Babylon Sisters Read Online Free PDF Page A

six?
Ten?
”
    This is what I get for sending her to private school with a bunch of rich white girls. From what Phoebe says, they talk to their mothers any kind of way, and their mamas let them, but this conversation was over. I stood up.
    “Let me tell you something, and I’m not going to say it again. The way you were conceived is none of your business. The number of lovers I’ve had, or never had, is none of your business either.” She tried to say something, but I held up my hand and she was silent, proving that she’s not completely crazy. “You are a blessed child because you have a mother who loves you more than life itself. A mother who has given you the tools you need to be an independent woman who won’t have to take shit from a living soul. A mother who is going to pay your way through college.”
    I was getting angry, and the good mother is never supposed to get angry. What kind of example does that set for your child? I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Phoebe, but if that’s not good enough, then I can’t help you.”
    Tears were running down her face again, but I was too mad to offer her sympathy or a tissue.
    “I’m going to the newsstand to pick up tomorrow’s papers,” I said. “There’s plenty of food in the kitchen if you’re hungry. I won’t be long.”
    She wiped her face with a corner of the blanket and issued a shaky last word. “I just . . . don’t know how . . . you can say . . . you love me . . . and still not tell me . . . who my own father is.”
    “I’ve told you what I know, sweetie,” I said, grabbing my keys and heading for the door. “That’s the best I can do.”
    Which was, of course, not true. A lie is never the best you can do, even when you tell yourself it is. It’s just a way of buying some breathing room until you can work up enough courage to tell the truth. And that can take a lifetime.

4
    The air outside was warm and moist and smelled like rain. I took a deep breath and started walking. There was no reason for me to go to the newsstand now. That was just an excuse to let me and Phoebe have a little cooling-off period while I collected my thoughts. Phoebe’s father is the only operatic moment in my otherwise pretty routine life. I don’t mean boring. I love my work. I love my friends. I adore my daughter. But it’s all contained within the twenty-four hours of an ordinary day. The stories begin, run their course, and then come to an end. But not B.J.
    Burghardt Johnson is the one moment in my life that made me feel everything bigger and wider and deeper than I ever had before. I loved him from the moment I laid eyes on him, and I probably always will, but that doesn’t mean I can explain why to anybody. Even his daughter. Maybe
especially
his daughter.
    As I walked down Peeples Street and turned down Abernathy Boulevard, a man passed me with a tip of his Braves cap and a pleasant “Good evening.” I returned the greeting with no thought that he might do me harm and realized again how lucky I was to live here. Pick any spot on earth these days, and nine times out of ten it isn’t safe for a woman to be out alone there after dark. In some places, she isn’t much better off in daylight. Here, women could walk around without fearing for their lives. I could take my problems outside for an airing and not have to worry that I wouldn’t make it home in one piece. That’s one of the reasons I live in this neighborhood. It’s why I raised Phoebe here. I wanted her to be fearless.
    On the surface, West End is just another African-American urban community on Atlanta’s southwest side. The main commercial strip, named for Rev. Ralph David Abernathy, a giant of the civil rights movement, has the classic inner-city mix of fast-food joints, soul- and health-food restaurants, beauty supply stores, barbershops, wig palaces, mom-and-pop grocery stores, and a liquor store or two. Of course, there are churches, from the Shrine of the Black Madonna to St.