The Sacred Place

by Daniel Black

  “Don’t worry, Momma. Everything gon be all right,” Ella Mae reassured.

  “I don’t know, chile. I don’t know. Them white boys left here mighty mad. If they ain’t killed him yet—”

  “Don’t say that, Momma! Clement gon be all right. I jes know he is.” The two cleaned the dishes, wiped the tabletop, and swept the floor while humming lamentations and pleas to a God who, as Miss Mary complained, was mighty quiet lately.

  “Come on, Ella Mae.” She sighed. “We cain’t put it off no longer.” The two retrieved their hats and pocketbooks. “Chillen, y’all stick close to yo’ granddaddy and mind whatever he say.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” they said.

  “Pick up a few menfolk from the search committee down the road,” Jeremiah insisted. “Y’all strong, but don’t be crazy. You might need a little protectin’.”

  Ella Mae agreed.

  “You jes get some rest, old man,” Miss Mary said, “so that wound can finish healin’. We’ll be back soon as we can.”

  They left Sarah Jane and Chop standing at the screen, whispering.

  “Wh-wh-what do you thththink thththey d-d-did wit Cllllement?”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah Jane returned irritably, toying with the pink ribbon in her hair.

  “I b-b-b-bet thththey t-t-took him out in d-d-de wwwoods and b-beat him up,” Chop guessed, hoping to inspire Sarah Jane to share her thoughts with him.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care!” she lied.

  Chop missed the hint. “I b-b-bet thththey b-b-beat him rrreal b-b-bad.”

  “Just shut up, boy! Okay?” Sarah Jane yelled. “I don’t wanna talk about it and I don’t wanna hear what chu think. Just leave me alone!”

  “Sssssorry,” Chop slurred.

  Sarah Jane huffed. “I didn’t mean to scream, Chop. I jes …” She felt emotion flood her eyes. “I’m tryin’ to think good things, and you’re sayin’ bad stuff.”

  “I w-w-uz jes tryin’ to thththink what thththey mighta d-d-did,” he explained slowly, apologetically.

  “I know, Chop,” Sarah Jane said. “But you makin’ me more nervous. Jes be quiet ’til we hear somethin’ else. Okay? Please.”

  On the way to town, Miss Mary hummed, “Precious Lord, take my hand! Lead me on, let me stand! I am tired, I am weak, I am worn! Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light, take my hand, precious Lord and lead me on.” Ella Mae rocked to the rhythm, guessing that, as the next family matriarch, she’d better learn all of Miss Mary’s survival tactics. Bouncing with the wagon, Ella Mae glanced at her intermittently, knowing she had much growing to do before she could fill Miss Mary’s enormous shoes.

  “Momma, we sho need God to sho up soon, huh?”

  Miss Mary frowned. “Sho up? Girl, God done come and gone!”

  “When?” Ella Mae asked. “I ain’t seen Him, and Clement still missin’, so it seem like to me God ain’t come yet.”

  “Oh He done come!” Miss Mary testified. “You didn’t see Him today?” She looked at Ella Mae.

  “No, ma’am, I guess I didn’t.”

  “Aw come on, daughter!” Miss Mary chided. “You wuz standin’ right next to me.”

  “Huh?”

  “God comes in many different ways, baby,” she explained. “When Jeremiah and de watchin’ committee showed up and saved us, dat wuz God.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Ella Mae cautioned, “I’m sho is grateful they came, but when God come, I expect somethin’ much bigger’n that.”

  “Be careful, honey, be careful, be careful,” Miss Mary sang. “What happened today wuz big! If God hadn’t come, we’d be starin’ Him in de face right now! See, God comin’ is another way o’ sayin’ dat people got courage. Really, we don’t neva have to ask God to come ’cause He always here. What we got to do is get bold enough to be Him. Dat’s when God come!”

  “Sound like you sayin’ we God?”

  “Sho we God! You didn’t know dat? God is everythang and everybody, chile. And anybody bold enough can be God. So, you see, God done already come today. De Bible warn dat He comes like a thief in de night. If you ain’t careful, you’ll miss Him every time!” Miss Mary threw her head back, laughing.

  “But if we God, then why don’t we change de world?”

  “Yea, why don’t we!” Miss Mary posed. Then she answered her own question. “Fear. That’s why. We too scared to believe dat we got de power to do much o’ anythang. I’m talkin’ ’specially ’bout colored folks ’cause white folks is clear they God. They think de whole universe belongs to ’em, and they’ll kill you over it. Slavery ruined colored peoples. It made us think that they God wuz de only God. But see I’m here to tell you dat anybody can be God if you ain’t scared to be.”

  “But I thought you said God didn’t have no color or no race?”

  “What color is courage, baby? Anybody can have that. You jes gotta be willin’ to live or die for it. And whoever willing to stand when everybody else is too scared is gon look mighty divine.”

  Ella Mae nodded.

  “So get you a new set o’ eyes, girl, so you can see God when God come.”

  Miss Mary resumed singing, introducing Ella Mae to a few songs she had never heard. At one point, she sang, “Low down the chariot, let me ride! Low down the chariot, let me ride! My mother’s on the chariot, let me ride!” Ella Mae opened her mouth to ask what the song meant, but Miss Mary’s waving right hand suggested she shouldn’t. Instead, she hummed along, the best she could, promising herself to ask for explanations later.

  Using the telephone at Cuthbert’s was, of course, out of the question, so Miss Mary and the others traveled the extra five miles to Bailey’s General Store in Greenwood. Mr. Bailey was a kind man, allowing the poor to purchase items on credit whenever necessary, but the woman behind the counter had the nastiest disposition Miss Mary ever encountered. She hated most the way the woman looked at her, as though colored people should thank her for the air they breathe. Regardless of how much kindness Miss Mary extended, the woman always treated her with contempt. She was the only person Miss Mary called “Heffa” and never asked God for forgiveness. Miss Mary hoped she wouldn’t be there.

  When they arrived, the women tied the mules to the post in front of Bailey’s store and the men encircled the wagon like angels protecting the Ark of the Covenant. Miss Mary told them, “We’ll be right back.”

  She grabbed Ella Mae’s hand and said, “Come on, chile. Let’s get this over with,” as she led the way.

  When she saw the nasty attendant, she prayed internally, Lord, give me strength and said politely, “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  The woman looked past Miss Mary and asked another white lady standing behind her, “May I help you, ma’am?”

  The second woman smiled and stepped around Miss Mary to the counter. “Yes, thank you,” she sneered. “I appreciate your kindness and your prompt attention. I need …”

  Miss Mary asked God to keep her calm and pleasant. The thought of socking both women in the mouth crossed her mind, but she let it go when she remembered why she was there.

  After the patron exited the store haughtily, the lady attendant frowned at Miss Mary, and asked rudely, “What do you want?”

  “How do you do, ma’am?” Miss Mary returned.

  The clerk scowled, and hollered, “Do you want somethin’, gal?”

  Miss Mary collected herself, and asked, “Is Mr. Bailey here?”

  “Naw, he ain’t here. And he ain’t comin’ today.”

  “Okay,” Miss Mary said slowly. “How much do you charge to make a collect call?”

  “Fifty cents,” she said nastily.

  “Fifty cents,” Miss Mary screeched. “It’s only twenty-five cents at—”

  “Then you go there, nigger!” The lady was perfectly content in her belligerence.

  Of course she’s overcharging me, Miss Mary thought, but don’t make a scene. “Very well. Here’s fifty cents.” She held out the money, and the white wom
an snatched it from her hand.

  “Phone’s over there.” She pointed in no particular direction.

  “Thank you.” Miss Mary also thanked God He didn’t let her whip the white lady’s ass like she wanted to.

  Walking to the back wall, she retrieved Possum’s phone number from her pocketbook. The white woman at the counter never stopped staring. “I paid my money,” Miss Mary murmured in disgust.

  Turning her back to the skinny, pale lady, Miss Mary dialed the operator with an index finger almost too thick to fit the number hole. She managed, however, and when, after five rings, no one answered, Miss Mary feared she’d have to repeat the process again the next day. Just as she was about to hang up, Possum answered.

  “Will you accept a collect call from Mary Johnson?”

  “Yes ma’am, I will.”

  “Hi, baby!” Miss Mary practically screamed.

  “Hi, Momma!” Possum said. “Is everything all right? You ain’t neva called me on no Sunday. What Clement ’nem up to?”

  Miss Mary didn’t know where to start. Her long pause heightened Possum’s suspicion. “Momma?”

  “Uh … yes, baby, we all doin’ jes fine. How’re things with you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Jes workin’ hard everyday. These white folks think a Black woman don’t love nothin’ more than washin’ and ironin’ they dirty draws. But it keeps a roof ova my head. How you been?”

  “Fine, fine,” Miss Mary lied anxiously. “I … um … jes wanted to check up on you.”

  “On a Sunday afternoon?”

  “You know how I am.” Miss Mary chuckled darkly. “Just thought about you so I thought—”

  “What’s wrong, Momma?” Possum asked seriously.

  “Oh, it ain’t nothin’ to go frettin’ over. It’s jes that—”

  “Momma, tell me!” Possum spoke louder. “Is Clement all right?”

  Miss Mary couldn’t postpone the truth any longer. “I need to tell you somethin’, baby, but hear me out. Don’t go gettin’ upset befo you hear everything.”

  “Is my baby dead, Momma?” Possum cried.

  “No, no. He ain’t dead.” Miss Mary prayed she was telling the truth. “Here’s what happened …”

  She relayed the details of the past few days but still avoided telling Possum about Clement. She even bought extra time by retelling Mr. Rosenthal’s story.

  “Well, I told Clement not to go down there, bowin’ and shufflin’ like no coon,” Possum boasted. “Time out for all that demeaning crap.”

  “Amen,” Miss Mary appeased. “But … um …”

  “But what, Momma? Is everybody okay? I feel like you ain’t tellin’ me somethin’.”

  “Well, sweetie … see … when de white men tied up me and Ella Mae … dey took Clement.”

  Miss Mary closed her eyes in preparation for Possum’s wail. “Momma! What chu mean? Did they kill my baby? Where is he?” she yelled.

  “Calm down, baby, jes … jes calm down.” Miss Mary was losing control of the conversation. “We don’t know exactly where dey took him, honey. We think he’s all right though. Yo’ Daddy—”

  “Where is my son!” Possum hollered.

  “We don’t quite know, baby, but we lookin’ for him. All de colored people in Money is lookin’ for him. You’d be so proud of how de people—”

  “Momma!” Possum sobbed. “Have they killed my baby?”

  Miss Mary dropped the façade. “We hope not, Possum, but we ain’t sho.” Her heavy sigh lifted the weight of dread from her heart. “Thangs been real crazy ’round here. Yo’ Daddy and brother killed three o’ de white men who tried to break into de house. They wuz de sheriff’s brothers.”

  “Killed em? What? Daddy and Enoch killed some white men?” Possum asked, in shock and disbelief.

  “They didn’t mean to. They wuz jes protectin’ us. De men started breakin’ de do’ down and Jeremiah knowed it was gon be us or them.”

  “Oh my God!” Possum groaned.

  “I know, baby, I know. We wuz tryin’ to git Clement back befo’ we had to trouble you, but …”

  “But what, Momma?” Possum inquired sternly.

  “ … but he’s still missin’. And, truthfully, we don’t know what mighta done happened to him. But, honey, we serve a God who sits high and looks low—”

  Possum ignored the religious rhetoric. “I’m on my way, Momma,” she said resolutely, and hung up.

  There was so much more Miss Mary had wanted to say, but now it all seemed irrelevant. Walking back to the wagon, her strong, sassy strut deteriorated into a limp similar to Billie Faye’s toward the end.

  That’s how Ella Mae knew the conversation hadn’t gone well. “It’s gon be all right, Momma,” she consoled, after Miss Mary turned the wagon and headed for home.

  “I didn’t want Possum back under these circumstances,” Miss Mary lamented.

  “Sometimes God works in mysterious ways,” Ella Mae reminded her. “Ain’t that what you always say?”

  Miss Mary nodded. “Un-huh.”

  On Monday, Edgar Rosenthal entered Cuthbert’s General Store without much notice. In his later years, he avoided public places at all costs, having tired of stale exchanges and narrow-minded whites whose place on earth he could not justify. Yet, occasionally, bare cupboards forced him to Cuthbert’s and thereby back into public life. His plan was to purchase five pounds of sugar and flour each, and enough tea and coffee to last throughout the summer.

  He thought to ask Rosalind about Catherine’s whereabouts, or maybe to offer condolences for the Cuthbert loss; instead, he assumed Catherine was consumed with grief and felt relieved to be shielded from her bigotry, if only for a day.

  “Anything else I can help you with, Edgar?” Rosalind Cuthbert asked kindly, handing Rosenthal his change.

  No one calls me Edgar! Rosenthal almost said, but he murmured, “No, thank you,” and turned quickly to leave.

  “Shame how they did dat colored boy, wouldn’t you say?” she whispered sincerely.

  Rosenthal dropped the bags and wasted white powdery substances all over the hardwood floor.

  “My Lord, don’t worry about it,” Rosalind reassured and reached for a broom. “I’m sure it happens all the time. Why, I’m ’bout the clumsiest person you’ll ever meet!” She giggled.

  “I’ll pay for everything,” he mumbled in frustration. “Jes give me another five pounds—”

  “Oh, don’t you worry yourself, Mr. Man,” Rosalind called over her shoulder. “We’ll have you fixed up here in a jiffy!” She disappeared into the storeroom.

  Rosenthal had hardly recovered when she returned and offered him two additional brown paper bags. “Here you go. Good as new!”

  He accepted the packages gratefully, and asked, “Now what did you say about the colored boy?” He tried not to appear too interested.

  “Oh yes! You ain’t heard? Everybody’s talkin’ ’bout it. I don’t know for sure, but Billy said they took care o’ him.”

  “What exactly did they do?” he asked.

  “Well, like I said, I don’t know for sure, but Billy come home last night laughin’ like a hyena and sayin’ how sorry Mary and her folks were gonna be for thinkin’ they could shoot a white man and get by with it.”

  “How y’all doin?” several whites greeted as they entered the store.

  In her distraction, she turned her attention toward their needs and left Rosenthal to guess what the sheriff and others had done to Clement.

  Rosenthal drove home, trying to determine how he might investigate the matter further. In his heart and in recompense for crimes of his past, he wanted nothing more desperately than to deliver the boy home safely, but, somewhere deep within, he sensed that such an opportunity would never come. If he knew anything, he knew white Southerners, and absolutely never did they allow righteousness to override vengeance.

  Rosenthal rounded Lover’s Lane and saw Larry Greer’s three grandsons walking toward him. The sun had baked them burgundy, and the
ir limp hair suggested they had found a waterhole somewhere. Except for wet, baggy, cutoff shorts that clung to their skinny bodies, they would have been completely naked, looking more like paupers than the sons of Money’s white elite. Rosenthal thought to ignore them, like one might an insignificant stone or an indistinguishable blade of grass, but he stopped in order not to dishonor the rules of social etiquette which no one in Money—Black or white—found negotiable.

  “Howdy, Mr. Rosenthal,” the oldest and biggest of the boys greeted.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” Rosenthal overarticulated, hoping to inspire in the boys at least a value—if not a desire—for good diction. “Looks like we’ve been swimming.”

  “Yessir!” they chimed. “We wuz fishin’ at first,” the big spokesboy explained, “but wunnit nothin’ bitin’, so we decided to jump on in and cool off a li’l bit.” His speech was slow and heavily drawled, as though he had only recently acquired the facility of language. Rosenthal noticed the extraordinary length to which he stretched long vowels sounds.

  “It has been rather hot these days if I must say so myself,” Rosenthal added pleasantly.

  The boys stared at him, wondering if he were going to offer them a ride. When he didn’t, they said, “We’ll seeya later, Mr. Rosenthal,” and commenced, once again, the long walk back to Money’s white section of town.

  Rosenthal hesitated initially, then waved the boys back to his car. Now they were certain he was about to offer them a ride.

  Unsure of exactly how to maintain the façade of disinterest, Rosenthal risked exposure, and asked, “Did you gentlemen happen to hear anything about the colored boy who …” Rosenthal wanted to be careful “ … had the encounter with Mrs. Cuthbert?”

  This time, the redheaded boy with freckles yielded, “Yeah!” and the other two nodded wildly. “My granddad and his buddies was drinkin’ last night, and they started laughin’ ’bout how they beat that nigger boy to a pulp.”

  Stay calm, Rosenthal told himself. Just listen. “What exactly did they say?”

  Suddenly, the boys looked suspicious. Rosenthal’s interest appeared too desperate, too demanding to be genuine. There was only one way to restore their faith in him.