Now, in contortions she hadn’t learned in class, legs and arms twisted like a dying centipede’s, Cypress vowed on the voices of her dreams; the image of her mother strapped down and bleeding, her father helpless in a glass cell. She vowed to avenge her kin. She swore on the burned limbs of her father and her mother’s smiles stolen from the Charleston swelter that white folks would not make her ugly, helpless, and lost. She swore she’d never ask Leroy to remember the nice things, but to remember all of it. She pulled her head from beneath the pillows, searching the walls for the images that terrified her. The faces were still there, but she was no longer afraid. Idrina wasn’t laughing; she lay still in Cypress’ arms.

Cypress laid waste to the tunnels, caverns, and shadows of the other world. She drew upon memories of her own blood: her presence would be a mortal threat to those who wounded, maimed, her ancestors, her lovers, Leroy. Like those women before her who loaded bundles on their heads and marched off to fields that were not their own, like the “bearers” of her dreams swamped with births of infants they would never rear, Cypress clung to her body, the body of a dancer; the chart of her recklessness, her last weapon, her perimeters: blood, muscle, and the will to simply change the world.

Chapter 19

My lovely C.,

Did you get the box of costumes I whipped together? I hope your new company can use them, but pay me next time, when you’re on your feet!

I’m so excited about your association with a national touring company . . . please, send me clippings, especially if you play major cities where we have relatives.

You’re still in the corps de ballet . . . that’s a start. Nevermind, I’m jumping around so, imagining you in all those frilly tutus, and your toe shoes . . . you don’t know how happy I am. Plus, the Lord will look kindly on the benefits you’re going to do for Negro Christians; bless your souls, for taking time from a full season for the race. I’m mighty proud.

Love, your Mama

P.S. What’s the name of the group—I’ve been calling you the American Negro Ballet. I don’t like that other group, Afro-American Ballet . . . who ever heard of such a thing!

Chapter 20

This is the overseas operator. Your call is ready, miss.”

“Yes, thank you . . . Leroy, Leroy are you there?”

“Huh?”

“Leroy, it’s me, Cypress. I got it. I really got it.”

“What, baby . . . jeeze, what time is it there?”

“I don’t know, I’ve been celebrating!”

“What, darling . . . I’m sorta out of it . . . now tell me again.”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes, go on . . . I love you.”

“Guess what? I’m in a dance company; I’m going on the road.”

“But honey, I’ll be back in two weeks.”