Five

The Keeper of Hours

Chapter 37: Five

Naomi turned five on Saturday, February thirteenth, and the Hightowers had been planning the party for six weeks.

Sheryl had called Yvonne the third week of January with the plan. The party would be small. Only the adults closest to Naomi and three of her preschool friends. It would be at the Hightowers' house in Whitehaven. Sheryl had ordered a cake from the small Black bakery on Elvis Presley that had made Aliyah's birthday cakes from 1992 to 2020 and which was, Sheryl had told Yvonne, still making them for Naomi in the careful unbroken way a family's bakery honors its families through the years.

The cake this year would be five tiers high — small tiers, each one five inches across — with a small pecan on top. Sheryl had ordered the pecan specifically. She had told the baker on the phone that Naomi had been counting the pecans on her great-grandmother's tree since last July and that the cake should honor the tree.

The baker, who was seventy-one years old and had known Sheryl since nineteen seventy-eight and who had also made Mother Tate's pound cakes for three decades before Mother Tate had gotten too old to order them, had said: Sheryl, I will put the pecan on. You tell the baby her Grandma Tate is in the cake.

Sheryl had said she would tell her.

The Saturday morning at Park Avenue was the small Saturday morning it had been for four weeks now. Tiana had come at three forty-four. Yvonne had been up. Carl had arrived at three-forty. The three of them had done the Saturday arrangement — Tiana reading the active list, Yvonne reading the legacy, Carl on the couch — and the arrangement had been clean this morning in a way that made all three of them quietly notice.

Afterward, at the kitchen table over biscuits, Yvonne said: "Tiana. What are you bringing Naomi today."

"Mom. I have — I have a small thing. I do not want to make it a big thing. Grandma, last November, told me to give Naomi a small marbled composition book on her fifth birthday. She said — she said the book would not be for names. It would be for drawings. She said she wanted Naomi to have a book of her own to carry, to see how it felt. She said fives are a good age to begin that."

"Yes, baby."

"I bought it in November. It has been on my dresser for three months. I inscribed it last night."

"What did you write."

"I wrote what Grandma dictated to me in November. She said Tiana, on the first page, you write: For Naomi, age 5, from your Great-Grandma Tate and Cousin Tiana. This book is for whatever you need it for. You hold it. The Lord gives. You receive. I wrote that. I signed it from both of us."

Yvonne closed her eyes.

"Mama."

"Yes, Mom."

"She was arranging the future while she was — she was arranging it."

"She was, Mom. She arranged a lot. I have been finding small things. The book for Naomi was one. There is — there is one more I have been meaning to tell you about."

"Tell me."

"In the dresser. The small wooden box."

"I have been through it. I read her letter to me."

"Yes, Mom. But there is a second envelope at the bottom of the box, under the first cloth layer. It is addressed to Tiana. I have not opened it."

Yvonne, at the table, did not answer for a moment.

"You knew."

"Grandma told me in December. She said — Mom, she said you open that one on the morning of Naomi's fifth birthday. Not before. Not after. On that morning. You open it with your mother and with Carl. You read it out loud to the three of you. That is the time. I have been — Mom, I have been waiting since December. I have not opened it. I went and got it from the dresser last night. It is on the kitchen counter. I put it there to not forget."

Yvonne looked at the counter.

The small white envelope was there, tucked behind the small blue bowl Yvonne kept oranges in. It was, Yvonne saw now, the same kind of envelope her own letter from her mother had been in. The same careful handwriting on the front. Tiana.

Yvonne said: "Carl."

Carl had been sitting at the table the whole time. Carl lifted his head.

"Yes, Mama."

"You want to be here for this."

"I do, Mama."

"Bring it to the table, Tiana."

Tiana brought the envelope. She set it on the table. She looked at her mother.

"Mom. You want to read it, or do you want me to."

"You read it, baby. Your name is on the envelope."

Tiana opened the envelope.

The letter inside was two pages. Her grandmother's hand — from November, Tiana suspected, because the hand was steadier than December's would have been — careful and slanted and familiar.

Tiana read.

Tiana, my granddaughter,

This letter is for the morning of Naomi's fifth birthday. You read it with your mother and Carl at the kitchen table. Then you fold it. Then you carry it in your purse to the Hightowers' house this afternoon. Then you do what I am going to tell you to do.

I am writing this on the eleventh of November. I still have the hand today, though it is slower. I have been thinking for three weeks about what to give Naomi on her fifth birthday, and I am not going to be there. The composition book is one thing. It is for drawings. That is the small gift. There is also a larger gift. The larger gift is not an object. It is an instruction. I want you to carry the instruction.

The instruction is this. When you arrive at the Hightowers' this afternoon, you ask to speak to Naomi for a few minutes alone. You do not do it in front of the other children. You do not do it in front of Sheryl and Reggie, though Sheryl knows it is coming — I have spoken to Sheryl. You and Naomi sit in her room, the one with the small bed and the night-light. You sit on the floor. You take the blue handkerchief Sheryl embroidered for her with the pecan leaf, which Naomi kept in her pocket at my funeral. Sheryl will have it. You put it in Naomi's hand. You tell her: your Great-Grandma Tate left a message for you for your fifth birthday. It is from her to you. I am going to say it now. You listen. Then you hold the message in your chest the way you have been holding the handkerchief. You are five now. You are big enough to hold a message.

Then you say this, Tiana. You say it slowly. You say it the way I said it when I was writing it. Here is the message.

Naomi baby. I saw you. I saw you the first time you came to my porch in the red sneakers. I saw you every time after. I saw you at my bedside in December with the drawing. I saw you at my service in the burgundy dress. I have seen you from the cloud since the fifth of January. I see you today on your fifth birthday. The Lord is with you. You are kept. You are loved. You are a holder. You told me on my porch in May that you thought you had the warm thing for me, and you were right. The warm thing is the Lord telling you who to hold. You are going to hold many people in your life. You do not need to know who yet. You are five. You are allowed to be five today. You are allowed to eat cake and count the pecans on the cake and laugh with your friends and play with Mr. Apatosaurus. That is your job today. The holding will come in its own time. The Lord will tell you when. Tell your Cousin Tiana when it happens. Tell your Daddy. Tell Grandma and Grandpa. You will not be alone when the call comes. I am with you. I am in the cloud. I love you, baby. Happy fifth birthday. Your Great-Grandma.

That is the message, Tiana. You give it to her.

And one more thing, baby. After you give her the message, you put the handkerchief back in her pocket. You do not keep it. You do not frame it. You do not move it to the dresser. It goes back in her pocket. Sheryl will know to put it back in the drawer after the birthday. Naomi is going to carry that handkerchief to every small milestone of her life. Sheryl and I arranged that in October. I did not tell you. I am telling you now. The handkerchief is the small physical through-line. I am handing you the knowledge so you can pass it to your own children if the Lord gives you any, or to Marcus if he has more, or to whoever is the next keeper of the family small physical things. The handkerchief stays with the girl.

Tiana. I love you. Happy birthday to our girl. The keeping continues. I am watching.

Grandma.

Tiana lowered the letter.

She could not, for a moment, speak.

Yvonne, at the table, had her hand over her mouth.

Carl was looking at his hands.

After a long minute Yvonne said: "Mama arranged the whole day."

"She did, Mom."

"She talked to Sheryl."

"In October."

"Sheryl has known since October."

"Grandma said Sheryl knows."

"Sheryl did not tell me."

"She would not have, Mom. That was the way Grandma worked. She arranged a small thing and she kept each person knowing only their part. Sheryl had the handkerchief part. I have the message part. You have the knowing-about-it-after part. Carl — Carl has the sitting-with-it part."

Carl nodded quietly. "Yes."

Yvonne pressed her hands against her eyes for a long moment.

When she lowered them she said: "Baby. Go do what Mama said. Go give our girl her message. I will — I will be all right at home. Carl will be here. You take your time."

"Yes, Mom."

Tiana drove to Whitehaven at one-thirty in the afternoon.

She had the composition book inscribed for Naomi, wrapped in yellow paper Naomi had told Sheryl in December was her favorite color. She had the letter folded in her purse. She had, tucked into an inside pocket of her coat, a small photograph she had pulled off the refrigerator last night — a photograph Sheryl had taken in June at Park Avenue of Naomi and Mama Tate and Tiana on the porch, the three of them laughing about something, Mama Tate's hand on Naomi's shoulder and Naomi holding Mr. Apatosaurus in her lap.

She was going to give Naomi the photograph too, after the message, in the small quiet part of the birthday that was for the family.

She arrived at one forty-three.

Sheryl met her at the door.

"Tiana."

"Sheryl."

"She is in her room. The other children are not here yet. I sent Reggie to pick up the cake at two. You have time."

"Sheryl. You knew."

"Since October, baby. Your grandmother called me. She asked if I would hold one part of a plan. She asked me not to tell you. I have been waiting. She gave me the handkerchief text, the date, the whole thing. I have the handkerchief. I was going to give it to Naomi this morning. I — Tiana, I have been waiting for you. I wanted to do it together."

"Yes, Sheryl."

"Come in. I'll get her."

They went inside. The house had been decorated — small yellow streamers, a pecan-themed banner, a small yellow tablecloth on the dining room table. The cake was not yet there. Sheryl called Naomi from the back.

Naomi came out in a yellow birthday dress. She had the small careful five-year-old excitement she had been managing all morning. She saw Tiana. She ran.

"Cousin Tiana!"

"Birthday girl."

Tiana knelt. Naomi hugged her hard. Tiana held her.

After a moment Sheryl said, quietly: "Baby. Tiana wants to sit with you in your room for a few minutes before the other kids come. Is that okay?"

"Yes, Grandma."

"We will come out for cake when we are ready. You go with her."

Tiana took Naomi's hand. They walked to Naomi's bedroom. Sheryl did not follow. Sheryl closed the door gently behind them.

They sat on the floor.

Naomi was on the small rag rug by the bed. Tiana was cross-legged opposite her. The small night-light on the dresser was off — it was afternoon — and the winter sun through the window made a small bright square on the rug between them.

"Naomi."

"Yes, Cousin Tiana."

"I have something from your Great-Grandma Tate for your birthday."

Naomi's face did a small thing.

"Cousin Tiana. Great-Grandma is in the cloud."

"I know, baby. She wrote something for you before she went. She told me to read it to you today, on your fifth birthday. I have been holding it for you since November. It is a message, Naomi. Not a present. A message. Is that all right?"

"Yes."

"Grandma Sheryl has the handkerchief. The blue one. With the pecan leaf. Great-Grandma asked me to put the handkerchief in your hand while I read the message. Can you go get it?"

Naomi's face moved again. She said: "Cousin Tiana. It is in my jewelry box. I have been keeping it there since Great-Grandma went."

"Can you get it, baby?"

Naomi rose. She went to the small wooden jewelry box on her dresser. She opened it. She took out the pale blue handkerchief. She came back. She sat down. She held the handkerchief in her lap.

"Naomi."

"Yes."

"Hold it tight. Listen carefully. Your Great-Grandma had this message in her for three months before she wrote it down. She wanted you to hear it today."

"Yes."

Tiana read.

She read slowly. She read the way her grandmother had told her to read. She read Naomi baby, I saw you. I saw you the first time you came to my porch in the red sneakers. She read the whole thing. She read to Happy fifth birthday. Your Great-Grandma.

She closed the letter.

Naomi had not, for the reading, moved.

Tiana looked at her.

Naomi was still. Her hand was tight on the handkerchief. She was looking down at the rag rug.

After a long moment Naomi said: "Cousin Tiana."

"Yes, baby."

"Great-Grandma saw me at her funeral."

"Yes, baby. She saw you."

"Even though she was in the casket."

"Yes, baby. The casket was her body. She was in the cloud. She could see you."

"Yes."

"Naomi."

"Yes."

"Do you have any questions about the message?"

Naomi thought.

"Cousin Tiana. When the warm thing comes, what will it feel like?"

Tiana smiled. She had, on the first Saturday of the year, answered almost the same question from Denise Cole-Harper. The small continuity of it made her chest hurt in a good way.

"Baby. The warm thing feels like a small stone in your chest. Behind your sternum. You will know it. It is not painful. It is warm. It is like a little friend telling you pay attention to that person. Different keepers describe it differently. Great-Grandma used to call it the press. I call it the stone. Some people call it something else. It is the same thing. When it comes — if it comes today, if it comes when you are ten, if it comes when you are twenty-five — you tell me. I will tell you what to do with it. Or you tell your daddy, or Sheryl, or Grandpa. Any of us. We know what to do."

"Yes, Cousin Tiana."

"And Great-Grandma said — the message said — that the holding will come in its own time. Today is not the day. Today is the cake day. Today you are five. Today you play with Mr. Apatosaurus and eat cake and count the pecan on the cake. That is your job today."

"Yes. I can do that."

"I know you can, baby."

Tiana put the handkerchief back in Naomi's hand.

"Naomi. You put this in your pocket today for the party. After the party, you put it back in your jewelry box. You carry it again when there is a big day. Great-Grandma said you will have many big days. Kindergarten graduation. First day of school. First — first time you have your own big thing. The handkerchief carries at the big days. The rest of the time it stays in the jewelry box, waiting."

Naomi nodded.

She put the handkerchief in the small pocket of her yellow dress.

"Okay, Cousin Tiana."

Tiana took out the wrapped composition book.

"This is for today too. From me and from Great-Grandma. Open it."

Naomi opened it. The yellow paper came off. The small marbled composition book. She ran her finger across the cover. She opened it. She looked at the first page — where Tiana had written, in her block letters, the inscription Mama Tate had dictated.

Naomi could read now. She was five. She had been reading short words since October.

She read, slowly: "For Naomi, age five, from your Great-Grandma Tate and Cousin Tiana. This book is for whatever you need it for. You hold it. The Lord gives. You receive."

She closed the book.

She said: "Cousin Tiana. I am going to draw in this."

"Yes, baby. Or anything. It is yours. You use it for what you want."

"I will draw Great-Grandma first."

"Yes, baby."

"And the pecan tree."

"Yes."

"And then my school. And then the dinosaur."

"Yes, baby."

"Okay."

Tiana also reached into her coat.

"One more thing, baby. This is from my kitchen. I had it on the refrigerator."

She gave Naomi the photograph. Naomi looked at it for a long moment. It was the three of them on the porch in June — Great-Grandma, Naomi, Cousin Tiana.

Naomi's small face, for the first time in the whole hour, did the soft sad five-year-old thing it had been not doing.

"Cousin Tiana."

"Yes, baby."

"Will you put this in my jewelry box with the handkerchief?"

"Yes, baby."

"I want them together."

"Yes."

Tiana walked to the jewelry box. She opened it. She set the photograph inside on top of where the handkerchief had been. Naomi, still on the rug, watched.

"Now when I open the box, I see us."

"Yes, baby."

"Okay."

The party was small and good.

The three preschool friends came at two-thirty. Reggie arrived with the cake at two-forty. Marcus, who had flown in from Atlanta on Friday night and was staying with his parents, came at three. The party ran until four-thirty. There was cake. There was the small ritual of counting the pecans — there was one pecan, and Naomi counted it carefully, one pecan, and laughed at her own joke, and everyone laughed with her — and there was the singing of Happy Birthday, which Marcus led.

Naomi ate a big piece. She did not spill. She played with her friends in the backyard afterward for half an hour.

At four-thirty the friends' parents came. The friends went. The house quieted.

Sheryl, Reggie, Marcus, Tiana, and Naomi sat in the small living room.

Naomi was on Marcus's lap. She had her head against his chest. She was holding her new composition book with one hand and the handkerchief — which she had taken out of her pocket for the cake part and which Sheryl had put back in her pocket for the picture-taking — with the other.

"Daddy."

"Yes, Naomi."

"Great-Grandma wrote me a letter."

"I know, baby. Cousin Tiana told me."

"She told me the warm thing is coming. But not today. Today I am five."

"That is right, baby."

"I had a good birthday."

"I am so glad, baby."

Naomi closed her eyes for a moment. Marcus held her. The four adults watched.

After a minute Naomi said: "Daddy."

"Yes, baby."

"Next year, can we have the birthday at Great-Grandma's house?"

The room went still.

Marcus did not, immediately, answer. He looked at Tiana. Tiana looked at Sheryl. Sheryl did a small nod at Marcus.

Marcus said, softly: "Baby. I think we could do that. I will talk to Cousin Tiana and to Grandma Yvonne. I think they would like that. The house — the house would like that."

"Yes. The house would like it."

"Yes, baby."

"Okay."

She settled her head back against his chest. She did not, this afternoon, say anything else important.

Tiana drove back to her apartment at five-thirty.

She drove slowly. The February light had gone gold-gray. The streets were quiet.

At a red light on Summer Avenue she sat for a moment with her hand on the wheel.

She thought about her grandmother.

She thought about the letter she had read on the floor of a small bedroom in Whitehaven to a five-year-old who had held her pecan-leaf handkerchief tight. She thought about the photograph now in the jewelry box. She thought about the small warm thing Mama Tate had told Naomi would come. She thought about how her grandmother had — from November, with a pen that was losing steadiness — arranged this afternoon. She thought about Sheryl's quiet holding of the plan for three months.

She thought: Grandma. You planned the day. You planned it while you were leaving. I have been carrying the message. I delivered it. It landed. Naomi cried a little. Then she ate cake. You were with us. I felt you in the room.

The light changed.

She drove on.

She called her mother when she got home.

"Mom."

"Tiana. How was it."

"Mom. Grandma planned the whole afternoon. Sheryl knew. The handkerchief. The message. The composition book. Naomi understood. She kept the handkerchief in her pocket and asked — Mom, she asked if we could have her sixth birthday at the house next year."

Yvonne did not, for a moment, answer.

"Mom?"

"Baby. That is the Lord."

"Yes, Mom."

"Your grandmother is — your grandmother is still arranging."

"She is, Mom."

"Tiana."

"Yes, Mom."

"We will have the sixth birthday at Park Avenue. Next February. You and I and Carl and Marcus and the Hightowers and Naomi and whatever other children she wants to invite. We will have it. We will do it right."

"Yes, Mom."

"Come over tomorrow after church. I am going to cook. I want you to eat with me and Carl."

"Yes, Mom."

"I love you, baby."

"I love you, Mom."

She hung up.

She sat on her couch in her apartment in the small quiet evening.

The keeping, she thought, was not only the book. The keeping was — the keeping was also the handkerchief. The keeping was the photograph in the jewelry box. The keeping was the six-year-old birthday Naomi had already asked for. The keeping was the careful arrangement of small things across time that Mama Tate had been doing for fifty years and that Tiana would, now, be doing in her own version for the rest of her life.

She reached for the composition book.

She opened it to the active list. She turned to Naomi's entry. She added, underneath, in small careful letters:

Age 5 as of February 13, 2027. Received the message. Kept the handkerchief. Asked for the sixth birthday at Park.

She underlined sixth birthday at Park.

She closed the book. She set her hand on it.

She said, in her own kitchen: "Amen."

A small girl had turned five. A small message had been delivered across the cloud and into a small bedroom in Whitehaven.

The house on Park Avenue, three miles east, was quiet. Yvonne and Carl were eating supper. The pecan tree was bare, but February was the last month of bareness. In two weeks the buds would begin. Spring would come.

In the cloud, a great-grandmother who had arranged a Saturday in February from a kitchen table in November was, Tiana knew without needing to claim it, at her own prayer-floor, proud.