Just you and me this weekend, she said with a smile.
It was the weekend that Mother and Daddy were driving Carlton to look at LSU and Tulane. My brother was going to college next year. That morning, Daddy had moved the cot into the kitchen, next to her bathroom. Thats where Constantine always slept when she spent the night.
Go look what I got, she said, pointing to the broom closet. I went and opened it and saw, tucked in her bag, a five-hundred-piece puzzle with a picture of Mount Rushmore[47] on it. It was our favorite thing to do when she stayed over.
That night, we sat for hours, munching on peanuts, sifting through the pieces spread out on the kitchen table. A storm raged outside, making the room cozy while we picked out the edges. The bulb in the kitchen dimmed then brightened again.
Which one he? Constantine asked, studying the puzzle box through her black-rimmed glasses.
Thats Jefferson.
Oh it sure is. What about him?
Thats I leaned over. I think thats Roosevelt.
Only one I recognize is Lincoln. He look like my daddy.
I stopped, puzzle piece in hand. I was fourteen and had never made less than an A[48]. I was smart, but I was as naïve as they come. Constantine put the box top down and looked over the pieces again.
Because your daddy was so tall? I asked.
She chuckled. Cause my daddy was white. I got the tall from my mama.
I put the piece down. Your father was white and your mother was colored?
Yup, she said and smiled, snapping two pieces together. Well, look a there. Got me a match.
I had so many questions Who was he? Where was he? I knew he wasnt married to Constantines mother, because that was against the law. I picked a cigarette from my stash Id brought to the table. I was fourteen but, feeling very grown up, I lit it. As I did, the overhead light dimmed to a dull, dirty brown, buzzing softly.
Oh, my daddy looooved me. Always said I was his favorite. She leaned back in her chair. He used to come over to the house ever Saturday afternoon, and one time, he give me a set a ten hair ribbons, ten different colors. Brought em over from Paris, made out a Japanese silk. I sat in his lap from the minute he got there until he had to leave and Mamad play Bessie Smith[49] on the Victrola he brung her and he and med sing:
Its mighty strange, without a doubt
Nobody knows you when youre down and out
I listened wide-eyed, stupid. Glowing by her voice in the dim light. If chocolate was a sound, it wouldve been Constantines voice singing. If singing was a color, it wouldve been the color of that chocolate.
One time I was boo-hooing over hard feelings, I reckon I had a list a things to be upset about, being poor, cold baths, rotten tooth, I dont know. But he held me by the head, hugged me to him for the longest time. When I looked up, he was crying too and he did that thing I do to you so you know I mean it. Press his thumb up in my hand and he say he sorry.
We sat there, staring at the puzzle pieces. Mother wouldnt want me to know this, that Constantines father was white, that hed apologized to her for the way things were. It was something I wasnt supposed to know. I felt like Constantine had given me a gift.
I finished my cigarette, stubbed it out in the silver guest ashtray. The light brightened again. Constantine smiled at me and I smiled back.
How come you never told me this before? I said, looking into her light-brown eyes.
I cant tell you ever single thing, Skeeter.
But why? She knew everything about me, everything about my family. Why would I ever keep secrets from her?
She stared at me and I saw a deep, bleak sadness there, inside of her. After a while, she said, Some things I just got to keep for myself.
When it was my turn to go off to college, Mother cried her eyes out when Daddy and I pulled away in the truck. But I felt free. I was off the farm, out from under the criticism. I wanted to ask Mother, Arent you glad? Arent you relieved that you dont have to worry-wart over me every day anymore? But Mother looked miserable.
I was the happiest person in my freshman dorm. I wrote Constantine a letter once a week, telling her about my room, the classes, the sorority. I had to mail her letters to the farm since the post didnt deliver to Hotstack and I had to trust that Mother wouldnt open them. Twice a month, Constantine wrote me back on parchment paper that folded into an envelope. Her handwriting was large and lovely, although it ran at a crooked angle down the page. She wrote me every mundane detail of Longleaf: My back pains are bad but its my feet that are worse, or The mixer broke off from the bowl and flew wild around the kitchen and the cat hollered and ran off. I havent seen her since. Shed tell me that Daddy had a chest cold or that Rosa Parks was coming to her church to speak. Often she demanded to know if I was happy and the details of this. Our letters were like a yearlong conversation, answering questions back and forth, continuing face-to-face at Christmas or between summer school sessions.
Mothers letters said, Say your prayers and Dont wear heels because they make you too tall clipped to a check for thirty-five dollars.