Sassafrass stuck by her man whom she had abandoned, and became healthily articulate about her problem. “Now Cypress, Mitch has endured more loneliness than a human being should ever encounter. His mother abandoned him when he was eight, and he raised himself in detention homes all thru this country full of crackers and madmen. Mitch is so good—he created himself; he made up somebody to be. Inside the joint, he took up horn playing and painting. Mitch is so strong, Cypress—he just gets that loneliness sometimes . . .”

Sassafrass waited on that word “loneliness” for a sign of understanding from Cypress, who was staring right through her. Cypress was rendering all her lovers past, who could leap with the fire of Shango racing through their limbs, and make her cry from the beauty of their incarnate spirits. Cypress remembered every torrid affair—like a Hit Parade from the fifties. She was close to a primal scream, when Sassafrass interrupted.

“I left, Cypress, ’cause Mitch broke the only promise he ever made to me. That’s all a matter of trust, that’s all . . . he didn’t keep his word. ’Cause I don’t want to marry anybody—have them own half of all Mama’s stuff, and half of all my stuff, and claim visiting rights for my kids and money and all that mess—I couldn’t stand it. So I’m all right pretending to be kept while I keep up my share, but I can’t abide breaking promises. Honest, Cypress, that’s all.”

Cypress was exercising her arches and her toes, pushing through the calf and heel to the ball of her foot to point, then flex. Point; flex. She heard Sassafrass and nodded her head, concentrating on her form . . . then she was back.

“Well, Sassafrass, what’re you gonna do?”

Sassafrass was charmed by her sister’s dedication and bluntness. “I’m gonna stay here and go to dance with you and show you my new weaving techniques. And I’m gonna write, Cypress. I’m gonna write about Mama, and growing up with all those looms.”