The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois

by Honoree Fanonne Jeffers

  It had been unusually wet that spring, and Samuel had forgotten to remind Pompey to prune back their branches, to keep the moisture from setting in. When Samuel confronted him, enraged over the loss of his most precious food, Pompey defended himself by reminding his owner that the last time he had pruned without permission, his master had slapped him and ordered Venie to take away his supper for two days.

  Not only that, but even if Samuel wanted to lower his standards by eating peach preserves, there had been thefts and vandalism in the storehouse: some scallywag had broken the lock on the storehouse, taken the hams, and smashed the crocks of peaches. He’d ordered Pompey to rough up a few men to find the culprit, but bruises and loosened teeth had not encouraged confessions. Samuel was gloomy, recalling past encounters with his beloved peaches, and he gained more heft around his stomach because, though he ate second and third portions of his meals, nothing could fill the nostalgic hole.

  Rabbit was his savior, distinguishing herself by making fresh blackberry cobbler for dessert, a dish with a subtle sprinkling of sugar and eastern spices. She had learned how to make Venie’s French crust, too, which was good because that summer, the senior cook was pregnant and heavy on her feet. Other than the children, every resident on the farm knew that Holcomb Byrd James was the father of the child that Venie expected. Samuel did not approve, but he reasoned that a good overseer was hard to find.

  The night that fire came to Wood Place, Rabbit outdid herself with a particularly brilliant blackberry cobbler, which only Samuel ate. When she’d served a bowl of cobbler to Grace, Samuel made pejorative comments that she needed to watch her weight. Maybe if she did, her husband would give her a child. Thus Grace pushed her bowl away. Victor was at the table, but he did not defend his wife, nor eat dessert. Lady was upstairs, lying down; she had not gotten past the death of her daughter so easily.

  When the shouts of fire began, Victor would be on one of his long sojourns into the woods. He wouldn’t hear the commotion, nor would the Franklins on the far end of the plantation, though considering how the Pinchards had treated them, they probably wouldn’t have tried to put out the flames even if they had. Nor would Lady or Grace be concerned; Grace would knock loudly on her mother-in-law’s door, shouting, come! Come and see! And she and Lady would stand together at the window in their nightgowns, watching the fire that was consuming the left cabin, grateful that the cursed place was being destroyed. Some moments later, Lady would hear Samuel screaming and encounter him crawling on the floor of the hall outside his bedroom, vivid effluvia staining the white linen of his pants. Before leaving him in the hallway to whatever fate God decided, she spat upon his face. Though he survived, Lady’s redress would remain her secret, as a fever overtook Samuel for several days and he would not remember her affront.

  In the overseer’s cabin, Holcomb awoke and heard screams, but settled in deeper, his hand on the hill of Venie’s stomach. He refused to leave her in the night. Venie had not worked for more than two or three hours a day in the kitchen as she waited for the birth of their child. Thus, she had not seen Rabbit uncork a jug of pokeberry wine and mix the contents into fresh, sugared blackberries before placing the lattice of crust on top, though that wouldn’t have bothered Venie. And Rabbit had stolen other jugs containing scuppernong brandy. Before starting the fire, she and Leena would kneel and pray to God. Then they would douse the furniture, curtains, and bedding in the left cabin, and a delicious smell would rise on the wind when the flames took hold.

  The Quarters-folks and the members of Rabbit’s family would come out of their cabins and see the flames darting. Then all of them would turn and go back inside.

  A Meeting at the Crossroads

  The same evening of the fire in the left cabin, Matthew had decided to leave the south forever. He’d planned to drive his wagon to the train station, where he would travel by rail to the coast and then take a steamship north.

  Not only was he heartbroken over the loss of Rabbit, Matthew had unsettling visions ever since the auction in Savannah. He would dream of disembodied breasts suckling infants who turned into skeletons, and songs that seemed instantly familiar, but which he’d never heard. He would awaken in time to see the apparition of a small Negro man running from his room. Things had worsened until Matthew began to hear the scuttling of shoes in daytime moments.

  Yet he was filled with gratitude after receiving a letter from his sister. Deborah had invited him to visit her in Boston, and Matthew had written her to accept. When he arrived, he intended to send his deed to Jeremiah Franklin, his sometime overseer, whose nature was better suited to this land. Matthew knew he should have a care for his slaves, as Jeremiah was cruel, but it was past the time for salvation. Already, Matthew had aligned himself with the Devil, by partaking in the purchase of flesh. He had betrayed Rabbit and insulted her. He didn’t deserve the blessing of such a woman.

  He left late at night with a lantern, two medium-size valises, a basket of food, and a jug of strong, sugared coffee, not that he needed it, as sleeplessness tormented him. If Dori had packed him a jug of spirits along with the coffee, he would have drunk it, let inebriation take him over, climbed in the back of the wagon, and allowed the gray mares to lead him wherever they wanted: Hellfire. The bottom of a river. The town where the train station was. Back to his mother’s womb, where something would recognize his malevolence and mercifully kill him. In his daze, Matthew could not be shocked by anything—and so, when he arrived at the crossroads, encountering the same small Negro man from his dreams did not trouble him. He signaled to the horses, and they stopped.

  “Greetings, comrade,” the small man said. “My name’s Joe. Might I trouble you for transport?”

  Matthew nodded his head, and in case the night had shielded his response, he spoke as well. “Yes, you can ride with me.”

  When the small man asked if they possibly could take a detour, Matthew handed him the reins. For some time, the horses trotted on, and then, they arrived at Wood Place, in time for them to witness the fire eating the left cabin, and ravenously at that.

  Matthew saw several Negroes run into the woods, and then there was his beloved Rabbit holding the hand of a young woman. They were walking away in the other direction, away from the burning cabin. And Matthew didn’t care about the consequences, that he’d face the weight of the law. That his money could be taken, and possibly his freedom. This was his chance to make the right choice, and Matthew allowed the small man to drive the wagon toward the woman he loved.

  XI

  And when we call for education we mean real education. We believe in work. We ourselves are workers, but work is not necessarily education. Education is the development of power and ideal. We want our children trained as intelligent human beings should be, and we will fight for all time against any proposal to educate black boys and girls simply as servants and underlings, or simply for the use of other people. They have a right to know, to think, to aspire.

  —W. E. B. Du Bois, “The Niagara Movement Address”

  “Ah wanted to preach a great sermon about colored women sittin’ on high, but they wasn’t no pulpit for me. . . . Ah said Ah’d save de text for you.”

  —Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

  Who Remembers This?

  The ticket agent squinted at my driver’s license. I estimated him to be no more than twenty-five, but he was balding already. There were dashes of pink scalp under his red hair.

  Though she knew I slept late on the weekends, my mother had rung me two weeks before in the morning, too close to dawn.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to tell me your travel plans for Root’s ceremony on Founder’s Day.”

  “Mama, I don’t think I can come. I was gone drive, but my transmission is tripping. I’ll see you for the reunion.”

  “Is that all? I’ll just order a ticket for you.”

  “No, Mama! I’m thirty-three years old. You can’t keep spending money on me.”

  “Diane pay
s all the utilities in the house, so I’m all right.”

  “But, Mama—”

  “Uncle Root is a very old man, and he hasn’t seen you since last July. You have to come. You know you’re his favorite.”

  “I call him every week.”

  “It’s not the same. Now, I know you’re writing that dissertation, but you have to show your face sometimes. You weren’t even there when we buried Nana.”

  “You expected me to stop work for that?”

  “Yes, I did. She was your father’s mother. That’s what people in families do. They come for the funerals of their grandmothers. You gone want somebody to be at your funeral one day.”

  “No, I won’t, Mama. I’ll be dead. You can cremate me and flush me down the toilet, for all I care.”

  “I wish you knew how stupid you sound. And stop trying to change the subject. I’m buying you that ticket, so I expect you to be there at the airport on Wednesday. David James is coming to get you. You know him and that girl got divorced, with his cheating self.”

  “Miss Rose told me they weren’t together anymore, but how you know he stepped out?”

  “’Cause I got some sense! All them James men cheat. It’s in their blood.”

  “So after you low-rate him, you gone ask him to pick me up from the airport? Dang, Mama. That’s cold.”

  “I didn’t say David wasn’t a nice guy. All I’m saying is look at the facts. Mr. J.W. was a cheater. His son Bo cheated on his first wife with David’s mother. And David is Bo’s son, so there you go.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

  “All right, baby. I love you very much. Travel safely.”

  The ticket agent straightened, his green eyes narrowing. “Miss Garfield, I’m sorry, but this doesn’t look a thing like you. Do you have another form of identification?”

  “Sure I do, but it’s me, all right. And it’s Ms., not Miss. You sure it doesn’t look like me? I’ve lost a bit of weight.”

  “A bit? The woman in this picture is pretty heavy.”

  “And aren’t you a gentleman for implying that I was fat?”

  “It’s not my intention to be rude. I’m just trying to make sure our country is safe.”

  “Every time I’ve come through this airport, someone asks me for another form of ID. I get patted down and have my bag randomly searched. But if it’s random, why am I always the one searched? Why don’t I get skipped sometimes?”

  “Ms. Garfield, you wouldn’t want us to be lazy about our jobs, and then have a terrorist sneak in, would you?”

  “Do I look like a terrorist to you? Do terrorists wear horn-rimmed glasses and carry bags of potato chips and trashy gossip magazines?”

  “I’m not sure, but if you gave me another form of identification, maybe I could verify that.”

  I gently placed my birth certificate on the counter. I wanted to slap it down, or even better, throw it at him. But I was Black, and he wasn’t, though he would deny that as motivation when he called a rent-a-cop to flog me on some pretense of national security.

  He looked as closely at the birth certificate as he had the license.

  “So are you sure it’s me now?”

  “I suppose, Ms. Garfield.”

  He gave me back the license, and I didn’t feel sorry for him anymore. Let him go bald immediately. He deserved it, the fascist abuser of power. Let him go straight to Hell with gasoline drawers on.

  In the baggage claim, David didn’t see me beside the carousel. He looked at the floor, his mouth covered with fingers splayed.

  I came up behind him: “Boo!”

  “Girl, stop playing! I almost knocked you out!”

  “Please. I can kick your ass anytime. And why you so dressed up?”

  “Some people have jobs, Ailey. We can’t stay in the library all day like the leisure class. Ooh, girl, look at you! You done got skinny!”

  He wrapped an arm around me, lifting me from the ground, but he couldn’t be depended upon to tell the truth about the size of my behind. He hadn’t seen me naked since I was sixteen, in a faraway time before stretch marks and orange-peel thighs.

  He gently wrestled the bag from me, pushed down the handle, and carried the suitcase. Grumbled that certain women needed to let somebody be a gentleman. I walked in front of him, flipping my hair as two brothers gave me the eye. It was dark in the garage, but they seemed vaguely cute.

  And there it was: the Eldorado. The same tank with the red velvet seats inside.

  “Are you ever going to get a new car? And do you even have insurance?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s the law. And this is a registered classic.” He opened the door for me. “You better be glad I ain’t asking for gas money.”

  “I got five on it.” It was Boukie’s saying from back in the day, though he never put money in the tank.

  “Yeah, I won’t hold my breath on that!” On the journey, we laughed and told stories about our beloved, cheap friend who had become a teetotaling deacon at Mt. Calvary. Rhonda and Boukie were married now, with a passel of kids. The wedding had been a reluctant one, after his church minister had cautioned, he couldn’t be having a single deacon spreading his seed throughout creation.

  David slipped one hand off the steering wheel. He fingered a lock of my hair. Touched my cheekbone with his finger. “I like your hair longer. Remember when it was down your back? Man, that was pretty.”

  When we pulled off on the road to my granny’s house, David and I stopped at the creek. He opened the car door and climbed out, and I saw him go to the base of a tree and pull out a plastic bag. A few moments later, he handed me a loose joint and a container of safety matches.

  “Damn, Negro! You slick as grease.”

  “Nobody comes out here but me. I have it buried in a secret spot.”

  “Who you get this from, anyway?”

  “Ma’am, that is covered by attorney-client privilege.”

  I took a hit, then opened the glove compartment, rummaging inside until I found an old Jet magazine folded to the “Beauty of the Week,” a woman in a bikini with the roundest, most exquisite ass I’d ever seen. I waved the magazine, fanning the smoke in David’s direction.

  “Why’d you and Carla break up? I thought you were crazy about her.”

  “I was wondering when we’d get to that. You’ve gotten better, at least. It only took you a year to ask.”

  “David, answer the question.”

  “You need her to answer that. She’s the one wanted the divorce.”

  “Did you cheat on her with some skank? Don’t think I don’t remember Rhonda. Oh, I’m sorry, she’s Mrs. Boukie Crawford now.”

  “Ailey, how you gone keep talking about that? That was almost twenty years ago. I was seventeen and stupid.”

  “I should have beat Rhonda down when I had the chance. Heifer.”

  “You still can. She and Boukie live right on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. I can drop you off after supper.”

  He touched the knob of the radio, turned the volume up, and Luther Vandross’s voice filled the car. The inside vibrated, the rear window beating out its own tune.

  I turned the volume back down.

  “David, did you cheat on Carla?”

  “No, I did not. How could you even ask me that?”

  “Then what happened with y’all?”

  “None of your damned business. Carla and I might not be together anymore, but she is still the mother of my child. And I’m not going to talk about what happened between us. Some things are private, Ailey. So stop asking me.” He looked out his window as Luther crooned about how he couldn’t wait, now that he was in love.

  At Miss Rose’s, we sat in the kitchen while she moved around slowly, placing platters of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, corn bread, sliced and salted tomatoes, and greens on the table.

  “Baybay, you got time to carry Ailey back into town after supper?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He squirmed in his seat. He had the mu
nchies, but neither one of us could start the meal until Miss Rose placed the last dish on the table and blessed the food.

  She took a hand in each of hers. “Father God, we thank Thee for Thy gracious bounty and for this loving fellowship and we ask that You don’t make it so long between our grandbaby’s visits. But we so grateful to see this child here in the meantime. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Father God. Amen.”

  She sat down with a small groan, paused a moment, then lightly hit the table and looked at me.

  “Ailey! Go on in that icebox and get them sweet potato pies. They covered in foil. Be careful, now. You know you clumsy.”

  “Aw, you didn’t have to bake me any pies,” David said. “I was glad to pick her up at the airport.”

  “Them pies not just for you, Baybay,” she said. “One’s for us, one’s for Root and Belle, and one’s for your mama. Tell Cloletha, I don’t know if they as good as they should be. This batch of yams was kinda stringy. And I better not hear you ate up all them pies on the way back to town ’cause I know you been smoking them reefers.”

  He started coughing. I turned away from the refrigerator to hit him on the back.

  “Ailey Pearl, don’t you be trying to hide from me. You been smoking them reefers, too? Tell the truth and shame the Devil.”

  I stood by the refrigerator and put my hand up to my mouth, gnawing on my pinky nail. “No, ma’am, I was not! David was blowing smoke on me. That’s why I smell like this.”

  He recovered his breath and laughed. I waited for him to betray me.

  “She’s right,” David said. “You know she not like that.”

  “Lord, today, y’all chirren! Y’all ain’t too big for me to strip a switch! Baybay, you ain’t mines, but even if you was, you can’t hold all the whippings you need.”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “I love you so much, Miss Rose.”

  “You pretty rascal!” She pulled her hand from his and speared a breast on the platter. “Ailey, eat this. You too skinny. You done fell way off.”