Hazel blinked and licked her dry lips, attempting to put her confusion into words.
“Don’t try to talk just yet.” The doctor unclipped a chart from the bed and read it over quickly, then shoved it under his arm.
Hazel had a flashed memory of JC’s muscular arms, and a straw hat, and big old pink roses …
“George? Evelyn? I’m Dr. Barton.”
Barton, Hazel thought. Like Clara Barton, the nurse. Was he kin to her? Hazel wanted to rid her head of these random notions … She wrinkled her forehead and attempted to focus.
“And you, child, must be the naughty one.”
Hazel felt offended, and that familiar emotion cleared her wits. “How come I can’t move?” she challenged. The doctor looked directly at her.
“Because, Hazel, you are still under anesthesia. You had a kidney removed.”
Hazel shivered as her parents gasped.
“Oh, you’ll recover all right. There are plenty folks who live normal lives with one kidney. Some are born with only one. But you—you poisoned yours, with mercury. Your entire nervous system almost shut down. You were dying.”
Hazel was shocked. She’d been bettering herself and killing herself at the same time? The devil. The devil had been doing a fine dance inside that little jar, hadn’t he! And inside her head, too.
The doctor raised his eyebrows. “How long were you using that …”
Mama fumbled in her bag and pulled something out. “Beauty Queen Complexion Clarifier,” she read in a strange, singsong voice.
The doctor took the jar and looked at it carefully. “Unhealthy, unproven, dangerous, and deadly,” he finally said. “You’re a handsome Colored girl. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
“Yes sir,” Hazel murmured, looking down at her smooth, evenly brown hands. Brown. Not any lighter. Not wrong. Just brown.
“Mother and father, I need to speak with you about your daughter’s recuperation.” Daddy gave Hazel a smile, Mama planted a kiss, and they followed the doctor away. Jurdine stayed at the foot of the bed.
“Oh, Hazel, what a stupid thing to do!” she said in a low voice.
“You oughta know, Jurdine.”
Hazel waited for her sister’s comeback, hoping that she was numbed enough to take whatever blow was coming. Instead, Jurdine blushed deeply, and Hazel could see tears welling up in her eyes.
“Hazey, I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, you always mean, Jurdine.” Hazel cut her off and looked away. What was she apologizing for, anyway? A lifetime?
There was quiet between them. Then, as Hazel looked at Jurdine again, she didn’t only seem genuinely mournful, she seemed … old.
Hazel was awake enough to see how ridiculous it was: Jurdine was banking on Time, and Time didn’t cut deals with nobody. Even Miss Clotille’s gentlemen callers had gotten scarce when the lines started creeping around her eyes and throat.
“It won’t last,” Hazel murmured to her sister.
“You’re talkin’ out of your head,” Jurdine said. “And you might as well know, being light-skinned won’t get you nothin’, ’cause we still poor and Colored in this lil’ bitty Louisiana town …” She paused, biting her lip. Her tone was bitter as lemons.
“I’m not stayin’, Hazel,” she went on, her words running together fast. “I’m just another mouth to feed, and what I make don’t help put Mama and Daddy ahead at all. ’Sides, I can’t hardly breathe around here anymore!” Jurdine leaned. She never came around the bed; she never touched Hazel’s cheek or took her hand.
“It would kill Mama and Daddy, Jurdine.”
“But you know how it is! Look at what you did! It’s either die or go crazy!” Jurdine was pleading with her. Hazel sighed, and despite the numbness, felt pain.
“I know,” she said. She was so weary. “How come we can’t be who we are?” she asked.
Jurdine’s eyes flashed, and for a minute, she was not a ghost; Hazel glimpsed somebody she didn’t know: she saw some kind of raven-haired queen.
“Nobody here knows who I am,” Jurdine said in her old, high-and-mighty voice.
“I know!” Hazel said with all the energy she could muster.
“I don’t wanna fight, Hazey,” Jurdine said, half turning away. She stooped to pick up her pocketbook from the floor and then looked back. Before she could speak, the sounds of their parents’ voices floated from the end of the ward.
“This is good-bye, Hazey!” she whispered. “I don’t plan to be home when you get out.”
Hazel was too full of everything to part her lips: fear, wonder, disbelief—she swallowed hard, and suddenly Jurdine rushed toward her and planted a hot kiss on her forehead.
“You always were prettier than me. That’s why I hate you so much.”
Hazel heard her sister lie to their parents about working a double shift that night. And then Jurdine was gone.
Johnson C. Johnson pulled over a chair and swung the curtain around the bed in one great swoop.
“Guess we’ll have to put off our dancing, but not for long, I hope.” JC wasn’t smiling when he said it, and Hazel was strangely comforted by that.
JC sat down. He was clutching a bunch of purple hydrangeas, which made Hazel smile.
“You better stay out of Miss Clotille’s backyard,” she said, wanting to laugh but afraid it might hurt. “I believe she does count them blossoms.”
JC cocked his head and laid the flowers on her lap, reaching into his shirt pocket for something.
“She invited me to ’em,” he said. “And asked me if I was coming to see you. When I said ‘yeah,’ she said to give you this.” He handed Hazel a small, light purple envelope. Lavender, Miss Clotille would have said.
Hazel started opening the envelope by slipping her little finger under the edge of the seal. Miss Clotille said that a lady should never rip open packages or envelopes.
“You know, Hazel, life sure is funny sometimes …” He hesitated. “… but I’m not laughing about it.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” she asked, slipping one of Miss Clotille’s perfumed notecards from the ragged lips of paper.
“Well, I saw your sister when I was on my way over here. And she saw me, too; at least I thought she did. But then she kind of looked right through me and just kept on walking.”
Hazel sucked in a breath. He hadn’t named names, but she didn’t have to wonder which sister.
“W-where was she, exactly?” Hazel tried to keep calm.
He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Easing into the bus station. She was in traveling clothes and heels, carrying a little grip …” He was watching for Hazel’s reaction. “… and she was going into the Colored passenger entrance, not that side service door, so I knew she wasn’t making no deliveries for the plant.”
“You sure were paying a lot of attention,” Hazel said sharply, because she was secretly afraid that Johnson C. Johnson might be judging Jurdine, like she was right now. Hazel suspected that Jurdine’s actions were simple practice for the way she would pretend wherever she was going. She had already chosen the new kind of air she was going to breathe. It didn’t include anybody like JC, or Hazel, or even Mama Vee. Hazel shuddered.
“The way your sister looked at me, I had to pay attention. It was like she was daring me to say something—anything—but then I blinked, and she cut me a look like I was something dirty on the bottom of them high-heeled shoes!” He sat back in the chair with his hands on his knees, still staring at Hazel.
“You knew she was going,” he said.
Hazel was crushing the lavender note between her fingers. Without answering him, she opened it. Her hands were shaking. She read the first line, hoping for a distraction. She found one.
“My dearest Hazel: I was sorry to hear about your misfortune, but as you know, I have a busy household to run. I consulted with your grandmother, and have had to engage someone else. She is a quiet girl with a desire to serve. With a bit more polish, you would have had
great potential in a domestic career, I think. I’m sure you will keep a good enough house, if you ever marry. Yours in friendship, Clotille Veatrice Henderson, Esq.”
Hazel looked across at JC with wonder. “Well, I’ll be. She fired me!”
“She did what?” JC’s eyes flashed, and he half-rose from his seat. “I oughta—”
“You oughta nothing, Johnson C. Johnson. But thank you for jumping hot on my account. Let me swallow all this for a minute.”
Every woman in Hazel’s life except her own mother had turned on her, shown all their ugly, and she wasn’t sick over it. Hazel was surprised that with all this loss, her heart wasn’t heavy.
“JC, you’re so right!” Hazel said slowly. “Life is mighty funny … in that sad kind of way.”
“I may not be sure yet who I aim to be,” she added, “but I’m real clear on what I’m not. Are you?”
“Oh, I know you’re gonna make it clear to me, Hazel Mozella Reed.”
Hazel leaned to touch him. She was aching, hurting … but she knew she would heal. She let the purple notecard slip off the edge of the bed as she moved.
“You think there’s a wheelchair around here somewhere, JC? Looks like sunshine outdoors. Could we go outside?”
He leaped up, grinning like he had that day—it seemed so long ago!—when he’d called to her over Reverend Clark’s hedge. Song of Solomon he’d recited, Hazel recalled. She winced and eased back against the pillows, hoping that she wouldn’t fall asleep again before he came back.
But her eyes didn’t close. There was too much now to think about.
Covington marked an X on the line next to his name. He guessed that this was not the time to let on that he could actually reproduce the letters of his own name in his own hand from his own knowledge. He read silently, not even moving his lips.
Covington Markham, June 19, 1868. He would never have written the last name, anyhow. After feigning concentration over that crooked X, Covington looked up.
“Well, congratulations, Covie. You’re a mighty lucky Colored boy,” the lawyer said.
Covington didn’t even flinch; he’d learned long ago that Colored and pride didn’t ride well together. Not the kind of pride that could cause him to lose a livelihood. He only ducked his head to give the impression of a respectful nod, a mannerism he’d perfected working at his uncle’s knee.
“Thank you, Mr. Worthy.”
“Elizear Markham has left you an unbelievable gift, I hope you understand. What are you going to do now?”
Covington raised his chin and looked directly at Worthy as he slipped the papers into the inside pocket of his Sunday suit. He did cut a figure, he knew; and because his uncle had made sure he kept out of the fields, his back and shoulders were straight as a board. He wasn’t tall, but he was wiry, and quick-limbed as well as quick-witted.
Covington turned his hat between his long fingers, aware that his green eyes, set deep in the shadows of his almond-skinned face, were cautious. Covington and the lawyer both knew that the question was only a coded version of the challenge the man was issuing from his own, equally green, eyes. And they both knew that Elizear Markham had left Covington what he justly deserved. Covington finally spoke.
“Well, Mr. Abe, I guess I gonna hang out my shingle and open up shop!” Covington wickedly enjoyed lapsing into the southern intonation and vernacular that his uncle had beaten out of him.
Worthy raised his eyebrows, surprised for a moment, then nodded.
“I suppose you are going to try,” he said slowly. He reared back, his hands clasped under his chin. “I suppose you are.”
Covington clamped his hat onto his close-cropped auburn hair without smiling. He gave his breast pocket a quick pat, as a final gesture to the lawyer that he would do much more than try. He believed in himself, and now that both the deed and the fully executed will were safely in his possession, what Worthy believed didn’t matter.
“Afternoon, Mr. Abe,” he said cheerily over his shoulder. “Your shoes be ready day after tomorrow.”
Covington didn’t wait or listen for any answer. When he stepped out into the crisp September air, he was wrapped up in wash-worn muslin, lavender scent, and kisses.
Beesi didn’t care much for public propriety. And Covington didn’t care much for anybody now, except for Beesi. He laughed and gently pulled her away from him.
He wanted to run his fingers through her soft, thick hair, but if a Negro man and woman showed affection out in the street like this, it might draw some unwelcome attention. So he resisted, slipping his arm underneath hers instead, heading around the corner.
“What you gonna do now, Covie? What you gonna do now?” Beesi was breathless and insistent, as always.
Covie rued the long-ago day when Beesi had been dropped (or thrown—he never knew) on her head, an incident that had somehow left its mark inside her brain rather than outside. Near about every sentence was repeated, every instruction forgotten once and then carried out twice. But that meant when Beesi hugged once, she hugged twice …
“Gonna practice my trade!” Covie put a loving hand on Beesi’s shoulder. When his fingers brushed against her sleeve and the detailed scar underneath, he held them there, directing his rising anger from the brand on her arm toward a hope, an anticipation, of his future fortune. Their future fortune.
“Let’s go home, Beesi,” Covington said. He picked up his pace, and very shortly the two of them were standing in front of the neat and narrow two-story clapboard building, which stood at the edge of what used to be a cow pasture when the town was new.
Elizear Markham had come from up East with his Quaker parents, who’d sold their farm and come South to try to preach the slavery out of the town. To make a living and set an example, Elizear Markham’s parents had started up a shoemaker’s business and hired—not bought—Covington’s uncle to learn the trade and work for them for pay.
Uncle Jim had appreciated the value of his position, and over the years he bought his own freedom and that of his sister. Not long after she arrived from the plantation, Elizear’s father died and left him the business. Uncle Jim’s sister became Mrs. Markham’s friend, companion, and partner in turning the pasture into a rich and thriving garden, from which they grew and sold the most sought-after produce.
When Elizear Markham’s mother dropped dead from a stroke in the middle of the cornstalks, Elizear and Covington’s mother consoled each other.
Covington was born nine months later as his own mother died, and Uncle Jim lied that the baby was his own from a failed union. People chose to believe it, though the fair-skinned boy shared no physical features with his black-haired, square-shouldered uncle.
Elizear Markham had left Covington what he rightly deserved.
At the door, Covington slowly turned the key in the lock.
“Oh, Covie!” Beesi whispered, passing across the threshold before him, “Is it ours? Is it ours for true?”
Before he answered her, Covington quietly closed the door, flipped the “Closed” sign and pulled the shade. Then he threw the hat off his head and whooped.
“God Almighty, Beesi, it is ours!” Covington never imagined feeling genuine excitement like this pumping through his veins. He could hardly stand still.
“It’s somethin’ wonderful,” Beesi murmured, stepping lightly around the small outer room of the shop. She touched the handsomely crafted man’s shoe on display in the window and then skipped around to the shining wood counter, which she’d polished but had never stood behind.
“Wonderful.” She smiled over at Covington.
He let himself go and grinned back, grabbing Beesi’s hand to lead her into the rear workroom. He went to the tall bureau in one corner and opened a drawer. Beesi watched quietly, intently.
Covington drew a metal lockbox out and used another small key on his chain to open it. He slipped his precious papers from his suit pocket and laid them into the box, clicking it shut and locking it again.
Before he’d lift
ed his hands, Beesi caressed his cheeks. She turned his face so that he looked squarely at her.
“I got a powerful love for you, Covie,” she purred.
The next morning, when Covington blinked his eyes open upstairs, Beesi wasn’t at his side. And he was sure it couldn’t be much past dawn, but he smelled coffee. Some cloth was tacked up at the two front windows, and his faded old work clothes were folded neatly near the wall, alongside his only suit. He got up from the pallet they’d made with a couple of quilts and stretched.
A fine china pitcher and basin, each rimmed in blue, sat on a small table near the door. Covington at once recognized it as Beesi’s wedding present from his uncle.
Beesi had already started the unpacking without him! Covington hurriedly washed and dressed and rushed into the other room.
“Mornin’, Sleepy.” Beesi had set Elizear Markham’s round pine table with a steaming tin mug of coffee and a fork, both flanking a heavy ironstone plate piled high with fluffy eggs and a plump, browned sausages.
“Good morning, Honey-girl,” Covington said. His mouth watered. He hoped Beesi would always be full of such wonderful surprises.
Elizear had not been keen on the match, though Covington had overheard his uncle’s salty “Ain’t none of yourn, Master Markham, and you chose it that way! Leave the boy to his heart.” And the way he’d said that, Covington remembered, was the closest any Colored man could come to accusing any White man of anything. ’Course, they’d been way out behind the shed on the far edge of the property, tanning hides. But Covington knew courage when he heard it.
Besides, his choice of a bride hadn’t been all that complicated.
When Beesi first came to work for them, neither she nor Covington had made sixteen years. She’d come to tend house and the garden, and she kept her deep, dark eyes cast down. She never spoke. Townsfolk said she was mute, and simpleminded.
A Matter of Souls Page 5