Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

The Four Corners

1996; Johns Hopkins University Press; Volume: 19; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1353/cal.1996.0098

1080-6512

Natasha Trethewey,

Race, History, and American Society

The Four Corners Natasha Trethewey (bio) Nothing dies as slowly as a scene. The dusty jukebox cracking through the cackle of a beered-up crone— wagered wine—sudden need to dance . . . Richard Hugo In the empty lot, we are betting on recall, each long pull from the passed-around bottle a prelude to what comes back— burning at first—a lingering taste. Who can call it up, float scenes in color, the sound clear as a record's first notes, before the crowded bump of hips on the jukebox, the drag of a worn needle, or a bulldozer's drone? It's all still here. Nothing dies as slowly as a scene— old highway 49, a narrow strip through North Gulfport, just paved, running flush with the tracks, wild persimmon and pecan trees pushing up between. A crossroads here, at Martin Luther King, back then a street still named for some president. We called it The Four Corners, anyway, folks hardly mindful of city maps, property lines. Center of everything, the way in or out of town. You could hear the music blocks away—that plaintive I'm gone get upin the morning and hit highway 49— the dusty jukebox cracking through the clatter at The Four Corners Bar and Lounge. The Four Corners where [End Page 361] Miss Gaynette wielded an ax, pulled her man home; where Miss Leretta met husband number two, drinking vodka and fixing chicken plates in the back; where Mister Pledge preached to a table of followers till his liquor and his money ran out; where mama learned the stroll, stayed late enough to walk home with a boy, crickets, a bullfrog's throaty song; where I cooled off in the parking lot with neighorhood boys promising drinks, nights out, my cut of a solid paycheck; where back inside there was always red light over the bar, smell of reefer, the cackle of a beered-up crone— it all comes back like this—morning glories flanking the steps, opening like trumpets at closing time, and that old woman here, again, telling me stories: how she knew Nana from the beauty parlor, mama as a girl in school, and me, too, when I rode the headstart bus; all this a few hours before she'll sit behind me at church, nodding that matted wig she wears like a hat, amening and gyrating to whatever music she hears. We called her Auntie then; she is somebody's relative—may as well be mine. I've called her back, grinning, high now on recollection, wagered wine—sudden need to dance. Selected works by Natasha Trethewey: • Accounting • Beginning • Calling His Children Home • Closing Time • Deedywops • Delta Sharecroppers, 1930 • Expectant • History Lesson • Hot Comb • The House Down the Street • Saturday Drive • Secular • The Four Corners • Laying the Waves • An Interview with Natasha Trethewey Related Articles: Accounting Related Articles: Beginning Related Articles: Calling His Children Home Related Articles: Closing Time Related Articles: Deedywops Related Articles: Delta Sharecroppers, 1930 Related Articles: Expectant Related Articles: History Lesson Related Articles: Hot Comb Related Articles: The House Down the Street Related Articles: Saturday Drive Related Articles: Secular Related Articles: Laying the Waves Related Articles: An Interview with Natasha Trethewey Natasha Trethewey Natasha Trethewey, a member of the Dark Room Collective, is studying for the Ph.D. in English at the University of Massachusetts (Amherst), where she received the M.F.A. in creative writing in 1995. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of periodicals, including The Massachusetts Review, Seattle Review, Agni, The Southern Review, African American Review, The Gettysburg Review, and Callaloo. Copyright © 1996 Charles H. Rowell