The Matter Is Life

  Also by J. California Cooper

  Homemade Love

  Some Soul to Keep

  Family

  A Piece of Mine

  In Search of Satisfaction

  Some Love, Some Pain, Sometime

  The Wake of the Wind

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, OCTOBER 1992

  Copyright © 1991 by J. California Cooper

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Doubleday in 1991. The Anchor Books edition is published by arrangement with Doubleday.

  Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cooper, J. California.

  The matter is life / J. California Cooper. — 1st Anchor Books ed.

  p. cm.

  I. Title.

  [PS3553.05874M37 1992]

  813′.54—dc20

  92-15970

  eISBN: 978-0-307-77859-8

  www.anchorbooks.com

  v3.1

  Dedicated with Love

  Joseph C. and Maxine R. Lincoln Cooper, my parents

  Paris Williams, my chile

  Special Others

  Zora Neale Hurston James Baldwin Langston Hughes

  Stevie Wonder Gladys Knight Patti LaBelle

  Pharaoh Akhenaton, Eighteenth Dynasty

  Dian Fossey and her gorillas

  Alice Walker’s horse, Blue

  Beryl Markham’s horse, Wise Child

  My Cats

  (past and present)

  Siasen, Pretty Girl, Peace, Peace, Buzzy, Charlie, TuNu

  Toto, Muggins, Icy, LaLa, Rainy and Wild Red.

  Especially

  All the people who suffer under the word “Untouchable” in India. You are not Untouchable. Consider the source.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To all those of you who have encouraged and supported me. I need that.

  My daughter, Paris, who lifts me with her support and love.

  My sister, Shy, who actually reads my work!

  Warren D. Smith, who runs hither and yon, doing things for me so I will have the peace and support to do my work.

  To Temma Kaplan, Barnard College, for her large, generous kind heart full of thoughtful doings. Barbara Tatum, Barnard College, for her sweet, thoughtful kindnesses.

  Amistad Bookplace of Houston, Texas. Thank you Rosa and Denice for all the valuable help you have given me.

  To Reid Boates and Karen and the two little sons that make Reid the most wonderful man/agent I know.

  To the wonderful people of my last publisher—Michael Denneny, Michele Hinkson, Sarah, Keith, all of them who were, and are, always so considerate and kind.

  To the most wonderful new people of my new publisher, Doubleday—Sallye Leventhal, Evelyn Hubbard, Arabella, Heidi, Tina, Nancy and others, for their encouragement, faith and, yes, thoughtful kindnesses. I hope never to let them down. Martha Levin, too!

  My deep abiding appreciation to Nina Mehta and her assistant, Russell Perreault, my publicists at Doubleday/Anchor, for their consistent attention to, and knowledge of, their profession and mine. They are excellent in their jobs and perfect for me. Besides being efficient, they are very considerate, kind, and quick.

  Joarvonia Skipwith has been a thoughtful friend and supporter. I want to thank her.

  To Jehovah God. Oh, what would I do without Him?

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I give a lot of thought to the matter of Life. I mean to make mine as good and easy as possible. I stay as close to God and His wisdom as possible.

  Some people say it takes courage to face the matter of death. Then … we are all courageous. Facing death, inevitably, to the end of our lives. Every day.

  I believe it takes more courage to face Life. To survive the everyday matters of the mind, body and heart. Every minute is of great moment in the matter of Life. There may be no small matters. A penny piece of candy can choke you to death, like a penny piece of lover can kill your soul. A person alive at two o’clock may be dead at two ten, accidentally, from a wrong decision. A simple thing like boredom (which is really not simple) can create havoc in a life; it has the power to destroy. All in Life there is to decide upon is important to our living, in that it determines the quality, even the length, of our days.

  Some people spend their lives in prisons.

  Some, in the prison of Drugs … or Sex … Alcohol … Loveless Unions … in Hate … or Greed … even sell themselves, their lives.

  There is Loneliness, Losing and Lack (and more).

  There is Love, Laughter and Longevity (and more).

  Everyone wants to matter.

  Everyone wants to know what the matter is.

  So … I name this book what I believe.

  That, Always, no matter what the matter is …

  THE MATTER IS LIFE

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  The Big Day

  How, Why to Get Rich

  Evergreen Grass

  Friends, Anyone?

  Vanity

  I Told Him!

  No Lie

  The Doras

  About the Author

  THE

  BIG

  DAY

  Every morning when I raise my head up from the bed, I say to myself, “Another morning. Good morning!” Then I slowly get up and commence my day. Cept this mornin … I lay awhile to talk to myself.

  I am a frightfully old woman, somewhere near up to ninety years old. I don’t know and I don’t care no more. I’m older’n everybody else anyway!

  But this day was a different kinda day cause it was the big day, a funeral day of a old, old man friend of mine who had lived to be ninety somethin years old too! Had a good life tho, cause he had a good wife, a young wife. Young for him. She bout fifty-five or fifty-six years old.

  He had done married when he was forty-five or so, to a young, pretty girl bout sixteen years old. Everybody called him a fool cause of that and cause he was always laughin, smilin or teasing. Was a fine fellow to be around. A lot of fun. She, his wife, just wanted to get way from that house full of children at her home, and never enough money for nothin or nobody!

  But he fooled em! He made that girl happy and kept her on up to now. Forty-five years. Somethin like that. They had some children, way grown now, and they stayed together. He been sick and down these last five, six years. But that woman … cause that’s what she is … took such care of him, with such love that I seldom seen anywhere in my life and you already know I been here a long time.

  Just think, if I’d a married him, I’d a had somebody to keep these old bones warm all these years my bed been empty. But … he wasn’t the man for me … I wasn’t the girl for him. I picked my own man, he died. Another one, I left that triflin fool and he was the best lover. Another one, we was together a long while, he wasn’t no real good lover, but he was a good man. He died. I was tired then. Nuff, enough.

  Anyway, today my old friend’s funeral, his big day. We all got to go, cause when you gets his age you know everybody and they know you. Sides that, his laughter made him lovable.

  Anyway. What was I sayin? I ain’t ready for all this talkin. Caus
e I’m sad. I hate to see people I like die, but I like funerals cause then I get to see people I ain’t seen in a long time. And all the new ones too. My memory was always good, ain’t changed a bit so I see from where all them people been to where they done come to. I like that, when it don’t make me sad. You be surprised how many things I knew was gonna turn out like they did! Sure nuff!

  Anyway, this morning my grandchile, or great grandchile, was in the kitchen stiring things up for fixin. She hollered to me, cause I’m the slowest one, “Biggun!”

  They use to call me “Mama,” then “Big Mama, then there was so many mamas in between, they just call me “Biggun” now. I don’t ’low no “granmaw” stuff cause it sounds like somethin you snatch off a hog.

  I called back to her, “I ain’t ready.”

  She looked round my door. “Time now, Biggun. I be in to wash you up in a few minutes and get you some breakfast.”

  I gave her a mean look cause they spect that. Said, “Told you I ain’t ready.”

  She laughed, said, “You never ready to do nothin somebody want you to do. Now, get to gettin up.”

  I smiled to myself, cause I am loved, chile.

  The early morning went by, everybody gettin ready to go. Me, I’m the longest, slowest one. I sit, or open drawers and stare in em for awhile, then shut the drawer. Done forgot what I was after. Maybe I open another one, cause I like to see what’s in em. Or I go to my closet and pull that curtain back and stare in there. I ain’t lookin for nothin to wear. They gon see to that. I be just lookin at all the fine, new things that love done brought me. Them children always buyin me somethin nice. Specially the ones is away. These here, too, but these here DO things for me. Things I really need. I done forgot, with all this good memory of mine, which of my grandchildren blong to which child of mine. But I do know each man each child of mine blongs too!

  Well. Now, they all ready. I ain’t. They done washed me, dressed me, sat me, combed me, brushed me, all like that. I rather do it myself, but they rather do it too. After I fuss awhile, tellin em I ain’t ready, and I ain’t, I let em do things cause I like to feel their hands on me. Hand touch of love.

  I hear em gettin the little ones in the car. I sit down. They hollar for me. I hollar back, “I ain’t ready.” And I mean it this time! Cause I don’t want to go to his funeral after all. Cause I know mine bout be next. They come in and get me and I get on out, fussin. But everybody look so pretty and bright, I smile, then laugh at em and with em.

  Well, now, we drive down these roads I use to walk barefoot on and love to see, even now. I see all these big, tall trees and all them thickets and wild flowers in all them pretty, wild colors. Back of all that is the wild blue sky, fulla them big fat clouds justa floatin up there all free and fulla water, not worrin bout dyin at all. And everytime I go out, I notice some new little houses wasn’t there last time I went that way. So you can see these people don’t never take me nowhere too much.

  By and by, we gets to the Big Church. It’s a little church with big leanings. Wood old, wire old, pipes old, piano old, but good. Preacher old, choir mixed up … good. I like a good choir and I sure like a good piano. Seems like I got one playin in my heart when I hear em.

  They always sits me where I can be sure and see everybody and everybody can see me and tell me how good I look. I always answer em, “I ain’t ready to look no other way!”

  It gets real crowded. He was a good man. Course, lots of em here are all related. Well, we all is in some way, cause it’s a lot of sneakin done down here cause it’s a small town. Just like all over the world, I reckon.

  I look at the crowd. See all those beautiful colors, faces and clothes. Ahhhhhhh. These womens is wearin Sunday best. The widow has got on a bright yellow dress with large white flowers in it, but her face looks like a flower that died. Poor chile. I look back at the crowd and see more bright yellows, glowing reds, deep blues, smooth greens, even some of that aqua color, some black, few purple, lotta white dresses on little children. And all them mixed colors justa moving and sparklin in the sun. My dress is a pretty gray. The mens is mostly in blues and blacks and gray suits. I pay them no mind. I like to thrill my eyes with the other colors that seem alive as they burst in and wake up my dim eyes.

  I look at all the fine, bright clothes on some of the young and old strong bodies. Some don’t look just right cause the woman’s arms are muscled and strong from pullin and hoein cotton, pullin corn, washin by hand and wringin them big heavy sheets and quilts out. Reachin for distant berries, pullin greens, and workin in the cabbage patch. Strong arms, strong backs, muscles in legs strong from pushin and pullin not only things, but life. Sweat already under some arms, I see. Some of these clothes was meant to be for little frail weak, stylish lady-like bodies. I see a ruffle on a strong corded neck, a crocheted collar coverin the shoulders of a woman who plows for herself. She probly crocheted that collar, too.

  Anyway they’s all greetin each other and holdin hands, shakin heads, rollin eyes, laughin. Plenty kisses and huggin them that done come from a long way off, least bout 150 miles or so! Some more, some less.

  It’s some white folks here, too. One old white couple I know was his true friends and the other three white men was them I recognized as them who done stole much of the oil and lumber land from some of these same people sittin right here in the church next to em! Come to make friends with the widow, I reckon. See what she got they can get!

  Wellll, they done filled the church now and all a sudden they done got serious and sad. Cause the widow is so sad and cryin, standin by the casket of her forty-five-, fifty-year husband. I blive I’m countin right. After enough years, who counts anyway?

  She still a young woman, just done got a little ugly with time and hard work and children, just livin. She still young. Bout fifty somethin, I guess. I wish I was fifty one more time! But now … she alone. Like me. Enh! Ehn!

  Everybody seated and pattin dresses and children down and straight.

  The piano started! Good player! It’s a good song. I done forgot what it was. The choir sings. At first you don’t want them to join in and mess up that good piano, but after they start, you glad they did, cause they good, too!

  Then the solo woman came on. A medium size woman, brown, hair smoothed close to her head in them little oily curls full with sweat now, a wide gap tween her teeth that had a little gold on em. Had a good, strong deep voice full of sorghum syrup, blackberry juice, collard greens and plenty of pain. That woman sent me somewhere! That she was holdin on to God and her man was all in the cracks of her voice. I heard it! I know the sound! Of a woman who loves her God, and her man and who thinks she is ugly, big and awkward cept with one thing, a beautiful voice. She use it every time she can, so her man can hear it … and forget that other pretty woman who won’t let him lone. And that other woman ain’t really so pretty either, just pretty to his wife cause she wants her husband!

  When they done moaned and laid everybody back with the like of that, the preacher step slowwwly up to the pulpit. Got a microphone in the Big Church now. He talk about the scriptures. People commence to sayin, “Sure nuff. Lord!” and things like that. Some hollar, “Mercy!” Well, everybody know what they need.

  Then he talk about the dead man in the coffin, while I hears the piano playin softly in the background. But I hear, too, the pattin of the feet some people is playin out their feelin’s with.

  Slow ones.… Pat. …… pat ..… pat ..… pat ..… pat ..… pat ..… pat. The ones with full hearts.… Pat … pat … pat … pat … pat … pat … pat. Hurt ones.… PATPATPATPATPATPATPATPAT. And a moan, now and then, to let go some pain. Piano still playin softly.

  Preacher take the text somewhere in John 14. Say …“Jesus goin somewhere to prepare a place for YOU.” And after he talk about the many mansions, he step slowwwwwly back and sit down.

  “Yes Lord.” “My God.” “Hummmm-hummmm.” Through sorrow or memory.

  Then the white minister, cause the dead man had some whi
te relations round here, he got up and took the pulpit and said a prayer for the family. Was a nice one. Said, “May God keep them.”

  I said to myself, “He betta, cause we needs help, higher help, in this here world.” Then he sat back down.

  Then I snapped to! Cause the piano rose up higher, tho still softly, and the music just softly boomed out. Them high ups and low down notes just stole out and jumped out from round under them hands playin that piano, stole into your heart, then down to some feet. Men’s big feet go a deeper sound from a woman’s smaller foot. I listens. Patpatpatpatpatpat. PAT … PAT … PAT. Some folks did their pattin with both feet, one at a time. Pat … Pat. Pat … Pat. Pat … Pat. Pat … pat.

  Now the last preacher got up and walked to the pulpit lookin into everybodies eyes. He had a deep-crackin reach-down voice, sad today. I can’t member all he said, but I know I remembered what I like best.

  “No need to say good-by. We will all meet again.” I member too, he said, “Ain’t no need to be playin round with your time here, thinkin it won’t happen to you.… Cause it will. And only YOU know where you goin. Be careful what you pack in your suitcase of life, cause that’s what you gonna take with you. Watch that double dealin malice, that hate and greed. Adultry and lyin. Sex and gossip that you put in it, cause it gets heavy and you can’t get far with it.”

  Oh! The feets went to pattin so fast was like a little tiny army was passin through the church. I was worried bout the floor, but when he was through, the church was still standin. Done weathered many a these storms, I guess.

  Then the piano went into my favorite! “Precious Lord, take my hand, Lead me on, help me stand.” Oh! She hit on them bass keys and rolllllllled. She rolled through the storm. The storm rolled to the end. Them pattin feet rolled. The hands clap, couldn’t hold still. The eyes rolled up to heaven. The tears rolled down to the earth. Movin to the music.

  She kept playin softly now. The people moaned softly now, as the preacher read the Twenty-third Psalm. Then he said, with his fingers tappin on the pulpit thing, “Life is like your shadow … you can’t get away from what you do. You look back … it’s gonna be there. You betta keep your hand in the hand of God. YOU know when you doin your best.”