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January 8, 1958
My sweet Binah,
I received your letter from Paris this morning. I have read your words now several times over, and have done my best to understand what you have done.
Know that I, too, love you. I hate that you’re so far away, that I can no longer see your beautiful, shining face each morning. It pains me deeply that you felt you had no choice but to leave home without saying good-bye. I would have so dearly loved to hold you once more, to wish you well. But maybe you were right after all. If you had given me that chance, I might never have let you go.
Edwin is not the man I would have chosen for you, but then again, we both know I’m not that skilled when it comes to picking men. We Wills girls always listen to our hearts. I hope yours has served you better than mine appears to have done me. Still, we have made the choices we needed to make, and with those choices we must live.
If Edwin brings you happiness, if he watches over you and cherishes you the way you deserve to be cherished, then I give my blessing and my love to both of you.
Just imagine, my baby sister in Paris! Yes, my Binah is in Paris, but you’ll always be in my heart. Please write often, and share your life there with me.
With all my love,
Your Jilo
EIGHT
April 1958
Jilo had hoped she could help Guy get back on an even keel, once he was out from under Edwin’s influence, but the opposite had proven true. Edwin’s departure had signaled Guy’s collapse. Guy took to bed for days after Edwin and Binah ran off together, just lying there as still as the dead, refusing to speak, facing the wall, like he’d lost his life, a limb, or a love. It was a relief when he rose and returned to drinking. At least for a few days, it was.
Now he sat in her nana’s old chair, his “throne,” he’d come to call it. Red-eyed and simmering, the king was waiting for any excuse, any perceived slight to use as an excuse for another bender. Only two days ago, he’d come back from one that had begun three days before that. He’d stumbled in stinking of whiskey and another woman. Ignoring both scents, Jilo had covered him with a light blanket and left him to sleep himself sober.
Watching now from the corner of her eye, she wondered again, “What is wrong with me?” She loved this man. Loved him. Shouldn’t a good woman’s devotion be enough? Still she couldn’t manage to pull him out of the ditch where he seemed determined to lie. Maybe she wasn’t good enough. Maybe she wasn’t woman enough. Because she sure seemed to lack the ability to help Guy become a better man.
The sofa stuck out farther into the room than in the past; the canvasses Guy had purchased when he first came around remained propped up behind it, blank. The tubes of oil paint remained unopened, buried at the back of their tiny shared closet, in an old tackle box he’d adapted to hold them. “Maybe later, you could set up your easel, paint me like you used to do back in Atlanta,” she said, thinking that her participation might again inspire him. Or New York, she thought, fearing that only in some state of perfected absentia could she still act as his muse. Perhaps not even then.
“No,” Guy said, kicking out his feet, reclining deeper into the chair. “I’m not up for it right now. I’m having a dry spell. Just need to rest a bit. Need to recharge. Besides, the light’s all wrong in here.” The light was plenty clear for her to see the truth. He didn’t need any more rest. And he sure didn’t need any more drink. A day or two of honest work would be plenty to put an end to this dry spell of his.
She sat
on the sofa, placing her hands on her lap, preparing herself to walk through a minefield. “You know, I heard they’re hiring over at that new hotel they built where the Pinnacle burned down.”
“Naw, I don’t want you leaving Robinson with that . . .”
“No,” she stopped him before he could insult poor Willy once more. “I didn’t mean me, Guy. I was just thinking that it might do you good to get out of the house a bit until you feel up to painting again. Have something to occupy your time . . .”
He pressed his fingers against his temples, and looked at her through slitted eyes, his jaw jutting forward into a snarl. “Nothing would make you happier, now would it? You’d love to see me out there, nothing but a common laborer. You don’t understand my work,” he said, laying the needle back on a record he’d played a thousand times. “You’ve never appreciated my work.”
“That’s not true,” she began to protest. But just then Robinson came tearing into the room, all dressed up in his new Easter outfit.
“What the hell is all this then?” Guy said, dropping his hands from his temples and gawking at their son. “Where’d you find the money for that getup?”
Same place I find all the money around here. Mother Jilo, she earned it, Jilo thought, then pushed the notion away before it had time to register on her face, where Guy might see it lurking deep in her eyes.
“You come here and let Mama get a good look at you.” Jilo knelt before Robinson, placing her hands on his tiny shoulders. He looked for all the world like a little man, dressed up as he was in his new black suit and red tie. “You are the handsomest young man your mama has ever laid eyes on, you know that?” Robinson nodded yes, and Jilo laughed and tugged him into a tight embrace.
“Why do you got him dressed up like that?”
“It’s Easter.” The words came out almost like a defense, or maybe even an apology.
“You taking him to church?” His expression changed in an instant, and the look on his face was wide-eyed and smirking now, as if he would’ve been less surprised to hear she was planning to send Robinson to the moon. “Mother Jilo, she don’t go to no church,” he said, mimicking her in her professional guise, “won’t do to have them good Christian folk see Mother here poking around. Might scare them near to death.” He tilted his head to the side, dropping his imitation, and continued, “Or maybe Mother Jilo’s the one who’s afraid. Afraid the church is gonna fall on her if she tries to step in.”
Jilo knew he was only joking, but his words still made her cringe; there was a patina of truth to them. Before the Taylors, before she’d learned that magic might be real, it had all felt like playacting. A bit deceitful perhaps, but not dirty, not damning. She had come to know she’d been wrong about magic. She had to wonder if she could be wrong about other things as well. “More like sending him,” she said, “but yes. Willy’s going to take him into town.”
“Well, I don’t know how I feel about that. I don’t like having that pansy hanging around here, and I sure don’t like my boy spending time with him. Not one little bit,” Guy said, then, “Get over here, boy. Let me see what your mama has put you in.”
