'Silver Sparrow,' Tayari Jones' Tale Of Secret Sisters

Tayari Jones is also the author of Leaving Atlanta and The Untelling. i i

hide captionTayari Jones is also the author of Leaving Atlanta and The Untelling.

Courtesy of Algonquin Books
Tayari Jones is also the author of Leaving Atlanta and The Untelling.

Tayari Jones is also the author of Leaving Atlanta and The Untelling.

Courtesy of Algonquin Books
Silver Sparrow
By Tayari Jones
Hardover, 352 pages
Algonquin Press
List price: $19.95

Read An Excerpt

Almost everything about Tayari Jones' new novel, Silver Sparrow, is cleaved into two halves. It is the story of two sisters, Dana Lynn Yarbor and Bunny Chaurisse Witherspoon.

Though they live in the same city, the sisters have different last names and lead very different lives. The one thing they share is their father, James Witherspoon, but even the way they know him is very different.

The opening line of Silver Sparrow is, "My father, James Witherspoon, is a bigamist."

And while Dana, who narrates that opening, knows that she is not James' only daughter — that her mother is not James' only wife — Chaurisse does not. And when these two secret sisters find each other and become friends, they lose as much as they gain in the process.

While the book is fiction, that's an idea that can spark waves of curiosity from readers.

"It's funny," Jones tells All Things Considered's Michele Norris. "When it comes to memoir, we want to catch the author in a lie. When we read fiction, we want to catch the author telling the truth. I would like to say that my father is not a bigamist."

Which is not to say that it Silver Sparrow doesn't have roots deep in Jones' biography.

"I do have a sister — I have two sisters. They're not secrets, though. They're about 10 yrs older than me, but they didn't grow up with me. They're my father's daughters and they have different last names and we live different lives," Jones says. "We don't have that web of secrecy between us, but I've always felt that I had a sister just outside my grasp, and so I started thinking about this idea of sisters and secrets and then I was in a bar once with some friends having happy hour, and someone mentions one of those stories you hear all the time about a man dies and two wives show up at the funeral. And so when I thought about that and I mixed it with my own wonderings about my own family, boom, this came together and a story was born."

She notes in the novel how common this situation actually is — so common that many churches have smelling salts for the widow who discovers at the funeral that she's not the only wife.

Jones says that the notion that a father can be a different person to two of his children rings true, even when you strip away the shock and melodrama of bigamy.

"Even more common than that is this idea of what I used to call half-siblings until my nephew said, 'Don't say half.' He said, 'There are no half-people. My mother's your sister; she's not your half-sister,' " she says. "I was giving a reading in Florida and a woman had me sign her book, and she said that on Father's Day she had written on her Facebook status something like, 'Happy Father's Day to the greatest dad in the world.' And she had seen her sister's Facebook page, and her sister had written, 'I never had a father 'cause the coward wasn't there.' It's the same man. What does that mean?

"In talking about this book I've had to get all new language, because the impulse is to say legit daughter, but all people are legitimate. That's one thing this book has taught me is everybody, every person is legitimate."

What does the title, Silver Sparrow, mean to her? Jones explains by breaking it into two parts.

"Chaurisse thinks of a 'silver girl' as a girl who is better than she is," Jones says. "When I was growing up I would have called [that kind of girl] a 'fancy girl' — a girl who is lovely and popular and smart, all the things that your adolescent self feels that you are not."

Chaurisse, Jones says, doesn't think of herself as privileged. But then, there's no way she could possibly know that another girl — so like her — could exist with even less.

"She doesn't know that her father has a daughter that lives in the shadows and feels unprivileged. She thinks she lives an ordinary life," Jones explains. "She thinks she's just an awkward teenage girl. And then she meets this 'silver girl,' Dana, who she thinks is just the most beautiful person ever."

"Sparrow" comes from a more traditional source.

"I took sparrow from the hymn 'His Eye Is On The Sparrow' — being the sparrow is the least among us," Jones says. "Because I think that's what Dana is, she's a silver sparrow."

James' decision to keep two families requires Dana and her mother to remain essentially a secret, but he loves both daughters and takes care of each. Jones says she did everything she could to make him complicated. He's seductive, but deeply flawed. And he stutters, sometimes so violently that his whole body moves when he tries to speak. Jones says that attribute was one of the first things she knew about the character.

"A man like him, to have two women, it would be such an interesting thing to say: 'How could he get two women?' " Jones says. "And I realized, the same way you get one woman, you get another one. And it also made him interesting because I didn't think he should be so suave. Like, he's not a lady-killer. I wanted each of his relationships to come from genuine human interaction and need. Like real need. He loves both of these women. His crime is that he loves them simultaneously."

The young Tayari Jones didn't know she was going to be a writer, and it wasn't until she left home for college that her eventual career path became clear.

"I was kind of an invisible girl when I was young. I was more like Chaurisse in my novel. I never felt particularly special. I mean, I didn't have low self-esteem, but I never felt sparkly or that I had anything to say. And I went to Spelman College and I met the president of Spelman at the time, Johnetta Cole. And she had heard that I was a writer, and she once said to me, 'How's the writing?' and it was like someone had touched me with a magic wand. And then I started taking my writing more seriously," Jones says. "The most amazing person I had ever seen in real life said that I was a writer. So I became known for it, and people started asking me, 'What did I think about this or that thing? Would I be willing to write for the school paper?' It gave me value. I felt that I had something to contribute through writing. And I couldn't help but think, 'Wow, what would happen if someone went to teenage girls in high school and said: You know, you have more to worry about than who's going to take you to the prom. Because you have something to say that matters.' "

As her Twitter followers might well know, one of the author's literary loves is Toni Morrison, whom Jones views as an influence on her own work. But as a teacher, Jones says she doesn't think so much about the potential impact her books might have on the next generation of writers. She's more conscious of her influence in the classroom.

"I take mentoring very seriously and I am on the board of an organization called Girls Write Now, where we match teen girls and writing mentors because it changes their lives," she says. "Our girls all finish high school; 100 percent of them are going to college. The writing and the mentoring really has changed their lives. It's amazing."

Excerpt: 'Silver Sparrow'

Silver Sparrow by Tayari Jones
Silver Sparrow
By Tayari Jones
Hardover, 352 pages
Algonquin Press
List price: $19.95

Chapter 1
The Secret

My father, James Witherspoon, is a bigamist. He was already married ten years when he first clamped eyes on my mother. In 1968, she was working at the gift-wrap counter at Davison's downtown when my father asked her to wrap the carving knife he had bought his wife for their wedding an­niversary. Mother said she knew that something wasn't right between a man and a woman when the gift was a blade. I said that maybe it means there was a kind of trust between them. I love my mother, but we tend to see things a little bit differently. The point is that James's marriage was never hidden from us. James is what I call him. His other daughter, Chaurisse, the one who grew up in the house with him, she calls him Daddy, even now.

When most people think of bigamy, if they think of it at all, they imagine some primitive practice taking place on the pages of National Geographic. In Atlanta, we remember one sect of the back-to-Africa movement that used to run bakeries in the West End. Some people said it was a cult, others called it a cultural movement. Whatever it was, it involved four wives for each husband. The bakeries have since closed down, but sometimes we still see the women, resplendent in white, trailing six humble paces behind their mutual husband. Even in Baptist churches, ushers keep smelling salts on the ready for the new widow confronted at the wake by the other grieving widow and her stair-step kids. Undertakers and judges know that it hap­pens all the time, and not just between religious fanatics, travel­ing salesmen, handsome sociopaths, and desperate women.

It's a shame that there isn't a true name for a woman like my mother, Gwendolyn. My father, James, is a bigamist. That is what he is. Laverne is his wife. She found him first and my mother has always respected the other woman's squatter's rights. But was my mother his wife, too? She has legal documents and even a single Polaroid proving that she stood with James Alexander Witherspoon Junior in front of a judge just over the state line in Alabama. However, to call her only his "wife" doesn't really explain the full complexity of her position.

There are other terms, I know, and when she is tipsy, angry, or sad, Mother uses them to describe herself: concubine, whore, mistress, consort. There are just so many, and none are fair. And there are nasty words, too, for a person like me, the child of a person like her, but these words were not allowed in the air of our home. "You are his daughter. End of story." If this was ever true it was in the first four months of my life, before Chaurisse, his legitimate daughter, was born. My mother would curse at hearing me use that word, legitimate, but if she could hear the other word that formed in my head, she would close herself in her bedroom and cry. In my mind, Chaurisse is his real daughter. With wives, it only matters who gets there first. With daughters, the situation is a bit more complicated.

It matters what you called things. Surveil was my mother's word. If he knew, James would probably say spy, but that is too sinister. We didn't do damage to anyone but ourselves as we trailed Chaurisse and Laverne while they wound their way through their easy lives. I had always imagined that we would eventually be asked to explain ourselves, to press words forward in our own defense. On that day, my mother would be called upon to do the talking. She is gifted with language and is able to layer difficult details in such a way that the result is smooth as water. She is a magician who can make the whole world feel like a dizzy illusion. The truth is a coin she pulls from behind your ear.

Maybe mine was not a blissful girlhood. But is anyone's? Even people whose parents are happily married to each other and no one else, even these people have their share of unhappi­ness. They spend plenty of time nursing old slights, rehashing squabbles. So you see, I have something in common with the whole world.

Mother didn't ruin my childhood or anyone's marriage. She is a good person. She prepared me. Life, you see, is all about knowing things. That is why my mother and I shouldn't be pitied. Yes, we have suffered, but we never doubted that we enjoyed at least one peculiar advantage when it came to what really mattered: I knew about Chaurisse; she didn't know about me. My mother knew about Laverne, but Laverne was under the impression that hers was an ordinary life. We never lost track of that basic and fundamental fact.

When did I first discover that although I was an only child, my father was not my father and mine alone? I really can't say. It's something that I've known for as long as I've known that I had a father. I can only say for sure when I learned that this type of double-duty daddy wasn't ordinary.

I was about five years old, in kindergarten, when the art teacher, Miss Russell, asked us to draw pictures of our fami­lies. While all the other children scribbled with their cray­ons or soft-leaded pencils, I used a blue-ink pen and drew James, Chaurisse, and Laverne. In the background was Raleigh, my father's best friend, the only person we knew from his other life. I drew him with the crayon labeled "Flesh" be­cause he is really light-skinned. This was years and years ago, but I still remember. I hung a necklace around the wife's neck. I gave the girl a big smile, stuffed with square teeth. Near the left margin, I drew my mother and me standing by ourselves. With a marker, I blacked in Mother's long hair and curving lashes. On my own face, I drew only a pair of wide eyes. Above, a friendly sun winked at all six of us.

The art teacher approached me from behind. "Now, who are these people you've drawn so beautifully?"

Charmed, I smiled up at her. "My family. My daddy has two wifes and two girls."

Cocking her head, she said, "I see."

I didn't think much more about it. I was still enjoying the memory of the way she pronounced beautifully. To this day, when I hear anyone say that word, I feel loved. At the end of the month, I brought all of my drawings home in a cardboard folder. James opened up his wallet, which he kept plump with two-dollar bills to reward me for my schoolwork. I saved the portrait, my masterpiece, for last, being as it was so beautifully drawn and everything.

My father picked the page up from the table and held it close to his face like he was looking for a coded message. Mother stood behind me, crossed her arms over my chest, and bent to place a kiss on the top of my head. "It's okay," she said.

"Did you tell your teacher who was in the picture?" James said.

I nodded slowly, the whole time thinking that I probably should lie, although I wasn't quite sure why.

"James," Mother said, "let's not make a molehill into a moun­tain. She's just a child."

"Gwen," he said, "this is important. Don't look so scared. I'm not going to take her out behind the woodshed." Then he chuckled, but my mother didn't laugh.

"All she did was draw a picture. Kids draw pictures."

"Go on in the kitchen, Gwen," James said. "Let me talk to my daughter."

My mother said, "Why can't I stay in here? She's my daugh­ter, too."

"You are with her all the time. You tell me I don't spend enough time talking to her. So now let me talk."

Mother hesitated and then released me. "She's just a little kid, James. She doesn't even know the ins and outs yet."

"Trust me," James said.

She left the room, but I don't know that she trusted him not to say something that would leave me wounded and broken-winged for life. I could see it in her face. When she was upset she moved her jaw around invisible gum. At night, I could hear her in her room, grinding her teeth in her sleep. The sound was like gravel under car wheels.

"Dana, come here." James was wearing a navy chauffeur's uniform. His hat must have been in the car, but I could see the ridged mark across his forehead where the hatband usually rested. "Come closer," he said.

I hesitated, looking to the space in the doorway where Mother had disappeared.

"Dana," he said, "you're not afraid of me, are you? You're not scared of your own father, are you?"

His voice sounded mournful, but I took it as a dare. "No, sir," I said, taking a bold step forward.

"Don't call me sir, Dana. I'm not your boss. When you say that, it makes me feel like an overseer."

I shrugged. Mother told me that I should always call him sir. With a sudden motion, he reached out for me and lifted me up on his lap. He spoke to me with both of our faces looking outward, so I couldn't see his expression.

"Dana, I can't have you making drawings like the one you made for your art class. I can't have you doing things like that. What goes on in this house between your mother and me is grown people's business. I love you. You are my baby girl, and I love you, and I love your mama. But what we do in this house has to be a secret, okay?"

"I didn't even draw this house."

James sighed and bounced me on his lap a little bit. "What happens in my life, in my world, doesn't have anything to do with you. You can't tell your teacher that your daddy has another wife. You can't tell your teacher that my name is James Witherspoon. Atlanta ain't nothing but a country town, and everyone knows everybody."

"Your other wife and your other girl is a secret?" I asked him.

He put me down from his lap, so we could look each other in the face. "No. You've got it the wrong way around. Dana, you are the one that's a secret."

Then he patted me on the head and tugged one of my braids. With a wink he pulled out his billfold and separated three two-dollar bills from the stack. He handed them over to me and I clamped them in my palm.

"Aren't you going to put them in your pocket?"

"Yes, sir."

And for once, he didn't tell me not to call him that.

James took me by the hand and we walked down the hallway to the kitchen for dinner. I closed my eyes on the short walk because I didn't like the wallpaper in the hallway. It was beige with a burgundy pattern. When it had started peeling at the edges, I was accused of picking at the seams. I denied it over and over again, but Mother reported me to James on his weekly visit. He took off his belt and swatted me around the legs and up on my backside, which seemed to satisfy something in my mother.

In the kitchen my mother placed the bowls and plates on the glass table in silence. She wore her favorite apron that James brought back from New Orleans. On the front was a draw­ing of a crawfish holding a spatula aloft and a caption: don't make me poison your food! James took his place at the head of the table and polished the water spots from his fork with his napkin. "I didn't lay a hand on her; I didn't even raise my voice. Did I?"

"No, sir." And this was entirely the truth, but I felt different than I had just a few minutes before when I'd pulled my draw­ing out of its sleeve. My skin stayed the same while this differ­ence snuck in through a pore and attached itself to whatever brittle part forms my center. You are the secret. He'd said it with a smile, touching the tip of my nose with the pad of his finger.

My mother came around and picked me up under my arms and sat me on the stack of phone books in my chair. She kissed my cheek and fixed a plate with salmon croquettes, a spoon of green beans, and corn.

"Are you okay?"

I nodded.

James ate his meal, spooning honey onto a dinner roll when my mother said there would be no dessert. He drank a big glass of Coke.

"Don't eat too much," my mother said. "You'll have to eat again in a little while."

"I'm always happy to eat your food, Gwen. I'm always happy to sit at your table."

Excerpted from Silver Sparrow by Tayari Jones. Copyright 2011 by Tayari Jones. Excerpted by permission of Algonquin Press.

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