The Sacred Place

by Daniel Black

  “Stop it!” he shouted hastily. The voices in his head became louder and louder. “I said stop it!”

  Patrick asked, “Mr. Rosenthal, are you okay?” He grabbed Rosenthal by both arms and shook him. “Mr. Rosenthal! Mr. Rosenthal!” he called firmly.

  “Huh?” Rosenthal mumbled. If Patrick hadn’t known better, he would have assumed the old man was inebriated.

  “This was too much, Mr. Rosenthal,” Patrick declared. “I shouldn’t o’ come here.”

  Rosenthal reestablished his balance by holding on to Patrick’s arm. “It’s okay, son,” he breathed. “You did the right thing. It’s just that”—Rosenthal struggled to regularize his breathing pattern—“I’ve never seen anything so … so … hideous. I can’t imagine who could do this to a person.”

  “Me neither,” Patrick agreed sadly. “But what am I supposed to do now?”

  Rosenthal rubbed his head methodically and suggested, “There’s only one thing to do really.” He paused. “Take the boy’s body to his folks.”

  “Oh I can’t do that, Mr. Rosenthal,” Patrick cried. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout coloreds. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “You say the same thing you’d say to a white family,” Rosenthal said matter-of-factly. “Colored people hurt just like we do, Patrick.”

  Patrick nodded. “I’m sure you right, Mr. Rosenthal. Of course you’ll go with me, won’t you? I’d feel so much better if you did.”

  “Sure I’ll go, son,” Rosenthal agreed reluctantly. “Just let me get dressed.”

  “Oh sure,” Patrick said, as Rosenthal turned to reenter the house. “Take yo’ time, sir. He dead, so ain’t no rush.”

  Rosenthal slammed shut every door he opened like one running from a phantom. Once confined to his bedroom, he placed Sutton on the nightstand, and said, “I’m so sorry, son. They should never have done this to you. Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” His jittery nerves overwhelmed his ability to sit still, even for a second. “I’m going to take care of you. I promise. If I gave you back, it would be like abandoning you all over again. And what would they think of me? No one would understand. Plus, what difference would it make anyway? They’ve already destroyed you. One eye can’t change that.” Rosenthal retrieved his best black suit from the closet and began to dress himself. His trembling hands made buttoning the shirt practically impossible, and he resolved to ask Patrick to secure the tie around his fat, scarlet neck. Peering into the full-length mirror, Rosenthal protruded his chest proudly, and asked Sutton, “How do I look?”

  “I understand,” he moaned. “Those mean ole racist fuckers! But remember—everybody white ain’t the same. You know that now, don’t you?” Rosenthal sounded pitiful. “Of course you know it because you know the real me. And I’m going to take very good care of you.” He made a bed of bathroom tissue in the palm of his left hand and placed Sutton upon it. Then he smiled at the eye as though having granted it a seat at the right hand of the Father. He folded the edges of the delicate paper until Sutton was completely concealed, all the while singing, “Rock of Ages, cleft for me! Let me hide myself in Thee.” “That was my mother’s favorite hymn,” he noted, and slid Sutton into his pants pocket. “Oh, you would have loved her. She was kind to everyone and never would have participated in anything like what those men did to you. She would have left my father had he had anything to do with it. I’m certain of that. She would have loved you more than anyone ever could. That’s why I have to keep you—to protect you from mean people who would rather destroy you. My mother would be so proud!”

  Rosenthal patted his thigh pocket where Sutton rested and returned to the truck revived.

  “You look so … refreshed now, Mr. Rosenthal.” Patrick glared. “You musta had a little talk with Jesus.” He chuckled. “That’s what my mother always said to do whenever you troubled ’bout somethin’.”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Rosenthal said, more to himself than to Patrick. “Let’s go.”

  The prince and pauper entered the truck and drove toward the colored section of Money.

  “You think they’ll take it hard?” Patrick queried.

  “I don’t know.” Rosenthal sighed. “I’ve never seen colored people grieve, but I’m sure they do. Then again, these kinds of things happen to them all the time, so maybe they’re used to it.”

  Patrick nodded. “Maybe so.”

  “These fields were once filled with colored people,” Rosenthal said, looking across Chapman’s estate. “From one end of the land to the other, colored folks toiled like workhorses. It was amazing how hard they worked and never complained about it.”

  “They were made for that,” Patrick asserted. “You ever paid attention to their hands and feet? Bigger’n any white man’s I ever seen!” He laughed freely. “Big eyes, too … like they always starin’ at somethin’.”

  “I sorta like their eyes,” Rosenthal said before he could tame his tongue.

  “What? Why?” Patrick asked. “Oh I know why! It’s ’cause they stare back at you like a treed coon, right?”

  Rosenthal considered slapping Patrick across the face. Instead, he reached into his pocket and enclosed Sutton protectively. “My daddy would take me by these cotton fields and tell me how blessed I was not to have to pick cotton all day to make a living. Occasionally, he’d pull over and make me stare at the sea of black faces, glistening with sweat, and I’d thank God I was born white. But one day, I saw a little Black boy, about my own age, running up and down the cotton rows, delivering water to thirsty laborers, and he looked back at me desperately. I asked my daddy if I could go help him, but Daddy told me that white boys didn’t have no business in no cotton field. I told him the Black boy needed help, but he assured me the boy could manage. I never forgot the look of yearning in that boy’s beautiful, black eyes.” Rosenthal caught himself and tried to temper his admiration. “I mean, they were beautiful because he was a child and”—Rosenthal hesitated—“because he was innocent. You know what I mean?” He stammered, “We’re all … um … children of God.”

  “Now that’s true, Mr. Rosenthal,” Patrick agreed. “My mother always tells me that God made everybody, even the niggers.”

  Rosenthal now wished he hadn’t come, but since they were halfway, he had no choice but to endure.

  Patrick turned left onto Talley Lane, and asked, “Were you here when they had The Burnin’? I always hear people talk about it, but I don’t really know any details.”

  Rosenthal hadn’t thought about the event in years. “Yes, I was here. I was about fifteen then.” He stared at a grove of trees in the distance. Knowing that he had once been more racist than Patrick made him ill. “Most people don’t really understand what happened, but I know. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

  Patrick waited on Rosenthal to proceed.

  “A white man named Greenlaw had a child by a colored woman.”

  “Were they married?”

  “No. In fact, he had raped her. I heard him bragging about it to my daddy. The colored woman and her family lived on Greenlaw’s property in a shack just east of the Sumner bridge. Well, they say she never told her husband about the assault until she had the baby.”

  “Why did she tell it then?”

  Rosenthal chuckled. “Because she had to explain how two dark colored people could have a yellow baby with lime green eyes.”

  Patrick said, “Yep! That’s a lot to explain.”

  “Apparently she told her husband the truth. I guess he was so angry he secured an old chopping axe, probably from Greenlaw’s toolshed, and went looking for him. When he found him, he hacked his body like one cuts up a chicken for frying. His wife had followed him, begging him to calm down, but he threatened to kill her, too, if she didn’t let him have his way. So she watched as her husband dissected her rapist.”

  “Did they go back home after that?”

  “There was no home to return to, because the colored man set the house ablaze before he ever went to find Greenlaw. I suppose he had
no intention of returning. Anyway, he retreated into the woods and lived there for several weeks until, late one Saturday night, a posse of white men found him. What they did with him that night I do not know, but Sunday morning we dressed for church as usual and, after Sunday school, my dad, your grandpa, and a few other good deacons directed us to assemble on the front steps of the church. After a moment or two, a wagon approached from the distance with the colored man tied behind it. I asked Mother what was about to happen to him, but she silenced me by placing both her hands over my mouth. The Black man stumbled behind the wagon like a child just learning to walk but being forced to do so much too quickly.

  “‘Here he is, folks!’ my daddy announced proudly like he did the time he hunted and killed a five-point buck for Thanksgiving dinner. I stared at the man, wishing he could set himself free, although knowing his fate had already been sealed.”

  This story, which Patrick had heard countless times, usually evoked laughter in him; however, Rosenthal’s version dampened his Confederate pride.

  “They asked the man if he had anything to say and when he raised his head slowly, blood was streaming from his eyes.”

  “Did you say blood?” Patrick asked in confusion.

  “Yes, blood. I remember it because I had never seen anything like that before. What caused it I do not know; yet the event proceeded. Your granddaddy got a long two-by-four from the wagon and, with baling rope, they tied the colored man’s arms horizontally to it. His head dropped so low that at first I thought he was dead, but since he maintained his upright position, I knew he was still alive. It amazed me that our women did not appear the least bit squeamish or even compassionate in the midst of what, at least to me as a child, seemed to be a very sad, sickening occasion.”

  Rosenthal studied Patrick’s blank face for signs that the youngster was getting all that he implied, and then he returned his eyes to the green cotton fields rolling for miles on both sides of the old country road. “Several deacons unloaded bundles of sticks from the wagon and made a sizeable teepee, which they saturated with kerosene and set ablaze. Again, I looked at various faces, but none expressed the horror mine did. I tried to run away, but my mother’s grip confined me, and my father’s gaze assured me that to run away would have been a very bad idea for reasons I did not know. Suddenly, the congregation burst forth jubilantly with, ‘When the roll is called up yonder! When the roll is called up yonder! When the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there!’ Two men on each end of the two-by-four lifted the colored man’s body and dangled it over the flames. Only when the soles of his feet blistered over, expelling yellow pus mingled with blood—which surprisingly sickened only a few of us children—did the colored man lift his head in unimaginable agony. Instantly our eyes met—the colored man’s and mine—and his hypnotizing stare forced me to feel the entirety of his pain. Somewhere in the depths of my soul, I felt anguish unspeakable, and I discovered in that moment that colored people endure pain whites would find incomprehensible. I began to weep and my father struck me a heavy blow across the back of my neck. Upon recovery, I looked at the colored man again and, this time, denied him the balm he sought in me. My father must have noticed my refusal, for after returning to the colored man’s side, he smiled at me approvingly. I guessed him to be saying that Black pain was something little white boys should leave alone.

  “The deacons continued to lower the colored man into the flames as his charcoal black skin curled slowly, stubbornly away from his pink flesh, and fluids dripped into the fire and sizzled like drops of water in hot grease. The smell was wrenching. Before he took his final breath, he yelled his wife’s name.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Gabriel,” Rosenthal offered slowly.

  Once more, Patrick could not discern why Rosenthal’s memory was not framed, like everyone else’s, in joy and glee. A glance at Rosenthal convinced Patrick that, at any moment, the old man might deteriorate into tears.

  “He held the final syllable of the name for at least thirty seconds before surrendering to the hungry fire. The crowd cheered in victory, and I cheered along, probably to please my father or to gain communal approval. Whatever the justification, I was inducted into the racist redneck hall of fame. I do hope God forgives me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive you for, Mr. Rosenthal,” Patrick consoled. “He had to learn his lesson.”

  “And what lesson would that be?” Rosenthal snapped.

  “Um, that niggers”—Patrick’s smile dissolved—“shouldn’t kill whites.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter that Greenlaw brutally raped his wife.” Rosenthal smirked.

  Patrick’s eyebrows raised. For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom the source of Rosenthal’s agitation, and, for the moment, he decided to stop trying. “Do I turn here?” he asked after enduring several minutes of disconcerting silence. “I know lotta the nig—coloreds live south of the river.”

  “Yes, turn,” Rosenthal relented, refraining from calling him a hillbilly bastard. Then he pointed, and said, “There it is. The little house over there.”

  “Somebody lives in that!” Patrick declared. “It looks like a old hay barn! Look at the rusty tin roof!”

  Patrick never noticed Rosenthal’s tightly clenched teeth; nor did he understand why the man chuckled at him.

  “Let me do the talking,” Rosenthal whispered fiercely.

  “Fine with me,” Patrick consented.

  Sixteen

  WHEN THE WHITE MEN ARRIVED, CHOP WAS PLAYING with a yo-yo he had found in a garbage dump behind the General Store. Enoch told him to take it back, but Miss Mary interceded insisting that he keep it since obviously some ungrateful, spoiled white child had thrown it away. If he couldn’t have a new one, at least let him enjoy a used one, she said.

  Chop looked up and saw the white men exiting the truck. Deep down inside, he knew their presence was bad news, yet to give his folks a few more precious moments of hope, he decided, against his grandfather’s edict, to greet the visitors alone.

  “Hi,” he said nonchalantly when they approached him.

  “Hello, young man,” Rosenthal returned, and patted Chop on the head.

  “Wh-wh-what y’all wwwwant?”

  “Are your parents home?” Rosenthal tried to keep the exchange light and pleasant.

  “YYYYYessir, they’s here,” he said slowly. “BBBBut we d-dd-don’t wwwwant no trrrrrrrrouble, sir.” He was proud of himself for protecting the family’s welfare.

  “Oh, no son, we’re not here to start any trouble,” Rosenthal said. “We just have some business with your folks. I’d be much obliged if you’d get them for me.”

  Patrick almost called Chop a black ass monkey who had no business questioning a white man’s motive, but since he had promised to let Rosenthal talk, he held his peace.

  Chop ran into the house and summoned the others, who then burst through the front screen door, hoping against history to see a strong, vibrant Clement standing before them. When they saw only white men, their steps slowed.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Rosenthal,” Jeremiah said, extending his right hand.

  “Jeremiah, family.” He nodded. “How is everyone?”

  Their silence told him that they were absolutely in no mood for small talk, especially with white folks.

  “How can we help you?” Jeremiah asked evenly.

  “Well, um … I don’t quite know how to say this, but … um …”

  “Mr. Rosenthal, if you got somethin’ to say, just say it,” Enoch interjected.

  “Okay, fine.” Rosenthal sighed. “Clement’s body was found in the river about a mile down from the old bridge.”

  “No!” Possum and Ella Mae screamed simultaneously. They held on to each other for strength neither had to give. “My baby!” Possum bellowed from her womb. “Not my baby!” She flung herself to the ground. “Oh God, Momma! They done killed my baby!” She beat the unyielding earth instead of the white men standing before her.

&nbs
p; “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I wanted to tell y’all personally. It’s the least I could do since I promised to assist in any way possible. Patrick here found him when he was out fishing this morning.” Rosenthal reached into his pocket and touched Sutton.

  Patrick’s emotionless expression only incited rage in Jeremiah, who refused to break while staring white men in the face. “Tell us exactly where you saw the body so me and my boy can go git it.” Jeremiah’s voice trembled.

  Rosenthal’s hands fidgeted. “Well, Jeremiah, um Patrick here saved you the trouble.”

  “What chu mean?” Jeremiah grimaced.

  Sweat covered Rosenthal’s face. “Um … Patrick brought the body back with him. That’s why we’re here.”

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Rosenthal.” Jeremiah’s irritation was apparent.

  “We have the body, Jeremiah, in the bed of the truck here.”

  Jeremiah’s solid stance began to waver. Enoch grabbed his arm and whispered in his ear, “Slow, Daddy. Slow. It’s gon be all right. Just take it easy.” Miss Mary and Ella Mae comforted Possum while the children stood still, unable to decide what emotional response would be most appropriate.

  “It’s in really bad condition, Jeremiah,” Rosenthal intoned, trying to brace the family for the unimaginable, “and I’m not sure you need to see it. Maybe Enoch here—”

  Jeremiah had moved past Rosenthal and Patrick to stand before the bed of the truck. “Uncover it,” he whispered.

  “Jeremiah, listen,” Rosenthal begged in a weeping voice. “I don’t mean to be rude or to tell you your own family business, but I don’t think you understand how horrific this whole ordeal might be.”

  Jeremiah stared at the covering without blinking, and Rosenthal pleaded further. “Let Patrick and your boy here carry the body in the house or the barn or wherever and send for the undertaker so he can get it presentable, then—”