"Mom?"
Mavis looked up. "Oh, my," she said, smiling. "Look at you."
"I wasn't sure, the hat and all, but God, look, it is you."
Mavis laughed.
"Oh, man. I knew it. God, Mom, it's been… years!"
"I know. Have you eaten?"
"Yeah. Just finished. I'm on my lunch hour. I work at-" The waitress raised her order pad. "Have you all decided yet?"
"Yes," said Mavis. "Orange juice, double grits and two eggs over medium."
"Bacon?" asked the waitress.
"No, thanks."
"We got good sausage-link and patty."
"No, thanks. You serve gravy with the biscuits?"
"Sure do. Poured or on the side?"
"On the side, please."
"Sure thing. And you?" She turned to Sally.
"Just coffee."
"Oh, come on," said Mavis. "Have something. My treat."
"I don't want anything."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
The waitress left. Mavis lined up the place mat and flatware. "That's what I like about this place. They let you choose. Gravy poured or on the side, see?"
"Mom! I don't want to talk about food." Sally felt as though her mother was sliding away, acting like their seeing each other wasn't important.
"Well, you never did have much of an appetite."
"Where've you been?"
"Well, I couldn't come back, could I?"
"You mean that warrant stuff?"
"I mean everything. How about you? You been all right?"
"Mostly. Frankie's fine. Gets all A's. But Billy James ain't so hot."
"Oh. Why?"
"Hangs out with some real scary little shits."
"Oh, no."
"You should go see him, Ma. Talk to him."
"I will."
"Will you?"
"Can I have my lunch first?" Mavis laughed and removed her hat.
"Ma. You cut your hair off." There it was again-that slidey feeling.
"It looks nice, though. How you like mine?"
"Cute."
"No it ain't. Thought I'd like blond tips, but I'm tired of it now.
Maybe I'll cut mine too."
The waitress arrived and neatly arranged the plates. Mavis salted her grits and swirled the pat of butter on top. She sipped her orange juice and said, "Ooo. Fresh."
It came out in a rush because she felt she had to hurry. If she was going to say anything, she had to hurry. "I was scared all the time, Ma. All the time. Even before the twins. But when you left, it got worse.
You don't know. I mean I was scared to fall asleep."
"Taste this, honey." Mavis offered her the glass of juice. Sally took a quick swallow. "Daddy was-shit, I don't know how you stood it. He'd get drunk and try to bother me, Ma."
"Oh, baby."
"I fought him, though. Told him the next time he passed out I was gonna cut his throat open. Would have, too."
"I'm so sorry," said Mavis. "I didn't know what else to do. You were always stronger than me."
"Did you never think about us?"
"All the time. And I sneaked back to get a peep at you all."
"No shit?" Sally grinned. "Where?"
"At the school, mostly. I was too scared to go by the house."
"You wouldn't know it now. Daddy married a woman who kicks his butt if he don't act right and keep the yard clean and stuff. She packs a gun, too."
Mavis laughed. "Good for her."
"But I moved out. Me and Charmaine got us a place together over on Auburn. She's a-"
"You sure you don't want something? It's really good, Sal." Sally picked up a fork, slipped it into her mother's plate, scooping up a buttery dollop of grits. When the fork was in her mouth, their eyes met. Sally felt the nicest thing then. Something long and deep and slow and bright.
"You gonna leave again, Ma?"
"I have to, Sal."
"You coming back?"
"Sure."
"But you'll try and talk to Billy James, won't you? And Frankie'd love it. You want my address?"
"I'll talk to Billy and tell Frankie I love him."
"I'm sick and sorry about everything, Ma. I was just so scared all the time."
"Me too."
They were standing outside. The lunch crowd thickened with shoppers and their kids.
"Gimme a hug, baby."
Sally put her arms around her mother's waist and began to cry.
"Uh uh," said Mavis. "None of that, now."
Sally squeezed.
"Ouch," said Mavis, laughing.
"What?"
"Nothing. That side hurts a bit, that's all."
"You okay?"
"I'm perfect, Sal."
"I don't know what you think about me, but I always loved, always, even when."
"I know that, Sal. Know it now anyway." Mavis pushed a shank of black and yellow hair behind her daughter's ear and kissed her cheek. "Count on me, Sal."
"See you again, won't I?"
"Bye, Sal. Bye."
Sally watched her mother disappear into the crowd. She ran her finger under her nose, then held the cheek that had been kissed. Did she give her the address? Where was she going? Did they pay? When did they pay the cashier? Sally touched her eyelids. One minute they were sopping biscuits; the next they were kissing in the street.
Several years ago she had checked out the foster home and saw the mother-a cheerful, no-nonsense woman the kids seemed to like. So, fine. That was it. Fine. She could go on with her life. And did. Until 1966, when her gaze was drawn to girls with huge chocolate eyes. Seneca would be older now, thirteen years old, but she checked with Mrs. Greer to see if she had kept in touch.
"Who are you, again?"
"Her cousin, Jean."
"Well, she was only here for a short while-a few months really."
"Do you know where…?"
"No, honey. I don't know a thing."
After that she was unexpectedly distracted in malls, theater ticket lines, buses. In 1968 she was certain she spotted her at a Little Richard concert, but the press of the crowd prevented a closer look. Jean was discreet about this subversive search. Jack didn't know she'd had a child before (at fourteen), and it was after marriage, when she had his child, that she began the search for the eyes. The sightings came at such odd moments and in such strange places-once she believed the girl climbing out the back of a pickup truck was her daughter-that when she finally bumped into her, in 1976, she wanted to call an ambulance. Jean and Jack were crossing the stadium parking lot under blazing klieg lights. A girl was standing in front of a car, blood running from her hands. Jean saw the blood first and then the chocolate eyes. "Seneca!" she screamed, and ran toward her. As she approached she was intercepted by another girl, who, holding a bottle of beer and a cloth, began to clean away the blood.
"Seneca?" Jean shouted over the second girl's head.
"Yes?"
"What happened? It's me!"
"Some glass," said the second girl. "She fell on some glass. I'm taking care of her."
"Jean! Come on!" Jack was several cars down. "Where the hell are you?"
"Coming. Just a minute, okay?"
The girl wiping Seneca's hands looked up from time to time to frown at Jean. "Any glass get in?" she asked Seneca. Seneca stroked her palms, first one, then the other. "No. I don't think so."
"Jean! Traffic's gonna be hell, babe."
"Don't you remember me?"
Seneca looked up, the bright lights turning her eyes black.
"Should I? From where?"
"On Woodlawn. We used to live in those apartments on Woodlawn."
Seneca shook her head. "I lived on Beacon. Next to the playground."
"But your name is Seneca, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm Jean."
"Lady, your old man's calling you." The girlfriend wrung out the cloth and poured the rest of the beer over Seneca's hands. "Ow," Seneca said to her friend. "It burns." She waved her hands in the air.
"Guess I made a mistake," said Jean. "I thought you were someone I knew from Woodlawn."