Lesa Cline-Ransome - Being Clem

T heres 2,341 miles from Chicago to the San Francisco Bay. And even if you happened to catch a ride in one of those 44 Silver Streak Pontiacs with the shiny front grilles that look like big ole teeth smiling back at you, and drove as fast as the wind, itd still take you about a week to get there. 2,341 miles is a lot of miles. But it aint so far when an explosion that happens in San Francisco, California, lands right smack-dab in your lap here in Chicago.

I was sleeping good when that explosion happened. I heard loud knocking on the front door, and Mommas tired voice asking, Whos that?

I sat up in my bed, knowing there was no way company could be knocking on our door before Momma even called us in for breakfast. And then I heard her slippers scraping toward the door. Just as soon as Momma unhooked the chain and undid the bolt, all I heard after that was the screaming.

Soft-spoken is how most folks describe my momma. She speaks her mind, dont hold back on the truth, but shes just as quiet as can be. Before that night, I never so much as heard her raise her voice, let alone scream, but there she was, shouting like she was broken in two. By the time I hopped from my bed and made it to the front room where all the screaming was coming from, my sisters were already there, plus two men Id never seen before, dressed just alike, holding their hats in their hands. They looked like the picture of my daddy my momma kept in a frame hanging over our kitchen table. Soldiers. They were holding up my momma by her arms. A piece of crumpled-up paper was lying on the floor in front of her. Her head was rolling from side to side. Clarisse, my oldest sister, put her hand out to stop me.

Go on back to bed, Clem, she said, staring at Momma. But even she didnt sound like her usual mean self. So I stood there behind her watching our momma. It looked like her legs stopped working the way the soldiers had to hold her up.

Get her some water, son, one of them said to me. But I was too afraid to move. I heard the water running in the faucet behind me and it was my other sister, Annette, filling up a glass. She brought it to the soldier, and he tried to get my momma to drink. Annette stood on the other side of me close.

Momma stopped screaming but her head was still rolling from side to side. Clarisse stepped away from me, toward the soldiers. We never had white folks in our house before, and these soldiers looked funny standing here in our living room holding up our momma.

Do you have anyone you can ask to come over and sit with your momma till shes uh, feeling better? the soldier asked. But looking at Momma with her head rolling every which way, I didnt think my momma was ever gonna get right again.

Its okay, Clarisse told him. Well be fine. She walked to our momma and sat her on the couch. I could see Mommas hand shaking in hers. Clarisse is only five years older than me, but talking to the soldier, and sitting on the couch calm as could be, she looked like the momma, and our momma looked like the child.

Good evening, then, the soldier said to Momma, both of them tipping their hats to her. Our deepest condolences.

Condolences. I had never once heard that word, but I knew as soon as the soldier said it, he was telling us he was sorry.

Over the next days I watched my momma sit still as a stone in that one spot Clarisse sat her in. I dont know who dressed her. Who combed her hair. How she did her business. She didnt look like she even remembered who I was.

Folks from our building and our church came in and out all day and night, whispering soft words away from Mommas ears, in the kitchen, where they left cakes and pies and chicken and sandwiches on the table. Explosives and They still dont know nothing

Nothing to bury , I heard one of the whisperers say.

My momma wore black, like any day now, wed be going to a cemetery. Clarisse kept up her bossing, telling me and Annette to fetch this or get that or give Momma room to breathe when I tried to sit close to her and hold her hand and make her remember who I was. Reverend Maynard came over and prayed with Momma every day, and he might as well have been praying by himself. Momma sat with her head down, looking at her lap like it was the first time shed seen it.

Finally, my mommas sisters, Aunt Dorcas and Aunt Bethel, came from Washington, D.C., and all of a sudden, they were like our mommas momma. They got her up off the couch and had Clarisse run some bathwater, Hot as you can get it, they told her.

When our momma started her moaning and crying, they held her tight, with her face in their necks, letting her tears run down their dresses, shushing her with Cmon, Cecille, and rocking her and rubbing her back like she was a little baby.

Why does Momma have to be quiet if she wants to cry? I whispered to Annette when they were busy shushing.

Think theyre afraid shell start falling out, you know how the ladies do in church when they get the spirit? Annette whispered back.

That made sense to me, but Momma didnt look like the church ladies with their hands up in the air and their heads thrown back, praising. Momma looked like she even forgot who God was.

Next thing I knew, my aunts moved me out of my room while they moved in. Clarisse is fourteen years old, Annette thirteen, but the way they looked when I showed up at their bedroom door with my blanket and pillow from my bed, youd have thought they had to share a room with a newborn baby instead of their nine-year-old brother.

Aunt Dorcas said its just till Momma gets better, I told them. Annette made room in her bed for me, but not before Clarisse rolled her eyes.

Our aunts got our momma eating and talking just a little bit again. One thing I know is, Clarisse didnt get her bossiness from our momma, but she sure got it from our aunts. Its like they bossed our momma back to herself again, and that was all I needed.

When I got up early one morning while everyone was still sleeping, I walked out to the front room and saw Momma sitting up on the couch.

Clem? she said so soft, I could barely hear her.

I walked over, making sure that was my momma talking, and stared hard at her puffy face. She almost looked like the Momma before the soldiers knocked on our door weeks ago. She reached out and pulled me onto her lap. And even though I was too big to be sitting on anybodys lap, I let her hold me tight, and I rubbed her back, just like I saw my aunts do.

Later I found out it wasnt just my daddy who was killed in that explosion in San Francisco. There were 320 other navy men too. The Port Chicago Disaster, they called it. But didnt nobody bother to count the four of us, Clarisse, Annette, Momma, and me, here in Chicago. Because that explosion that happened 2,341 miles away just about ripped us apart too.