Tomorrow's Bread

by Anna Jean Mayhew

  At an empty lot where somebody use to live, I watched kids play hidey-seek in cardboard boxes from Stone’s Grocery, swinging on ropes hanging from the one tree still standing. They’d made rings of rocks, broken bricks, and dirt to squat behind, playing Tom Mix and the Indians, popping each other with sling shots or pea shooters. Everybody knew whose kid was whose, and if a strange one showed up, there’d be questions. That field went from a torn-down house to a playground full of children whose mamas knew where to find them come suppertime.

  I stopped at the grocery, thinking I might go in and tell Mr. Stone about the interview, but his GONE TO LUNCH sign was out.

  * * *

  I’ve been working at the S&W for over seven years now, and we’re getting official notices about the redevelopment that’s coming, making proof of all the rumors. The second letter we get from the city is addressed to “Owner.” That means Bibi, but there’s no way she can understand what they say. I take it to the kitchen, where Uncle Ray’s at the sink, peeling potatoes.

  “We got another one.” I rip it open. “From the Redevelopment Commission of the City of Charlotte, like the first one. ‘Dear Resident . . .’”

  Uncle Ray snorts. “Resident? That doesn’t sound good.”

  “That’s the best part. ‘A representative from the Office of Urban Renewal will visit you on Monday, March 27, 1961—’” I rattle the paper. “The day after tomorrow. How they know we gon be here?”

  “Read it to me, girl.”

  “‘. . . regarding the redevelopment of downtown Charlotte. The deteriorating dwellings along the McDowell Street corridor between East Fourth and Morehead are being assessed for damage to determine if the structures are substandard. ’ That’s the word they’re using about St. Timothy’s, ‘substandard.’”

  “Does it say when they’re coming?”

  “Between ten and noon. Gives a number to call if we need to change it.”

  “Monday morning I’m taking Bibi to see Dr. Wilkins, get her sugar checked. But you’ll be here, won’t you? Putting it off won’t change anything.”

  I don’t like it, but he’s right.

  I’m ready when the man from the city drives up, parks in front of our house, gets out of his car carrying a satchel. I’m in the living room peeping from behind the curtain. He comes up the steps, smiling, smiling, like he knows I’m watching him, raps on the door. I let him wait.

  He say, “Hello?” I don’t want him to see the drooping sofa, the tired rug, the cracked lampshade. Bibi’s knitting she’s never gon finish.

  The man calls out, “Anybody home?”

  I’m glad I’m not in my uniform, might make me look like a maid. I grab my sweater from the coat stand that came down from Bibi’s grandmother, check myself in the mirror on the key rack.

  He’s knocking again when I yank open the door. He steps back. “Hello. Mrs. Livinia Hawkins?”

  “Miss Loraylee Hawkins. My grandmother’s not home.”

  Shoes polished, white shirt starched, face shining like he just took a bath. He looks past me into the house, fidgeting.

  If I make him nervous, I’m glad.

  “May I have a few minutes?”

  I come through the screen door, wave him to the rocker. Put myself in the straight chair. I feel mean, making him sit on the porch, chilly as it is today.

  “Here.” He sets down his satchel, pulls a card from his pocket.

  It say: “Stewart Menafee, Development Coordinator . . .”

  I stick it in my skirt pocket. “What you want, Mr. Menafee?” He’s one of those white men jittery around coloreds. His slick brown hair is combed across the top of his head to hide the bald that’s coming, but it’s coming. Got on a suit that doesn’t quite fit. He flips open his case, takes out a small hammer he rubs with his thumb as he stands and walks over to the rail.

  “Do you mind?” Not waiting for an answer, he tap, tap on the post that goes from the floor to the ceiling. Dust flies.

  I have never cleaned that post, but am bothered it’s dirty. I mumble something foolish like, “Should of dusted that, I reckon.”

  He shakes his head. “You can’t whisk away termites.”

  “Termites? ”

  “Yes, eating up your house.” Tap, tap, tap again, up the post to the top. One place the hammer sinks in. “This support beam is rotting from the inside out.”

  I feel sick.

  “Miss Hawkins?” Mr. Menafee sits back down, his case on his lap. “We have cause for serious concern about the suitability of this structure for continued domestic use.” He takes papers from his case. “These documents explain the purpose of the Redevelopment Commission of the City of Charlotte.”

  “Redevelopment?”

  “The commission was established to improve our inner city.” He shuts the case, clicks the latches. “Our records show that the owner, Mrs. Livinia Hawkins, has no mortgage, but when this property is appraised and reevaluated, the taxes will likely increase. We understand that might create a financial burden for your family, and we are willing to offer you alternatives. The commission will assist your relocation, in accordance with these documents. There are forms you must complete so we’ll have up-to-date information on your property.”

  I take the papers he pushes at me.

  “If you need help filling them out, we can send someone....”

  “I read. I write.” I want to shove him and his big square head off the porch.

  “Read the documents, Miss, and you’ll see that we have a plan in place for your welfare. Several of your neighbors have already—”

  “Go away!” I shout at him. He jumps, grabbing up his satchel and clutching it to his chest before taking off across the yard to his car.

  CHAPTER 5

  Eben rolled to a stop in front of St. Timothy’s, sat and studied the white cross centered beneath the gable peak, the uneven stones of the walk, the two rocking chairs on the porch set at precise angles. The building needed paint, but that could wait. There was a crack along the foundation to the left of the steps; a bricklayer in the congregation was going to tend to that next week.

  He locked his car—no point in tempting anyone—went up the steps, and was surprised to find the door open an inch or two, heat drifting out. He pushed it, feeling as much as hearing the squeaky hinges, peered into the dusky foyer and beyond to the sanctuary, where smoke rose from between the two back pews. A sweet smell. Unmistakable.

  He approached the haze, making no effort to be quiet. Stretched out in the last row was Oscar, holding a smoking reefer, his dark face lost against the shadowed wood. “Hey there, Neezer.”

  Oscar took a long draw, holding the dope in, offered the roach, his eyes heavy-lidded, red-rimmed. “Want some?”

  Incensed at this violation of his church and alarmed by his brother’s emaciated appearance, he said, “That’s not for me. Get up, put your feet on the floor. What if one of the deacons walked in?”

  Oscar sat up, grinning. “Cool it, brother. Paranoia’s supposed to be my thing.”

  “Why are you doing this in a holy place?”

  Oscar pulled on the joint, holding the remaining half-inch between two fingernails, sucking in a deep lungful. He spoke haltingly, letting out a bit of smoke with each word. “Safe . . . my . . . brother. Yo . . . church . . . is . . . safe.” He sighed out the last of the smoke, snuffed the joint on the floor, and put what was left into a matchbox he took from his shirt pocket. “Waste not, want not, ain’t that right, Pastor Polk?”

  He controlled his voice. “Out, Oscar. Now.”

  His brother got to his feet, stumbled into the aisle, pulled him into a reluctant embrace. “Ease off, Neezer.”

  He gave in, hugged his brother in return. “How’s Noah doing?”

  “He fine. More like you than me.” Oscar pulled a knit hat from his pocket, settled it on his head. “Has him a job washing cars after school.”

  “Good for Noah.”

  “You gotta take him for a while.”
/>   He’d known Oscar’s visit wasn’t casual. “What’s going on?”

  “Jail again. I made bail, but I’m gon go to court tomorrow.”

  “A sentence?”

  “Probably.”

  He had to force himself not to lecture. “I’m happy to have Noah.”

  “Sometime this evening, all right, Neezer?” His brother swayed and hummed as he left the church.

  Oscar was just one of many wayward members of St. Tim’s Eben had to deal with. Maybe on a Saturday night a man got drunk, picked a fight, and hurt somebody. Families dragged the sorry ones into church, and heads nodded when Eben’s sermon included the consequences of sinning, drinking, and fighting in the street, most folks thinking, “Glad it’s not me.”

  He sighed, and headed through the nave to the choir benches, crossing the stage to a door that led to the hallway behind the sanctuary. As he climbed the stairs to his office on the second floor, he thought again of his nephew Noah, tall, lean, ebony like his father, left alone far too much for a boy of twelve. But he seemed to blossom in spite of his father’s repeated clashes with the law, which had landed Oscar behind bars too often. On those occasions, Noah came to live with his uncle Eben. He hoped he added stability to the boy’s life.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon he opened the back door of the manse to a biting wind that burned his cheeks, one of those twists of weather that turned spring back into winter. He retreated inside to grab the coat he’d bought when he came home from the war and found he’d outgrown his civvies. It smelled of the mothballs his Nettie had hung in their closets. He should have it cleaned, which is what he thought each winter when the cold forced him back into it. Each winter since her death.

  He left the parsonage with a bag of trash that he put in the backyard bin, bothered as always by the necessity of hauling it out to the street. The city garbage trucks sent men to carry cans from behind houses in Myers Park, Eastover, Dilworth, while folks in Second Ward had to get theirs to the curb. When he’d called the sanitation department about this inequity, he’d been told that the garbagemen didn’t feel safe going behind houses in Brooklyn. Eben had to hold his tongue to keep from pointing out that Brooklyn was home to most of those men.

  The can was full and he half dragged, half carried it out to the street. He’d heard about a trash can on wheels, and every Wednesday he vowed he’d look into that. On his walk back to the parsonage, he saw a lanky man in the cemetery, leaning over a headstone, studying the face of it. So blond he looked like he was wearing a white hat. The man straightened and scanned the tombstones, stepped behind a memorial that rose twice as high as most. Eben didn’t like such shows of money. Folks shouldn’t overspend on death when others were in such great need. He called out, “Hello?” as he opened the rusty gate in the low wall that bordered the graveyard.

  The man turned, walked toward him. “I’m Marion Lipscomb.” He shook Eben’s hand. “You must be Reverend Polk, Oscar’s brother. I met him at Stone’s Grocery. Hope you don’t mind if I walk around.”

  “No, sir, a cemetery is public, maybe the most public place there is.” He touched the marker Lipscomb had been examining. “What brings you here?”

  Lipscomb waved, encompassing the cemetery. “I’m a grave robber.”

  Eben laughed. “The City of Charlotte already has that job.”

  “Have they given you a date?”

  “We’ve got a while yet.” He pointed at the backhoe parked on the street. “But that’s a strong reminder of what’s coming.”

  “I’m a social anthropologist and an amateur archaeologist,” Lipscomb said. “Interested in burial places with some history to them.”

  “Our oldest stone is 1845.”

  “And the remains there will be few. At best slaves got a wooden box, but many were buried in shrouds, sheets sewn together.” Lipscomb looked at the grave they stood beside. “What interests me is what they took with them.”

  “To heaven?”

  “Or wherever. I’d like to make a record of what’s there.”

  “You mean when we have to move the graves,” Eben said.

  “If it comes to that.”

  “Will you be documenting the details for anyone in particular?”

  “The descendants of those buried here,” Lipscomb said. “Shame on the ones who are forcing this. Why not leave the cemetery, even if they take everything else?”

  Eben sat on the iron bench beside his Nettie’s grave. “That’s exactly what I’ve been asking myself.”

  * * *

  The time was coming when he would have to confront the city about the graveyard, find someone to help him fight what felt insurmountable. When he’d become pastor of St. Tim’s upon the death of Reverend Younger Tilley, he’d inherited intriguing mysteries that he first learned of on an August evening, thirteen years ago.

  He’d sat at the old man’s bedside, breathing in the sour dry smell of the sickroom. The top of a chest of drawers was covered with pill bottles. Who managed them for Reverend Tilley? At eighty-five, wasted by cancer, his mind murky, the ailing preacher hadn’t been able to name anyone who should be notified of his coming demise, other than his congregation.

  “You tell Sister Monroe, she’ll get the word out.”

  “I already did. Everyone’s praying for you, Reverend Tilley.”

  With a wheezing laugh, the preacher replied, “Tell ’em to save dey prayers for dem what need ’em. I’m ready to go, ready to go.”

  Eben believed him. He’d never known anyone as genuinely pious as Younger Tilley, had grown under the guidance of this devout man who’d led St. Tim’s for forty-six years. Now the time had come for Eben to take over as pastor.

  Reverend Tilley lifted a crooked finger, growled out a word: “Important.” He hesitated, spoke again. “Got to tell you sumpin important ’bout de sank-cherry.” Sanctuary. Eben had grown accustomed to the man’s Gullah dialect from the South Carolina coast, had come to love the sound of it. “Dey’s peppers I’se not showed you.”

  “Papers?”

  “De register. It was kep secret, den forgot about. Sumpin seem vital, den folks die or forget. Come enough years, what was worth keepin’ secret don’t matter no more.”

  He had learned to sit quietly while Tilley rambled. He never knew quite how far gone the old man was.

  “Slaves ran off, you know. Kin might say dey was dead, and point to a new grave.” Tilley smoothed the covers over his chest. “Weren’t dead, jest ran off, but who wants to dig up a grave? Happened. Not often.”

  He began to understand. “You mean the cemetery.”

  “Uh-huh. Not all de markers tell de whole truth.” Reverend Tilley stared at the wall behind Eben’s head, his eyes—his awful yellow eyes—moving left to right as if he were reading a message written there. “Dey’s a marker, JTQ.”

  Eben remembered that pock-marked rock near the back of the cemetery. Lichen covered, the initials carved deep, still readable. He’d sat down beside it one bright day and rubbed it to see if there was anything else besides the two-inch-high letters: JTQ. He’d found a date, but didn’t know if it marked birth or death or—as was too often true of infants a hundred years ago—both. His best guess was 1856, although the eight might have been a nine. He spoke aloud. “JTQ, eighteen fifty-six.”

  “Dat right, you seen it. John Thomas Quarry, but it nineteen and twenty-six.” Tilley made a grunting, coughing sound, clearing his throat as he did often. “Wonder what came of him.”

  “You mean how he died?”

  “Oh. Yeah, I reckon he is dead now, more’n twenty years ago. He a good man, a friend.”

  “But the man’s grave—”

  “Not his grave, jest his marker.” Tilley rolled away from him, grunting, spoke slowly. “De register’s got everything. All about de cemetery. In de cellar, back of de coal bin. Church history. You’ll see why when you find it.” He sighed as if weary from the exchange, and was asleep within seconds.

  Eben walked fr
om the manse to the church that hot summer evening, went straight to the basement, and stood facing the coal storage bin. He managed to maneuver it a few inches out from the furnace, enough to see the solid brick wall behind it. No room for anything thicker than a sheet of paper. After pushing the bin back under the delivery chute, he brushed off his shirt, looking down at the black smears. He had coal dust in his hair and mouth, on his trousers. He should have changed clothes before tackling the job. Why had he paid attention to the memories of a sick old man?

  Reverend Younger Tilley died that night, never having said another word.

  CHAPTER 6

  Persy was up early, packed to be on the road by seven-thirty. Blaire checked to make sure her luggage was stowed properly in the back of her new ’61 Plymouth wagon. She turned in the driver’s seat to watch him shifting the luggage until he was satisfied. Wide shoulders, strong arms. At fifty-five, he was graying, with wrinkles around his eyes and mouth; she still found him vital, appealing. She’d seen how women reacted to him, though it amazed her that he didn’t seem to notice.

  Blaire closed the tailgate and thumped the fender. “Shipshape.” He leaned in the driver’s window, kissed her cheek. “I wish I could go with you. You know that, right?”

  “Sure.” What she knew was that they were both lying. He knew it, too, but they’d played these games far past a time when they could change the rules.

  “Call me,” he said. She released the brake, backed away.

  Traffic was light as she drove out of Charlotte on that day in late May, a balmy Saturday that promised a sunny beach. Halfway to Monroe, she felt a twinge of guilt about leaving Blaire. Again. He wasn’t in the least upset, of that she was sure. No doubt he’d already settled down to work at his desk at home, or was on the phone arranging a golf game. He’d drawn quietly into himself after Whitney’s death, but lately there’d been a spark about him, a zeal for his work she hadn’t seen in years.