“After the killing of Terrace Side and the desecration of Chester Cools’s grave, Eatonville doesn’t know which way is up,” the schoolmaster said, sad and adamant. “I think prayer and coming together as a community would help everyone settle. An election will only cause more upheaval, the last thing this town needs. And the last thing, John, it sounds like you truly want,” Mr. Calhoun reminded him. “The job of mayor is a long way from your beloved road. A long way.”
John Hurston took the schoolmaster’s comment to heart. “I was a long way from home when Terrace Side was lynched,” he said. “I don’t know if anybody could have kept that man alive, but I would bet my bottom dollar that a man worth his gaiters could have kept some of those boys from terrorizing us here in Eatonville. If I had been home”— John Hurston said the words I suspected Mrs. Hurston might have whispered in his ear on a recent night, all too knowledgeable of her worsening condition —“things might have gone differently.”
The crest of John Hurston’s thoughts peaked and crashed, and a jubilant smile lit his face. John Hurston loomed very large. The table grew very small. He had decided. He would run for mayor, not run from home. John Hurston was an enviable man because he was a satisfied one.
“With my strength and God’s,” Lucy Hurston purred artfully, “you’re going to win.”
I awoke before Mama the next morning, dressed, left her a note, and tiptoed out into the dawn. Aiming to pick up the load from Mrs. Hopson’s, which I did twice monthly, and get back home to soak the sheets before half past six, I took a shortcut through the tall grass, where my feet got wet and my shins ran slimy with dew. Approaching the pickup point, hungry, sodden, and tired, I could tell from the sky’s color that the five o’clock hour had not yet passed. A band of red lined the horizon. Before long, red would become purple and purple would change to blue.
Steps from the Hopson gate where the bundle had been left for me, I began to hobble in my damp socks and wet boots. The basket handle chafed my left hand. My empty stomach bleated and cramped. I arrived home nearly an hour later than I had intended, ready to eat three meals and drop back into bed.
Teddy, who was waiting on my steps, had another idea: “Your mama went to Sanford to drop some thread by a friend,” he said. “Change your clothes. We can still make it to school on time.”
I limped to my washing barrel and carefully placed the basket of linens beside it. Both my left hand and the blisters on my feet burned angrily. I didn’t think I could go to school, at least not in a hurry. “Go without me,” I said. “I’m not feeling too well.”
“What’s the matter?” Teddy crossed the yard. “Where have you been?”
“At Mrs. Hopson’s in Maitland,” I answered, hobbling toward the steps to remove my boots. Teddy helped me and I was able to stand upright. As I began to untie my laces, Teddy noticed my hand and gently stopped me from using it.
“My goodness,” he said, holding my wrist. “Is that a rope burn?”
“It’s from the basket,” I said. “My hands are so dry from the lye, I guess the skin just gave way.” Teddy gingerly touched the edges of the gray blister. I tried not to flinch. I didn’t succeed. The morning had been challenging, but the last couple of weeks, from Terrace Side to Chester Cools, only added to my feelings of fragility. And there was the most recent headline news that John Hurston was running for mayor. But the thing that really got under my skin about that was the idea that two dead men and a sick woman were some of the reasons Zora’s father might actually be able to win.
Teddy stood and shifted his weight uncomfortably. He studied my hand, and his lovely lips flattened into a reedy line. “It’s so strange, Carrie. But your blister . . . it’s like so many that were on Mr. Cools.”
“What?” Chilly prickles shot up my neck. The sensation instantly turned down the heat on my wounds. Like little arctic streams, sweat ran down my skin.
Teddy grimaced. “You know I helped Doc Brazzle prepare his body for burial.” I nodded. Teddy continued, “Mr. Cools had many, many wounds. Some had healed. Others hadn’t. None of them were recent, but a few of them were fresh somehow. It was the strangest thing. Scary, actually. I asked Doc Brazzle about it.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was surprised Chester hadn’t died long ago. The man had gunshot wounds on his torso. A bullet still lodged in one. I can’t imagine how he survived the infection. And you know those folds of skin that old folks and babies have under their necks?”
“Yeah.” I gulped.
“Mr. Cools had an ear-to-ear blister there, fresh as the one on your hand. The worse kind of burn — a burn that never healed.”
A sudden pulse of fear enraged me. “Why did so many bad things happen to him? Why?” I cried.
“I don’t know, Carrie. I don’t,” Teddy admitted, suddenly whey-faced and sweaty. “And those bad things that happened to Mr. Cools left their mark on his body.” Teddy blinked and a drop of sweat rolled over his eyelid. “Just like the grave robbery and the lynching of Terrace Side have left their mark on our town.”
Another drop of sweat made an ashy path down his face. He wiped it away with a dull slap. His movements were slowing; his speech was sluggish. Then his eyes rolled back, his knees buckled, and it happened so fast that there was no time to try to catch him.
“Teddy!” I cried as he collapsed. “Teddy!”
As I struggled to lift him, I prayed. As I dragged him up the steps onto the porch and into the house, I prayed. As I laid him on my cot, I prayed that he would awaken, that he would speak, that he would return to himself, to me. Dear God, heal Teddy. Dear God, please keep Teddy here with me.
A glass of water sat on the dresser, and I rushed it to him, propping up his head and wetting his lips. He murmured; he struggled to open his eyes but couldn’t, not completely. Breathe. Breathe. Dear God, let him breathe. When I pulled my hand away, it was streaked with blood. Had he been hit, cut? I searched his head and neck. Where was the wound? I’d use cotton and lace from Mama’s sewing table to bind it. I’d dress his wound in finery. Where is the wound? God, help me find the wound. I beg You. Then my own hand came into sharp relief. The blister on my hand had popped. The blood was mine. My wound was weeping for Teddy. Then I felt a strange pressure on my shoulder. Don’t look back, I said to myself. If you look back, Teddy will die.
A voice spoke. My fear scrambled the words into gibberish. I could not look back. No. The pressure came again. I closed my eyes. I put my bloody hand to my face. I tasted metal, rust. The flavor of blood returned me to myself. Words again made sense. Child, child. How long has he been like this? How long? Your hand. Your hand. Child.
Old Lady Bronson had taken my hand into hers and was examining it while she touched Teddy’s forehead. I asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Bring me all the alcohol you’ve got.”
Next to where the glass of water had been, we had a small bottle on the dresser. I gave it to her.
“Go to Joe Clarke’s for more. Before you leave, bring me more water.”
I dashed to the water barrel in the kitchen and stopped dead in front of the fat drum, frantic. Without looking, I knew there wasn’t enough in there now for a full ladle. Teddy and Micah hadn’t gotten us water from the well in weeks.
I sprinted outside for my wooden laundry oar and wedged it between the five-inch limestone cap and the well lip. I took a step back, pulling the oar as steadily and with as much strength as I could. The cap dislodged some. I pulled. The sloshing sound of the water made me thirsty. Had I moved it enough? Maybe? I cranked. The bucket refused to pass. So I tugged the oar again. The pulpy stick broke off in my bloody hands. I threw it to the ground. I dug the heels of my hands into the storm-gray chunk of mountain. My hands were slick with blood. A horrible pressure ground down into my left wrist. Finally, the force of my frustration shunted the limestone. Again, I cranked. The bucket passed. I filled it and sped through the yard back to the house. Drops of my blood fell into the wa
ter.
“Tell Joe Clarke I need ice, too,” Old Lady Bronson ordered. “Plenty of it.”
I grabbed some lace from Mama’s sewing table, wrapped my hand with it, and raced off for Mr. Clarke’s. With every breath and every step, I inhaled and exhaled pain, a pain that distorted the cedars and the clearing and the forest. A pain that made it feel as though the tall grass along the roadside was bludgeoning me. A water moccasin bumped across my toes, and the tip of its hard, scaly body zapped my ankle like lightning. Heat coiled in the air. The journey felt like a fryer.
When I arrived at Joe Clarke’s, a layer of red ash from the road coated my hair, my dress, my skin. I looked like I was carrying a hell inside of me and that the devil had forced me to sweat it out. I needed to say “ICE! ALCOHOL! NOW!” But the clay dust had evaporated my saliva. My journey had nearly made me mute.
Nate Landing sat on the porch railing flipping a nickel. The sight of me caused him to fumble the coin. “Somebody,” he warbled. “Somebody!”
Joe Clarke appeared, followed by John Hurston and Zora. “Carrie!”
Zora charged down the stairs. Reflexively, Mr. Hurston reached out to hold her back, but she was already at my side. It was one of the few times I had seen John Hurston act protectively toward her.
Zora’s eyes went from my hand to my face. I could not speak above a whisper. Zora was going to have to come very close to hear. She did.
“Fever. Teddy,” I panted at her neck. “Old Lady Bronson. Sent me. Ice. Alcohol.”
Joe Clarke left to tell the Bakers about Teddy. Mr. Hurston and Zora brought me home with the alcohol. When the Bakers arrived at my house, Old Lady Bronson gave out instructions. Mr. Clarke and Mr. Hurston were to get ice from a Daytona factory that sold slabs of it for rail cars and hotels. Mr. Baker was to turn Teddy over. Mrs. Baker was to stop crying and apply rubbing alcohol to Teddy’s chest, back, and legs. Without a word from the roots woman, Micah got his tools from his coach and waited.
Joe Clarke and John Hurston returned with the ice. Micah sawed sheets of it from the slab. I fetched a blanket to cover the slices so Micah could crush them with a large mallet. Zora gathered pans and bowls from the kitchen that Mr. Hurston and Mr. Clarke loaded with the ice. Old Lady Bronson pulled chairs to the sides of my cot. Zora placed the bowls of ice there and Old Lady Bronson placed Teddy’s hands in them for timed intervals every hour. Teddy twitched and shuddered at each treatment, but his eyes remained shut. Mr. Hurston offered what he could to the Bakers.
“Doc Brazzle is at my house right now. I’ll go home and send him here. Come on, Zora.”
“I can’t leave,” she protested.
“It’s all right,” I said. “My mother will be home soon. Go.”
Zora’s misgivings persisted. “You need help,” she said. “Your hand . . .”
“Your hand?” My mother arrived and rushed through the grove of people to my side in our meager sitting room. “Dear Lord, what happened?” she asked. “What happened?”
“Oh, Mama,” I cried. “Teddy’s sick.”
“I just saw him this morning,” she said, her doubt countering her dread.
“That’s when it happened.”
“Your hand?” She looked at it even though she couldn’t bear to.
“I got a blister from a laundry basket. Carrying Teddy and moving the well cap made it worse.”
“Doc Brazzle should see the boy and that hand,” Mr. Hurston said. “We better get on so I can fetch him.”
“Yes,” Mama answered. “Please.”
Zora accepted that the will of our parents, respectively, was the best course of action. We embraced, and alongside her father, she left. The Baker men and Joe Clarke settled on the porch while Mrs. Baker remained in the bedroom with Teddy and Old Lady Bronson. Mama sat at the kitchen table with me, where time didn’t exactly pass, but lurk. And Doc Brazzle, when he arrived, only made that feeling worse. He could not do more for Teddy nor my hand than Old Lady Bronson had already done.
After he examined Teddy, Doc Brazzle said, “It looks like the flu. His heart is very weak.” Men in Eatonville rarely hugged, but the doctor embraced both Micah and Mr. Baker. Teddy may have been his apprentice, but it was clear the physician thought of him more like a son.
That night, no one ate and no one slept. Teddy sipped air in tiny gulps, and we sat with him in shifts. The transparency of his skin, sickly beautiful, increased under the hazy glow of the kerosene lamp. At dawn, the Baker men lifted Teddy from my cot onto a stretcher Doc Brazzle had let them borrow. They loaded him onto Micah’s wagon and drove him home — taking him there, I feared, to die.
In that glittering evening light unique to the month of September, a week after Teddy’s collapse, John Hurston led the vigil for Terrace Side at Lake Bell. With the exception of Joe Clarke, who was in Tallahassee campaigning for the expansion, the whole town attended.
On the embankment where the doomed man had been burned, small children collected in leggy clumps under tall, slanted palms. In the water where the fugitive bled, red pennants waved atop poles representing the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Parishioners, two and three deep, waded into the water up to their waists. In a white robe, Reverend Hurston led us.
A red band anointed with oil and embroidered with a white cross graced his forehead. Gone was the black suit and the attending collars, cuffs, and pins of the pulpit. Here, in the water, the encircling robe of the Redeemer represented something beyond the sharp points of propriety and judgment. The white robe adorning John Hurston represented forgiveness, a new start.
“Good evening,” John Hurston greeted the throng.
“Good evening, Reverend,” the throng resounded.
“I’d like to start by speaking on how good God is, how good God has been to us here in Eatonville, and how good God is all the time. All the time!”
The crowd sounded with “Yes, sir,” “Go on, now,” and “Praise be to the Lord.” Folks, including me, were grateful for the spectrum of comforts in our lives — from decent clothes and shelter to the safety of loved ones. But into that sense of gratitude and relief, John Hurston began to pour regret and self-incrimination. He continued: “For years, God spared us hurricane landfalls in September. For years, God sprinkled November frost in its rightful place up north. God nurtured citrus groves here in northern Florida and grew jobs for us on and in trees. At the dozens of turpentine camps across the county, no one has been seriously injured for months. The prosperity has flowed blood-free. This has got folks to thinking that it is us, mortal men, who are responsible for the bounty. That it is us everyday folks who make life good,” John Hurston paused. “The arrogance of man. The stubborn, fatal arrogance of man.”
John Hurston reminded us how easy it was to take for granted conditions that were a gift, not a given; to forget that good fortune had been shared with us more than had been shaped by us.
Zora’s father continued: “We, the believers, are His chosen people. And the flame of our faith is an imperiled thing. Envied by desperate men such as Terrace Side and despised by evil men, our faith is a fragile thing amid the tinder of desperate men and evil men. Our flame of faith is not to guide the sinner. Our flame of faith is for us to tend ours, nurture ours. Bertram Edges’s house full of glass; Willie Mosely’s broken limb; Maisie and Bynum’s livestock. By the light of our neighbor’s misfortunes, we better see our enemies, those who threaten the peace of God and the fragile peace of Eatonville. Our prosperity, this gift from God, did not spring from a township charter granted by the state of Florida. Our prosperity flowed from the spring of our faith, from the one true God. We pray to you, dear Lord, to help us keep what’s ours safe and sound with the flame of faith.”
The air was charged with something new, something prideful and protective. John Hurston held up one large Xanthus palm. “The lynching of Terrace Side is not the only wrathful event that has befallen this town of late.” He paused prodigiously. “The grave robbery of Chester Cools is a horrible, hor
rible thing. Like the lynching of Terrace Side, the grave robbery is evil that has found us out. Even things such as these, my dear friends, happen according to His will. Why? Because we’ve lost our way. But in my meditation and prayer, God has shown me the path, the way. He has. God has shown me that we are a chosen people, an elect, a colored elect!”
Belief that such a path existed for us, and that it could be reclaimed, reanimated the town’s faith in God, in John Hurston, and in ourselves. All was not lost. People lifted their hands up to the sky, gladdened. Tears flowed freely. Praise poured. There was a way forward, on a river of sweat and tears perhaps, but there was a way forward. There was hope.
John Hurston gave it to us with his preaching, and with an idea: “The time has arrived for the elect to take up the mantle of democracy, a true democracy, with a vote. It’s time we choose for ourselves. For too long we’ve accepted an appointment as if it was anointed. God gave us free will. It’s time we please God with the power of our choice. The elect need an election! The elect need an election! My God, the elect need an election!”
The jubilant outburst, “John Hurston for mayor!” rang out in loops over the jangle of tambourines and the pounding of drums. Too clever to announce his candidacy, John Hurston let the town announce it for him. “John Hurston for mayor! John Hurston for mayor!” His family celebrated the triumph, but no one more than Lucy.
Lucy Hurston closed her eyes, seeming to teeter between dizziness from the exertion and the spellbinding influence of her husband’s power. Everett splashed and Sarah clapped. Zora moved through the crowd toward me, studying gestures and utterances of praise as she went, like the feeling of a religious experience was a scientific formula that could be activated by music and recorded and replicated for further study. “Loving Pine tomorrow morning,” Zora yelled, and amid the hoots, music, and dancing, it came off as a whisper. I nodded. The vigil was the first time we had seen each other since Teddy had fallen ill. Besides everything, I missed my best friend.
Zora and Me: The Summoner Page 7