Tomorrow's Bread

by Anna Jean Mayhew

  Marion inserted the wooden blade, lifted the title page with the tweezers, removed the next paper towel. The second page was a crude map of the cemetery with plots sketched in and numbered, but the last two inches, where it had been soaked, was illegible.

  “What a shame,” Georgeanne said. “But at least we’ll be able to label many of the graves, assuming there’s a link to the numbered plots.”

  The third page was columned and covered in a feathery script, the top clearly legible, the bottom a smear of ink.

  Georgeanne touched the soiled lines with a gloved finger, and asked Marion, “Is there any way to decipher this mess, to look under or through where the ink has run?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing I know of, and that’s a shame.”

  “It is indeed,” Eben said, “but let’s see what we can read and go from there.”

  The seven columns were headed in neat capital letters, repeated on every page: NOMINE, LOCUS, RITES, BIRTH, DEATH, BURIAL, DATUM.

  “It’s fascinating to me, the mix of Latin,” Marion said. “Wonder what that’s about?”

  “Scholarship,” said Eben. “Whoever started the ledger was learned, and wanted that known.”

  Under “Locus” some entries gave nothing more than “Charlotte, North Carolina,” or “Spratt Plantation, Mecklenburg County,” but there were some exact street addresses such as 719 East Second Street, LT.

  Eben said, “ ‘LT’ must have stood for Logtown.”

  “Rites” included baptism and communion. Under “Death” was a date and numbers that corresponded to the map of the cemetery. The column headed “Datum” had three mixed alphanumerics.

  “A code,” said Marion.

  “Obviously important to whoever began the register,” said Georgeanne, “but signifying what? Children? Siblings? Marriages?”

  Marion disagreed. “It’s got to be more than that.”

  “Look at the fourth and fifth entries, right before the illegible lines.” Eben pointed to the first page. “Dated 1842. ‘Manning Tilley,’ born that same year, date of death blank. That could be Reverend Tilley’s father or grandfather. And below that, ‘Elisa Tilley nee Younger, born 1847, died 1873.’ Locus for both, ‘Tilley Plantation, Charleston, South Carolina. ’” He stretched his stiff leg under the table, accidentally kicking Georgeanne. She reached over to pat his thigh, a gesture he found thoroughly pleasant. He smiled at her. “Younger Tilley grew up on the South Carolina coast,” he continued, “so these must be his parents, but why in the world are slaves on a plantation in Charleston listed in a register in Charlotte?”

  Georgeanne said, “I’ve been going through that box I got from you, dated 1880 to 1910. Found some papers with information on the Tilley family.” She put her briefcase on an empty chair, opened it, and pulled out several file folders. “Manning apparently became a thorn in the side of his master when he fell in love with Elisa Younger, a slave girl fancied by their owner—one Eliott Tilley. Manning was sold ‘up south,’ to a plantation near Waxhaw, where he was freed. Nothing more is known of him.”

  “So he’s not Reverend Tilley’s father?” Marion asked.

  “Apparently not. Their only connection is the name they share from the plantation. Elisa had a child, our Reverend Younger Tilley, in 1863, fathered by her master, as was too often the case.”

  Marion looked at the register. “When she was only sixteen.”

  “Yes, probably taken against her will.”

  “And someone,” Eben added, “wanted to be sure the Tilley line was recorded in the register. Strange.”

  “Not really,” said Georgeanne. “Manning was here—I mean at least he was in Waxhaw. Had become a free man. Could have settled in Charlotte. And he loved Elisa. Perhaps he got his birth date recorded in the register and added Elisa’s, given that he thought of her as his wife—certainly his beloved—whether or not they were ever married.”

  They sat in silence until Eben stood. “I need to stretch a bit. One thing is clear: We now know why Reverend Tilley was so light skinned. He’s one of those colored men who could have passed and chose not to. Makes me admire him even more than I already did.” He laughed. “And that name, Younger. Sounded odd to me when I first heard it. Got used to it, though.” He went to the kitchen sink, ran water into a percolator.

  “No coffee for me, thanks. Too late in the day, and I’ve got to go. Tomorrow?” Marion yawned, got up, rubbed his astonishing platinum hair.

  “Sunday, it will have to be after three in the afternoon for me.” Eben turned on the stove.

  “Fine with me, see you then.”

  After Marion left, Georgeanne said, “I’ve been reading the statutes, Eben, and they’re not in your favor where the cemetery is concerned. The city will have domain over St. Tim’s and the cemetery, though they will have to pay for everything, removal of the bodies, re-interment, etc. Of course, they’ll find a legal way to do the minimum necessary.”

  He put the pot on the stove. “Yes, that’s inevitable. What bothers me most is those who don’t have my options.”

  “Options?” She got cups from the cabinet, put milk on the table for Eben.

  “I’ve found a potential new home for St. Tim’s, a small church that’s in trouble financially. We’ve been talking.” He watched the percolator, changing the subject abruptly. “Have you seen anything in those papers about a John Thomas Quarry?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.” She sat back down. “You mean that stone at the back of the graveyard, JTQ?”

  “That’s the one. Reverend Tilley told me there’s no one buried there, that the stone with ‘JTQ’ etched in it was a ruse, that Quarry supposedly died but instead left town.”

  “I’m only about halfway through the papers,” Georgeanne said. “I’ll let you know if I come upon anything about him. Quarry? Like a rock quarry?”

  “To the best of my memory.” He poured the coffee, added milk to his, sat down across from her. “How much longer will you be here?”

  “Fall break ends Wednesday, but I’m looking into moving back to Charlotte. There’s a position open at Johnson C. Smith.” She touched the register. “It’s quite attractive to me. I’d be working with poli-sci students, teaching American constitutional law.”

  “With what emphasis?”

  “How government works within constitutional limits. Contemporary problems. Civil rights in particular, my special interest.”

  “Soon?”

  “I have a lot to wrap up in Durham, but yes, classes start right after New Year’s.”

  He decided not to question what she had to wrap up. There was time for that.

  * * *

  Eben was unbearably bored with the task of writing this week’s sermon on the importance of godly work. He’d chosen the readings, music for the offertory, and the hymns. “Jacob’s Ladder” seemed especially appropriate, given the recent seventy-fifth anniversary of Myers Street School. But the message needed refinement, focus, a parable with which to bring it to a close. From his office above the choir loft, he heard the voices of children in the sanctuary. Happy at the interruption, he descended the stairs.

  The Hucks twins, Mary and Martha, were pushing brooms around the foyer. A pleasant tang filled the air as Mrs. Hucks cleaned windowpanes with vinegar-soaked newspaper. At his step she turned. “Good afternoon, Preacher. Hope we not disturbing you. I got the girls doing work for the Lord today.”

  Godly work. “They seem to be enjoying themselves.”

  “Hey, Pastor Polk.” Mary stood with her broom at attention as her sister continued sweeping, head down.

  How could identical twins differ so in personality? “Hello, Mary. How’re you doing, Martha?” The shy twin swept dust from a corner.

  Mrs. Hucks moved to the next window. “That one may not have much to say, but she’s deep. Sunday school put them up to this, you know?”

  “I’m grateful. I could never keep this place clean without help.”

  She turned to him. “I got to as
k you something, Pastor. There have been rumors.”

  He touched his collar, sat on the edge of a pew, feeling cautious. “What’s up?”

  “That flower man, Jonny No Age, was he a member here?”

  Eben knew what was coming. “Yes.”

  She went back to her polishing, spoke over her shoulder. “Brought along that bookkeeper, one that lived with him?”

  “Joseph. He’s an accountant, yes.”

  “Queer, weren’t they?”

  He wanted to respond, “We’re all queer in one way or another,” but dodged by asking, “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, c’mon, Pastor. Sissies. I don’t want that kind around my girls.” She moved on to the next window. “He should have gone back to Raleigh when Jonny passed.”

  Mary stopped sweeping, paying close attention. Martha swept dust from the steps in front of the stage.

  Mrs. Hucks got down from her stepstool. “I want nothing to do with the likes of Jonny’s girlfriend.”

  She spat out this last word with contempt. Quotations came to him about casting the first stone, but this woman’s life wasn’t easy. Her family had been burned out in the fire and her husband hadn’t had work in quite a while. How they made it was beyond Eben’s understanding. The front door opened.

  A stout man came down the aisle holding baskets of flowers. As if there was an all-knowing God, Jonny’s friend had come by with arrangements for Sunday service.

  Eben said, “Joseph! We were just talking about you. Come on in.”

  Mrs. Hucks said, “Mary, Martha, come here. We got to go.”

  Eben called out, “Girls, come see the flowers for tomorrow.”

  Joseph ducked his head to Mrs. Hucks and put the baskets on the stage by the pulpit and the choir benches. “We got some delphiniums today. They go well with the brown-eyed Susans and phlox, don’t you think?”

  Mary ran up to one basket, buried her face in the flowers. “Smells pretty.”

  Martha stayed with her mother.

  “Mary, you come here right now,” Mrs. Hucks said. “Right now!”

  Mary obeyed, but called back to Joseph, “Real pretty flowers, mister man.”

  Mrs. Hucks took the girls in hand and left the church.

  Joseph’s mouth twisted. “Reckon I caused a ruckus.”

  “No need to apologize. Thank you for the bouquets. We count on you like the sun rising, I want you to know that.”

  Joseph looked at the floor as he spoke. “I’m returning to Raleigh. Going to close the shop and go back to accounting.” He turned to leave, tossing his last words over his shoulder. “She doesn’t know any better, Pastor.” He watched Joseph leave, feeling as if he could have done more.

  The unfinished sermon awaited him when he returned to his study, papers scattered on his desk, the Bible—his Revised Standard Version—still open to Proverbs, where he’d found a passage on doing godly works: “Commit your work to the Lord, and your plans will be established.” That was his thesis, but he’d struggled to say outright something along the lines of, “Do good work, leave the rest up to your creator.” As always, preaching about a creator he doubted felt false. But the language of the RSV wasn’t quite right. He looked around for his office copy of the King James, realized he’d left it at the manse. Though he seldom removed the ancient King James from the pulpit, and as much as he didn’t want to have to use the stairs again, he needed to compare the text, to see if differences between the two translations would help him focus.

  Back at his desk with the elderly Bible, which was falling apart, he turned to Proverbs 16:3, saying “Ah-h-h,” out loud as he read the ancient words, “Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established.” Thus, if we do godly works, godly thoughts will follow. Something like that. He pushed the King James aside, picked up his pen, and attacked the part of the sermon that had eluded him, glancing back and forth from Bible to sermon. Verse eighteen jumped off the page: “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” Oh, for a way to present that to Sister Hucks. He laughed aloud, reached for the King James, and knocked it to the floor in his haste. He grabbed it up, almost tearing off the back cover of the dilapidated Bible, caressing it as if to mend it. He looked at the spine to see if he’d broken it, noticed something he’d seen before, inside the back cover, but had never paid attention to. A list of names, numbers, letters. A record he’d assumed was pertinent back in 1842 when the Bible was dedicated to Second Presbyterian Church Colored. Those letters and numbers—could they be connected to the register?

  He picked up the phone.

  CHAPTER 26

  Retta and me are sitting on orange crates in the alley when Mr. Griffin comes out of the prep room behind the serving line, his face telling me something’s wrong. “Loraylee, your grandmother called. She sounded upset.” My first thought is Hawk. Mr. Griffin tells me to use his office phone, for privacy. He must be thinking of Hawk, too.

  Bibi picks up on the first ring. “Oh, Raylee, it bad, it bad.”

  I sink down in Mr. Griffin’s chair. “What?”

  She’s crying. “Ray been arrested. He in jail.”

  Out the window in the alley, Retta stares back at me.

  I say to Bibi, “I’ll find out what happened, call you back.”

  I dial the emergency number for the police. A woman answers, gives me another number that rings four, five times before a man answers. “Chief Jailer’s Office.”

  “My uncle, Raymond Glover, got arrested this afternoon.”

  “Hold on.” I hear papers being shuffled, voices in the background. “Yes, indecent exposure, desecration of a burial site, resisting arrest.”

  “He did what?”

  “Urinated on a grave.”

  The door opens, Mr. Griffin steps in.

  “Can I come see him?” I ask the man on the phone.

  He tells me to hold on again, more clicks, more silence.

  Mr. Griffin sits in the chair across from his desk.

  I put my hand over the receiver. “My uncle is in jail for peeing on a grave.”

  The man comes back on the phone. “Visiting hours tomorrow are ten till two.”

  “So he’s gon spend the night there?”

  “Yep. Judge will address bail in the morning. That all?”

  I shake my head like he can see me. “What time tomorrow, the judge decides?”

  “Court opens at nine.” He hangs up.

  Mr. Griffin comes around the desk, pulling the blinds shut on his way to me.

  * * *

  I prep the supper line and leave early, Mr. Griffin practically shooing me out the door. I get home to find Bibi on the sofa.

  Hawk runs up to me. “Hey, Mama. Bibi’s sad.”

  “Yes, baby.” I touch his hair.

  “Where’s Uncle Ray?” he ask me.

  Bibi say, “In jail.”

  I sit beside her. “Tomorrow I’ll go downtown to hear what the judge decides. I might can visit Uncle Ray. No way he peed on a grave.”

  She sniffles. “He been having trouble. Sometimes he can’t hold it.”

  “Yeah, but he would never go on somebody’s resting place.”

  She sits up straight, wipes her eyes with the hankie she keeps tucked in her bosom. “You right. And he hasn’t been in jail a day in his life. Tell the judge Ray is a good man.”

  * * *

  I’m walking up Trade Street in my best dress, a white daisy print with a full skirt that swirls around my legs; got on a hat Bibi gave me, her pearl necklace and earrings, my shoes polished. The judge won’t take me for trash. It’s only eight-thirty but I’m sweating before I’m halfway to the courthouse, stopping to pat my face with Kleenex. My thighs rub together, starting to chap above the stockings I usually save for church.

  I’m about to pass the Law Building when I get an idea: Uncle Ray needs a lawyer, and this building is full of them. The lobby is dim, cool, after the bright sun. Next to the elevator is a framed list of so many lawy
ers it makes me dizzy. I touch the glass. The name under my finger is Sidney Cruikshank, of Taylor, Taylor, and Wolston, Esq., Suite 304. Steel doors slide open and the elevator man say, “Going up?” At 304 I tell the girl behind the desk, “I’m looking for Lawyer Sidney Cruikshank.”

  She opens a black book. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. I just need a lawyer.”

  “Your name, please? I’ll go see if Miss Cruikshank is available.”

  “I’m Loraylee Hawkins.” It comes to me what she said. “Miss Cruikshank?”

  But the girl is gone. In a couple of minutes the door she disappeared through opens. A white woman comes toward me, dressed like a man in a suit jacket and long pants, a white blouse, gold necklace. “Miss Hawkins? I’m Sidney Cruikshank.”

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  “I am.”

  She’s sure of herself. “My uncle’s in jail.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Why don’t you come to my office and tell me what happened.”

  “How much do you charge?”

  “Not a penny until I find out if it’s something I can help you with.”

  “Okay.” I follow her to an office with a desk in front of a window, shelves from floor to ceiling filled with books. She sits behind the desk.

  I take a chair, looking at papers framed on the one wall without books.

  “That’s my diploma from law school, my license to practice, and my undergraduate degree.”

  Law school, university. “Not sure I should be here.”

  “Start by telling me what happened to your uncle.”

  Her long brown hair is twisted into a knot on the back of her head, one strand loose, which she tucks back over her ear.

  “He got arrested for peeing in a cemetery.”

  She takes a writing pad from a stack of papers on her desk, picks up a pencil. “When?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did he spend last night in jail?”