by Zakes Mda
The preacher’s booming voice brought me back to the little church. He was attacking the Catholic concept of purgatory, but added: “That’s the blessing of being in America, you have the right to be wrong.” Then he told us about a judge in Haiti where he worked for many years as a shepherd of the lost sheep. The man went from being a judge to a busboy at a restaurant in Florida when there was a change of government in Haiti. But he kept his faith. So should we, even in times of the worst of adversities.
Then it was time for testimonies. I was asked to introduce myself and testify. I told them my name and that I was from South Africa and I was glad to worship with them. I left out the professional mourner part. But I knew that they already knew I was Ruth’s African. The pastor told me he was Brother Michael and welcomed me to the church. He expressed his hope that I would attend the service every Sunday.
An old man testified: “I’m glad to be here since this morning. I’ll come back. Thanks for the prayers.”
After more singing we shook hands and the service was over.
I thought Ruth would be happy to hear I had been to church. The family was sitting at the table for lunch when I arrived, and surprise! surprise! Orpah was with them. I blurted out that I was at the church service and was amazed that there were only five of us and the pastor.
“Who was the pastor?” asked Ruth sternly. “Was it the Caucasian man?”
“This is America, Mama, it don’t matter if the pastor is Caucasian,” said Obed.
“Did I say it matter?” asked Ruth.
“It don’t matter ’cause of them Caucasian girls from Guysville,” said Orpah, outing Obed’s shenanigans in a neighboring village. So, brother and sister do talk about things. They do share little confidentialities. And they do betray each other as siblings are wont to do.
“One girl from Guysville,” said Obed. “And it don’t matter if she’s Caucasian or anything.”
“I wouldn’t go to that church again if I was you,” said Ruth. “Especially if that Brother Michael is still the pastor.” I thought she would give me the reasons, but she did not. I turned my attention to the grits and beans and mashed potatoes and pork. I felt my heart pumping in a crazy and misguided rhythm at being so close to Orpah that I could actually smell her cheap perfume. Her presence stole my appetite. I just wanted to watch her as she chewed slowly and deliberately, and as her parents treated her like some visiting royalty, trying very hard to see to it that she was comfortable: Mahlon giving her more meat from his plate, Ruth dishing more potatoes on her plate, and Obed looking at it all unimpressed.
But I wasn’t about to let the church issue go unanswered. “What’s wrong with Brother Michael,” I asked.
“’Cause he’s a sinner,” said Orpah. And then she chuckled sarcastically.
“It ain’t no laughing matter,” said Ruth. “The Good Book in Genesis 2, verse 24 says: Therefore shall a man leave his father and mother and shall cleave unto his wife, and they shall become one flesh. People have ignored God’s principles for marriage.”
Orpah seemed to be eager to explain Ruth’s riddle to me when she noticed my puzzled look. Brother Michael lived happily in Florida and preached the gospel there until he met a woman from Kilvert. Not just a woman, but a divorced woman. They fell in love and Brother Michael left his wife. The couple migrated to Kilvert where Brother Michael took over the church. Ruth led a campaign against him because he was an adulterer. Her biggest tool was the Bible, particularly Exodus 20:14: Thou shalt not commit adultery, and of course the Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Ephesians 5:33: Husbands, love your wives, wives, respect your husbands. That was how people came to boycott their little chocolate church.
But people could have just as easily forgotten his origins, and would have ultimately forgiven his sin—after all Christ himself was all about forgiveness—if the man had not made things worse for himself by foolishly preaching a sermon that rubbed Ruth and her followers the wrong way. Sister Naomi, the diehard believer in Brother Michael, told the people at the Center that Brother Michael had enlightened her about the heathen messages of the slave quilts.
According to the pastor the story that quilts had a code that directed runaways to safety was a myth created by black women who sold quilts on the roadside to romanticize them and increase their value. This infuriated Ruth, who felt that her heritage was being demeaned by the man.
“You know how Ruth feels about them quilts,” said Orpah. To me what mattered most was that Orpah was at last opening up to me. She was telling me this story and she was looking at me directly. Not at Obed. Not at Mahlon. Ruth was listening quietly, occasionally mumbling an agreement or shock at appropriate places. I did not understand why the pastor would find the code on the quilts hard to swallow. After all in the motherland (which is what the descendants of slaves fondly call Africa) there were many examples of art that spoke. Particularly fabrics and beadwork and even lids of pots. They did not only adorn or cover our nakedness or our food. They transmitted messages in a practical way. They spoke about the status of the wearer or user; about love life, life’s journeys, life’s transitions, emotional states, aspirations, protest, even pet peeves. Why wouldn’t the African carry on with the tradition of talking fabrics in the new world? Even if the codes did not give the fugitives specific directions to safety they functioned very much like the slogans and songs that we chanted and sang during apartheid. They didn’t say anything we didn’t know. They didn’t give us new insights about apartheid and how to overcome it. But they gave us courage and created a spirit of oneness and camaraderie among us. They gave us strength and reinforced our resolve to fight to the bitter end. The quilts did the same for the slaves. As did their spirituals. They contained folk wisdom. They invigorated memory.
But that the matter should cause such a rift between Ruth and her followers on the one hand and the pastor and his congregation of four on the other was beyond me.
“It didn’t help that the man once called us Mulengeons,” said Ruth as if in answer to my unasked questions. “He wrote that he was spreading the gospel among the Mulengeons. We ain’t no Mulengeons. Mulengeons are Roma people. They got Gypsy blood in them. We ain’t no Gypsies.”
“It don’t matter what anyone call us, Mama,” said Obed at last. “We know who we are. It makes no never mind what the pastor says. You don’t have to be pissed off about it, Mama. Let the man live and do his job at the church.”
Orpah. We talk. She does not flee from me anymore. She does not go out of her way to be in my presence either. If she is not in her room, presumably drawing, she sits with Mahlon on the swing. Both are bundled in heavy coats and wrapped in woolen scarves and are wearing woolen hats. You wonder why they want to punish themselves in the freezing outdoors. She quietly stares into empty space while he smiles at his gnomes, now all covered in snow. I have not seen Orpah and her father exchange a word, except when she was agitated because Ruth had destroyed her work and he was comforting her.
Ruth and I no longer sit on the swing. Not so much because of the cold. We no longer sit together anywhere else either. Except at the table at mealtime or when we are all in the living room either watching television or a blank screen. And this saddens me. She does talk to me, when she has to, but she no longer tells me the stories of her heritage or outlines the political situation of the world for me. She is relentless about destroying Orpah’s drawings though. I have offered to hide them for her so she gives them to me. I know Ruth suspects that I am hiding them among my things. But she is too respectful of my personal property to rummage through it and destroy them. In any event I am always there when she cleans my room and I always insist on doing most of the work. All she does is remove the dust from her bottled foodstuff with a feather duster.
Sometimes Orpah and I meet. By chance. Normally in the kitchen where she makes coffee for herself and where I hang out during those times I have noted are her regular coffee hours so that I can accidentally bump into her. And we talk a little bit. Just s
mall talk. Then she passes a new batch of drawings to me. On one occasion I try to convince her to appease Ruth. Draw the traditional patterns and show them to her mother. She will be happy and will once again allow her to use the sewing machine. She can begin by sewing traditional quilts, and then gradually mix them with her own creations. Before Ruth knows it she will be sewing her designs. But Orpah is as much of a hardliner as her mother. She will not compromise. She will not do slave patterns—or African quilts as they call them here—because she does not need to escape to any place. She adds: “Them slaves did all the escaping for me. I want to invent patterns that tell my own story. Like my music. Nobody’s gonna tell me not to play bluegrass on a sitar.”
She mentions the sitar because she knows people frown upon this innovation. I have heard Nathan make snide remarks about it, suggesting that there were some traces of insanity in the woman even though he was professing his love for her at the same time.
I tell her that she needs to do something that will prove to Ruth that her art quilts would sell. I know for certain that Ruth’s don’t sell at all. She works so hard and gets little or nothing in return. Every Saturday morning she loads five quilts on the GMC pickup and takes them to the farmer’s market at the University Mall parking lot in Athens. She displays them on railings. People come and look and say “how beautiful” and go to the next stall to buy organic vegetables. They will only talk about them when they are out of her hearing: the quilts are expertly done, but they are like any other traditional quilts. Same stitches and knots. Same Jacob’s Ladder, Bow Tie, Drunkard’s Path, Shoofly, Monkey Wrench, Wagon Wheel, Flying Geese, Crossroads, North Star, Log Cabin, Bear’s Paw that are found on other traditional quilts. Not that all these designs are found in one quilt at the same time. Only one or two of them feature in a quilt—unless it is a sampler. What may be distinctive are the combination of colors she uses and the patterns on the fabric itself. A brazen and heartless customer sometimes says directly to her that one can easily and cheaply find the same kind of quilts at Wal-Mart and they are used as mere bedcovering rather than works of art that can proudly be hung on the wall.
Every Saturday afternoon Ruth loads five quilts on her GMC and drives back to Kilvert. Once in a while she is lucky and a charitable person buys a quilt. Only once in a while. As a result she has to depend on food stamps, on the Center’s pantry and now on my contribution for room and board. When things are a bit tight—the family can’t live on the sauces and relishes that are stored in the cellar—she has actually said that I am God-sent, although she hates to be dependent on charity. When on occasion I give her more than she charges me, she is loath to take the money.
But Ruth is so steeped in tradition that even poverty will not move her to be innovative in her use of the very traditional designs. After all, many modern quiltmakers create works of art that are inspired by traditional designs but that venture into new directions. Which is what I was encouraging Orpah to do. It is the same approach that I once suggested to the women at the Center. They are steeped in tradition too. At best they make strip quilts. That’s as far as they can venture into the world of “art.” But fortunately they go beyond the slave designs in their exploration of traditional quilts. They also do quilts from other American traditions such as the Wedding Ring, the Pinwheel, the Irish Wheel, the Schoolhouse, the Diamond-in-the-Square and many others. At least they did not pooh-pooh the idea. They merely said they were going to teach me how to quilt and I could then create those so-called art quilts that I am always on about, so that they may continue in peace to make quilts the way their great-grandmothers made them.
The sitar. It’s been days since I heard it. Here it comes again tonight. Midnight. The sounds seep through the walls to my cellar. Muted. Up to now I had thought that a trumpet was able to transmit melancholy better than any other instrument. I was wrong. The sitar in the hands of Orpah achieves just as much. Or better. She has managed to make the sitar speak a new language.
I am aroused to a point of madness. I want to hear the sitar in all its glory. I wake up, put on my robe and walk outside. I stand behind Mr. Quigley’s sole shrub and begin to abuse myself, to the extent that if I was living in an earlier era I would have been committed to the mental asylum at The Ridges. I go with the rhythm of the sitar, but stop immediately when I see a dark figure appear from the corner of the wrap-around porch. It is Mahlon Quigley. He is in a period costume of some kind. He looks like a pirate of the high seas with a tricorne hat and a patch on one eye. He wears a bandolier over his shoulders and as it falls across his chest I can see that it is empty. He holds a gleaming cutlass in one hand and a tray of food in the other. He walks gingerly until he gets to Orpah’s door. He taps at the door with his sword. The music stops and my hard-on unceremoniously dies. The door opens and against the light there is Orpah still holding her sitar. Even though I can only see her outline because of the backlight she is a pirate girl in a short dress and a big hat, which is likely to be a tricorne as well. Mahlon waltzes into the room and shuts the door.
For some time there is silence. Then a lot of giggling. I walk closer to the window. Mumbling. Singing. One voice. Two voices. Male and female. Laughter. Moans. Giggling. My God! I walk away in disgust.
The next morning Obed wakes me up with a rude knock. I have a call. I grab my robe and rush to the living room. I suspect it is Beth Eddy because she is the only person who has ever called me here. It is Barbara Parsons at the Center. “I’d like for you to come to our Christmas dinner,” she says. I thank her. I was going to go in any case. Everyone in Kilvert is going. Everyone but Ruth, who is still nursing resentment against the Center women.
And there is Mahlon sitting on the swing looking as innocent and serene as the wooden Jesus in his garden. I look at him and suddenly my stomach churns.
“What was the call about,” Obed asks.
“It was just the women at the Center,” I say.
“I thought it was Beth.”
“With a voice like that? Why don’t you call her?”
He looks at me as if I have asked him the dumbest question ever. But I am interested in Mahlon Quigley. I want to know more about this man.
“Why?” asks Obed.
“I find him intriguing.”
“My old man intriguing?”
“Don’t you people know what happens under your own roof at night?” I was getting agitated.
“Oh, you mean about him and Orpah? Of course we know. Everyone knows. They have been doing it since she was little. Since I was little too. But I outgrew it. Orpah’s still a child at heart.”
Then he walks away.
Mahlon Quigley, I learn from the women at the Center later that day as I help arrange the chairs in the hall, is a respected elder in the community despite his silence. On the rare occasions he utters something everyone listens and takes note. They don’t remember when and how his silence started; it just crept on them. They do have a memory of a much younger and vibrant Mahlon though. He and Ruth used to live on a small farm when Obed and Orpah were little. They raised all their food, including meat. They slaughtered hogs and chickens. They raised their own eggs too. But, alas, farms were commercialized and the family had to leave the land.
But no one could take the farmer out of Mahlon. Even when he had moved to the village he kept cows. “He got them as calves and then grew them up till they was big and then sold them for beef,” said Irene. Sometimes he had up to eight cows at a time. He had two or three pigs and a few chickens as well. “Back in them days you could keep them animals in your backyard without the government whupping your ass,” adds a man who had joined us helping set the place up for the party.
A strange disease attacked his animals; many of them died and others had to be put down. This pained him very much and he decided he would never again grow anything that would die. Hence his garden has gnomes and flags and statues. The only living thing is the bush that has survived for generations and is not likely to die in his lifetime. When
women talk of him their eyes become moist and their voices drip honey. One senses awe in the men’s tones. Everyone is in agreement: there has never been a gentleman like Mahlon Quigley seen in these parts.
And there is this business about his mother, which the people here would rather whisper. She was a white woman from Stewart who fell in love with a colored man from Kilvert. Naturally her parents objected. She fell pregnant with Mahlon and had to run away to Kilvert to be with her man. She was only in her teens at the time. She found that in Kilvert she was not quite welcome either. People resented the fact that she was from Stewart first and foremost, and secondly that she was white. It was in the early 1940s, Irene reminds me, and prejudice was the order of the day. Why, even today you will still find it!
This intolerance by a community founded on the basis of fighting against intolerance is very sad. Something terrible must have happened to the poor woman. I remember Ruth telling me when we were still great buddies that her greatest wish at the moment was to get a proper tombstone on the presently nameless grave of Mr. Quigley’s mother.
Christmas dinner at the Kilvert Community Center. Five days before Christmas day. Everyone laments that it is not going to be a white Christmas. The rainbow people of the village have gathered and the hall is full. Little girls in red and white Christmas dresses. Little boys playing pranks on other little boys. Big and slender teenage girls with lipstick smeared thickly on their lips standing in a group next to a Christmas tree with red and white decorations. They are holding their babies in their arms. They are all in the latest of designer jeans. Grandmothers feeding their grandchildren. It strikes me that the children have become lighter in complexion than their parents down the generations. Some look totally Caucasian.