Even now I can recall the little girl I was, pressing my mind into itself as hard as I could. The crisper the picture, the more likely the vision was to take place, Mama said, so I scrunched up my eyes and felt myself cushioned between my mother and father. I didn’t know what North looked like, only that we were twenty miles west of New Orleans, but I imagined there was sunshine, a big fiery ball of it set low in the sky, and even as it was twisting up higher, I could almost touch it because I was running.
Josephine
1924
I AM HANDING OUT HOG HEAD CHEESE SANDWICHES TO the workers when I run into Major in the fields. He grips my arm as I pass him. I look away. I guess I’m still mad about the way he left me the other night, took Jericho with him. I know it’s wrong, boy got a right to build his own life, but I can’t outrun my hurt.
“You ain’t gon’ ignore me, are you, Mama?”
“Not ignoring you, just busy.” A bit of the meat grazes my arm and I pick it off, flick it into the ground.
“And not just busy but mad,” he adds, smiling his daddy’s smile.
I don’t say a word.
“Jericho has a function at the school tonight, you didn’t forget, did you?”
I’m afraid I did.
“Eliza gon’ make food for it, he gon’ read a speech. Eliza’s people will be there too. It will be a nice time.”
“One big happy family.” I am looking down at my shoes.
He sighs. “That’s what we are, ain’t it? At least that’s what I pray we’ll be.”
I spend the rest of the day ruminating on how the evening will go. Probably they’re going to team up against me regarding ol’ Aristide, convince me to pay him rather than cut our own yield short. I go over all the ways I’m going to counter, but my tongue is heavy the more I think about it, knowing I won’t just be arguing against Major, that his new family will be there, and they can spin their words around me.
Naturally I pick up Link before I go. She is just sitting out on the porch, rocking, one foot hitched up on a box crate. She offers me a cool glass of water, and I shake my head.
“I was going to head over to see about Jericho then,” I say.
“You? Was a time you said you wouldn’t step foot in Eliza’s house alive. Haunting, you said you would do.”
“Oh, hush up. I never said anything like that. Anyway, the function’s at the school, not their house. You got the legs to join me?”
“If you do, sister.”
And we are on the path. The day’s work is not done and we pass men in overalls and work boots, tugging corn stalks from the ears. A woman not much younger than me leans down over a sack of field peas, lifts a heavy board and thrashes it. Later, when there’s wind, she’ll drop the peas onto a quilt while their shells drift elsewhere. Now, the heat is steady, and I’m regretting not taking Link up on that glass of water.
I am more and more nervous the closer I get to the school. Link is right. It is Major and Eliza’s show now. All this while, I didn’t want to see them, but maybe I was afraid Eliza was the one who wouldn’t want me. Not to mention her people are there, and whatever she is bringing to the table they’re going to stand behind, holding it steady. Any time I have to work up a nerve, I close my eyes and imagine the Revisioners, standing in a row behind me, and I feel rooted, but it is hard to maintain that feeling here, now. I have to call up the visions of them more than once, and I find the edges of their faces are blurred.
THE SCHOOL ISN’T MUCH, TWO SMALL ROOMS IN THE back of the church that house children ages five to ten; battered books and chairs for every other child, a blackboard, a basket of switches and slates the children will hold in their laps. We can’t complain though. The school a town over has windows that don’t shut. They ran out of fuel halfway through winter, and the children sat inside wearing wool coats, their hands curled inside their pockets in tight fists.
Tonight, there is a wood platform set up outside the church for the children, and chairs lined up facing it for the audience to behold. The little girls sit on one side of a long log bench, and the boys on another. The program hasn’t started by the time we arrive, and Jericho jerks out of his seat to wave at me and Link. He starts to step down to greet us but I hold my hand up to stop him. Eliza’s people turn back to see who’s riled him up so, and Link and I nod and move toward the row behind them.
The teacher introduces the program, calling for more students no matter if it’s harvest season, and then it’s the minister’s turn to bless the event: “Oh Lord, cover the tongues of your tiniest servants, steady their hearts, and keep their minds straight.” Jericho is near the back of his line, and a dozen children speak before it is his turn. The sun is setting in the distance, and the temperature cools enough for a shawl which I wrap around me. With the cotton on my skin, and the humming of little voices circling, it is impossible to stay alert. Several times Link has to kick my foot, and once Cyrile locks her eyes with mine just as my head nods back from a half dream. Finally, Jericho rises with his Bible in his right hand, and I sit up fast in my seat.
He reaches the center of the podium, opens up to a place he has marked, and his voice pokes out like a turtle’s head out of a shell.
Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the saviour of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing.
The wonder of it still doesn’t escape me, him reading like it’s as natural as lifting his own head, or growing teeth.
Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it; That he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word, That he might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing; but that it should be holy and without blemish.
He doesn’t stumble over a single word, and when he’s done, we all leap to our feet. Only a couple more boys read after him and I am fueled enough by Jericho’s performance to pay attention. When it’s over, Cyrile stands and turns back to greet us. She’s wearing a wool suit with a flower pin securing the jacket; pearls reach her waist, and her hair beneath her wide-brimmed hat is wound in a sleek and plump bun at her neck. Louis seems to stand crooked though he’s looking straight ahead at me.
I pat myself down on instinct. I should have worn better than this colorless dress I sewed from cotton sacks. I don’t say a word, but Louis talks like he’s responding to my thought.
“Nonsense, you look lovely.” Then he draws me in and kisses me once on each cheek. He does the same to Link and I can see her trying to stop herself from laughing.
“Good to see you again, Miss Josephine,” Cyrile says, hugging me fast.
Eliza and Major walk Jericho over from the platform, and Jericho nearly leaps into my arms.
“Mama, I was wondering when you were going to show your face,” Major says. He points to the food in the back. The dishes the families brought are covered in towels on a long table behind us, and as long as the program dragged, much of it is probably still warm. “Eliza made cabbage and pork chops,” he says.
“Now, it ain’t your cabbage and pork chops,” Eliza interrupts.
“It sure ain’t,” Jericho busts out laughing, then stops short when Cyrile cuts her eyes at him.
“Well, all that ham hock and fatback isn’t so good for us anymore, now is it?” Cyrile says.
“You wouldn’t know it from the flavor,” I say, and Link and I are the only ones who smile.
After we serve ourselves, we walk back to our chairs, Link on one side of me, Major and Jericho on the other. Eliza and her people sit in the row ahead of us but they turn their chairs so they’re facing us, partway. Louis blesses the food, and then we start in, Link stringing along the conversation with gossip.
“Come to find out those Shelton boys were scrapping over by the creek yesterday evening,” she says. �
�Banged up the youngest one so bad he had to be taken to the hospital. Sat and sat waiting for somebody to treat him and by the time they called his name he said the bruise had gone from black to purple to just right brown again.”
We all laugh, Eliza and her people less so.
“Yes, but the worst news came from old Marty Johnson,” Link goes on. “I guess old Desiree collapsed one day right where she was dusting in the choir stand. Deacon found her when he went in for prayer worship Monday morning but it was too late.”
“Oh.” I put my fork down, but Link keeps eating, shoveling the cabbage and rice between her lips. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.
“Yes, but that’s not the end of it. I guess old Marty still heard her in the house even a week after the burial. They asked Willow to look into why she was haunting him, and come to find out, he paid another woman to lay with him the—afternoon—of—the—repast.” She spaces that last part out. “Can you believe the gumption?”
I see Eliza and she just about looks like her stomach is turning so I say, “All right now, Link.”
Link keeps right on though, “And not just once, but—”
So I repeat, “All right now, Link.” And I kick her foot, and she looks up with a jump and then clears her throat and turns back to her plate, and there’s silence again, and I don’t have to say it’s not on account of the taste of the food.
“This is the first time we’ve all been together since the wedding,” Eliza says in that squeak she uses.
The mother nods, cuts her meat with a fork and knife. I’m too old to learn to eat it that way and I pick the meat up with my fork and lean down and we meet in the middle. I like to think I still look like a lady.
“I’d like us to do this more,” Eliza goes on. “Maybe once a season. I know it’s a long way for you, Mama, and Louis, but we are family now, and soon we’ll have a little one.”
“Yes, indeed,” I say when I’m done chewing. Louis sits on the other side of me. He has a big appetite and the rest of us aren’t even halfway done when he walks back over to the table for more potatoes, more pork. When he’s back, he gulps his lemonade before he zeroes in on Major.
“Now, how’s the farm, brother?” he asks.
Major sits across from him, diagonally, and Louis looks him up and down. He is younger than Major, and it shows in their demeanors, but the way Louis talks to him now, you would think he was Major’s daddy. I can see Major getting nervous, chewing his food real firm, then clearing his throat more to collect himself than because there’s something in it.
“It’s good, brother,” he says, looking him in the eye the way his daddy taught him. “Real good. In fact, I got some good news today. Ol’ Aristide Taylor knocked on my door this morning and apologized. A few days ago, he started up a ruckus, thought he had a claim to some of my crop, but he turned around and said forget about it, I was right. He said I was right, Mama.” He turns to me.
Eliza’s steadily nodding.
I am surprised to hear that at first, but then it hits me. It’s because I offered his son a job. A part of me wants to say that, but I don’t want to embarrass my son. I won’t have this family looking down on him any more than they might already do.
“This pork chop sure is tender,” I lie.
“Best pork chop I ever had from you, Eliza,” Louis repeats, plucking meat from between his teeth with a pick. It seems like we’re on solid ground. There is a discussion of pound cake, though I’m not hopeful about it on account of the pork. Still I am feeling more and more comfortable there, when Link cuts in.
“You know why Aristide said forget about that cotton, right?”
Oh, Lord, she can’t leave well enough alone. I move to kick her again, but I hit Cyrile instead and she jumps up startled.
“That’s cause Josephine gave his son a job,” Link goes on.
Major looks at me with a tired expression on his face, and I see the boy waiting on the front steps for somebody to come by and ask him to play, but not many kids ever did.
“Is that true, Mama? You gave him a job without talking to me?” he asks in a quiet voice.
“Since when the tail got to ask the head?” I say, trying to make a joke of it.
“Since you told me I could run the farm,” he says, his voice louder.
“At the least you could have told us,” Eliza says.
And I ignore her. She does best to let me ignore her.
Cyrile gets up and starts collecting the plates.
“Your daddy would be twisting in his grave if he knew you were objecting to me giving a man just back from the gang a means to make an honest living,” I say, trying to maintain my composure.
“There you go,” he says, “telling me what my daddy would do. I knew him too, you know. He wasn’t all yours, and I got him in me, in my blood. I see him every night before I go to bed, and he’s telling me, don’t do things the way he did them. He’s telling me maybe that’s why he didn’t get where I’m trying to go.”
I was softening at him saying he sees him nights, but now I stand. “Your daddy went from being a slave to owning three hundred acres, boy.”
“And I’m trying to own four.” He stands now, Eliza’s hand in his.
I can sense the other families turning to look and I know this conversation will be retold many times come morning. Still I can’t stop myself.
“I’m not going to watch you bury your daddy’s legacy for a few dollars,” I say. Link is up too now, next to me, leaning against the table for support.
Cyrile walks back with the cake, icing dripping down its sides, and I can look at it and see it’s too dry.
“Everybody, shut up,” she is trying to whisper but she isn’t accustomed to scenes. “I told you not to bring up business matters at the dinner table,” she turns to her son. “Now here you go again, making trouble.”
Louis apologizes, but he is smiling in his eyes. He helps me back into my chair.
Major and Eliza sit too while Cyrile slices the cake and dishes it out. I feel like I’m going to cry, but no. I won’t allow it, so I take bites that fill the entire fork and I home in on the sweetness. I am done before I know it, and despite Cyrile’s complaints, I get up and help her wash the dishes off with the pail of water beside the platform, then load them back into the basket. I walk back to the table just in time to hear Louis trail off.
“First thing you gotta do,” he says, patting Major on the back, “is stop talking to women about men’s business.”
Major laughs from deep down in his belly. When it’s time to go, I barely look at him I’m so disappointed. Cyrile squeezes me to her as if to make up for the quick pats I get from my own child. I walk a few steps in the direction of home, then turn back. The school is still in rock-throwing distance. I suppose I want to catch Major’s eye, to give him a chance to meet my own, but he is lost in his conversation with Louis, and the sight of him so removed from me takes my breath away.
Josephine
1855
“A NEW MAN,” I SAID TO MISSUS THE MORNING JUPITER arrived.
“A new slave,” she corrected me from behind. She was a tall, fair woman with a red face and long blond hair that she scarcely combed, that she’d wash, sometimes, and just let hang. She was prone to having fits and she laughed like a wild animal screeching. You could always hear her rooms away heeing and hawing in high-pitched yelps. Mama called her a silly woman because she wasn’t in control of her feelings. When they rose to their feet, she bowed in submission, where Mama handled hers like stew on a low fire.
“A rascally looking slave too,” Missus added, and I agreed with her even though she was wrong. I could already sense Jupiter’s power. It wasn’t just his height, which was magnificent, or his color, the deepest shade of black I’d seen. No, he walked like his steps were measured, like God had already whispered to him how many breaths he was allotted this life, and he was well within his limit.
Ten years at Wildwood, and I only remembered one funeral. There
must have been dozens more. Babies died before they were born, women died carrying them, men died on the fields, children coughed one morning and were out the next. But it was only this one, a woman who fell out when she was cooking pork for jambalaya, that stuck with me. She had been standing in the kitchen, stirring a pot with no known ailment in the world, when she hit the floor. Mama said not three minutes later, a baby was born in a cabin less than ten yards away to let them all know the woman’s soul had found freedom.
Still at the burial we all cried, even my mama, who led the night procession from the quarters to the grave lit by pine-knot torches, singing all the while.
I’ve been praying this prayer a long time
I’ve been praying this prayer a long time
I’ve been praying this prayer a long time
And I ain’t got weary yet
When the ceremony was over, we walked the mile back to the cabins, past the mule trough and the overseer’s house, the saddle shed and the barn, the sugar fields and the brick mill where, before winter, children loaded the carrier with cane. Jupiter was standing outside our door, barefoot in a browned linen shirt and dusty trousers. The plantation was full of pigeons that flew through the fields for worms and grain but a single one stood next to Jupiter’s right foot. This one barely had a beak, which made its icy grey head look like a round, worn stone. The bird wasn’t poking at the dirt or fluttering its wings; it stood, head high, chest out, like a man. Mama didn’t bat an eye at the man or the bird but let Jupiter in like she’d been waiting for him. She told me to shush and she boiled berries for tea in a pot on the fireplace. There was a pallet of dried grass in the center of the room, and without her telling me to, I walked over to it and sat, stretching the range of my ears so I could hear them. Mama had a large nose that flared at the nostrils and waiting eyes that could land on whomever she was beholding and just sit. She rested those eyes on him now. She asked what he wanted from her, and he said it was her doing the wanting. She said there wasn’t anything she ever wanted from a man in all her life, and I felt betrayed on behalf of my daddy who had surely deserved desire.
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