“Your mama tanned our hides on that one,” Sugar says.
“I didn’t even care. I kept on going, even after you all left the farm. They sang gospel on Wednesday nights, and there was one woman in particular that always spoke in tongues.”
“I’ve seen that, the speaking in tongues and the carrying on,” Sugar says. “I wasn’t much impressed.”
“This one was different,” Alice says, though she knows she can’t explain it to Sugar. She leans back, closing her eyes and remembering, feeling the light from the creek playing on her face. That woman could be counted on. Her eyes would go soft and faraway, not agitated, and she would lay her hand on the head of a child, whoever happened to be near, because nobody was afraid, and she would speak out in a slow, meaty voice: “Bel-bagged oh Lessemenee! Yemett algeddy boolando!” And you would understand what she meant. Yes, sister, they would all cry. No one doubted she was receiving the spirit. In the years since, Alice, too, has seen the ones who shake and scream and roll their eyes back as if snakebit, but she has always doubted the sincerity of this. Anybody can get worked up, if they have the intention.
It’s peacefulness that is hard to come by on purpose.
Annawake stirs her coffee. Through the café window she can see Boma Mellowbug’s bottle tree, with hundreds of glass bottles stuck onto the ends of its limbs. It’s a little thin at the top where no one can reach, but once in a while someone from the volunteer fire department will bring a ladder and move some bottles to the upper branches to even things out.
She reaches for the cream pitcher and knocks over the sugar bowl at the same instant she sees the woman who must be the grandmother. She’s wearing running shoes and polyester pants and a bright, African sort of shirt, and she is trying not to look lost. Annawake taps on the window and waves. The woman raises her head like a startled animal and changes her course, heading across the street toward the café.
Annawake tries to spoon the sugar she has spilled back into the bowl. By the time Alice gets there, Annawake has created a crater in the small white mountain in the center of the table.
“I spilled the sugar,” she says.
“Sugar’s cheap,” Alice says. “You could do worse things.”
Annawake is caught off guard, forgiven before they even start. “Sit down, please,” she says. She takes off her reading glasses and stands up to shake Alice’s hand just as Alice is moving to sit down. They both bend awkwardly to accommodate the difference, and Alice laughs.
“I’m sorry. I’m nervous as a barn cat,” she says, sliding into the booth across from Annawake.
“Me too,” Annawake confesses. “How long have you been in Heaven? You finding your way around all three blocks of it?”
“I can’t complain. Sugar’s looking after me. My cousin. I mentioned her on the phone, didn’t I?”
Annawake feels wary. She’d said Sugar Hornbuckle on the phone, but she hadn’t said cousin. “So you and your daughter have ties here in the Nation?”
“Oh, no. Sugar and me grew up together down South. But I never knew Roscoe till he hollered howdy at me two days ago in the bus station.”
“Oh,” Annawake says, and they look each other in the eye.
Alice exhales slowly. “Well. I had all this stuff to say, that I was practicing on my way over here. I was supposed to start out being real high and mighty, but that’s never been my long suit.”
Annawake smiles. She has seen so many people show up for court armored in suits and lies. But this bright-eyed little old lady turns out for Greer vs. Fourkiller in an African-print dashiki from Wal-Mart, and an attitude to match. “I think I know what you were going to say,” Annawake tells her. “Can I give it a shot?”
“Go ahead.”
“Miss Fourkiller, you’ve got no business butting into our lives this way. You might think you know what’s best for our little girl, because she’s Indian and you are too, but that’s just one little tiny part of what she is. You weren’t there while she was growing up, and it’s too late to be claiming her now, because she’s already a person in our family.”
Alice frowns. “I’ll swan.”
“Coffee, hon?” the waitress asks as she fills Alice’s cup.
She’s a very short, very broad woman with blunt-cut black hair and a face as round and flat as a plate. “I don’t think I know you. I’m Earlene.”
“Earlene, this is Alice Greer,” Annawake says. “She’s come to town on some business.”