She shook her head. They were close enough that she could hear some were singing. Bird voices, person voices, horse voices, and something so gravelly, maybe it was the spirit of a mountain or earth that had died years before people had even been a part of the universe’s considerations.

“I’m tired of not wanting to be me,” Ayanna said. “But, hearing them, seeing them, I feel like I’m half here. Alive. And half dead. I mean you know how it is.” A relief to know that was true. “When someone you love dies, a part of you does die with them. And then you wait to be resurrected.”

“Time helps,” Felix said. His voice so soft she almost missed the words.

The wind blew. She knew soon they would be in his warm apartment. He would keep her feeling safe and seen enough for her to say yes over and over through the rest of the night’s dregs. Ayanna walked slower. She raised her left arm and let it slide through the spirits as she walked. They felt like nothing, but they spiraled and slid back together again and again. The spirits opened their mouths and sang. Then, the trees, the dying grass poking up between slats in the sidewalk, the birds, even the clouds joined in. Ayanna understood almost every word. The hair on her arms stood at full attention. The song was in her heart and lungs. She walked, letting it be her guide, her body moving to its rhythm.

22

Marlie Evans was wearing an oversized navy blazer that made her look even smaller with her fingers just poking out. Pure-white short-cropped hair, a gap in her teeth, and an attitude, in general, like she was always looking for something to enjoy. On her porch were a sweet potato pie and cups of coffee. She insisted on being called Marlie, not Miss Marlie, as Ayanna had initially addressed her. The miss made her feel old.

“You are too lonely, Meredith,” she was chiding the creative writing professor. “I read your books and think: this woman needs to have fun.”

“I have fun.” She put a dab of whipped cream on top of a piece of pie.

“No,” Marlie said simply. “You don’t.”

“I write literature,” Meredith said. “I spend my life looking at life’s complications.”

Marlie laughed. “I read romance novels about interracial relationships that deal with politics and pleasure. They feel more like real life to me than the last story you sent me.”