With a sharp turn of her head—but I still catch the remnants of a smile—she struts out of the room.
“Do you remember anything about your trip from Louisiana to Chicago?” I turn on my camcorder.
“Jesus, boy. I was a child, three or four years old when we traveled up north. The most I remember was walking for long spells and boarding a train.” Her eyes light up. “Lots of colored folk died that summer.”
“Which summer?”
“The summer the Negro boy wanted to swim on the beach and the whites wouldn’t let him. I was there, but I didn’t get hurt. Lots of houses burned to the ground, and colored folks killed. But I ran. That was 1918. No. 1919, late summer. Awful hot.”
“Called the Red Summer. I read about it, but I think you were older. More like thirteen that summer.”
“Maybe, I don’t recall.” Honoree coughs and stares at the ceiling. “Your grandmother’s husband, his name was Norman. I never liked him. Reminded me of my mother—a cold fish, but Maggie thought he was the bee’s knees because he played baseball.”
I nearly fall off the chair. “You knew my grandmother’s first husband? I thought she left Baton Rouge when she was a child?”
“She was a child when she married Norman White. He was much older than her. Maggie was fifteen when they met, and he was staring thirty dead between the eyes.”
“She still talks about him. She loved him a lot, and he’s been dead since—”
“Killed during the Korean War—Norman Francis White. I never thought she loved him that much. What Maggie loved was baseball, and Norman played baseball.” She squints at me. “I like football. Men hit each other and growl like dogs. That game makes much more sense to me.”
Honoree pats her chest with her good hand. “Norman helped organize the Los Angeles White Sox, one of the first teams in the Negro baseball league.”
“Yes, Maggie loved baseball, too.” It was a passion she and Azizi had shared. Two women, separated by two generations, watching grown men hit a ball with a stick. I am not a fan, which must rile Azizi.
Torturing me, she stands on the other side of Honoree’s bed, mimicking a batter at home plate, swinging a pretend bat, spitting fake chewing tobacco, and deliberately making me smile.
“I can’t stand the game.”
“Neither could—” Honoree starts blinking rapid-fire as if something has landed in her eye. “I mean, I prefer boxers and fisticuffs. Football is the sport to watch.”
Suddenly, her body jerks from the fury of a wretched coughing spasm. A muscle squeezes in my chest. I search her face. This happened to Maggie once—a memory slip, a bad cough, and the very next thing she was having a stroke.
“Smile for me.”
Confusion clouds Honoree’s eyes. “I don’t have a thing to smile about.”
“Do you recognize me?” The strain in my voice scares me, but Honoree is clearing her throat once—twice—three times.
“Honoree, say something. Please.”
“I know who you are and stop hovering.”
Thrilled by the sound of her voice, I exhale, but I’m still worried. What are the other signs of a stroke? I hunt for a dangling arm, a drooping left or right side of the face, slurred speech—but she just spoke, so her voice is fine—but I don’t wish to take any chances. “I’m going to ring the nurses’ station.” I move toward the landline on the nightstand next to her bed.
“You touch that phone, and you won’t see me for a week. I swear to God. I’m fine. Just tired.”
I step away from the nightstand. “Okay. Calm down. I won’t call. Relax.”
I turn toward the wall clock and slip my cell phone out of my pocket. Without looking at the keypad, I text Lula. Some high school skills are forever useful.
“Hey, I need to hit the men’s room.” I backpedal toward the door. “You’ll excuse me.” I don’t want her to think I’m as worried as I am, but when I reach the front desk, I am sweating, and my voice is an octave shy of shouting.
A female attendant with thick braids crowning her head like a turban winces when I speak.
“Something is wrong with Honoree Dalcour. I think she’s having a stroke.”
“I’ll check on her now.” She rushes off toward Honoree’s room.
