It’s Helena!

T Stayton Hamilton
Sep 3, 2018 · 5 min read

I’m in the car with my mother leaving Kroger, headed home. Headed home so my mother can cook a big dinner and have family over. Fish, spaghetti, coleslaw and fried chicken (chicken for those with fish allergies).

Passing Lincoln Court and West Russell streets. “Lawd, Teresa, there that heifer that killed Daddy,” she says in her thick southern accent. I immediately looked up.

“Where?” I’m straight up. No longer sitting with back to the seat.

I vaguely knew the story about that lady who killed my grandfather, but was I about to get the actual story. I ducked from the Cadillac visor blocking the sun to squint in the direction, to lay eyes on the lady who killed my grandfather. I thought of it — the actual story of the death — as a rumor, an illusion, because I never heard the story directly from my mother or her siblings.

“Over there in the blue dress, crossing the street?” I asked my mother.

“Yeah, in that blue dress with huh purse all wrapped ‘round her wide tail,” Momma said. “I outta hit her, but I don’t wanna dent my car!” She continued grinning.

Momma’s Southern drawl was thick especially in personal settings. The drawl disappeared in the classroom where she taught for over 30 years. It became real thick when she would reflect on our family’s past.

Lincoln Court and West Russell! I looked at the street signs. Those were the cross streets we passed as I watched the large woman in the blue dress with the purse wrapped round her body. I looked at Momma. She was grinning.

Is she really smiling? Why is she smiling? Didn’t she just say that was the woman that killed her father?

“Wow!” “Momma, you should hit her!”

“Girl, I ain’t bout to hit that woman and tear up my car!” Momma said, holding the steering wheel at 10 and 2, creeping pass the woman.

Well dawg (I thought to myself) you don’t have to yell at me.

“Now, what happened?” I said.

As Momma began the story, her Southern drawl became a mix of a deliberate Southern, California, proper woman. Most Southern Black teachers of her vintage spoke this way. You know when you were receiving instructions or serious information when their voices changed from Southern Delta to Southern California. Eee’ch word was str’essed and pro’nounced carefully.

“Now, Momma told me,” (she’s talking about her mom), “that that lady started comin’ around the house with her friend Mary, ok.” Ok is really the question…Are you following? Ok, means, check to see if the listener is keeping up.

Ok. [my] Grandma’s friend Mary brought this lady around. I’m following.

“So that lady started coming round, you know, to have supper and you know just hanging around Momma, Daddy and their other friends. You see, Daddy was back and forth, periodically but Momma put him out for good by this time. But you know, he would come around and stuff to check on Lois and James, ’cause even though they were grown, Lois and James were still living at home off and on, ’cause they were back and forth at AM&N.

“Ok?” (I’m still following.)

“Well the lady was tryna like Daddy. And of course, Momma picked up on it real quick, you know how she is,” Momma said chuckling remembering how “sharp” Grandma was.

She continued, “so, Momma told them both to stay away cause she noticed Daddy wasn’t trying to fight her off or stop it. AND anyway, Momma was done with Daddy. And he was welcoming the woman’s advances. But Momma didn’t won’t neither of them nor they “mess” round her house.”

“Were they (grandma and granddaddy) still married,” I interrupted.

“Yeah!” she yelled.

“Alright.” (Won’t be interrupting her again.)

“Daddy and that lady started takin’ up with each other and we all found out that this wasn’t that lady’s and Daddy’s first encounter. The streets say (and Momma had proof so she say) that they messed around before. So you know, Momma really didn’t won’t nuthin’ to do with Daddy. So, Daddy and that woman was courtin’ hard supposedly. But, Daddy was still trying to get in good with Momma. And he’d be ‘nice’ ta Momma.”

My mother’s volume increase as some different emotion entered her body.

“That lady grew so angry and resentful about Daddy not being able to shake Momma, that she hated Momma. “They” say that that lady was a mean ole, low down, ole woman.”

Momma’s volume lowered, back to normal.

“At the time, Daddy was staying with his cousin and somebody else, you know, going from house to house. He even stayed with us (me and your dad) for a while. But that lady supposedly called Daddy over, you know, invited him over for dinner.”

As Momma turned into our development, the story slowed down. She actually passed the turn onto our street, taking a longer route.

Momma continued, “She cooked him some of his favorites; greens, neck bones, chitlins and a sweet potato pie. And Teresa, that lady had so much poison, they say, in that sweet potato pie that she threw it out right after she cut Daddy’s piece.”

Jesus, Momma just said my name, what does this mean? What is Momma about to reveal with this story about her father’s death? I’m nervous, not for my grandfather, but for my mother and this story. And that it’s actually coming from her!

“And Teresa, (she just said my name again) that night after eating, Daddy went to his cousin’s house (cause that’s where he was staying). And next thang we knowed, we got a call from your Uncle Hookey letting us know he was going to stop by. And then Hookey came over and told us that Daddy was dead. (Her voice lowered.) So, me and your Dad went up to the hospital. They gave me everything he had on him, you know, his clothes, hat and the change from his pockets.”

My mother had shown me that greenish change from my grandfather’s pockets many times. The quarter and the nickel had the most green on it, from what I remember.

Lincoln Court and West Russell. I saw that lady.

Everyone knew who she was. Many knew of the story that happened in the 70s. I saw the lady in 2000s.

I know now why my mother took the long route home. I know why her voice lowered and the story slowed down. My mother knew that nothing ever happened to the lady that killed her father. That story, my mother told me that day leaving Kroger, was one of many she would tell that occurred in my hometown. Just happens. It’s Helena.

T Stayton Hamilton

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Teacher, Storyteller, Southern Gurl, “You’re Right, I Write” In a functional, dysfunctional, long distance relationship with my hometown