Chapter 2 #2
“Thanks, detective.” In the weak glare of the naked overhead lightbulb Granny’s mannequin seemed to be exactly what it was: harmless.
Inanimate. Yet, standing there revisiting our tussle left me shaking off a sensation of having met a being from another dimension.
Maybe it was the old-fashioned floor-length skirt, high-neck blouse—velvet sachet dangling from a frayed but silken ribbon about its neck—and prim jacket that made me feel as if I’d encountered an ancient entity.
I avoided that thing—clearly sporting a costume from Granny’s seamstress days—followed the sound of my sisters’ voices to my fallen phone, and placed it in speaker mode.
“Nette, what’s going on?”
Justus jumped in, bringing his aunts up to speed and leaving them laughing.
“That’s what you get for faking brave and going up there in the first place.”
“Whatever, Shay. Lemme get off this phone and find what I’m looking for. Thanks for joining the excursion.” They weren’t there physically. Yet, I appreciated their supportive presence. “Love y’all.”
I disconnected and slid my phone in my pocket. “Son, Granny’s memory keeper boxes are in one of these trunks and oughta be clearly marked. Help me find them and let’s bounce.”
Obviously, I was the only one on a hustle-and-hurry mission. While I was flinging back trunk lids and scouring contents, Justus was oohing and ahhing over everything he encountered.
“Whoa, Mom! There’s a bunch of cool stuff up here!”
I glanced at him maneuvering through the clutter and treasure of our family’s history.
His excitement made me realize he’d never played hide-n-seek up here as my siblings, cousins, and I had.
Neither had he spent time in this cavernous space with Granny when she was young and able-bodied enough to manage the stairs.
He’d missed out on the memories a trinket could stimulate, or Granny regaling us with tales of bygone days as the power of her stories and our family’s artifacts transformed that attic into a magical, mystical place.
“I bet I find something to inspire my Black Women’s History Month essay.”
I smiled at my son’s exuberance and resumed my search, glad another generation might discover value in what was more than junk or excess. “Got it!”
Finding and grabbing what I needed, I might have encouraged Justus’ further excursion except for the sudden rustling in a far corner.
I snatched up two boxes, finished with fully dressed phantoms and unseen four-legged things.
“Baby, we’ll find you some inspiration another time another place.
Grab one of these memory boxes and throw up deuces! ”
I tossed a last glance at that dress dummy that felt like someone versus something while instructing my son to hand me the boxes once I climbed down the ladder. Down on solid ground, I reached up for them. “You’re still unsure who you’re writing about?”
“Mom, I can’t think when you pressure me.”
I stared up at him, standing there looking like his daddy.
The older he gets the more he looks like Rodney.
With his pecan-colored skin, tight curls, and deep dimples it was as if I’d been nothing but an incubator for his father’s DNA, as if my sole goal in life had been to successfully recreate Rodney Adams, whom I—single and abstinent—sometimes missed.
I sidestepped Justus being my ex’s mini-me and focused on our son, looking for signs of distress. I tried not to be a helicopter mom overanalyzing everything and jumping to conclusions. At times that was easier said than done since his diagnosis.
Noting the rapid tapping of his pointer fingers against his thighs and the patting of one foot, I offered encouragement. “No pressure. I’m simply saying you have choices. Harriet Tubman. Oprah Winfrey. Michelle Obama—”
“They’re all taken. Kyle took Miss Tubman. Chantelle has Miss Winfrey.” He lowered a box into my grasp. “Brandon took our former FLOTUS.”
“Former?” I placed the box on the ground near my feet and parked my hands on my Beyoncé hips. “Hold up, bruh! I don’t care who skips in and out the White House. Michelle Obama was, is, and forever shall be my First Lady.”
“Yeah, Mom, I know. Mrs. Obama and Kamala Harris are your sheroes. And you’re a teacher! Can’t you think of someone for my Black Women’s History Month project?”
“That would be me using my brain cells versus you utilizing yours. Besides, Black Women’s History Month is in April. Thankfully, it’s barely March.”
“Mr. Daniels wants us to turn in an index card with three facts on our topic Monday.” He thrust the last box towards me as if I was a traitorous enemy.
My son was a fifth grader at the school where I’d taught the past decade, which made Seth Daniels a colleague. Seth was an outstanding educator, but a certifiable control freak who’d probably spend the weekend regretting giving his students autonomy to choose their projects.
I capitulated and fed him more names. “Stacey Abrams. Issa Rae. Mellody Hobson. Dr. Mae Jemison. Simone Biles. Viola Davis. Fannie Lou Hamer. U.S. Representatives Maxine Waters or Jasmine Crockett. There’re plenty of boss Black women to choose from. Pick one.”
“Okay. Wait… hold on.” He disappeared from the landing, leaving me calling after him as he retreated into the attic.
“Lord, don’t let me have to go up there and beat down a mannequin for attacking my son.”
“Got it!”
I laughed when he reappeared with that dress dummy’s velvet sachet draped about his neck and its lavish blue and yellow hat atop his head. “Son, what’re you doing?”
He shrugged. “This pouch is cool. And Granny loves fancy hats. It might cheer her up.”
Plummeting back into the raw fact that my grandmother’s upset had precipitated this attic excursion sobered me a bit. I smiled as my eleven-year-old descended, reminding myself we were blessed to still have Granny with us. “That’s sweet of you, J.”
He nodded before pointing at my head. “You have cobwebs in your wig.”
“It’s crochet hair. Not a wig, dude. You know this.”
“Still has cobwebs in it.”
I released my ponytail and swiped spider spit from the crocheted curls framing my heart-shaped face and complimenting the smooth brown of my skin.
I smeared the freeloading webs onto the nearest box, praying my “wig” was free of arachnids before lifting the retractable ladder.
Together, we grabbed boxes from the floor and headed for my grandparents’ family room, where the two most important women in my world waited.
Surrounded by lush plants that proved the power of Granny’s green thumb, Mama and Granny sat there looking like gorgeous, older versions of Star Trek’s Uhura.
“Granny, Nana, look what I found!”
Mama looked at Justus and fell out. “Baby J, you’re mighty spiffy, grandson.”
“It’s for Granny.” Lowering his box to the floor, he removed the hat from his head and gently placed it atop Terracina Braxton’s.
My grandmother was a beloved church mother within her local congregation. An old school southern belle whose Sunday-Go-Meeting attire wasn’t complete without pantyhose, lace gloves, a girdle, and a fancy hat the size of a spaceship.
Granny had always been petite, but the progression of her disease made her seem fragile. Dainty. She appeared diminutive courtesy of the oversized, elaborate crown Justus positioned on her head.
My grandmother gently ran her fingers about the hat’s brim, engaging in a tactile reacquaintance with a long-lost friend. Her resulting smile was beatific, but brief.
“This isn’t it!” She snatched the hat off and threw it on the coffee table. “I need them. Not this. Y’all are trying to trick me into thinking I’m crazy.”
“Mama, no one’s trying to trick you into anything.
” At sixty-six LaVeda Stanford, my mother, was a classy, energetic powerhouse of a woman.
She was in wonderful health now—despite suffering a minor stroke three years ago—and moved as if an invisible string at the top of her head gently pulled her towards heaven, granting her perfect posture and an air of elegance.
Even so, Granny’s care and condition weighed on her.
I heard a hint of weariness in her voice my magnificent mother would never admit. “I’m sure Baby J brought the hat because he wanted to put a smile on your face. Right, baby boy?”
Justus nodded and knelt beside Granny, trying to mitigate the mounting frustration. “Granny, you don’t gotta wear the hat if you don’t want, even if it makes you extra pretty.”
“Pretty! Smitty! Y’all bringing me hats ’cause my memory keepers disappeared?”
“No, ma’am.” Justus jumped up and rummaged through a box.
“Sweet Tee, they’re in there.” My use of Granddad’s nickname for his beloved had the desired effect. Granny grew still. Quiet. I took her hands and rubbed them gently, remembering what she used to say about the hobby she’d enjoyed before dementia impaired her faculties.
I’m not immortalizing for posterity. I’m doing this to help me remember precious things.
It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, as if my grandmother knew she’d one day suffer a memory-debilitating disease.
Granny enjoyed scrapbooking long before it was a thing.
Birth announcements. Magazine articles. Pictures.
Recipes. Obituaries. Newspaper clippings.
If it featured family, friends, or African-American achievements of interest Granny clipped it.
Saved it. Pressed it in her memory books with a touch of pride mixed in.
“Here you go, Granny.” I released her hands, allowing her to accept the slender, clothbound photo album-sized book Justus held.
Its purple and white roses had faded with time.
A corner of its cover was tattered as if Shay’s hated rodents tried to make it a meal.
These were minor flaws in the larger scheme of things. Content mattered more than appearances.
“How precious!” Granny closed her eyes and clutched the book against her bosom before opening it. “See, Veda. I told you I’d find them. All I needed was to get up in that attic.”
“But Granny—”