P.S. Be Eleven Read Online Free PDF Page A

gone from him for so long. Why was he leaving us?
    This was the part where Pa was supposed to scold Fern for getting into grown folk’s business. Instead, he let out a sigh and said, “Sit down, girls. Sit here on this stoop.”
    We sat. Each of us folded our hands in our laps, eager for whatever he was going to tell us. It was a treat to see our father on a weekday with the sun still shining. Even though we all lived under the same roof, we treasured every minute spent with Papa.
    â€œMy darling daughters,” he began as if he were running for president. But that was all he said.
    I was used to my father’s quiet ways. He was as quiet as Vonetta was chatty. When he needed to say something he’d pour it out as warm as tap water. He sometimes spoke in stories when I sat with him late in the night as he ate his supper. I loved my times with Papa more than I loved the stories he told. Truth be told, Uncle Darnell was the real storyteller.
    Only a few seconds had passed, but waiting for him to speak was hard on me. There was something about this new Papa. Something I couldn’t figure about this father who, out of nowhere, whistled a tune other than “Old Man River.”
    I could smell his shaving cream and whatever else he wore. Woodsy, like he had put more of it on.
    His voice cracked, but before he could pour out any words, Big Ma, who had been fanning herself before the open window, called out, “Your Pa is keeping company with a woman in Brownsville.”
    Pa closed his eyes. “Ma . . .”
    â€œMa, nothing,” she said.
    Fern looked to me and I said, “Pa has a lady friend,” as hard and odd as it was to say those words.
    Vonetta had no trouble with the whole idea. “Pa’s got a girlfriend!”
    Fern sang along. “Pa’s got a girlfriend.”
    â€œIs that why you’re whistling the Temptations?” I asked.
    â€œAnd wearing perfume?” Fern asked.
    â€œThat’s men’s cologne,” Pa corrected her right away.
    â€œI’ll bet she wears perfume,” Vonetta sang.
    â€œAnd lipstick,” Fern sang with her. Then the two of them made kissing smacks.
    â€œAll right, all right,” Pa said. “That’s enough of that.”
    Pa realized I hadn’t spoken up. He beamed at me, waiting. I looked at the ground.
    â€œHer name is Marva Hendrix. And I’d like you all to meet her.”
    When I glanced up, I saw dimples. My father had dimples like Uncle Darnell’s. I’d never noticed them before. I looked back down.
    Fern said right away, “Marva. Rhymes with larva.”
    Then Vonetta couldn’t let it be, and added, “And George Washington Carver.” And while they argued if Carver rhymed with larva, I saw pictures of my Temptations-whistling, dimpled, smiling father sitting in the RKO movie theater munching on popcorn with his arm around Miss Marva Hendrix’s shoulders. This wasn’t the kind of picture you’re supposed to have of your father while your sisters made kissing smacks. My papa was thirty-two and acting like a teenager. The hippies were right. You can’t trust anyone over thirty.
    Big Ma’s dinner should have tasted like the meal of a lifetime, but how could it when there were two empty places at dinner? Pa was out keeping company with a Miss MarvaHendrix from Brownsville, and Uncle Darnell was carrying a rifle in the jungles of Vietnam.
    My sisters didn’t have any problem lifting their forks. They ate and entertained Big Ma and told more than we’d agreed on about our time with Cecile. Thank goodness Big Ma was in a talking mood instead of a whipping mood. “Nothing but a piss-pot of boiling trouble,” Big Ma said. “I told him not to send you. I told him.” Only when she started in on Cecile did my sisters feel bad for telling all that they told.
    â€œMy son, my son,” Big Ma said. “He can pick ’em.