by Cheryl Reid
“You don’t love me,” I said. “If you did, you would not have done that.”
“We can’t just quit.” He did not contradict me about his love.
Some part of me hoped he would.
“I have thought of leaving, but you’re the one who left me, and here we are.” His words felt like acquiescence—this is who we are, this is the straw we drew. He pulled me toward him. “Our daughter wants to be home where she is happy.”
I let him embrace me, even though he did not love me. There was truth in what he said. I was settling for less, but I liked his closeness. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to feel his weight and his skin and find some forgiveness for him. I was tired of being alone. I was tired of fighting him off and fighting with Marina.
Elias sensed my body giving in to him and he led me to the side of the river beneath the mulberry trees we had planted. “We made vows. We are bound together.” He kissed me as he had probably kissed Zada. He touched my face and kissed the bruise. He had his business, his reputation, his pride at stake. He needed me more than I needed him. He undid my blouse and kissed the bruise of his bite mark and he ran his fingers along my arms and my back. He said, “Never again.”
I returned to Papa’s without Marina. Papa and Eli were dressed for Mass, but they had not gone. They stood waiting in the doorway, and Papa figured what had happened. “Don’t go back,” he pleaded. “You don’t have to go.” He followed me to my room and Eli played with his toy soldiers as I gathered our things in our bags.
I could smell Elias on my skin. “He won’t do it again.” I did not want to hurt my father. I did not want to be a fool.
“You can’t trust him,” Papa said.
I squeezed past Papa, and Eli followed me like a duckling.
“If you go, he will do it again.” Papa’s voice was gruff.
“We have the children.” I had blind hope that Elias would be true to what he said, that he would be satisfied and we could move on and one day remember this episode as a dark stain on a long marriage. If he could learn to feel for me the way I felt for him, then we would be fine. “I have to trust him.”
“He’ll never be what you want.” Papa took me by the arms. “I cannot help you if you go back to him. You will be on your own.” My father looked broken, and I wanted to fix him and Elias and make the children happy too. “You can go to my brother in Connecticut. Or we can find a place for you to start over.”
“Elias promised he would never do it again.” I sounded weak in my own ears.
Papa shook his head. “It will get worse.”
I wanted Papa to understand. “He is contrite. He’s been to confession.” My father was a religious man, and if anything would persuade him to give Elias another chance, holy forgiveness would.
“When he gets drunk and hurts you again, binti, where will the priest be?” Papa pleaded. “Will the priest come and rescue you and those children? Will his prayers shield you?”
My skin burned red.
“The priest won’t help you.” Papa hung his head. “If you go back, I can’t protect you. I can’t stop him. You will be on your own. But if you are strong, if you stay here with me, you will get through it and you will be safe.”
“We will be fine.” I passed Papa several times as I loaded the car. I put Eli in the back seat and I kept saying to myself, as I pulled out of the alley and east on Water Street, We will be fine. Eli looked out at the river as we drove toward home. My father’s words—You will be on your own—burned like a hot stamp against my skin.
I imagined Elias’s green eyes looking into mine as he kissed my face and ran his fingers gently over my hair. We were married. I had lowered myself into a dark well and tossed the rope back to the surface. He was the father of my children, and he had persuaded me that it was my duty to forgive him. I am on my own, I thought as the car bounced over the railroad timbers. I looked out over the water, peaceful and dark on that summer afternoon, and I wished I could be sure I had done the right thing.
Where I Belong
I stood on my father’s balcony and looked south over the river. To the east, the path disappeared beneath the trees. Over the treetops peeked the bridges and the slate roof of the old courthouse. I took the bag of money from my purse. I had the urge to walk to the riverbank, toss it in the air, and let it flutter to the water’s surface, like geese lighting on a fall day, but that would have been shortsighted. I went to my car and put it under the seat.
“This will pass.” That was Papa’s philosophy when something bad happened—tell yourself, This will pass. This night will pass. This illness will pass. This beating will pass. Maybe that was how he saw happiness too, and so he took happiness with care and caution, because it would all pass.
In the distance, a wall of gray rain fell. Lightning struck far off, but overhead, blue sky. The storm was coming. I stared at the dark water, so deep and cold, churning now from the hot wind. The wide, deep river was always changing, but always the same. The river had become the one constant solace after Mama died. The dark liquid movement swirled and lapped and reminded me of the comfort and goodness of Mama and gave me the hope that comfort and goodness would come again.
On the day Elias died, I looked in the rearview mirror and tried to remember my mother’s face by looking at my own. I could not see her in me or remember her voice or her smell. She had been young, thirty-two, and I was almost old. My black hair, streaked with gray, curled with the humidity. My eyes were red. I wiped away the sweat from my forehead. I imagined Mama would have looked like me had she lived to be my age. She would never have let me go back to him. Mama would have shooed Old Lady Nassad out of my house. She would have acted differently than Papa the day he lost faith in me and disowned me.
I pressed my fingers to my temples. No. Mama would never have allowed me to marry a man like Elias in the first place. She would have saved me from that. She would have seen me for what I was, nineteen and naive and jumping at the first thing that came my way. But I had no way of knowing, and no business wondering what might have been. I stared at the river. I missed my mother. I looked at the river bridges and believed I could drive away.
I turned my car around and sat idling at the end of Papa’s alley.
Across the street, mournful singing still flowed out of the AME church. Men and women in dark clothes spilled out of the white doorframe onto the steps. I knew the sounds of that church as well as I knew the Catholic Mass. After early Mass on Sundays, we’d arrive home and Papa would work in the store. On her way to church, Thea would see us on the front bench and know we were hiding from Papa as he cleaned the store, counted inventory, and restocked. We needed to stay out of his way, or else he would give us chores. Upstairs Aunt Elsa cooked Sunday dinner, and she didn’t like us or anyone else underfoot. We distracted her, she said, with all the little noises we made, and if her things were not in their right place, she blamed us, grumbling that little imps hindered her every progress. Gus and I learned to stay away.
On those Sunday mornings, Thea walked by and she was happy to see us. She knew how starved we were for a mother’s love. She’d walk up in a bright dress, a hat, and white gloves in spring or summer. Orlando tagged behind her and she would call to us, “Come on,” as if we were slowing her down.
Gus and I sat in the pew with Thea and listened to the preaching and singing, so different from solemn Mass. Thea’s church was loud and passionate. There were heaven and hell and rapture and damnation. One time, the preacher locked his eyes on me and ranted about the sins of worshipping Mary and praying to idols and saints. He was letting me know I did not belong in his congregation—a Catholic girl, a white girl. Thea put her arm around me. “Don’t you mind that,” she whispered in my ear. After the service, she went up to the preacher and had her say. She rejoined me and we watched Gus and Orlando run circles in the churchyard, where the hearse was parked now.
The back door of the white hearse was open, reflecting the glare of sunlight. The hats of the wome
n clustered together like a bouquet of flowers. From the top of the steps, the women’s eyes bore down on the pallbearers as they strained under the weight of the coffin.
A woman’s eyes caught mine. Thea had been one of those church ladies. Lips moved across the street. One woman informed the others of my presence in Papa’s alley. Their eyes turned toward me.
I thought of Orlando Washington and the lies Ivie intended to spread. I wanted to know if he was safe now, if he had abandoned his job or left town as Elias and the others wanted him to do, or if he was defiant and back at work. My heart pounded. I wanted to know what exactly had happened, if a cross had really been burned or what threats had been made. I wanted to know how many others were involved, if Elias had been one of a small handful of men or a body in a crowd. Surely, Mr. Washington would know to avoid my house. Those women could tell me.
I turned the engine off and stepped out of my car. My foot touched the road and I hurried across. My dress stuck to my damp back. They could see my dishevelment, my wet face and undone hair. I stepped on the gravel of their drive, and one woman shook her head, No, and then the next, and the next did the same. Ten women shaking their heads, No, shooing me off like a beggar. They looked at each other and then turned their backs to me. My presence did more harm than good. If the wrong person saw me, Mr. Washington’s worries would grow.
My help had been no help to him. I was not a friend. I had grown up across the street from their church, but I was no more a part of their world than they were of mine. I was “Mrs. Anna” to them and I had no place walking across the street and up the hill to their church. I was just another woman from Riverton, only I had put Orlando Washington in real danger. I stood in the middle of the road for a moment more. One woman turned to see if I had retreated back across the road.
The night before, when Elias attacked me, he accused me of bedding Orlando Washington.
I answered, “What if I did?” Not because there was any truth to his accusation, but I wanted to stoke his anger.
Those women could not know what I had said or that my words caused Elias to cross town and do whatever he had done. Maybe they did not even know that Elias was dead. I told myself, This will pass. Elias is dead now, and his deeds will pass with him. I felt a weight in my stomach like a sinker on a fishing line. I wondered what Thea would think of me, trying to help her son and then being the fool that hurt him.
I got back in my car, and without looking for traffic, I pulled out across Water Street. A man in a delivery truck screeched his brakes to keep from hitting me. I looked back in my rearview and saw his angry hands waving.
Up ahead, the red lights at the railroad crossing flashed and the rails jolted down. The train horn bleated low and long. The three o’clock. It chugged past slower than usual. The driver behind me was ranting, beating his fist on his horn, still angry that I had pulled out in front of him and cut him off. In my rearview mirror, I saw the veins in his neck popping. Even the driver ahead turned to see what the commotion was about.
The long train snaked across the rail bridge and the caboose was not yet in sight. I bowed my head onto the steering wheel. The motion of the train vibrated through my hands, arms, and neck, and into my skull. My breath was sour and my stomach churned from hunger.
“Good family, good business,” Elias used to say. I had to trust that Nelly would think of Marina’s and Eli’s futures and keep her mouth shut. She loved them. Marina was as much her baby as she was mine.
A clearing spread green and wild toward the river beneath the train tracks. The train rumbled over the bridge. Dark clouds hung low in the southern sky, and the river chopped and brooded. Lightning flashed far off. Ivie could have the store. Fine by me.
Yesterday morning, instead of baking, I drank my coffee at the table. After Elias and Marina intervened, I decided I would no longer help him in any way. I did not make his breakfast or start the baking for the store.
Elias came down and asked, “Why do you want to help the abeed? Is it because you grew up over there?” A flash of hate or jealousy crossed his face, and he leered at me. “You want to be with him?”
Calmly as I could, I repeated, “Thea helped me and she cared for my mother. I want to help her son.”
His green eyes narrowed. “You know that Thea was paid help?” He poured himself a cup of coffee and slugged it down. “She never cared for you. She did not love you or your mother. It was her job.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not true.”
Elias looked in the icebox for his breakfast. He opened the cold oven door. “That’s what they do. They are servants. They serve.”
“How was it for our fathers?” I said. “They got off the boat with nothing, no trust, only a little English.” Our fathers were shooed off farms and doorsteps until they proved themselves trustworthy to customers.
“Not the same.” Elias must have realized then that I was not baking or lifting a finger to help him. He slammed the oven door and the crash of metal made me jump. He put his face near mine. His green eyes darted back and forth in their sockets. “Do you think I like all those people at the store? I’m their servant. Paid to serve and say, ‘Yes, ma’am’ and ‘No, sir’ and get them what the hell they want when they want it.”
I did not cower. I returned his gaze. “Then you should understand and want to help him.”
He ground his teeth, and his voice, eerie and calm, slithered out. “My mother always said you were a white nigger.”
“Maybe she was right,” I said. “Maybe that is what I am. Maybe that’s what you are too.”
He threw his coffee cup in the sink and it crashed. “Goddamn it.” He stormed out and made a big show of taping the mailbox shut.
He left for work and I removed the tape. The house was hot, but I wanted to be busy. I missed the smell of bread rising and the loaves cooking in the oven, but I would not lift a finger for him anymore. I worked on baby clothes for Marina and thought of the child who would wear them.
I would wait to meet Mr. Washington and give him warning. I would tell him Elias did not want him to come, but that I wanted him to continue delivering our mail. The heat stood in the house like an army. I opened the front and back doors to get a cross breeze and had a fan blowing on me.
When his shoes scraped the limestone step, I looked up from my stitch. I stood. The lid of the mailbox creaked. I opened the screen door, and he greeted me, “Ma’am.” He removed the mail from the box. The lid clapped shut. He handed me the envelopes.
I took them. “My husband wants you to stop delivering our mail.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded and stepped backward as if he were bowing out after a dance. Standing on my front porch, he must have been wary, more so than I could imagine, but he held my gaze. I saw Thea’s likeness in his face.
That day his uniform was heavy wool, too hot for summer. The earthy scent of his perspiration hit me. Maybe the white postman wanted to make him miserable and had switched out his locker, stolen the correct uniform and made him wear this winter one.
Had Verna, my neighbor, been watching that day and seen us standing there on my front porch, with the door open and us looking at one another, she would have been shocked at our closeness, at his proximity to the heart of my home.
“But I do want you to go on delivering to us,” I said. The cicadas buzzed from the trees. Both of us were weighed down by the thick heat, him especially, in wool with the mailbag slung over his shoulder. I imagined his mailbag was similar to the peddler’s box that had once burdened my father. “You can keep us on your route, but I thought I should warn you.”
“I understand,” he said. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened. “I’ll think about what to do.”
I wiped my brow. “Okay.” I felt defeated.
“I took this job for a purpose.” He took another step backward. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead into his eye. He blinked it away.
Mr. Washington’s skin was darker than my brother’s, who
stayed in the sun day in and day out on the country roads, selling goods to farmers from his rolling store. My father, when he was young and peddling on foot, stayed dark from the sun too, until he opened his store and worked indoors. Mr. Washington was bold to walk up my front steps, the first Negro to ring the bell on our front door. I thought how it would have been for my father, a dark foreigner with an accent and poor clothes, a box strapped to his back, returning to a house after he’d been told to go on.
I felt a surge, probably the same as a soldier feels when gunfire starts popping around him, before he pulls his own trigger—half panic, half nerve. I could not let him walk away. He had won something, and I felt I had too.
“I want to help you,” I said. It was true. But I also wanted to punish Elias for the years he’d punished me and had no feeling or understanding.
“My mama thought highly of you.” It was the only acknowledgment he made of our connection.
“Come in,” I said. “Do you want a glass of water?”
I held the screen wide and motioned for him to come inside.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He looked over his shoulder. He knew better than to take another step. “I’ll wait here.”
“No.” The sound of my voice vibrated in my ear, as deliberate with him as I had been when I told my father that I would marry Elias. “Come inside. I insist.”
The delivery-truck driver blew his horn. In my rearview, I saw him stick his head out the window and yell, but his voice was muffled. I could not hear him because I had not opened the windows. The air inside the car sweltered. I rolled it down and the outside air rushed over my damp face. I could hear his shouting now. “Damn it, what in the hell’s wrong with you?”
I looked forward again. The guards had been up long enough for the car ahead to cross the next intersection. The man in the delivery truck revved his engine and crossed the yellow line to pass me. I hit the gas and lurched over the tracks, but I had to slam the brakes to keep from hitting the truck as it cut in front of me. The bag of money jolted and spilled on the floorboard. With my foot on the brake, I leaned over to rake the money under the seat. When I sat up, sheriff lights reflected in the rearview. I pulled over near the old courthouse.