Lilly

by Madelyn Bennett Edwards

  "Long story."

  "I got time."

  We were interrupted by Reggie Johnson, the only white guy in the group. He has reddish hair and fair skin and a keeps a three-day beard that's neatly trimmed. His green eyes remind me of a cat, but a friendly one.

  "Reggie," he said when he shook my hand.

  "Pleased," I said and stared at him as if I couldn't figure out why he was there.

  "I know, you're wondering what a white guy is doing in this group. I guess no one warned you. I married a colored girl, so I'm a member of the club, whether I like it or not."

  "Oh." I was surprised that anyone in the South was married to someone of the other race. He had lots of questions, but Steven, who seemed to be in charge, asked everyone to sit and we all found places on the sofa and in chairs in the small living room.

  "So it seems we have a problem, right?" Steven asked and looked directly at me. I was caught off-guard and stammered a bit.

  "Thanks for coming, guys." My friend saved me from my tied-up tongue. "This is Rodney Thibault. We grew up together in Louisiana, went to high school, played football. He's a good guy. He's in real trouble. Maybe he should explain."

  I told them about you and how I was trying to get to New York so we could get married. I told them about Jeffrey and that I didn't know whether he was still alive.

  "Last time I talked to my dad, Jeffrey was in a coma. They weren't sure he'd make it. I'm frantic to find out about my brother."

  "We can't risk a phone call. We'll all be discovered." Steven looked around the room and his eyes rested on Reggie. "I think one of us needs to make a trip down to Jean Ville."

  "I guess I'm the most logical one, huh?" Reggie said.

  "Yep. It's got to be you, whitey." They all laughed.

  "Okay. I'll go in the next couple days. Let's say we come back together next Friday."

  "That's another week," I said. "Susie will be a basket case. She hasn't heard from me except for one letter I was able to get off to her more than a week ago."

  "Listen up, Rod," my friend said. "This is not just for your safety, but for hers, too. Trust me. They'll be stalking her to find you. Does anyone know where she is?"

  I told them I wasn't sure whether your parents had your address. I'm not sure if you're still at your apartment on campus since you've graduated. I told them I don't even know where you live and they said that was probably best.

  "When they can't find you they'll try to find her and wait for you to show up."

  "Damn. I don't want anything to happen to her."

  "Let's hope they are still on your trail and haven't had to resort to looking for you in New York."

  I told them that your dad would kill you if he finds you, but I don't think they took me literally. Reggie said he'd need some contacts in Jean Ville and I gave him Dr. Switzer's name and, of course, my dad's. I asked Reggie to find out about Jeffrey and to ask my dad to call you and tell you I'm alive, in case you aren't getting my letters.

  I'll write you when Reggie gets back with news. I hope you are getting my letters and I wish like hell you could write me back, but I can't risk sending you the address.

  Yours forever,

  Rod

  Chapter Seven

  ***

  Home

  The next week I stopped at the post office and noticed an envelope that felt thick, as though it had something in it other than a letter. It was a long, white envelope with familiar handwriting, addressed to me in a beautiful cursive hand and forwarded from my address on campus.

  I was afraid to open the envelope because I knew, from experience, what was in it.

  Every August I received an envelope with pictures of the little girl I'd given birth to on August 21, 1969. She'd be five, I thought, and I put the unopened envelope on the side table near the lamp. I also received Christmas pictures every January.

  I remembered the initial picture after the baby's first Christmas: a chubby, mostly bald, four-month old lying on a quilt on the floor with a silent, toothless laugh. The following August there was a picture of a toddler standing up, holding on to the sofa table, pride lighting her face, plus another shot of her taking a step. She wore a red dress with smocking across the bodice and a big bow in back. Her hair was a little longer than in the bald picture and looked light brown. Loose curls fell over her forehead.

  I didn't open the envelopes that came the following years. I put them in my bottom dresser drawer under my pajamas, along with the first two that I'd opened. I put the new, unopened envelope with the others and tried not to think about the small stack that was growing.

  There was a letter from Rodney in the stack. It had been written ten days before and looked as though it had been forwarded twice, first to the wrong address then finally to my PO box on Utopia Parkway.

  July 29, 1974

  Dear Susie,

  Reggie got back from Jean Ville with good news and not-so-good news.

  It was after eleven o'clock on Friday when we all got together. Everyone looked tired.

  Reggie said that Jeffrey is out of his coma, but not out of the woods. He's still in the hospital and Dr. Switzer is taking care of him. Reggie got to see Jeffrey and he asked Reggie to deliver a message to me: “Tell my brother this is not his fault. He needs to follow his dreams. We all do.” That's what he said. I know what he means because we’ve talked about it a lot. As Negroes, we have to work doubly hard to achieve our dreams. I think what he was trying to say is don’t let my race dictate my life.

  The fear and uncertainty I'd been able to keep at a distance for almost a month seemed to shroud me like a thick, dark cloak. The other men sat around and waited for me to pull myself together. It took a few minutes, but I got hold of my emotions.

  The bad news is that they are keeping two men in Jackson at all times, Reggie told me. He had a stubble on his face that had collected over the past week while he'd been in Louisiana and I felt responsible that he’d been away from his family that long. He said the word on the street in Jean Ville is that the “posse” your dad recruited to keep me from getting to you thinks I’m still in Mississippi. They watch the train and bus stations and have guys who live in Jackson working with them. Reggie said he thinks they have you staked out, too, and since I haven’t shown up there, it confirms their belief that I haven’t gotten out of the South.

  Most importantly, Dr. Switzer told Reggie that your dad and mom are planning a trip to New York to visit you. Do they know where to find you?

  This is important, Susie. Reggie said that Dr. Switzer thinks that if I go to New York, the Klan, or the posse, or whatever you want to call these bigots, will hurt my sisters or my mother. In fact, he suggested that they could be molested, among other atrocities. Dr. David told Reggie that I have another choice: go back home.

  I know; it doesn’t make sense. It would be walking into a trap. But Dr. David believes that if I go home and pretend I’ve been on vacation or off at school, it will be as though you and I never had plans to run away together. He said your dad would have egg on his face and the Klan would not only call off the massacre, but they'd probably never believe your father again.

  I'd never considered going back home and I didn't understand how that could solve anything, other than have me walk right into a trap. But Reggie explained that Dr. David said that if I showed up in Jean Ville with my colored girlfriend and pretended the two of us had been away together, "Two birds, one stone is how the doctor put it," Reggie told me.

  Frankly, Susie, I've never considered what the Klan might do to the rest of my family. I know your dad is evil. I witnessed what he did to you. But to hurt my mother or molest my sisters? I just can't wrap my mind around that.

  Dr. Switzer told Reggie that's what would happen if I make it to New York and we get married. I suppose that's something we should think about. Reggie said I should think hard and long about what I'm giving up by marrying you.

  I asked him: “So you
’re telling me that if I go back to Jean Ville without Susie, all of this will go away? Susie's dad will get off her trail, the Klan will let go of Jeffrey and my family. Everything will die down?"

  Reggie said that was his opinion and Dr. David's. The other guys looked at me and shook their heads.

  I asked Reggie what he would do if he were me.

  Reggie walked over to where I was sitting and stood in front of me, his hands deep in his pockets, and said this to me: “My family won't see me. They are paralyzed with fear about what will happen to them. They live each day as if it's their last, waiting for the Klan to attack, or waiting for word that I've been killed. I miss them. I love my wife, but I'm not sure I'd make the same decision, knowing what I know now. I was young and impetuous and thought, 'To hell with people who don't understand.’ But really, they are the ones who understood. Now, I'm living with the consequences."

  I wanted to choke him, to tell him he couldn't understand how much we love each other and deserve to be together.

  "I'm just saying think about it, Rodney." Reggie was compassionate, yet firm. "In a few years, after all of the excitement of being with her every day has worn off, will you miss your family? How will you feel knowing you can never go back home? Never see Jean Ville again, or your brother? And how will you feel if your brother dies? Or if they string up your dad again or do God knows what to your sisters and mother?”

  His last biting message had to do with you. He said, if none of the things they could do to my family scares me, what if they hurt you, molest you, even kill you. I could never live with myself if something happened to you.

  It’s a lot to think about. What do you think we should do?

  Steven said he tried to call you from his work to bring you up to date and so you could let us know if you are safe and whether you are receiving my letters, but your phone has been disconnected. I don't know how to reach you. Marianne told Reggie that she talked to you but that you called her and wouldn't give her your new phone number. Why do you have a new phone number, have you moved? Stupid me, I'm acting like you can answer my questions.

  It looks like neither of us can find the other.

  And I can't leave this house, unless I go back home to Jean Ville.

  I'm not sure what to do.

  I love you. I miss you.

  Forever yours,

  Rod

  I called Marianne as soon as I finished reading Rodney's letter.

  "I thought you knew." She sounded surprised and caught her breath. "Maybe you should sit down."

  "What is it? Is he okay?"

  "He's home."

  "What?" I sat down hard in one of my kitchen chairs.

  "He's been back almost four days."

  "Is Annette with him?"

  "Yes. I'm sorry."

  "Is he going to marry her?"

  "He's not sure. He wants you safe. He wants his family safe."

  When she hung up I held onto the receiver until the dial tone turned to a squawking sound and brought me to my senses. I couldn't cry. I was out of tears. I had to find some way to move through life without Rodney.

  It was over.

  I slumped into my chair and crumpled Rodney's letter. Hearing the crackle of the page gave me a start and I threw it, like a baseball, across the room. He could have told me himself, I thought. Then, once again, I remembered he didn't know how to reach me other than letters that took almost two weeks to get here.

  On the one hand I wanted him to fight for me—then again, I didn't want him killed. I'd rather not have him than live in a world where he no longer existed. I thought about calling Rodney or writing to him, but that would be all wrong. I had to let him go.

  *

  Some days I'd have talks with myself, dress in something that made me feel sexy or pretty or professional, whatever my mood dictated that day. I'd make myself walk with a lilt and a swagger. I'd arrive at the office with donuts for everyone and go to lunch with some of the girls. Other days I'd wrap myself in an old sweater, slump my shoulders, put my head down and forge through the crowds, get to work, and not speak to a soul.

  I felt schizophrenic and I knew the people I worked with wondered from day to day, which Susie would show up. But I couldn't help myself.

  A week after I found out Rodney had moved home I got a letter from Marianne.

  July 7, 1974

  Dear Susie,

  How's your new career in publishing? I'm loving my job at the hospital. I was promoted to night supervisor and, other than the crazy hours, it's great. Mom is doing good. She only works until about three o'clock every day now so she has more time at home. She misses Granddaddy. We all do. We miss you too. When do you think you'll come for a visit?

  Rodney took a job with the Toussaint Parish District Attorney. He's getting married next May. I thought you'd like to know. He seems happy.

  I hope you're happy too. Tell me all about your love life. Mine is great. You'd love Lucy, she's a real character.

  Gotta run. Sure do miss you.

  Love,

  Mari

  After I read Marianne's letter, an invisible force walked me to my bedroom and made me open the bottom drawer of my dresser and dig out the stack of white envelopes with the cursive handwriting written across the fronts. My legs wouldn't move so I sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor with the drawer still pulled opened, and put the stack in my lap.

  Before I realized what I was doing, all of the pictures of the baby—my baby—were lined up, beginning with her at four months old; then at one year; then one year, four months; then two years; two years, four months; three years old; then three years, four months and the latest on her fourth birthday, wearing a pink dress, white shoes that buckled on the sides, white lace-trimmed socks, and a pink bow in her shoulder-length, curly brown hair. She had huge, almond-shaped eyes that laughed at the camera. She was beautiful, like Rodney.

  I wondered who sent the pictures. Was it Emalene Franklin? Would she send pictures of her child to the biological mother? I felt so totally alone without Rodney but somehow the pictures of the child we had made together gave me a ray of happiness.

  I examined each picture until I had the little girl's growth memorized. I also looked for hints that I might be a welcomed visitor, if I could find her.

  I finally put the empty envelopes back in my bottom drawer. The pictures, however, I lined up in chronological order on the bulletin board over my desk and pinned each one with a stickpin. As I sat at my desk and stared at Rodney's baby, I thought about Catfish. I wondered what he'd tell me to do.

  Then I remembered a story he'd told me about a child being wretched away from his mother. The thought to somehow get Rodney's child back began to germinate inside me without my knowledge, while my consciousness considered the injustice of dislocating a child from her family. If I could only meet her, see her in person. Would that be enough?

  Catfish told me that changes ran rampant the first year Mr. Gordon Van took over Shadowland. I could hear Catfish's deep, throaty drawl with a hint of laughter in every sentence. I picked up my pen and began to write his words on the ruled sheets of paper on my desk.

  Samuel

  1855

  In the beginning the slaves was uneasy and thought it might be a trap 'cause it seemed too good to be true, yes indeed. They lined up at the cookhouse and got theyselves three hearty meals every day and could ask for more if they was still hungry when they bowls was empty. They could go to the barn for new work clothes when theirs wore out and George made sure everyone had at least two sets, so they had something to wear when they washed.

  The womens had several bolts of fabric to choose from to make theyselves skirts and such, and George would cut any length they wanted. There was real sheets and pillow slips for their new straw mattresses and pillows, big iron kettles for each family for days, like Sundays, when they cooked they own meals. Bessie gave out corn meal, flour, sugar, coffee grounds, and such as t
hey needed and she kept a tally to make sure no one took too much—but that was not one of Mr. Van's rules, it was Bessie's rule and it kept everyone in check.

  I could still hear Catfish chuckle when he made a comment like that. "The biggest change for the slaves was the work hours," he told me.

  Before Mr. Gordon come back, everyone worked from sun-up to sun-down with no breaks. Now they only worked ten hours a day and had three breaks, fifteen minutes in the morning and afternoon when they was given as much water to drink as they wanted and thirty minutes for dinner at one o’clock. At first George say some of them drank water and ate so much dinner so much they got sick. Hah!

  At six o'clock Mr. William rang the bell for supper and they got all the time they wanted to eat 'cause after they ate, they didn't have to go back in the fields. They had time to sit in the quarter, sing hymns, visit neighbors, care for their children, and rest.

  And wonder of wonders, they didn't work on Sundays. They could have they own church service or walk to the Bethel Baptist Church about four miles across town.

  Best of all, no one saw a whip.

  About six months after Mr. Gordon came to Shadowland, he and William was up in town to pick up some seeds and twine for straw bales when he heard a commotion in the town square. Mr. Gordon tells the story about my granddaddy different than what I heard direct from Granddaddy. Maureen said William told her what happened.

  Mr. Gordon paid his bill and left William to see that the supplies were loaded in the flatbed wagon and walked out of the Feed & Seed in the bright sunlight. The excitement in front of the courthouse was a slave auction. Mr. Gordon didn't like the way slave owners and buyers put them poor black folks on risers, wrists and ankles chained, a metal ring around they necks, with one end of another chain hooked to it, the other end held by the owner. Mr. Van thought it was cruel.

  When he needed a field worker, which is what he called his slaves, he asked around and found out about plantation owners who had some to sell. He'd visit the owners and meet the worker, then decide whether the worker would meet his needs.