The Seventh Year

The Keeper of Hours

Chapter 52: The Seventh Year

The first card from Oakland came on the nineteenth of December, twenty twenty-eight, in a plain white envelope with Tamika Wells's careful slanting hand on the front. It had no return address. It had three first-class stamps, which was more than it needed, and which Tiana would decide was Tamika making a small silent statement about the distance the envelope was carrying.

Inside the envelope was a small photograph.

The photograph was three by four inches. It was of a small brown dog with a red-and-green plaid Christmas collar, sitting on a kitchen rug, looking up at the camera with the serious look of a dog who had been told, briefly, to hold still.

On the back of the photograph, in blue ink: Cornbread, December 2028. Tamika.

That was all.

No letter. No card. No message beyond the dog's name and the date and the signature.

Tiana held the photograph at the kitchen table on the afternoon it arrived. She looked at it for a long time.

She said, to her apartment, in the small interior way: Tamika. I see you.

She put the photograph in a small frame she had bought at the drugstore three days later. She set the frame on her side table in her apartment, next to the small framed photograph of Mama Funmi that her grandmother had kept beside her prayer book and which Tiana had, in March 2027, moved to her own home.

Cornbread was, from that afternoon, a face in Tiana's apartment — a small brown face in a red-and-green collar, sent across three thousand miles without a letter, which was the first Christmas card Tamika Wells had sent to anyone east of California since 1998.

Naomi came to Park Avenue on Christmas Eve afternoon at two.

She had been, this year, in first grade. She was six years and ten months old. She had grown two inches since Mother's Day. She was wearing the burgundy Christmas dress she had worn to Mother Tate's funeral and to her fifth birthday, which Sheryl had — against the rising cost of fabric and the fact that Naomi was outgrowing the dress — let out at the hem one more time in November because Sheryl had decided that the burgundy dress was going to be Naomi's December dress for as long as any combination of extending the hem and the waist allowed.

This, Sheryl had told Yvonne on the phone, would be the last Christmas.

The dress would be retired in January and put in the small cedar box in Naomi's closet where Sheryl had been putting the clothes that would, in time, come out of the box only for keepsake reasons.

Naomi knew this. Sheryl had told her. Naomi had nodded solemnly and had said Grandma. I want to wear it to Park Avenue this year. Sheryl had said yes, baby.

Naomi came up the porch with Sheryl and Reggie.

Marcus was at Park Avenue already. He had driven over at noon from his apartment on Getwell, because he had been spending holiday afternoons at Park for two and a half years now and because Yvonne had, after he had moved back from Atlanta in June 2027, settled into the steady pattern of expecting him at holiday meals without having to ask.

Carl was in the carport. Carl was in the carport on every second day of the year, regardless of what the household was doing, because Carl Brooks had, in his quiet retirement, taken over the small informal management of every small fixable thing that might arise at Park Avenue, and because the carport was the place from which this management was most efficiently conducted.

Tiana was in the kitchen with Yvonne. They had been making the small side dishes for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The pies were out. The turkey was thawing. The dressing was prepped.

When the Hightowers came up the porch, Yvonne wiped her hands on her apron and went to the door.

"Sheryl. Reggie. Baby."

"Yvonne."

Naomi came up to Yvonne and hugged her and said, with the small grave dignity she had brought to the afternoon: "Grandma Yvonne. I have something to ask you."

"Ask, baby."

"I want to read the legacy pages aloud tonight. For Christmas Eve. I have been practicing at home with Grandma Sheryl. I know most of the names now. I will stumble on the ones from Mississippi because I have not seen them all, but I want to try. I talked to Grandma Sheryl about it two weeks ago. She said yes. She said I had to ask you."

Yvonne did not, at first, speak.

She looked down at her granddaughter.

She looked at Sheryl, whose face said she had been preparing for this moment since November.

She said: "Baby. Come inside. We will talk."

They sat in the front room.

Naomi was on the couch between Yvonne and Sheryl. Reggie had taken the small wooden chair by the door. Tiana had come in from the kitchen, and Marcus had come in from the porch, and the family — plus the Hightowers — was gathered the way it gathered now on holiday afternoons: in a small loose ring around Eldridge's chair.

Yvonne said: "Naomi. Tell me what you have been practicing."

"Grandma Sheryl asked Cousin Tiana, three weeks ago, if she could have a list of the legacy names from your book so I could practice. Cousin Tiana wrote a list for me. She sent it to Grandma Sheryl by email. I have been practicing at the kitchen table at home, in the afternoons, for three weeks. Grandma Sheryl helps me with the hard words. I know Eldridge. I know Ola Mae Chambers — that is your grandmother, Grandma Yvonne. I know Mother Wells. I know Calvin Pruitt. I know Daphne Crenshaw. I know Mama Funmi. I know most of them. I want to read them in the book for real tonight."

Tiana, across the room, was watching Yvonne's face.

Yvonne said: "Baby. Why Christmas Eve?"

"Because Christmas Eve is the night the Lord is supposed to be coming, Grandma. The legacy pages are for the ones in the cloud. If the Lord is coming tonight, they are part of the welcome. I want to read them for the welcome. I have been thinking about it. I decided in November. I waited until I thought I was good enough to read them. I am good enough now. I want to try."

Yvonne could not, for a moment, speak.

She looked at Sheryl.

Sheryl said, gently: "Yvonne. She has been working on it. She is ready. She is six and she is a keeper. The reading is part of her formation. I would not be here with her if I did not think she could do it."

Yvonne nodded.

She said: "Baby. Yes. You read them tonight. You read them at the reading we are going to do at eight before everyone goes home. I will be beside you. If you get stuck, I will help. You are not reading alone. But you are leading the reading."

Naomi nodded. She had, Tiana noticed, been preparing herself to hear either answer. She had been prepared, with the same gravity, to accept a no.

She had received the yes with the same gravity.

She said: "Thank you, Grandma Yvonne."

"Thank you, baby."

Carl grilled on the porch that afternoon. Marcus made hot chocolate for Naomi and coffee for the adults. Yvonne put the pies back in a warmer at seven. Tiana set the table.

At seven-fifty the family moved to the front room.

The lights were off except the small lamp beside Eldridge's chair and the small Christmas tree in the corner — four feet tall, the ornaments from the box in the back bedroom that had been Mama Tate's since 1971, decorated by Yvonne and Naomi two weeks ago on a Saturday when Naomi had come over for the whole afternoon. The pecan tree outside was bare. The December night was cold.

Yvonne sat on the couch with the prayer book on her lap. Naomi, in the burgundy dress, climbed up beside her. Tiana sat on the floor at Yvonne's feet. Marcus sat in the small armchair. Carl was in his wooden chair by the door. Sheryl and Reggie were on the small loveseat.

Yvonne opened the prayer book.

She turned to the legacy pages.

She turned them slowly, past Eldridge, past her grandmother, past the long careful column of the dead. She turned to the page where they would begin tonight — which was, Yvonne had decided in the afternoon, the first legacy page, because she wanted Naomi to read the first name her mother had ever written: Eldridge.

She said: "Naomi. When you are ready."

Naomi took a small breath.

She set her small finger on the page.

She read: "Eldridge Tate. 1936 to 2008."

"Yes, baby."

"Ola Mae Chambers, the first. My grandmother, Yvonne's great-grandmother. Greenwood, Mississippi."

"Yes."

Naomi read.

She read slowly. She did not stumble on any of the names. Sheryl had, in three weeks of afternoons, given her the hard ones. Her voice was the small careful voice of a six-year-old reading from a book in a lamp-lit room, and it was a voice that was going to be — Tiana thought, watching her cousin-by-the-book on the couch — the voice that would be reading these pages in forty years when the rest of them were gone.

Naomi read the crossed-out names with their dates and notes. She read Calvin Pruitt, crossed April nineteenth, twenty twenty-six, Free. She read Patrice Pinkston, crossed April twenty-ninth, twenty twenty-six, Free, with a daughter, with a granddaughter named Ruth. She paused a moment on Ruth's name, because Ruth was her cousin by the book. She read Daphne Crenshaw, crossed April seventh, twenty twenty-six, Held by the Lord. The end was not what we asked. We trust the Lord with the inside of it. Her voice went quieter on Held by the Lord.

She read Mother Wells of Mt. Calvary.

She read Adebayo Akinyele.

She came to Mama Tate's entry.

She read: "Ola Mae Tate. January fifth, twenty twenty-seven. Mother of this book. Went home well. The keeping continues."

Her voice, on Mother of this book, held.

She did not cry. She did not, Tiana saw, need to cry. She had been preparing for the reading of her great-grandmother's name for three weeks, and she had, at some point in that three weeks, arrived at the shape she wanted her voice to have when she got to the line. The shape was steady.

She read the recent additions — Sister Doris's folded-in names, which had been folded in in November. She read them one at a time, in the same careful voice, and at the end — at Sister Doris Akers, October fourth, twenty twenty-eight, The alto line is retired — she closed the book.

She set her hand on the cover.

She said: "Amen."

"Amen," Yvonne said.

"Amen," Tiana said.

"Amen," Marcus and Carl and Sheryl and Reggie said, almost together.

The room was, for a long moment, quiet.

Yvonne put her arm around Naomi.

She said: "Baby. You read the legacy pages well."

"Thank you, Grandma Yvonne."

"I want to tell you a thing. Your great-grandmother read these pages for fifty years. She read them in her own voice, at her own chair, in this room. She taught me to read them. I read them on Saturdays now. Cousin Tiana reads them on the other mornings. Tonight you read them. The line of readers has four voices now. You are the fourth. The Lord hears all four of us in His ear. He heard you tonight in a new tone. He receives the new tone. The legacy pages have never, in fifty years, been read by a six-year-old. You are the first. That is — baby, that is a gift to the pages."

Naomi thought about this.

She said: "Grandma Yvonne. Can I do it again next Christmas Eve?"

"Baby. You can read them every Christmas Eve for the rest of your life."

"Okay."

"And, baby — if you want, when you are seven, we can talk about having you read once a month. On Saturdays. With me. I will read the active list; you read the legacy. We will do it together. Only if you want."

Naomi said: "Grandma Yvonne. I want to."

"Yes, baby."

Sheryl, on the loveseat, had her hand over her face.

Tiana, on the floor, was crying quietly without trying to stop.

Carl, at the door, was nodding slowly with his cap in his hand.

The Hightowers left at nine-fifteen with a sleeping Naomi in Reggie's arms.

Marcus left at ten to go to his apartment on Getwell.

Carl, Yvonne, and Tiana stayed in the front room a while longer. The tree lights were on. The house had the small peaceful exhaustion of a Christmas Eve that had held its people well.

After a long while Tiana said: "Mom."

"Yes, baby."

"Mom. I want to tell you a small thing. Not a big one. Just so you know it."

"Tell me, Tiana."

"There is a man at Wednesday night Bible study at Mt. Calvary. I am not — Mom, I am not dating him. I want to be clear. I have been in the study for eight months. He has been there as long. His name is David Taylor. He is thirty-three. He teaches middle school history at Oakhaven. He sat across from me last Wednesday and, at the end of the study, asked if he could bring me coffee some time. I said not now. I said I am — I am busy with my grandmother's work. He said he understood. He said he would wait. He said, Mom, he said I will not ask again for a while. I will let you know I am here and I will wait. That is what my mother taught me."

"Tiana."

"Yes, Mom."

"Who was his mother?"

"Felicia Taylor. She went in 2019. I did not know her. His grandmother was Sarah Taylor. He told me a little about his grandmother in October. His grandmother lost her oldest son in a motorcycle accident in 1987. Her son was named Michael Taylor. He was twenty-three."

Yvonne did not, for a moment, breathe.

"Tiana."

"Yes, Mom."

"Sarah Taylor is in Mama's book."

"I know, Mom."

"Sarah Taylor was on Mama's list from 1987 until she died in 2012."

"I know, Mom."

"I have read her name every Saturday for two years. Your grandmother prayed her through Jeremiah, Mama said once. Sarah Taylor was one of Mama's long carries."

"Yes, Mom."

"How long have you known."

"Since October. David — David told me. He did not know I was Mama's granddaughter until I told him in July. He did not push the connection. He waited. He has been — Mom, he has been waiting."

Yvonne looked at her daughter for a long moment.

She said, carefully: "Baby. This is the Lord."

"Mom, I — I do not know if it is. I have been careful about it. I do not want to be the woman who sees a sign in every coincidence. David and I have been in the same Bible study. He has been kind. He has not pressed. I have not said yes to coffee. I am telling you because I wanted you to know before — before whatever happens or does not happen happens. I wanted you to know his mother's mother is in the book."

"Yes, baby."

"Mom. Do not tell Carl."

"I will not."

"I am going to — I am going to think about it. I am not going to rush. But I wanted you to hold the fact."

"I am holding it, Tiana. I am not going to say anything. I am not going to push you. I am not going to put you in a hurry."

"Thank you, Mom."

Yvonne put her hand on her daughter's hand.

She said: "Baby. Your grandmother would have said, about this exact situation, the Lord arranges slowly. You do not arrange fast."

"Yes, Mom."

"You are not arranging fast. Good."

"Yes, Mom."

Tiana drove home at ten-thirty.

She sat at her kitchen table with the composition book open and the small photograph of Cornbread in its frame on the side table and her small green leather notebook — the one her mother had given her for Christmas two years ago, for "thoughts that were not names" — on her lap.

She wrote in the green notebook:

December 24, 2028. Christmas Eve. Naomi read the legacy pages aloud for the first time. She did not stumble. She closed the book after Sister Doris. She said "amen" in a voice that is going to be reading these pages in 2068 when I am long gone. She wants to read them monthly. Mom said yes. The line has a new voice.

She paused.

She wrote, on the next line:

A card came from Oakland. A photograph of Cornbread. No letter. Tamika is reading letter twenty-one of her second reading this week. She sent the dog.

She paused again.

She wrote:

I told Mom about David tonight. Eight months and no coffee. His grandmother was Sarah Taylor. Mama carried Sarah for twenty-five years. Mom said the Lord arranges slowly. I do not arrange fast. I am not arranging.

She closed the green notebook.

She set her hand on it.

She sat at the table for a long moment. The kitchen was quiet. Her apartment was warm.

She said, to her kitchen, to the Lord: Thank You for the day. Thank You for Naomi at the book. Thank You for Tamika at the dog. Thank You for David who is waiting. I am not asking You to move anything fast. I am asking You to keep arranging. Amen.

She went to bed.

Christmas morning the family gathered at Park Avenue at ten.

It was smaller than the big ones. No Williamsons this year — Patrice's husband Maurice had had a mild heart scare in early December and the family was staying in Houston. No Pruitts — the Pruitts had gone to Detroit for Stephen's side. Curtis was in Nashville for the break. Pamela was in Atlanta.

It was Yvonne, Carl, Tiana, Marcus, and — at one o'clock — the Hightowers with Naomi, who came for the afternoon.

It was the smallest Christmas Park Avenue had held in years.

It was also, Tiana would later think, one of the good ones. Small. Slow. Enough.

Naomi, who had been on her best behavior Christmas Eve, was on ordinary-Christmas behavior by mid-afternoon — playing with the small stuffed cat she had gotten from Sheryl, asking Marcus three times in a row for the same cookie, falling asleep briefly on the couch between Yvonne and Tiana during a lull at four.

Tiana, on the couch with Naomi's head against her arm, thought about the year that was closing.

She thought: Grandma. 2028. A fourteen-year-old answered in May. Tamika called in July. Sister Doris went in October. Naomi read the legacy pages at six and a half. A man has been waiting in a Bible study for eight months whose grandmother's name you wrote in 1987. The Lord has been arranging. We have been receiving. The year held.

She paused.

Thank You.

Outside, the Memphis December went gold at the edges of the afternoon. The pecan tree was bare. The small light over the sink was on, as it had been on for every day of the year, the way the sanctuary lamp stays lit.

The seventh year of the new arrangement — counting from Mama Tate's last Easter in 2026 — had closed the way it had opened, with the keeping continuing and the line widening in the small quiet way the line widened when nobody was rushing.

Naomi slept on Tiana's arm for twenty minutes.

The family held.

The year was done.