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Overview
Sissie Joplin is dying, and her surviving children have come to say good-bye. Estranged from their mother for years, Iris and Ralph have both achieved success—Iris as a jazz singer in Europe and Ralph as a playwright—but the pain of their youth remains forever alive in their memories.
Sissie, too, remembers: the bitter struggles and the devastating tragedies; the indignities, cruelties, and deprivations visited upon a strong-willed black woman—and on the once proud men in her life ultimately defeated by a white society that at times seemed devoted to their destruction. Sissie was not always wise or fair, and her actions often did more harm than good, but she survived. And now, at the end of her life, it is time for a reckoning—and one last opportunity to heal.
A powerfully affecting family saga and a provocative indictment of racism in America, Sissie is a magnificent achievement by John A. Williams, the award-winning author heralded by Ishmael Reed as “the best African American writer of the century.”
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504025904 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 02/02/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 277 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Sissie
A Novel
By John A. Williams
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1969 John A. WilliamsAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2590-4
CHAPTER 1
At last and finally! Iris thought when the plane sped away from Boston, where they had been forced to land because of fog in New York. Once more they were on their way, and Iris assumed that her brother Ralph, who was meeting her at the airport, must have been waiting for hours. Just my luck that we had to run into bad weather, Iris thought.
Beside her sat the woman she had met in the airport in Barcelona. For the moment Iris was too busy with her own thoughts to speak, and Helen Kessler respected her silence. Both of the women smoked cigarettes. "Damn, it's cold in here," Iris said half aloud, when they were once more over New York. The plane seemed to slow, gradually losing momentum in the gray, and banked above the cottony storm clouds racing endlessly by. Iris took a deep breath and glanced at Helen. "Here we go again." Breasting the currents of air like a huge, stiff bird, the craft circled lower and lower. There was a sharp, high whine and Iris heard the massive wheels thud into place. The plane hung motionless for one frightening instant, and then hissed downward through the clouds.
"Landings always make me nervous," Helen whispered hurriedly, glancing at Iris' taut, unlined brown neck.
"I noticed that at London and at Boston," Iris said. "Relax. If it happens you'll never know what hit you."
Unsure whether Iris was joking or not — she sometimes seemed a little strange — Helen glanced at her before replying. "God, you're cheerful," she said.
Iris smiled briefly and turned back to the window, watched the plane right itself — slowly, majestically. Suddenly, much too suddenly, they were out of the gray, floating over a bay which seemed perilously near. Iris shut her eyes; when she opened them she saw gray asphalt hurtling by. Another slight jar and the plane had landed. Both women gasped with relief. Helen grinned sheepishly, Iris grimly. "Damn," Iris said, trying to restrain the fluttering within her. "We're here." She took out her compact, snapped it open and leaned her face toward the mirror.
"You look all right," Helen said, "damn you."
Iris, laughing softly, closed the compact, and Helen recognized that this laughter — unlike Iris' merriment on the long flight — was genuine. "Thanks," she said. "I'm sure glad I met you —"
It was Helen's turn to laugh.
"— no," Iris said, suddenly realizing that she might have been too withdrawn during the trip. "I mean it." Their eyes met and Helen turned away shyly. At first sight Helen Kessler didn't look more than twenty-two, but a second glance revealed the pouch of a double chin and thin, seared lines radiating from the corners of her eyes. She was a small woman, with dull brown hair. When she smiled, her cheeks dimpled. Iris figured she was in her middle thirties — Iris was thirty-two. Helen had a nice figure, Iris had observed at dinner the evening before in the London airport restaurant. She looked as if she might be French, but was really an American returning to New York. Her presence had helped quiet Iris' apprehensions; Iris hadn't been in America for thirteen years. Helen (and Iris was grateful for this) was only superficially like many American women Iris had met and known in Europe. Perhaps it was Helen's size that saved her; she could never be loud nor brash nor vulgar. Only fiery, scintillating, risqué, or cute. She had seen Iris' show only the week before at the Emporium, she had shyly explained at the Barcelona airport. People were always saying something like that, but it had been a surprise to discover that Helen was so nice.
Iris climbed down the ramp on wobbly legs. She and Helen followed the other passengers into the multicolored glass-and-chrome terminal. The building reminded her of those structures which had risen like full-blown giants while she and Harry were in Germany.
The line shuffled forward over the speckled black marble floor. Now there were more Americans visible, those who worked in the banklike building. "They look so angry," Helen said. "Don't you think so?"
Iris was searching for her brother, but said, "I guess they ought to." And this made her recall the fact that Helen didn't consider herself an American. The sound of the taxiing jets was muffled now; only the single-pitched scream of the blowing engines penetrated the area where she and the others waited, behind a white horizontal marker. Ten feet beyond, uniformed customs officers stood checking papers. Iris looked about her at the lines of people, and was reminded of the storefront of the disbursing office where every other Tuesday she and Ralph had gone to pick up their ration of government-issued surplus food during the Depression: tinned beef, dried prunes, grapefruit, wheat, oatmeal, apples, and everything marked with the telltale stamp. They had moved with the line smelling the rich aroma of the apples until they came to a halt at the white marker. There they had waited until the joking men behind the makeshift orange- and apple-crate counter had laughed and smoked their fill. An imperious, stiff-fingered summons, just like the one the officer at the small booth was now making, had started them shuttling forward again.
When they entered the customs room, Iris looked up and saw Ralph standing in the glass-enclosed terrace. He waved and she waved back, anxiously watching for a sign.
"Is that your brother?" Helen asked.
"That's him," Iris said with a sober smile. "That's my big brother." Then Iris wondered who was meeting Helen. She almost asked but changed her mind, thinking Helen might be embarrassed.
"Entertainer?" the customs officer asked with a polite smile. He held Iris' passport in his hand which stated her profession quite plainly. Iris answered, "Yes, I am." The officer excused himself, passed beyond a series of slowly moving belts and entered a small office.
"What's that for?" Helen asked.
"I think," Iris said slowly, recalling what the musicians and entertainers had told her about America, "narcotics." She smiled bitterly. "If you're an entertainer and you're colored you get the works —"
Helen nodded. "I thought so," she said, compressing her lips. "It's too bad you had to come back. The bastards." Iris turned and glanced up at her brother again. She held out her hands in an impulsive, supplicatory gesture and he signaled back, urging restraint. Iris nodded and looked at Helen. Since Barcelona she had had the feeling that Helen understood. "Yes," Iris said. "It's too bad."
After the officer had been gone twenty minutes, he returned smiling broadly. "Sorry to keep you waiting." Neither woman answered and he looked at them, puzzled. Helen Kessler went through customs without difficulty.
The two women walked through the turnstiles past the colored guards, Iris trying hard not to stare at them. Ralph came down the stairs. The look in his eyes told Iris that the laughter which came from her lips was not inappropriate. She threw herself into his arms. "Ralph!" she said.
He grinned at her, "Goddamn, baby, you sure look good!" They kissed, broke apart, and smiled at each other. He kissed her again and grunted, "You look good!"
"Man, you lookin' pretty fine your self!"
They laughed, and then, their laughter dying, looked into each other's eyes. Iris asked, "How's mother?" His head sagged slightly.
"Oliver said she was holding her own. Fighting her way back."
Iris heaved a great sigh. Funny that he should have said "fighting" because that was the way she had always pictured Sissie — never giving up, making small of whatever happened to her. The time she had had the tumor operation, they had gone to see her, and found her sitting up in bed examining the growth which she had preserved in a jar of formaldehyde.
"Thank God, thank God," Iris said.
"It's not over," Ralph answered.
"I know, but at least she's fighting."
Arm in arm they walked together to where Helen was waiting.
"This is Helen. My brother, Raph Joplin."
Ralph held out his hand and Helen's reached out tentatively. Then they seemed to recognize something sympathetic in each other, and both smiled.
"You wrote that play!" Helen said, surprised, turning from Iris and back to Ralph. Iris was laughing. "Why didn't you tell me? Here I was ranting about how you had to see it, and it turns out your brother wrote it —"
"God, it's cold here," Iris said, pulling the mink tighter around her.
"So you wrote Shadows on the Sun," Helen said to Ralph. "What an illustrious family."
Ralph and Iris laughed. "You're making us feel very good," Ralph said.
"Iris, I feel like an ass," Helen said, then, looking at Ralph, "I'm sorry about your mother. I hope she'll be all right."
"Thank you," Ralph said. "Can we drop you off?"
"If it won't be any bother."
They seemed, all of them, reluctant to move. Iris studied her brother. He reminded her of their father — tall, stooped, and thin of face, but less broad than Big Ralph. His hair was cropped. She remembered when he had worn it long, brushed into a pompadour and greased heavily. Like herself Ralph had their mother's soft brown eyes. She kept thinking, over and over to herself — he's made it.
Ralph had begun a study of his sister from the terrace, the very first moment he had seen her. She was tall for a woman; tallness ran in the family. She swung her body in a sort of swagger when she walked, held herself regally. She hadn't changed much in two years. Even from a distance, he noticed the luster of her hair, twisted neatly into a French roll. Iris had the strong features of their mother, but her face was less broad. Her prominent cheekbones made her eyes seem to curve upward, giving her a catlike look.
The skycap signalled a cab and placed the bags inside. Ralph said in a low voice to Iris, "You'll notice that all the porters have quit the railroads and moved to the airports. Whenever Sam cuts out the end's in sight."
The skycap moved back out of the way, glancing curiously at Iris.
"He must think you're Jo Baker," Ralph said with a smile as he sat back in the car.
The taxi edged out onto the main highway and the driver accelerated.
"How's Adela?" Ralph asked.
"I started to bring her," Iris teased.
"Why didn't you?" Ralph said with a smile.
Iris said, "Why would I bring a hamburger to what must be a banquet for you?"
Helen glanced from brother to sister, then turned and kept her eyes on the landscape.
"At one time," Ralph said, "I had an overwhelming taste for hamburgers. But now, being an old married man —"
Adela had been one of Iris' friends, a dark-haired, unusually slender Catalan with blue eyes. When Ralph was leaving Barcelona he had asked half-jokingly, "Will you wait for me?" Adela had giggled and had looked at Iris. For months, Iris remembered, Adela had asked, "When will your brother return to Spain?"
Gently Iris said, "You might have sent her a card at least. Two years and not a word."
"I know." Ralph ground out a cigarette beneath his feet. "She was nice. Is she married?"
"Yes."
"Oh," he said, adding after a while, "good." He turned to stare past Helen at the traffic.
"And how's your wife? Your marriage? Are you happy?" Iris watched him as he turned toward her, smiling. Even before he spoke she knew what he was going to say.
"I'm happy." He opened his hands as if to say, What more can I say? "And you?"
Her smile was tight. "I'm a career girl, remember?"
They became silent.
The great bridge they approached soared up out of the ground and into the sky. "Is that the George Washington Bridge?" Iris asked, staring at the massive, snow-covered approaches.
"No, it's the Triboro."
"For Christ's sake, don't look at me like that. I don't know New York. Harry and I were only here three days before we left, and if it'd been up to him we'd have spent each of them in bed."
"Does it seem strange to you?" Ralph asked.
"Yes," Iris said.
They were speeding down East River Drive. "Were you very lonely here?" she asked. "I mean before Eve?"
"Yes, I suppose so," he answered.
The taxi peeled off the Drive and crept into a snow-filled street. Ralph and Iris said goodbye to Helen, settled back in the cab for the ride home.
The view of the mighty, hard, window-specked city, thrusting boldly up through the snow, jolted Iris. An old dread of this city, and of the continent to which it was the gateway, stirred within her.
CHAPTER 2"Bienvenido a su casa," the small, peach-brown woman said. Her eyes sparkled. "Ralph taught me to say that," Eve said, coming forward to embrace Iris. Iris liked her at once. "C'mon," Eve said. "You both must be tired and lunch is ready."
Ralph looked at Iris. She said, "Oh, man!" He grinned.
"Nothing new on the weather," Eve said, seating Iris at the table.
When lunch was over, Iris padded from room to room, a drink in her hand. Ralph was making telephone calls.
Iris had seen the dolls in Raphaella's room and the neat boxes of scarcely used toys. For the first time she thought of Ralph's child by his first wife, April; she felt a curious urge to see the child. Passing Ralph and Eve's bedroom she noticed one of his shoes turned so that its almost new leather sole was visible, and she thought of their childhood; in those days they had fitted meticulously folded newspaper into the soles of their shoes. She remembered also those rare, enthusiastically welcomed parades to the Modern Boot Shop where new shoes, restricted in style, color and durability by the yellow welfare order in Sissie's bag, were obtained for them. Sissie's tough thumbs, she recalled, would jab into the soles of the shoes and skim along the stitchings, feeling for inferior merchandise. Sissie always demanded the best the order could buy. Iris wore Italian shoes; she had had it on good authority that this mode would not get to America for another two years; the shoes were very expensive.
She paused in the alcove where Ralph's desk was and looked down at the typewriter. He hadn't had a machine when she and Harry left. She studied the titles of the books on the shelf above, as if they might reveal something of Ralph's secret self. On the shelf above the books was a photograph of Raffy. The ash tray was piled high with butts. Iris smiled. Eve was not allowed to enter this part of the room. The apartment told little about the people who lived there; its spare furnishings made her think of the monastery at Monserrat. Standing here where Ralph worked, she pictured him spending innumerable hours at the typewriter, in the small pyramid of light cast by the lamp above. She turned the battered, cane-bottomed desk chair and, seating herself in it, thought how wonderful it was that her brother now lived in the peace of such a home. Once more she glanced around the room and the life that he led there with Eve somehow became real for her. She needed a background against which to imagine things. Until his arrival in Spain two years before, she was not able to think of him as married to April, or as the father of a child. But April and the divorce were now all past: there was only himself and his bride of six months, Eve.
Suddenly she sensed that Ralph had come up behind her. "How's Raffy?" she asked without turning.
"Oh," he said. "You know kids. She's all right."
"And April?"
"Okay."
"Dad?"
"All right. I should call him."
Now she turned toward Ralph. "Do you think so?"
"Yes, don't you?"
She nodded. "You know," she said, "I like your wife; she's very lovely."
"She's all right," he said, sitting down in another chair.
Iris smiled at him. "Look, baby, how's it going?"
"So-so; could always be better."
"But you're making it?"
"Got to make it."
"Hey, I got a Ramirez for you."
"No shuck? Print or original?"
"Oh, come on, now. Nothing but the best for my Broth. I'll get it for you in a while." She stared at him. "You look better than you did when you came to visit me. I guess" — she glanced toward the kitchen, and, satisfied that Eve was still there, went on — "Adela got you straightened out."
"And you."
"Hell, I couldn't do what Adela did."
Ralph laughed. "No."
They were silent for a moment and then Ralph said, "I'm sorry it had to be this way. I wanted you to come on a visit and have fun."
"I might not have come back quite so soon," she said. "Not because I hate it here." She laughed. "I never knew that much about it except home. You know, I've made it over there. I don't know if I could bring all that here without losing something."
"I know."
She said, "I suppose that I would've come sometime soon to visit mother. That talk we had in Barcelona...."
"That talk," he said, "and the other." He breathed heavily.
"And the other," she now echoed.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Sissie by John A. Williams. Copyright © 1969 John A. Williams. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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