped and choked that had landed them here in the first place.

“Another moonshine?” the wide-hipped woman asked The Shopkeeper, handing her a napkin and another drink. “And a mop?”

The Shopkeeper pointed at the small puddle and trail Elle had left behind on the floor.

“Yeah. And maybe an ambulance.” She lay on her side in a fetal position, holding the table as her world spun with guilt.

She drowned in a swamp of denial; she dozed off to sleep, dreaming water was running down her legs. It was the moonshine , she thought.