Louisiana Lament

wife. She resolved to be good.
    “Well, come on in and sit down. Mama went to get her shoes.”
    She got out some wine and Perrier (for Michelle), and they sat for awhile, talking of the Saints and the weather; when Miz Clara joined them, they got serious about baby names and due dates. They were well into dinner before Michelle asked Talba about her work.
    “We seem to have a lot of domestic cases these days. You know—sitting in a car waiting for some guy to come out of a motel with his sweetie.”
    “How sordid! You mean you really do that?”
    Talba picked up an entire breast and bit into it. (She’d have cut it if Michelle hadn’t been there.) “Somebody’s got to,” she said. Michelle’s delight in her own unworldliness rankled Talba, who tended to respond by baiting. “Anyway, I enjoy it. I love nailing the cheating bastards.”
    “Ah! Language.” Miz Clara still acted as if Talba were a child. Everyone ignored her.
    “It’s a part of life I wouldn’t care to know about,” Michelle said.
    “Well, I hope to God you never do. I caught the fiancé of a good friend the other night—it could happen to anybody.” Corey spoke up. “Talba, that’s enough.”
    “Oh, well.” She turned to Michelle with a raised eyebrow. “Anybody not married to my brother, I mean.”
    But the damage was done, and the evening never completely recovered from it. Nobody who was pregnant wanted to think about infidelity.
    Why do I do stuff like that?
Talba asked herself when they had gone. She started noodling at the keyboard.
    The first thing that came out was a parody of an old song:
    Who’s the worst person I know?
    Sister-in-law—sister-in-law!
    Damn,
she thought,
Ernie K-Doe beat me to it.
    The next thing wasn’t her usual style at all, which tended to be more narrative than didactic. It was a kind of admonitory rap:
    Woman born of money
    Woman born of pride
    Woman born of Daddy King
    And spawned of Mama Queen
    Woman born of everything
    Gets sold on the TV screen
—
    Woman, you no woman
—
    Woman, you a girl!
    You think abortion shouldn’t be
    ’Cause people ought to be smart
    You think you too good to be taxed
    ’Cause the poor such lazy bums.
    Well, let me ask you somethin’ big
—
    What
you
do, ’cept for your nails?
    What
you
do, whitey-pants?
    What’s smart about bein’ so dumb?
    You get a little piece of luck,
    You think you queen of the sky
    Anything bad ever happens
—
    You run to your daddy and cry.
    Listen, woman born of money,
    Woman born of pride
    You ain’t nobody special
    ’Cause you had a nice smooth ride.
    Listen, woman born of money,
    Listen, smooth life-rider,
    You still a girl, but
    You still be ridin’.
    Your nails ain’t done,
    Your show ain’t over
—
    What happens in the next two acts?
    What if the fat lady sings off-key?
    What if the curtain falls down on your ass?
    You ready for any of that?
    It wasn’t a poem she could ever read in public—might not even be a poem at all, but it was a start. And for now it was good enough. It got to the heart of what bugged her about Michelle—and about certain white people, and anybody at all who thought they were better than anybody else. They weren’t really complete people. Maybe that was okay if they weren’t in your family; but when they were about to become your niece or nephew’s mother, it tried your patience. Or so she told herself. Miz Clara would probably say she ought to go to church and leave the judgin’ to God.

Chapter Five
    Matter of fact, Miz Clara didn’t say a word; just grumped around the next morning, making Talba feel duly reprimanded.
    Sandra, ya just jealous,
she might have said. She’d said it before. Or,
Why can’t ya just accept ya brother’s choice?
Which was more to the point.
    This time Talba had an answer:
You never know, Mama. Maybe I will. The fat lady hasn’t sung yet.
    Poetry was very clarifying, she found. She wished she’d written the poem before the dinner.
    She went off to work as grumpy as Miz Clara, and when she got a call from Jason Wheelock, she was in no mood. She gave him her frosty baroness voice: “What can I do for you?” He paused a long time before he spoke.
Good,
she thought. He’s properly intimidated. “I need to see you.” His voice was low and serious. “It’s about—”
    She cut him off. “I know what it’s about. I don’t think we have anything to say to each other.”
    “Look, we really need to talk. Please…” He sounded as if he were about to