Denise

Blocks from the bay, in Colored Town, ole Banneker crowed double-time, then strutted beneath the porch of an abandoned shotgun shack. Seconds later, the sun reached the two-story Dade County pine house painted white with green shutters piercing an upstairs bedroom window protected by curtains made from lace tablecloths, displaying their intimacy with holiday gravy. The sun and the humidity made the pink bedroom glow, made the webs, spun overnight by ambitious artisans in the ceiling’s corners, glisten. In front of the dresser, an oscillating fan perched in a wooden chair held vigil. The fan provided a scant layer of cool air hovering between the ceiling and the top bunk bed where Sukie Wilson’s sixteen-year-old body lay. Between the lone mosquito nipping her ears, the heat, and her recurring dreams, Sukie spent most of the night searching for cool, dry spots on the floral cotton sheets. At first, she lay at the bed’s head until sweat soaked that spot. Then she caterpillared her long, lean body to the bed’s bottom. When sweat claimed that spot, she swung her legs over the bed’s side rail, rested her head somewhere in the bed’s middle, and tried to catch wisps from the fan’s squeaky attempts to cool the room. But the fan barely circulated the humid air drifting in from the jalousie windows upward. Now at dawn, which should’ve brought relief, she competed with the sun for remnants of cool air. She found none. “Shoot. Wish Mama Ruth would turn on the air,” Sukie grumbled, half asleep, knowing only out-of-town company warranted air conditioning. Patting the sweat-soaked sheet beneath her butt, she sucked her teeth and drifted into another dream. One so real, she smelled the strong stench of pee, felt the warm trickle beneath her butt like when she was little. Shifting on the sheets, Sukie muttered out loud as she dreamt, “Ciana, you done peed again.” “What?” Ciana rubbed her eyes. “You too old to be pissing in the bed. Ain’t your mama taught you nothing?” She elbowed her six-year-old cousin out of the bed and onto the bedroom floor. “Didn’t mean it,” Ciana whined. “The Boogie Man inside the bathroom.” “Humph! Trifling heifer. Ugly as you is, you scare the Boogie Man ‘way,” Sukie hissed, her voice low and unforgiving. “And be quiet.” The warning came too late. A door screeched. Moonlight flowed through the upstairs hallway. A narrow shadow emerged, and the soles of worn bedroom slippers shuffled down the hallway like the Ghost of Christmas Past. Shivers claimed Sukie’s body. Squeezing her eyes, she used her hand to cover Ciana’s mouth and prayed the shadow away. It almost worked. “Ouch! Heathen heifer!” Sukie grabbed her hand, inspecting Ciana’s bite. Armed with a towel flung across her shoulder, the shadow flicked on the light. “Ciana, don’t you fret none. Sukie don’t mean what she say” Their grandmama, Mama Ruth, hoisted Ciana from the floor. “Change your nightie, ‘n go sleep on the settee.” She reached for the box of Arm & Hammer baking soda on the windowsill tucked behind the curtains. “Ain’t no need to pour none. Still gonna smell like pee in the morning.” Sukie nursed her bite with her lips, then kicked the pee-soaked summer quilt to the floor. Washday was Wednesday: four days away. Mama Ruth would never hang bed clothes outside before washday, broadcasting a pee-pot lived in her house. Mama Ruth patted the baking soda into a thick paste on the sheet and spread the towel over it. “Whatcha say?” She glared at Sukie. “You know it’s an accident. Chile got a weak bladder, that’s all.” Her voice barely above a whisper, she picked up Ciana’s wet nightie and panties. Sukie sucked her teeth. “Nah-huh. She just too lazy to take her narrow, red behind to the bathroom. She always be dranking after dinner. ‘specially Coca-Cola.” Rolling her eyes, Sukie went to the dresser. She exchanged her daddy’s wet Fruit of the Loom T-shirt for a dry one, dropped it onto the floor, and muttered, “You always be taking her side like she helpless. She ‘bout as helpless as a newborn rattler. Meaner than a polecat in heat. Stingier than a virgin on prom night.” “What’s that? Speak up. Don’t wanna mistake back-talkin’ for talkin’ ‘bout me behind my back. ‘n what you know ‘bout virgins?” Sukie jumped. Dang, she thought, that woman can hear a rat piss on cotton and see trouble coming a week away. “Go to sleep. It’ll be fore day in the mornin directly. ‘n if you keep rollin ‘em eyes, they’s gonna roll out ya head.” She picked up Sukie’s wet T-shirt, then planted a kiss on her forehead. “‘n ‘pologize.” “Yes ma’am.” But she wasn’t about to apologize. Not tonight. Not even on Judgment

Assignment 1, Story Statement Sukie learns that that the continuity of family traditions have value and are an integral part of who she is.