Race Traitor: BWWM Romance Novel for Adults

by Jamila Jasper

  “Burke,” Janie whimpered.

  He was afraid she would tell him to stop. God nor hellfire couldn’t stop him now, for he had slid two fingers inside her and felt how tight she was- and Christ, the barrier of her virginity still intact. Janie had never been with a man.

  He stared down at her through the darkness, hips lips brushing hers as he spoke.

  “I could turn you ‘round. I could take you right here.”

  “I-I’ve never….”

  “I know, sweet.” His fingers were still inside her; he withdrew them, but not very far. They danced around the button of her clitoris. She gasped, jerking away from the new sensation, but he held her fast.

  “You never had a man before,” he said, more statement than question.

  “No,” Janie shuddered. His fingers sent electricity over her body. Her mind slid around in a puddle of feeling; all she knew was Burke, his mouth against her throat, his hands playing in her most secret place, where no man had ever touched.

  Burke took one of her hands and placed it at the fork of his legs. She felt up his hard length, concealed by his clothes. He was a man of size.

  “Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Smart girl,” he whispered. Janie gasped. His hand was building her towards an explosion of pleasure, the other kept her left hand planted in his crotch, stroking him through his trousers. Burke’s voice was gentle. “You know what I’d do to you with it?”

  “I know- I know a little.”

  He spun her around suddenly, her breasts pressing against the wall, her bottom pressing against the hard length of his manhood. He had her breasts again in one palm, the other insistent, gentle, cupped in her moistness.

  “I’d be gentle with you,” he said in her ear. “You’re purty as a bird- I wouldn’t want you to fly away. You hear? Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of with me, Janie. I swear it.”

  “Yes,” she gasped.

  “But not yet,” Burke groaned. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting for control. He couldn’t ravage Janie here, up against a wall like a common whore. She deserved better- he could take care of her, woo her, thrill her in the softness of a bed- his bed. He could wait, for every agonizing, wrenching moment it took.

  He pressed into her; Janie imagined what it would be like to take all of him inside her, Burke yearning for that very thing with all his might, but holding back. Janie didn’t imagine long. With a cry she came, arousal exploding within her in a shower of light and pleasure; she would have fallen to her knees if Burke hadn’t held her, working her softness until her climax swept them both away in ecstasy.

  ***

  Burke gave her a whistle. It was a small, white thing, made of bone. He took it from his pocket and handed it to her, as an afterthought. Perhaps he felt guilty for what had happened.

  “My first instrument,” Janie said, curious. “What should I play with it?”

  “For protection,” he said lazily. “I found it one day. Darn thing don’t work, really.”

  They were in the darkness of her room. She’d lit a candle. Burke stretched out on her bed; he was so long his feet dangled off the end. His head cushioned in her lap. Janie stroked his dark curls lightly. She couldn’t help the nervousness. If they were discovered they’d both catch hell. The thought should have made her stand up and see him out the door.

  But the room was a haven. No one would bother her here. She could pretend that it could last.

  “Why don’t you mind black people?” Janie wondered aloud. “How come you’re different from the rest? You don’t hate. You don’t kill.”

  Burke shrugged. “I’m only what God made.”

  As he drifted along the edge of consciousness, Janie began humming to herself. An old, old lullaby. She knew the meaning of the words now. She had learned French formally at Xavier- and colloquially, on the streets of New Orleans. Her mother’s tongue.

  Then she began to sing, very, very softly. Gooseflesh rose on Burke’s arms. He stared at her, until she finished. Her voice seemed to make him weaker. His hurts and aches grew heavy under her spell.

  “You sing like an angel,” he grunted.

  “I know,” said Janie, smiling.

  “Take out your hair for me.”

  Surprised at the request, she did so, spreading the kinky cloud over her shoulders. She looked at him questioningly. As usual, his eyes revealed nothing. He only stared at her.

  “You don’t remember,” he said softly.

  “Remember what?”

  “Nothin’.”

  He rose up and pulled her down with him. “You’re so damned beautiful I can’t stand it. Makes me want to hit somethin’, I get so mad.”

  Janie didn’t know what to say to that. Burke had a strange mind and a strange way of saying things. He yawned and stretched out, drawing her arms around him and her head against his chest.

  “You can’t stay here,” Janie told him firmly. “Betty’s comin’ for me in the mornin’. We’re gonna meet some of the children, all around Rickshaw. Convince the parents to send ‘em to learn.”

  “Busy woman,” he grinned.

  “Education is a full time job,” said Janie primly. Burke chuckled.

  “I’m sure. It’s really somethin’, what you’re doin’ for them kids. Wish I’d stuck with schoolin’. I was too dumb to learn.”

  “What you mean?”

  “Only stayed long enough to write my name- not much else. Was a lazy little bastard.”

  “You mean,” Janie said delicately, “You can’t read?”

  “Nope. Not really.”

  He said it without a shred of self-pity or remorse. He didn’t sound bothered by it at all.

  Times really have changed, thought Janie. Forty years ago, might have been the other way ‘round.

  Burke patted her rump, pulling her from her thoughts. “Go to sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be gone by mornin’.”

  *

  Janie started lessons for the Rickshaw children. The schoolhouse was far from finished, but some could call it inhabitable, and at least the roof was fixed so the monsoon-like rains that drove through Mississippi wouldn’t crash over the children’s heads. During summer, parents usually liked the young kids to stay close and help with the harvests and chores. But Janie, with Betty and Esther Brown’s assistance, rallied to get as many children as possible under the roof of the schoolhouse.

  Janie had also started going to church again. She took pleasure in going, and even more in throwing her voice into the round, swelling songs that so joyfully lifted up to God. To her surprise, Emmett Freeman had started leading the sermons.

  One day after church, he stopped Janie.

  “Miss Janie, a word,” he said, beckoning her over. People were filing out of small wooden building in a sea of color. A few children greeted her shyly, clutching the hands of smiling parents.

  Emmett wore a crisp gray suit. He was leading a small, dark young boy by the shoulder.

  “My nephew,” he explained.

  “Hi,” Janie smiled. She didn’t recognize the child; he wasn’t among her tiny lessons group. “What’s your name, sugar?”

  “Curtis,” the boy said, so quietly she had to strain to hear it. “Curtis Jones.” He looked maybe about eight or nine. Giant eyes blinked up at her.

  “Nice to meet you, Curtis. Mr. Freeman- what did you wanna talk about?”

  Emmett led his nephew along with Janie on a small walk away from the buzzing crowd. “A couple things, Miss Janie. For starters- your voice. It’s ethereal.”

  Janie blushed. From her few interactions with Emmett she discerned that he was prone to giving compliments, but they never came flirtatiously. But she still didn’t know if she liked him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Freeman. I enjoyed your sermon. You quoted DuBois?”

  “I did,” Emmett nodded, pleased that she’d recognized it. He hooded his green eyes against the sun until they took shade near a magnolia tree. “I also want to ask
you about the schoolhouse. I hear you’re giving lessons.”

  Janie nodded. “Will Curtis be attending?” she asked, smiling at the little boy.

  Emmett waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “The boy is staying with me. I prefer to school him myself. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Janie said easily. “The lessons are going well. Mostly getting the young ones comfortable with reading again. Doing sums with the older ones.”

  She hesitated. “It doesn’t look promising, Mr. Freeman. They’re miles behind.”

  The idea didn’t seem to bother the mixed-race man; he shrugged. “I figured.”

  “You have a lot of dreams for this place,” Janie continued, choosing her words carefully. “But we’ve got a long way to go. You don’t think it’s too late?”

  Emmett had told Janie of his goal: get at least half the older children to college within three years. Janie wondered if it were possible.

  “Never too late,” Emmett said firmly. “Look at little Curtis.” He gestured to the child, who flushed and stared at his feet. “Economically, he’s no better off than any of these children. But he’s got brains. More than you or me, I’d wager. They all do. They just need someone to bring it out of them.”

  Janie had never heard anyone talk about education the way Emmett did. He never ceased to surprise her. They looked out at the churchyard, teeming with the chatter of adults and the barely-restrained shrieks of playing children. Janie could envision her younger self among them, many years ago, her hair straining from its braids, playing tag and flip-bucket and double dutch. She’d never had anyone give much of a damn about her education. The few years she’d spent in New Orleans, and then the following years in Rickshaw, she’d gotten educated in spite of those so-called teachers, who thought knowledge could only be imprinted through force.

  Emmett patted Curtis’s shoulder gently, pulling her from her thoughts. “Show Miss Janie what we learned this morning.”

  The little boy inhaled nervously. But finding some strength from within, he threw his shoulders back and lifted his chin, clasping both hands in front of him. In a low, strong voice he recited:

  The bones they took and placed in a golden urn,

  covering them over with soft purple robes,

  and quickly laid the urn in a hollow grave,

  and covered it over with great close-set stones.

  Then with speed heaped they the mound,

  and round about were watchers set on every side,

  lest the well-greaved Achaeans should set upon them before the time.

  And when they had piled the barrow they went back,

  and gathering together duly feasted a glorious feast in the palace of Priam,

  the king fostered of Zeus.

  And so it was the Trojans buried Hector, Breaker of Horses.

  A silence hung on the end of the verse. “That was very nice, Curtis,” Janie said, stunned. She turned to Emmett. “Was that Homer?”

  Emmett nodded proudly. He patted the boy’s shoulder. “It was. He’s memorized the entire Iliad. We just finished up this morning.”

  Janie looked again at the little boy, so small in his church clothes. Something nagged at her. It was one thing to educate a child for the world. Training one to parrot off ancient verse for entertainment, was quite another. What were Emmett’s intentions?

  As if reading her thoughts, Emmett said, “He’s been doing geometry and algebra. He plays two instruments, working on a third. The boy is now almost fluent in French and German, and he’s a star in Latin. With only a year of schooling. He’s a prodigy, Miss Janie. Do you know where I found him, when I first came here?”

  “No,” admitted Janie.

  “Sleeping on a straw pallet in the Croups’ kitchen,” said Emmett. “His mother died of pneumonia last year. She was the cook.”

  “Jesus God.”

  “You see, Janie, the importance of our mission?”

  “I do,” Janie said quietly. Little Curtis’ gaze fixed on something in the distance; he shuffled in his shoes. He appeared no different from an ordinary child.

  “Well, we better get going,” said Emmett. “Places to be. Things to do.”

  “Hope to see you soon, Mr. Freeman,” Janie said, meaning it.

  Emmett nodded. Then he frowned at something behind her. “Is that Burke, waiting on that hill?”

  Janie’s face flamed.

  “Er- yes. He asked to wait for me after church.”

  Emmett glanced at Janie from the tail of his eye. “I hope you’re not doing anything improper, Miss Janie.”

  She cleared her throat, surprised at the sudden coldness in his voice. “Excuse me?”

  “You know what I mean. It’s too dangerous- think what would happen to the children if something happened to you?”

  “You’re right,” Janie murmured, ashamed.

  “Besides, I won’t have a teacher of ours playing whore for a white man. Burke’s a fine man, make no mistake, but he’s not one of us.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but Emmett’s look silenced her. “Do you follow? We hired you to raise this town up, not drag it back fifty years.”

  Janie flushed with irritation- and guilt. “Yes, Mr. Freeman.”

  “Good. As long as we understand each other.”

  “Message received, Sir,” Janie said tightly.

  “Wonderful,” he fizzed, suddenly all smiles. “Have a good day, Janie.” With a flourish Emmett Freeman strode away, his little prodigy trailing behind him.

  ***

  “You got a bee in your bonnet,” Burke observed.

  “I don’t,” Janie lied. She was, in fact, furious. It would be a long time before she let another pompous windbag like Emmett Freeman lecture her about betraying the Negro Race! The hypocrisy of it all! Wasn’t his mother a black woman? Hadn’t his money come from the patronage of white relatives?

  Think realistically, she admonished herself. He’s right. Whatever you have between you and Burke is dangerous.

  “Why did you want to meet anyway?” she asked Burke. They were walking a cautious distance apart, down Carey Street. The shops were closed for the Sunday, and the street mostly deserted, but for a few white folks drifting here and there, on their way to better places.

  “Wanted to show you somethin’,” Burke grunted.

  He led them past Carey Street into a pasture, and then over the pasture fence- Janie’s skirt catching, then tearing- and into a copse of forest. The Blue Forest.

  It was a sunny day, the air swollen with heat, one of these days where sound seemed to erupt from every nook and corner. The chatter of the river made an endless chorus, though they as yet could not see it.

  “Burke,” Janie said in exasperation. They’d been walking nearly half an hour. Her church dress was sticky with sweat. “Where the hell are we goin’?”

  “You’ll see,” Burke said. He held up branches for her to duck under, and helped her over fallen logs. They walked on no path Janie could see, but tumbled through thorn and thicket wherever Burke directed.

  As they walked Janie’s apprehension grew. The trees thinned out. They stopped finally at a break in the riverbank, where the water kissed gently on the shore and pulled up smooth white stones from the deep. Here the river seemed to breathe, and all else but the wind in the trees, and the sonorous waves, was quiet.

  Burke let Janie look around. Recognition flashed in her eyes, but it came from a distant place.

  “You know it?” He said softly. “You remember?”

  “I don’t-” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. I used to come here, when I was a girl, I think.” She picked up one of the white stones. An old instinct made her whip it over the surface of the water.

  “We met,” Burke told her. “One day, when you came here. It- it was me, with the two other boys. Francis, my cousin, and Jacob. You were singing, and we surprised you.”

  Janie stared at him. “What?”

  Burke took a deep breath. “I asked
your name- remember? Afterwards I kept askin’ ‘round for a Marie, but no one could tell me. Looked for you everywhere after that.”

  Burke’s expression was flat, his deceivingly-sleepy eyes faraway. Janie didn’t know how to feel. It had been him. The boy who had set her free. Who had kissed her so passionately and suddenly, and sent her off with a warning. Oh, she had remembered everything but his face. And the faces of the two other boys. It was the kiss that she’d wanted to keep. The memory of another man- the memory of her own passions. But even then over time it became unpleasant- a reminder of Rickshaw, and of her own powerlessness. She’d pushed it away for good. She hadn’t told a soul. And then, as memory covered it over with cobwebs and dust, she wondered if she’d dreamed up the whole thing.