A Chorus Rises Page 12

  “I did. I assumed it was rhetorical, since you didn’t leave space for an answer. Perhaps we should speak later, when things for you are less hectic.”

  That does the trick.

  “No! I’m so sorry. I should back up. Thank you for calling me, I’m really pleased to speak to you. How’s your day?”

  “Lovely to speak to you as well, Leona. My day has been fine, thank you, but I’m at a family reunion so I’d really rather only make time for this if you seem present.”

  There’s a gaping sound, like she’s openmouthed.

  “And Stoned doesn’t offend me, but I can’t speak for anyone else. You were saying?”

  “Yes. Right.” Her tone adjusts some, and whatever she thinks “present” means, she’s speaking more softly. As in literally quieter. As though she’s trying to prove to me that she’s calmed down. “It was always our intention to tell the story of the Stoned, in particular those kids in Triton Park”—okay that feels insensitive—“but that understandably is gonna take some time, and we don’t want to do it without all three of the kids—”

  “Four.”

  “That’s right, excuse me. And Effie Freeman is essential to that; she’d have to be part of it in some capacity, and Tavia’s saying that’s not possible right now. I get that the girl’s gone underground, but this is such an important story, and you’d think she’d want to help the families as much as she can.”

  I know her name was listed in the credits of the Tavia Philips movie but something about the way she’s talking makes it really clear. Leona Fowl knows Tavia. And has spoken to her. And trusts her, I’m sure. Or whatever it’s called when you find someone, at the very least, profitable.

  “But I think your story is of equal importance, and I think I can convince my team of that, especially if we could fill in some of the blanks and omissions from the first film.”

  I sort of hate that she’s using that word to describe what was absolutely not some serious, art-house fare. It was the epitome of my dad’s business mantra: You Can Build Something Fast, Or You Can Build It Right. I don’t care how many views it gets or how many streaming records it sets, like, three true things happened in the whole movie: Tavia and Effie went to some protest; Tavia revealed Effie at prom; Tavia awakened Effie’s victims. Nice and neat with some mean girl Nina moments tossed in, and sprinkled with Effie’s Renaissance Faire Life.

  It’s not a film. It’s a very long commercial for siren synthesizers, and a mind-boggling endorsement of Tavia Philips.

  “And so I suppose your choice to erase me into Nina was strategic? So that you could also then reveal the true story of the only Eloko Effie Stoned?”

  And that’s when her slip starts showing. She did not appreciate my question, and when she answers, it is not at all subtle.

  “I think it was more a decision to guard you from any additional criticism over allegedly exposing a siren. Especially being from the same community.”

  I don’t know Leona Fowl well, but I know she’s not Black. So this attempt to put me in my place, which is apparently below her at least as far as authority goes, is extremely rich. Because being that Tavia’s a siren and I’m Eloko, there’s only one community she could mean, and she is therefore swerving wildly outside her lane right now.

  She must be mistaking my rage-regulating pause for her own shell shock a moment ago, so she continues.

  “And that’s another reason I think it’s time to talk about the events at prom from your perspective, and working closely with our writers so we really capture what being Stoned is like. And what it’s like after. Do you summer in the Southwest often?” she asks, and the correlation is implied. Am I only here because I can’t stand to be in Portland?

  We have a very big problem, Leona Fowl and I, and it is that she thinks she’s in the driver’s seat here. An assumption from which I will have to gently dissuade her.

  “Ms. Fowl, I feel like I should tell you that this really isn’t going well.”

  She shuts all the way up, and I’m not even getting started.

  “You seem to be under a few ridiculous impressions. One of which is that I’m interested in your supposed protection. Or that you have any to offer me. Portraying a one-dimensional Black girl as a jealous mean girl who outs a siren isn’t to your credit, for one thing. It actually felt more like stripping away my Elokoness so as not to sully it when you threw me under the bus.”

  “I’m so sorry you feel that way, Naema, but I certainly had nothing to do with the script—”

  “Secondly, you seem to think I want to tell a story centered on the Awakening, or what it was like being Stoned. I thought I made myself pretty clear in my correspondences: I don’t. There are plenty of people offering to tell my story if I’m contrite or broken or bleeding enough, and lemme save you some trouble: I’m not. I’m pissed.”

  Leona stumbles in another attempt to speak, her pretty rasp masking the way her voice starts to break.

  “See, what you took out of the story so Tavia could shine is that I’m. magic. And not just because Tavia and I are from The Same Community. Because I’m me.”

  “Naema, can we start over,” and there’s an undeniable trill in her voice. “I may have been saying this all wrong. I certainly didn’t mean to reduce your story to the Stoning; I might’ve been thinking more about it because of what’s been posted on the Knights of Naema site you showed me.”

  “You’re Eloko.”

  We both fall quiet for a moment, and I almost miss what she said about the Knights. Because Leona Fowl is Eloko.

  “That’s … interesting. I guess.”

  And it’s a first. This woman I immediately did not like—or trust—is Eloko. I don’t know what to make of that, or what to say, but I don’t apologize. Something tells me she’s betting on it increasing my trust level—which, to be fair, I’m a little surprised to find is not the case, at least not as far as I can tell in this moment. Because if she’s Eloko, then: “Exactly how much did you work on Tavia’s movie?”

  “I had some involvement,” Leona says, carefully, because Eloko or not, disingenuous seems to be her thing. “Is that an issue?”

  She doesn’t see the way my lips purse. “Why would it be? Anyway. I’ve got to get back to my family.”

  “Is there anything you need from me at this point, Naema?” she asks, to prolong the conversation. No doubt she’s hoping for some indication of whether or not I’m on board. And despite that this is something I set in motion, now I have questions.

  About whether Tavia got a say. About whether Leona is why Nina wasn’t Eloko. About whether or not she believes Tavia is who they said she is.

  About whether she can grasp the story I need to tell.

  “I need you to answer a question. Honestly.” I don’t care if the implication offends her.

  “Shoot.”

  “What would you think if I told you Tavia Philips is the reason I got Stoned? That it wasn’t Effie’s fault.”

  She only needs a moment. “I’d say that’s something I definitely wanna hear more about.”

  For once, she gives the right answer.

  Good.

  “Then we should talk again,” I say.

  “I would love that. And Naema. Before you go,” she says, and there’s something different about her voice now, or just about the way I’m hearing it. It still sounds like it’s supposed to be apologetic, and nervous, but … intentionally. Maybe I’m suspicious because of the way she’s letting her trill slip when I already know what she is. Whatever the reason, I feel the ghost behind my sternum throb, and I know: this is just how she usually operates. Her trill is how Leona Fowl gets the job done. I’m certain. She might be Eloko, but she’s a producer first.

  When she asks her last question, it’s a doozy.

  “I was just wondering, how did you know Tavia was a siren?”

  The sun is low, and away from the lights Aunt Carla Ann strung up around the BBQ area, the corner of the park where I’ve been sta
nding is quickly darkening. That might be why Courtney’s coming over to me, and when I lift my chin, he thinks it’s at him.

  It isn’t.

  I can’t even explain it. It’s like I’m making room for the ghost-wind to dislodge itself. To spread out, and when it does, what before felt like a breeze passing through becomes a tornado inside me. It’s wind so strong that the voices aren’t caroling anymore. This is like a bellow. Now that I’ve given it free rein to move, it’s churning my guts, upsetting my stomach. Something is very wrong.

  “I didn’t,” I say, smooth and easy, despite the grimace I have to fight back. “I thought Effie was the one.”

  “Huh,” which sounds involuntary. She’s gonna have to up her game if she wants to do this with me. “Really? I thought”—and there’s rustling again, like she’s poring over documents—“someone said they overheard you and Tavia talking, after the livestream stopped. I don’t know.” She says the last bit to suggest that she’s confused, but she’s fooling no one. “Or maybe it was in some of the footage you sent?”

  “Huh,” I mimic her. “I don’t see how it would be, since I didn’t know. And I’m not sure who could’ve thought they overheard that. It was chaos, as you could probably see from the footage. I don’t think there was anyone else in the courtyard when I stopped filming, except the other victims. And we couldn’t hear from inside the stone.”

  “Okay,” she concedes.

  But Leona Fowl just tried to play me. And I have a good idea who she spoke to. The only other person I know for sure saw me turn to gray.

  I hang up, and whether or not Courtney was planning to chastise me over my phone call, when he gets to me, his brows crunch together.

  “You good?”

  “My stomach hurts,” I say, because there’s no pretending I’m not visibly upset. “I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Are you serious? You really are new to this. You don’t ever wait this long to make a plate if you want something other than hot dogs,” he says as we walk. “If only there were some authority on family and family-related events who could take you under their wing.”

  There’s a bit of commotion around the canopies when we get back, and instead of going to the food, I wander closer to the throne room.

  “You ready, Gramma Lorraine?” That’s Wilbur, first-born, son to Carissa, third-born, daughter to Clarence and Lorraine. He’s behind the tripod, with the camera trained on the matriarch who at last is seated on her recliner, surrounded by fans, enclosed in sheer drapery, and clearly not interested in any of this.

  “I don’t know what y’all want me to talk about,” comes her deep, velvety voice.

  “Mama, we’re gonna record you talking about our genealogy so we’ll always have it,” Carissa reminds her in what seems like an unnecessarily loud voice. Maybe it’s for her own benefit, since the svelte, still tall Carissa is turning seventy herself this year.

  Lorraine doesn’t seem hard of hearing. Not that anyone cares, but she seems annoyed.

  “Well,” she says through a sigh of resignation like she’s used to being ordered around. “Where y’all want me to start then?”

  I peek around the equipment and the small congregation outside the opening of her tent to see her willowy white hair and soft, spotted brown skin. It’s the weirdest thing, but I’m not sure whether I’ve seen her already today, and the picture that accompanies all the bits of history that just collected in my mind match her perfectly, or if the picture came to mind first, and it’s the real live Lorraine matching it.

  “Introduce yourself,” Carissa’s saying, “and tell us what year you and Daddy were born.”

  “All right, well, I’m Lorraine Babcock, and— Wait, Cece, what now?”

  “Lorraine Babcock, born Milo, 1930.”

  When Wilbur and his mom turn and look at me quizzically, I just stare back.

  “What?” I ask when they keep right on looking. But I get the feeling that they either heard and interpreted the Whispered Wind Voices, too, or I accidentally repeated something out loud.

  “How’d you know that?” Wilbur asks.

  So I said it out loud. Delightful.

  Wilbur’s wiping a palm over his bare scalp while he and his mom stare at me. He’s not bald since he’s clinging to the tufts of dark coils that shroud his ears, and while he waits for my reply, he scrunches his nose to reposition his glasses without taking his hands off the camera. This man is only fifty years old.

  “You said Milo something,” Courtney says from beside me.

  “Milo’s my maiden name, Cece,” Great-Gram Lorraine offers, smiling like she hasn’t heard it in a while. She bends with some effort, trying to catch me in her gaze, and I step around the others so she can see me better. “Why don’t y’all ask Sheba to tell it, I bet she knows.”

  She knows who I am. I don’t know why that makes me blush, but I can feel myself swelling. I almost float to the folding chair beside my great-grandma, I’ve inflated so much. When I take a seat, her soft hand pats my arm, and she pushes her chin at me, to signal that I should begin.

  Whatever it is I’m supposed to say.

  I make the mistake of glancing back toward the camera and find a few more family members have gathered, several of them looking at me with a mix of expectation and skepticism. And just a hint of She Don’t Know Us. Just a light dusting of This Uppity Portland Cousin over their expressions, but I see it. And I hear the family tree, as though it’s being recited by several people at once, their voices overlapping, but somehow so clear. I don’t have to concentrate; it slips into order on its own.

  “G’head, baby,” Great-Gram Lorraine says, and when I look back at her, I can’t help thinking of the donna.

  “Lorraine Milo, born 1930, to Wilbur and Mary Milo. Clarence Babcock, born 1927, to Gerald and Mildred Babcock.”

  Her eyes glisten, and I have to pause or everyone will hear the catch in my breath. I use the time to translate the lists of facts into story.

  “You married Great-Gran Clarence in 1947, and had Lorna, Gerald, and Carissa, one after the other in 1948, 1949, and 1950.”

  She nods, laughing with an open grin, and at first I think she’s going to say something, but she doesn’t. She just motions for Carissa to give her something to wipe her eyes.

  “Then it took three years to have Mary Lorraine, my grandma, in 1953. She was named after your mom and yourself. And then you had Tina in 1955.”

  “Is that right?” I hear Patrice ask, but she’s hushed.

  Please. I’m not finished, cuzzo.

  “Your oldest, Lorna, had five children of her own, and Gerald had seven. Edna,” I say, searching for her face because I know she’s here, “is his first-born, and I saw her son, Clay, earlier.” I call him by the nickname I heard Courtney use, because in this family, birth names don’t mean much. “Patrice is Gerald’s youngest. Carissa had four sons, starting with Wilbur in 1970. Grandma Mary Lorraine had five, including my mom, Simone. And Tina had six.”

  When it’s clear I’ve covered all of Great-Gram’s kids, she starts a delicate clap, like over time maybe she’s forgotten exactly how. Her palms pat together too lightly, but people get the picture, and soon everyone’s clapping along.

  “I didn’t know your mom kept track of all that stuff,” Patrice says, because of course she does. Even though they were close in age, my mom always said that her cousin was immature because she was the youngest of her siblings, born when her eldest sister was already fifteen, and babied by everyone. At least until their Aunt Tina gave birth to Lorna when she was almost fifty.

  Late In Life Lorna is my first cousin once removed, same as Edna and Patrice and a million others, but she’s only three years older than I am.

  The more I look around at the faces on the other side of the sheer tent and behind cameraman Wilbur, the more history pops to mind. I can’t get over it. There’s the wind, the whispers, and then the knowledge is just there, right on the tip of my tongue, no struggle or concentration necessa
ry.

  “Why do y’all think I made you send all those belongings up to Simone and her husband?” Great-Gram Lorraine is saying. She takes my hand, and does something like squeezing it. “So Sheba could know. Having an Eloko in the family means someone will remember. Everything.”

  For a moment we just look at each other, and she’s right. The longer I look at her, the more I know. I didn’t know being Eloko was like this—but she did. So when my performance makes the greats and aunties and cousins start sharing what details they know about their immediate families, I stay beside her.

  Great-Gram leans close.

  “Sheba,” she says, and it doesn’t sound like name-calling when she says it. “You’re listening to them, aren’t you?”

  “To who?” I ask, but not as quietly as she’s speaking, otherwise she won’t hear.

  “Your Ancestors.”

  At the mention, they return. The voices that are close without being frightening, that begin without ever startling me, that whisper to me about who we all are.

  Great-Gram’s eyes light up. “You are.” She smiles with something like relief. “Good girl.”

  “That’s what the wind is?” I ask. “The rushing sound that turned into whispers?”

  “If you listen, they’ll speak more clearly. They don’t bother unless you’re listening,” she tells me.

  “Great-Gram Lorraine, are you Eloko, too?”

  “No, not me, baby.” But she smiles about it in a way that doesn’t match the slights I’ve felt from other family members. “You’re the first one in my family for a long time, but I was glad your mom wanted to try. Eloko are ancestral gifts.”

  “I don’t think the rest of the family feels that way.”

  “They do. But Eloko don’t act right anymore. Especially where you’re from.”

  There’s nothing worse than an unintentional old lady burn.

  “Don’t feel bad, Sheba,” she goes on, petting my hand with her delicate touch. “There’s a difference between having a child and rearing one, believe me, and the latter is much more about the child and less about being famous for having them.”