Free Lazaretto by Diane Mckinney-Whetstone Page B

scissors as quickly as she could. Now Nevada’s voice could be heard shouting over Miss Ma’s laughter. “Where is she, Ma? Look at me and tell me where she is.”
    Vergie responded to Nevada’s frantic tone. “I am hiding from you under the steps,” she said in a singsongy voice.
    â€œYou are, are you?” Vergie could hear the relief in Nevada’s voice as Nevada matched the rhythm of Vergie’s speech. “Well, come on now, time for us to make breakfast. You want to form the dough for the biscuits, don’t you?”
    Vergie emerged slowly from the crawl space. She stuck one leg out and then the other. The lap of her night slip was filled with hair and she shook it out as she maneuvered into the sunlight in the backyard. It seemed warmer suddenly, and even before she looked at Nevada she felt the change in the air; now it had an itchy feel, like the edges of the crinoline slip she’d had to wear for an entire day the past Easter as, it seemed, every child in the world gave a recitation about the Risen Lord.
    â€œHere I am,” Vergie said as she emerged fully from the crawl space and walked into the center of the yard.
    There was a sharp intake of air from Nevada. It was so loud that it penetrated even Miss Ma’s high-pitched laughter and left her suddenly quiet. Vergie looked from Nevada to Miss Ma to see if she could tell from their faces whether she’d done a good job getting to the roots of her hair. Their expressions were identical: frozen, horrified. Vergie patted at her hair. There was a section across the front where practically no hair remained, but just next to that a thick clump, and then, beyond that, an irregular swath ofscalp. The pattern repeated itself across her head and she thought that if she’d just had more time they wouldn’t be staring at her now as if she were a monster. She thought about trying to finish the job but Nevada seemed to read her mind. “Give me the scissors, Vergilina,” Nevada’s shaky voice said.
    Vergie handed Nevada the scissors, and when Miss Ma’s laughter started anew, Vergie wondered if it was really laughter at all; maybe all this time those high-pitched sounds were actually Miss Ma crying. Nevada continued speechless as she stared at Vergie, and now she shook her head back and forth in disbelief. “Your hair, Vergilina. Dear God, your hair . . .” The yard felt suddenly dark, and Vergie ran to Nevada and wrapped her arms around her waist and pressed her head into her stomach. Then she cried. She didn’t understand why she cried, but she was overtaken with that feeling again that she’d not yet understood to be shame. It was a shrill feeling that started deep in her stomach and spread out from there even as Nevada patted her back and told her it would be okay; her hair would grow in before she knew it. The feeling had already found an opening in her chest, and settled there.
    OVER THE NEXT months, Vergie grew bolder, brasher—her aunt thought that her behavior bordered on rudeness—but she was severely needy, too. She stayed as close to Sylvia as she could. They’d have to distract Vergie for Sylvia to be able to leave the house without Vergie throwing a tantrum. Which happened one day when Sylvia’s parents were preparing for a big catering job, and Sylvia needed to make a quick trip to the wharf to pick up their last-minute supplies.
    She rushed to return home with the crate, worried about Vergie’s sudden change in temperament. Even Nevada had remarked on it. “She act like a little puppy dog, nipping on the heels of whoever happens to be caring for her. Did something scare her?” Nevada had asked. “It would be a sin for her independent streak to go awry.” So Sylvia was preoccupied with thoughts of Vergie as she ran along the wharf, her crate loaded with onions, molasses, peppercorn, and whey. She didn’t hear the man calling out to her