Beyond Me by Sidney Logan Echevarria
I was not allowed to answer the telephone. Unless, of course, I’d been told to, or, in the very off chance no one was home except for me. But being six, that was, indeed, a very far off chance. When the telephone rang that day, I happened to be in the living room, where the telephone lived. It was black and sat atop a white lacy doily on its own dark brown wooden table. For a long time, it was the only telephone we had in our house. Then, a few months back, Daddy got one put in the bedroom. He said it would be good to not have to walk all through the house just to answer the telephone, especially if someone were to call in the middle of the night. Mama made a face and said “uh huh.” She made that same face and said “uh huh” that same way when Mrs. Myrtice who lived next door said she needed a fox stole because the winters here was just so cold. Daddy had the people come put it in anyway. So, this first telephone, the black one, sat on its wooden table in our living room, next to the arm of the couch, positioned so that one could sit and talk awhile if he or she felt so inclined. I’d been sitting on that couch, chatting with Suzie, my best doll.
The ringing startled me. It was rich and heavy, the sound hanging in the air a few seconds after it stopped. On an impulse, I picked it up. My mother had gone out to the store and Daddy was back in his room, laying across his bed, reading the paper. So when I lifted the cold handset from its cradle, I was halfway following the rules (though I probably shouldn’t have been playing in the living room anyway.) But when I brought the receiver to my ear, prepared to say, “Wilson’s residence,” as Mama had taught me, I heard “Hey, it’s me.” And Daddy said “Hey.” And then I heard “I took care of the baby. You don’t have to worry about it.” And Daddy said “Thanks for letting me know.” And though I didn’t know what baby or who “me” was, I knew that I was hearing things I shouldn’t hear and knowing things I should not know.
I placed the receiver back on the hook as gently as I could and sat back on the sofa. My legs were not long enough for my feet to reach the floor, but I was not allowed to put my feet (even with no shoes on) on my parent’s good furniture. I looked at my feet, sticking out because the cushion of the couch extended beyond the bend of my knees. I studied my white socks, then looked back at Suzie. A heaviness settled in my stomach. It was the same heaviness that always appeared when I heard my mother call me by my full name, when I knew she already knew the answers to whatever question she was about to ask me and that answer was going to require some consequence I would not enjoy. I glanced back at the telephone, wondering what else Me was saying to Daddy and what was saying to Me.
We were a churchgoing family, and almost every Sunday after service, while they stood around and talked in the side yard of the church, the ladies at church asked Mama when she was going to go ahead and have another baby. They remarked at how big and smart I was, obviously moving out of the way for a little brother or sister. Mama would just smile a smile that never quite reached her eyes and told them that we never knew the good Lord’s plans. But Me talked about taking care of the baby. And the way she said wasn’t in a mama way – it was like one might take care of spoiled milk. Those same ladies would smile different smiles when they saw my Daddy. Not only did the smiles reach their eyes, it arched their backs and lowered their eyelids. They would call, “Heeeeey, Ralph.” I didn’t know then what made it different, but now I recognize it as the tightrope walking adults do when they are testing possibilities. I played Me’s voice over in my head trying to see if it fit any of those ladies.
Where was Mama anyway? I wanted to go to my room, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t risk him looking at me knowing that I heard him talking to Me – that I knew about the baby she did (didn’t) take care of. So, me and Suzie just sat there, puzzling over Me’s baby and what my Daddy knew about it. Puzzling over what Mama knew about it. Puzzling over how I could (or should) ask her about Me.
As I got older, Me’s voice faded. I puzzled less about the taken care of baby. At times when my mother fell into her quiet moods that sometimes lasted a day, sometimes a week or two, and at least twice, over a month, I considered mentioning the day I answered the phone. But I never found the right time, the right words or enough courage. I never found the right time to ask my father about it either. I found myself in situations where I was the one testing possibilities and responding to them – wondering at least once if I was someone else’s Me.
My father lived to see the winter of his life. His funeral was well-appointed: a black suit, a walnut casket, three short hymns and a kind, 20-minute eulogy. My mother wept quietly and received hugs, handshakes and words of comfort. The internment, held at our family plot in our church’s cemetery, immediately followed the ceremony and the officiant was efficient. There was a small repast planned in our church basement, and despite my exhaustion, I longed for the fried chicken, macaroni and cheese and banana pudding that awaited us, prepared lovingly for the express purpose of easing the burden of our grief. As I turned away from my father’s open grave and began my walk back along the path back to the church’s basement, I saw a woman lingering at the edge of the group. She stood apart but looked on. She wore a wide black hat and sunglasses, and I couldn’t clearly see her face. Her shoulders rolled forward slightly, giving away the age of her small frame. She seemed oblivious to the moving on of everyone else – she just stood there still, not engaging but not turning away. She was waiting. I rerouted my path to walk by her, to get a closer look. As I walked by, I nodded and said, “Hello.” She said, “Hey.” When her reply reached my ears, I was already beyond her. Beyond Me. Taken back for the first time in decades to the baby that was taken care of and the thing I wasn’t supposed to know. I paused and looked back. Me stood there, patiently waiting for the crowd to disperse. Waiting by my father’s grave for her chance to say goodbye. I considered retracing my steps back to her, but decided to keep moving forward. Away from Me. Choosing to focus on his laugh, the way he patted my back, kissed my forehead – how he smelled of soap and spices instead of remembering spoiled milk.
Sidney Logan Echevarria is a graduate of University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and University of North Carolina at Greensboro. This year, Sidney was chosen as one of ten writers in the United States to receive the PEN America Emerging Voices Fellowship. She’s currently working on her first novel.