Passage I

PROSE FICTION: This passage is adapted from the novel Night Water by Helen Elaine Lee (©1996 by Helen Elaine Lee).

There had been no words for naming when she was born. She was "Girl Owens" on the stamped paper that certified her birth, and at home, she had just been "Sister," that was all. When asked to decide, at six, what she would be called, she had chosen "Sunday," the time of voices, lifted in praise.

That was one piece of the story, but other parts had gone unspoken, and some had been buried, but were not at rest. She was headed back to claim them, as she had taken her name.

She could smell the burnt, sweet odor of the paper mill that sprawled across the edge of town, and as the train got closer, she remembered all that she saw. She felt herself entering the greens and reds and browns of her own paintings, pulling aside her brushstrokes as if they were curtains and stepping through. There were autumn trees on fire everywhere, and she moved beyond the surface of color and texture into the hidden layers of the past, from which she had learned to speak her life with paint.

The train passed through the part of town where she grew up. She watched as they left behind the neat, compact frame houses and hollow storage buildings. She was going back to piece together their family story of departure and return. She saw it all from the inside out, as native and exile, woman and child. From all that she remembered and all that she was. She was Girl Owens and Sister. She was Sunday, and she was headed home.

Waiting for Sunday's arrival, Delta Owens stepped out onto the front porch. She hoped she would be able to find the right way to approach Sunday, with whom she had only been in touch by mail for five years. She had tried to demonstrate a persistent bond with the help of words put together by experts, choosing for each birthday and holiday an oversized greeting card, depending on its ornate script and polished rhyme to express what she had never been able to say. Each one she had signed "Always, Delta" before addressing the envelope carefully and mailing it off to Chicago. She had heard back irregularly, receiving wood block prints or splashes of paint on wefts of heavy paper with ragged edges or on see-through skins. Each one she had turned round and round, looking for right-side up with the help of the signature. Each one she had saved. Though she hadn't known what, specifically, to make of any of them, she knew their appearance said something about the habit of love.

They had kept up contact despite the differences that had accumulated over the years and finally erupted in accusations and insults after Nana's death. In the wide, post-funeral quiet, after the visitors had gone home, they had both uttered things huge and unerasable.

She had always known how Sunday felt about home. "I'm in a little box," she had often complained while growing up, trying to express to Delta how different she felt, how she was of it, but would never be able to stay. And Delta, who had fought anyone who criticized her sister, had listened and comforted her, but hadn't really understood. Sunday was the one she was different from.

"This place pulls you down and holds you," Sunday had said. "Delta, don't you see, it pulls you down and holds you, silent and safe."

What Sunday said that night was condemnation of a place, but Delta absorbed it all. She was of Wake County and caught in that understanding of herself. Intoxicated with saying what had long been felt, they both spoke freely and all barriers fell. Most of the things Sunday said had not surprised Delta, but one indictment had left her open-mouthed: "You don't even see my painting," Sunday had accused, "you don't even see me at all."

Delta had laughed callously at the accusation, for she knew, though she couldn't have said it, that for most of her life she had seen little else. She had answered by calling her a misfit who thought she was better than the folks she had left behind. And it was Delta's recognition of her own rancor, as much as the substance of what they said, that staggered and disgraced her. She hadn't even realized all the things for which she couldn't forgive Sunday, hadn't known her own smallness until she found herself measuring her sister out loud.

Finally, the rush of words had ended, and they had silently straightened up and gone upstairs without repairing their trespasses. Sunday had gathered and packed her things in a wild, tearful stupor of regret and relief, while Delta cried herself to sleep with bitter remorse.

Delta pushed that night from her mind, hoping that this visit might help them leave behind their troubled history.