“I told you. Too blurry.” She wraps gnarled fingers around the railing. “Where’s Lula? I need my pillows fixed. I wanna sit up.”
“You are sitting up.”
“I want to sit up straighter.”
“Let me help.” I move to adjust her pillows. “Is that better?”
“Uh-huh. Just fine.”
I think she saw something in the clip. I start to ask her what—but she waves her arm, the one without the scars.
“What was I sayin’ about Micheaux . . . ? That’s okay, I remember.” She places a hand on her throat. “How that man liked to showboat. Let me tell you—he’d walk into a party and take over. I swear. Like he was in charge of everything, and everyone in the room were actors in his motion picture. He would tell people why his movies were the only movies people of the Race should see.” She shook her head. “Some of us enjoy watching Charlie Chaplin. I even liked the Keystone Cops and Fatty Arbuckle before he hurt that girl. I heard tell he was the worst kind of man when it came to women. But there were a lot of men, colored men, too, who got worse around women.”
There is a radiance about her now. Alertness kindles her eyes but also tightens her skin, and her cheekbones lift. I put away my iPad and remove my camcorder from the backpack. “I want to record you. Do you mind?”
“Go ahead.” She waits for me to set up.
“All right, then. You were talking about Oscar Micheaux.”
“He was a handsome man. Had a perfectly round head—like a black ball. He was tall, too—not as tall as some men I knew.”
She talks about Micheaux for the next hour without prompting, although I start to believe she’s pretending. Especially when she reminisces about an afternoon in the spring of 1926, dining on caviar and champagne—with Oscar—at the Green Door Tavern. That one made me smile.
Still, I’m just fine with her fanciful tales. Somewhere in her jumbled memories is the truth.
* * *
“Good morning, Sawyer.” It’s later the same day and Honoree is confused, but I let it pass. She is sitting upright in her bed, a pair of reading glasses on her nose, a Bible in her hand. I’m surprised. It never occurred to me she could see well enough to read. Then again, why wear glasses unless, unlike my grandmother Maggie, she hasn’t memorized the good book.
“I’m glad you feel well enough to talk to me twice in one day, Miss Honoree.” I move to her bedside.
“You didn’t bother me as much as I thought you might.”
I chuckle, enjoying her wit, or is it just the way she talks? Her age makes polite chatter pointless, since it consumes time she doesn’t have. Either way, I haven’t known her long enough to decide. I take a scrunchie from my pocket and fasten my dreads into a ponytail. I am ready for battle.
“Hello, Miss Honoree.” Lula nods a greeting as she enters the room and crosses to Honoree’s bedside.
I nod in reply and hide my agitation at being interrupted before I can begin.
Patiently—okay, not too patiently—I shift from one foot to the other and watch Lula check Honoree’s pulse and fluff her pillows.
Suddenly, Honoree is coughing, a scary gagging cough that keeps coming.
“Are you okay?” Lula places a hand on her shoulder, supporting her as the spasm plays Ping-Pong with her body. She calmly pats Honoree on the back and doesn’t appear alarmed, but I am. It rattles my chest. The cough is so powerful and loud, as if her rib cage will break into pieces.
After a few endless moments, Honoree’s coughing jag subsides.
“Are you feeling better?” Lula massages Honoree’s upper back. “Did Sawyer upset you?” she asks with a small teasing smile in my direction. Or at least I think she’s teasing. “Anytime you want him to leave—just let me know.” Or perhaps not.
“I have not done anything,” I say in my defense. “We barely talked before she started—”
“Oh, he can stay,” Honoree whispers, but then clears her throat and speaks with authority. “We’ve been talking just fine.” Her face is flushed, but her voice has that zip again. “What were we talking about?”
I give Lula a quickTold you soglance before I return to Honoree’s bedside. “We can start now if that works for Miss Lula.”
She twists her mouth and sighs heavily. “As long as Miss Honoree is comfortable, you can proceed. But let’s keep it short for today. I’ll check back in a few minutes to see how the two of you are doing.” She smiles at Honoree, gives me a death glare (not actually, but I love hyperbole), and then she’s gone.
I remove my camcorder and tabletop tripod from my backpack. “I’d like to record this session,” I say to Honoree, moving closer to the bed. I adjust the tray-top table and set up my devices. “Just some basic questions to start. Are you ready?”
