Jilo

by J. D. Horn

  He lit the kerosene lamp and cast a glance at Robinson, still dead to the world, his peaceful expression helping to calm Tinker’s spirit. He rose and dressed, then carefully carried the sleeping Robinson under one arm into the kitchen where they’d set up a cot for Willy. He set the lamp on the table and then nudged the cot with his knee. “Here,” he said, “take care of your brother.” A groggy Willy reached up and pulled the boy into his embrace.

  Tinker passed by the table and blew out the lamp’s flame. His eyes struggled to readjust to the dark. Life was kind of like that—it was a constant back-and-forth between moments where everything seemed so clear, so perfect, and those in which a man was left to grope around in the dark, nothing to guide him but the few familiar objects found by his own fumbling hands.

  He found his way out to the house’s main room, then crept out the door. When they’d arrived here, the small front porch had been sagging, but he’d spent two afternoons replacing the rotting boards and bad brace. Now the porch was set to face another decade or so of whatever Mother Nature had to throw at it. He chuckled to himself. Might even outlast the rest of the house.

  He stepped off the porch and turned to the east. The sky overhead was changing. The deep black-blue of nighttime was giving way to the color of fresh plums. Though the tall pines blocked his view, he knew a strip of red would soon form on the horizon, and the entire sky would catch fire. He passed around the side of the house, heading south to find the thin stretch of land that cut across the marshes and led to the beach.

  As he made his way along the trail, the bushes began to shake. Two whitetail deer burst out of the growth and turned to run on ahead of him. As they faded into the distance, he found himself humming Binah’s song, “Come Some Sunny Day.” Binah was living the life of a queen up there in Detroit. He’d meant to tell Jilo he’d heard it on the radio again, playing in the store in Meridian when he went to call Savannah, but the song’s hit status had come to seem like old news now that radio stations, white and black, all around the country had begun to play it.

  “Beneath your feet and always faithful, like your shadow on the floor . . .” he sang the song’s opening lyrics, though not loudly. It was the crack of dawn, and no one was in sight, but he still didn’t want to risk being heard. He wasn’t a singer, not like his sister-in-law. That girl had a voice. She’d cut her record soon after landing in the Motor City. She’d written Jilo to say she’d recorded the whole song barefoot, her feet swollen from pregnancy. Jude Wills had been born soon after. When she performed for folks now, Binah always kicked off her shoes before singing “Come Some Sunny Day,” because it just didn’t feel the same if she tried to sing it with her feet bound.

  “She’s a star!” Willy had exclaimed the first time the family listened to the song together.

  “She always was,” Jilo responded. Tinker knew his wife took great pleasure in the knowledge that everywhere that Taylor boy went, Binah’s voice was there to remind him of his foolishness. She took a bit less pleasure in knowing Binah had gone to the trouble of tracking down their mama Betty. Even though Binah hadn’t laid eyes on the woman since she was an infant, she’d taken Betty in and showered her with every luxury. Their mama, Jilo sometimes groused, had found a way to live her dreams through her abandoned daughter. Still, with each letter, each phone call from Binah, he could see Jilo was softening. Someday she might actually take hold of the receiver when it was Betty on the other end of the line.

  As he drew near the beach, the sound of the crashing surf inspired him to sing out louder, but the sight of his beautiful wife, all done up like a morning glory in hues of purple and blue, the sweet darkness of her features set aglow by the red-and-orange dawn, made him fall silent.

  Jilo wandered along the white sand, dyed rosy by the first light of day, both hands over her round stomach. Another conversation, he reckoned, with Miss Rosalee.

  For a moment, he felt like he was intruding. He was about to turn now that he knew she was safe, head home and leave her to her private thoughts, but she stopped and turned to look at him, like something had alerted her to his presence. She raised both hands and waved him forward, welcoming him to join her.

  His heart filled with so much love, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to take a single step, but still he felt his body begin to jog along, his shoes, meant for city streets, digging down into the loose sand, grains of it kicking up and grinding into his socks. He didn’t care. He kept trotting along, and soon, the wet, compacted sand helped carry him to her side.

  The wind was whipping so, he worried she’d catch her death. He shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around her, then draped his arm over her shoulders and pulled her to him. When he leaned over to place a kiss on the top of her head, she raised her face to him, offering him her lips. He smiled and kissed that beautiful, smart mouth. A little fire lit in her eyes—passion, love, and her own brand of sauciness.

  He could have held her there forever, but all too soon she slipped from his embrace, leaving him to trudge behind her as she continued north along the glistening sand, not stopping till she reached the beached remains of a fallen oak, its branches missing, its tangle of roots bleached bone white by sea and sun. He held back, watching, positioning himself just far enough away that he could take the whole of her in.

  She traced her finger along a blanched root, then turned to face the sea.

  “Thank you for this,” she said, without ever taking her eyes from the whitecaps breaking on the surf. Her words were nearly lost in the roar of the wind.

  He drew nearer to her. “For what, my love?” He wanted to know the specifics of what pleased her, ’cause he wanted to make sure he kept on giving it to her.

  “This place. Our time here.” He began that instant to calculate what it would take for him to move here and make this place that pleased Jilo her permanent home, when she spoke again. “I’ve been thinking about the students they arrested in Savannah.”

  Tinker was taken aback. “I didn’t realize you were paying attention to the goings-on there.” A couple of days earlier black students had been arrested for demanding service at downtown Savannah lunch counters, but he hadn’t realized his wife knew. He hadn’t said anything, not wanting to upset her this close to Rosalee’s delivery.

  Jilo glanced over her shoulder at him, a smile on her lips. “I’m always paying attention.” She turned back to the sight of seagulls soaring above and swooping down into the sea. She stretched out her hands, like she was trying to catch the rising sun, then wrapped her arms around herself. “The baby’s not coming yet. Rosalee says she won’t be ready for a week or two.” She paused and looked back at him. “It’s time we got back, Tinker. It’s taken its own sweet time, but the world’s getting ready to change. I can feel it, as sure as I feel that sun on my skin and the wind on my face.”

  Tinker could resist no longer. He reached out and pulled her into a tight embrace, her back pressing up against him. “It isn’t gonna happen overnight,” he said, “and it isn’t going to happen easy. There are too many people out there who like things just fine as they have been.” He let his voice drop. “Too many people out there who’d even like to turn back to the way it was before.”

  She pulled free of his grasp and turned to face him. “And that’s why we have to go back.” He could see the fire building in her eyes. “I’m no fool. I know the kind of evil we’re facing won’t disappear overnight. Hell, it may never die away at all. At least not completely.” Her sweet face hardened, a tiny line forming between her brows, and her eyes narrowed. “I’m not saying we’re going back so we can deliver the children into a land of milk and honey. I’m saying it’s time we take them back to the real world, so they can learn how to fight.”

  Damn, how he loved this woman. He pulled her close and nuzzled his wind-chilled nose against her ear. “Are you ready, then? Ready to go back to Savannah?” He leaned back and craned his neck, so that he could better see her face.

  Jilo glanced up at him, he
r eyes warm, full of confidence, full of love. She nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice soft in the rasping wind, “I believe I am.”

  A seagull screeched and barreled down to touch the sea, pulling up as it brushed the crest of a wave. Jilo patted his forearms, signaling him to release her. He did so, even though he sure hated letting go. She stepped out of his embrace and walked a few paces away before turning back and extending her hand to him. He trotted to her side and took her hand in his.

  “Hell,” she said as she turned inland, leading him home, “I know I am.”

  AFTERWORD

  Even though some portions of this book were inspired by the customs and history of the Gullah/Geechee people, this book remains a work of fiction. The Gullah/Geechee Sea Island Coalition is an organization that not only serves as a reference for an accurate history of the Gullah/Geechee people, but also fights to keep Gullah/Geechee historic traditions alive. To learn more about the Gullah/Geechee culture—and what you can do to help preserve it—please contact the Gullah/Geechee Sea Island Coalition.

  Gullah/Geechee Sea Island Coalition

  Post Office Box 1207

  St. Helena Island SC 29920

  www.gullahgeechee.net

  Email: GullGeeCo@aol.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book was a team effort, and I have so many people to thank: Kristen Weber for her early comments. Jason Kirk for his guidance, patience, kindness, and commitment. (I should probably mention his patience twice.) Angela Polidoro for her insight and mad editing skills. Sybil Ward, Sarah Ham, and eagle-eyed Pat Allen Werths, three of the best beta readers an author could ever hope for. James Caskey, for his willingness time and again to help track down increasingly recondite facts about Savannah. (James writes great true ghost stories. Trust me. Check out his books.) Of course my furry coauthors, Duke and Sugar, for the cuddles. And again, Rich Weissman for playing Willy to my Colette on this one. It would’ve never come together without his unwavering belief in this book and its author.

  Finally, I would like to thank Queen Quet of the Gullah/Geechee Nation for her kind guidance on how to become a contributor rather than an exploiter.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2015 Boone Rodriguez

  J.D. Horn was raised in rural Tennessee and has carried a bit of its red clay with him while traveling the world, from Hollywood to Paris to Tokyo. He studied comparative literature as an undergrad, focusing on French and Russian in particular. He also holds an MBA in international business and worked as a financial analyst before becoming a novelist. Along with his spouse, Rich, and his furry coauthors, Duke and Sugar, he divides his time between Black Butte Ranch, Oregon, and San Francisco, California.