Belle City

by Penny Mickelbury

  "Jonas That..."

  "What's wrong?" The old man grabbed his arm. "What's wrong?"

  "It's Miss Nellie."

  "What's wrong with Nellie?" The vice-like grip on his arm tightened, tightened, and finally loosened as Jonas told him what was wrong, told him what he'd seen, told him what he knew. The hand dropped from his arm and Freeman sank down into a chair whose springs were sticking out through the fabric and cotton ticking. He buried his head in his hands and sobbed. The three workers stood awe-struck, not knowing what to do. They looked at Jonas with a mixture of emotional reactions: What could he have said to elicit such a reaction from this man, and why had he said it?

  "I'm sorry, Mr. First."

  The old man looked up at him and the three workers stared at him. None had ever heard a young white man call an old Colored man "mister." "Ruthie and Lil' Si always did say you was their friend."

  "Yessir, I am. And they're my friends. Beau, too. That's why I came over here, to tell him and to take him home. Him and Tobias. So they don't have to drive the mule cart."

  "Oh, Lord have mercy," Freeman moaned as if he'd just been delivered another, heavier load of bad news, and Jonas could do nothing but wait. Freeman looked up at him. "You don't know 'bout Beau's truck. Don't nobody know. Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord, ohLord, ohLord."

  "No, sir, I didn't know Beau had a truck."

  "Don't nobody know. Nobody but his ma. He just got it yesterday, and she was gon' tell 'em all when she got home today. Oh, Lord have mercy." He wept some more, then he pulled a wide square of orange and green material from his overalls pocket and wiped his face. Then he stood up, straightened his shoulders, returned his hat to his head and his scarf to his pocket and looked squarely at Jonas. "Where you say that dead white man was?"

  Jonas was surprised by the question, but he answered it and every other question Freeman asked, and the more questions the old man asked, the more Jonas understood. The knife sticking out of the chest of the dead white man belonged to Nellie Thatcher. He might have killed her, but she didn't die alone. Whoever found the man, might be able to connect the knife to Nellie, and it wouldn't matter that she was dead—somebody Colored would pay.

  "What should I do?" Jonas said.

  "You sure you didn't know him?"

  "I've never seen him before," Jonas said.

  "Then go move him, and move him quick."

  "And do what with him, Mr. First?"

  "Take him to the river." Freeman, galvanized, moved quickly. Another old person, Jonas thought, moving like a jack rabbit. He ran into the shed and returned almost immediately with a pair of moth-eaten draperies, two pairs of rusted andirons, and some rope. "Wrap him up and weight him down: Arms, middle, legs. Drop him from the middle of the bridge, that low one, you know the one I mean?"

  "You come to it right after the road makes that deep curve."

  "That's it. Then, when you get back home, lissen to hear if anybody talks about missin' somebody." Freeman was walking him around the house, both of them carrying some part of the means for the watery burial of the dead stranger. "That man was goin' to see somebody in Carrie's Crossing. If it was kin and he don't show up, they gon' raise a stink. If it was biz'ness and he don't show up—" He shrugged his shoulders. "Might not be so bad, then."

  "You want me to come tell you..."

  "No!" They were in front of Freeman's house now, almost out to Jonas's car, and the old man's raised voice, especially toward the young white man, drew the attention of several people. Freeman put his arm around Jonas's shoulder and drew him close. "I truly thank you for what you did for us today, and I mean to make sure Beaudry and all of 'em know 'bout it. I mean to tell Ruthie and Little Si they was right—you are a friend. A good one. They lucky to have you." He stopped talking while they put the draperies and the andirons and the rope into the car. "But you make no mistake, Boy, you ain't like the rest of your people, and they find out you goin' behind 'em, bein' friends with Colored, they'll do you worse'n they do us. You got to stay 'way from Beaudry—at least in the Crossing—and you got to quit climbin' that tree. You hear me, Son? They'll hurt you bad if they catch you helpin' us."

  Jonas nodded. He couldn't speak because he was fighting to prevent the tightness in his throat from springing a leak, leaving him crying like a baby right there on the street in front of First Freeman and his neighbors. "I'm going to the river, then I'm going straight to work."

  First Freeman hugged him then, a tight, quick hug, then turned away, opened the gate to his yard, and walked back to his work. It was not a quick, jackrabbit walk. It was the walk of a man accustomed to carrying a heavy load, but who had just been given one ounce too much.

  Jonas drove back the way he'd come. There was a little more traffic, but most of it was going back into Belle City; he had the road to Carrie's Crossing to himself, allowing time to think about how he was going to load a dead body into his car. He'd worry about wrapping it up and tying on the weights when he got to the river. Getting him into the car was the challenge. A dead body is a dead body, he heard in his head, and when he pulled up on the side of the road, he grabbed one of the lengths of rope and ran down the embankment. The sound and buzz of the flies that swarmed the body would have told him where the man lay if he hadn't already known. He kicked and threw leaves and tree limbs to disburse them, then quickly trussed the man like a deer, tying his arms and legs together tightly so that he looked like a V. Then he dragged him up to the road, ran back to the car for one of the drapery sheets, covered the body, then dragged it to the car. Hoisting it up and in was a challenge but he got it done. Then he drove like a bat out of hell to the river, partially because the man was beginning to stink, but also because, from the time he hit Carrie's Crossing and on to the river, he could encounter people he knew, and if he were driving slowly, they'd want him to stop and talk.

  In the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, there weren't many people at the river. He parked off the road just beyond the deep curve in the road, dragged the body out of the car, used the remaining drapery to cover the body and the remaining rope to secure it, looping it through the andiron ends. The rope and the iron bars made dragging the body to the bridge easier, but he was worried about getting all the way to the middle of the bridge without being seen. He walked back to the road to see if anybody was approaching, then ran back to the bridge, got a good, tight grip on the ropes, and began dragging the body. He was dripping sweat and the heat of the midday sun was only partly to blame: He'd never been so scared in his life. In fact, he'd never really been frightened by anything, but he was truly and deeply scared now.

  The low bridge hung directly above the water—and sat in the water during heavy rain when the river ran high. The sides of the bridge were low too, and the span was narrow. There was talk of tearing it down since there were so many motorcars now and people actually had driven them across. It was only a matter of time, everybody said, before some damn fool put a motorcar on the bridge and the whole thing dropped into the river. Better to tear it down first—a sentiment Jonas shared. They could tear it down right now he thought, as he heaved the body over. He watched it disappear almost immediately into the murky depths of the slow-moving water and knew that it would drop to wherever the bottom was—and stay there.

  Jonas was dirty and he knew he stank, but he was so hungry his stomach hurt. Still, he knew he couldn't show up at the Crossing Café dirty and stinking, but he also couldn't yet face talking to anybody, especially his sisters or brothers-in-law. He remembered a secluded place on the river, almost a beach, where he and Silas swam, and he went there now and waded into the almost cool water wearing everything but his shoes—it was so hot he'd be dry in half an hour. He walked until he was covered, held his breath as long as he could, then, after floating on his back for a few minutes, he picked up his shoes and walked back to his car. He sat on the running board until he stopped dripping water, alternating between thinking about everything and making himself think about nothing, decidi
ng that he liked it when his head was empty, free of thought or feeling, wishing that he could keep his head free and empty all the time.

  He was practically dry when he got to the café, and hungrier than he remembered being since before his ma passed away. The bell tinkled when he opened the door, and he looked first toward the counter, expecting to see Sue's smiling face but then looked in the bucket beside the door for the discarded newspapers and magazines Mr. Pace put there, knowing that Sue would have heard the bell and would come to take his order by the time he was seated. In fact, if she'd taken a peek and seen him, she'd already have poured his lemonade and would be bringing it with her.

  "Hey, Jonas."

  Jonas looked up from the copy of yesterday's evening newspaper he was reading. "Hey, Mr. Pace," he said as he put his lemonade on the table, along with a napkin-wrapped set of cutlery. "Sue's got you working for her now," he said with a grin.

  Pace smiled slightly then shook his head. "Sue ran outta here like a shot couple hours ago. Somebody came for her, said somebody kin to her died real sudden-like."

  Jonas choked on the big gulp of lemonade he'd just taken, and Pace slapped him on the back. "I didn't know Sue had kin here," Jonas said, managing to cover his surprise. "I thought she was from Belle City."

  Pace shook his head. "She was born right here. She didn't move over to BC 'til she got married. Her ma is Maisy Cooper. You prob'ly don't know her—she's one of the real old ones, used to be known 'round these parts for bein' what they called a root woman."

  Of course, Jonas thought. That's who was with Uncle Will, and that's why she looked familiar to him; she used to bring medicine for his ma, something to help her sleep when she was in so much pain. Maisy Cooper. Uncle Will. Nellie Thatcher. Ruthie...

  ***

  For the first time ever, Ruthie wasn't trying to fill her mother's shoes—she wasn't thinking or worrying about feeding or taking care of anybody. She wasn't doing anything, and that was of great concern to everybody: Her three brothers, Mack McGinnis, Uncle Will, First Freeman, Maisy Cooper, Sue and Joe Carter, and a dozen other people who were moving about in the house, and all of those people were alternating their focus between Ruthie and her father, who now was almost catatonic since it became clear that Tom Jenks wasn't available to be killed. His state was almost a welcome contrast to Ruthie's periodic hysteria. The only time she'd really calmed and quieted was when Beau, Tobias and Mr. First arrived—how had they known to come so quickly? And how had they managed to arrive so quickly? And when First Freeman told them how, Ruthie actually smiled, a told-you-so-smile that she shared with Little Si. Then she grabbed Beau's arm and hung on tightly.

  "You got a motor vehicle, Beau? Show me." And they'd all trooped outside to see Beau's truck, to sit in it, Tobias to give Ruthie and Little Si a ride in it. Big Si and Uncle Will, with the same kind of a nod, acknowledged the thing's existence. Then the pall descended again. Ruthie began to cry and scream, and Big Si disappeared. Nobody knew where he was and everybody was frightened by the unspoken possibilities, so Tobias and Little Si took the dogs and went into the forest to look for him.

  Maisy Cooper, greatly relieved to see Beau and Freeman—somebody who would take charge of things—told them that she'd managed to keep the circumstances of Nellie's death a secret from the community at large. "Don't nobody need to know a white man killed her 'cause if they know that, they'll want to know 'bout the white man, and we cain't tell 'em 'bout that."

  "You right to keep the how and why 'bout Nellie secret," First said, "but don't worry 'bout the white man. That's all took care of." Maisy gave him a hard look but didn't question him; if he said it was taken care of, then it was, though she couldn't imagine how a Colored man 'took care of' the body of a dead white one.

  "I know you know what you're doing," Maisy said.

  "I'll tell you what I know, Maisy. I know Nellie Thatcher left my house alive and happy this mornin' with Tom Jenks and now she's dead, kilt by a white man with a gun, and ain't nobody seen Jenks from that time to this one. But what I'm gon' know before I leave here goin' back to Belle City is the name of ev'ry person and place known to Tom Jenks. You tell Joe Carter that, and make sure he understands."

  "He already knows, First, and he feels bad as we do."

  Freeman doubted that but he accepted it. "Then we best see 'bout gettin' Miss Nellie ready to be laid out."

  Mack McGinnis was proving his worthiness as a carpenter with the casket he was building, with Joe Carter's assistance, and Maisy's creativity with wrapping and dressing the body ensured that no one who didn't already know the truth would guess that Nellie's death was due to anything but natural causes. By nightfall, all was ready for the wake, except that Nellie's husband and youngest child were not present. Her husband because he couldn't be found and her daughter because Maisy Cooper had drugged Ruthie and put her to bed "for her own good. She keep cryin' and screamin' like that, she'll be laid up yonder next to her Ma." And Beau, who, in Big Si's absence and Uncle Will's periodic absence from reality, was in charge of things, agreed with that decision, for Ruthie's hysteria was frightening to all of them.

  Practically every Colored person still residing in Carrie's Crossing paid tribute to Nellie Thatcher that evening, a good number of them, both male and female with tears in their eyes, for Nellie was as well-loved as she was well-known. There was as much food as anyone would want to eat, and though people talked among themselves after they'd prayed and while they ate, there was little gayety or levity, either inside the house where Nellie lay in her casket surrounded and protected by the women, or outside in the yard where the men smoked their pipes and discussed the sorry state of farming. They talked about how tough times were, how hard it was to earn a living, and how tired they were of having all their hard work and their efforts count for nothing since white people could, would, and did prevent, by law, their participation in and enjoyment of practically every aspect of life. "We can't have the roads paved where we live 'less we pave 'em. We can't have electric lights where we live. We can't have indoor water where we live. We can't have a school for our children 'less we build it. I'm 'bout good sick and tired of white folks!"

  As they listened—Maisy to the women and First Freeman to the men—both old people had the same thought: Maisy that she'd tell Sue and Joe she was ready to move to Belle City; Freeman how glad he was that he'd moved away from Carrie's Crossing back when he was a young man. It wouldn't have surprised them to know that their thoughts were so similar. In fact, they'd expect it, for not only had they known each other for practically all of their 75 or so years, they were, in many respects, closer than family as they had been slaves together on the same farm which created a bond deeper and stronger than family. That bond is what joined them on this night of tragedy, and it was their combined strength that was the glue holding everybody else together, for the loss of Nellie Thatcher was a crushing blow to the guts of the Colored community of Carrie's Crossing.

  Nellie was not left alone that night. People took turns going home for a few hours rest and to change clothes so they'd be dressed for the funeral. Uncle Will and First Freeman had overseen the digging of the grave and Mack had carved the wooden marker. The twice-a-month preacher from Belle City had been sent for and arrived just at sunrise and just in time for the procession to the white-washed, clapboard church. Big Si had returned on his own in the wee hours of the morning, and Ruthie had awakened from her drug-induced sleep, had allowed herself to be washed and dressed by the women of the community, had promised Miss Maisy that she was fine and did not need to be sedated; she did not, after all, want to be absent from her mother's funeral.

  Maisy and First had set the time of the funeral for sunrise. They'd told everybody it was so people wouldn't have to walk behind the casket in the heat of the day. The rapidly decaying condition of the body, though, was the real reason. All of Maisy's conjuring could not suppress the truth of what was happening to Nellie's body, and the sooner they got it in the ground, the better. T
he casket was loaded on the horse-drawn, black-draped wagon as the sun was coming up, and it was ready to go when the preacher arrived. Little Si and Tobias walked on either side of the horse, leading it. The preacher followed the wagon. Behind him were Uncle Will, Big Si, Beau and Ruthie, all in a row, and behind them, Mack, Maisy and First.

  Jonas counted sixty-two people walking behind First Freeman, and he sorely wished that he could have been the sixty-third. He felt as if he'd known Nellie Thatcher. Certainly he had watched her work in the fields, hang up and take down the washing, sit on the porch and shuck corn and snap beans and pick greens, had watched her wring the necks of chickens. He had seen her embrace her husband and her children, had seen her play games with them in the yard. Nellie Thatcher had been a beautiful woman—alive and free and happy—and she had been loved. And now she was dead and for no good reason that he could tell. He'd kept his eyes and ears open as Mr. First had asked, and he'd heard no mention of a missing relative or friend, so whoever had killed Nellie, whoever he'd dumped in the river, remained a stranger as they buried Nellie.

  Jonas watched as the procession wound its way up the road, deep into the Colored part of town, to where Beau and Little Si had told him the Colored cemetery was, then he climbed down from the tree and ventured, hesitantly, into the yard. He didn't think there'd be anybody left in the house to catch him, but because he knew he shouldn't be here, he proceeded cautiously. He stole all the way up to the front door and touched it, then he took off his hat and bowed his head. "Rest in peace, Miss Nellie," he whispered.

  "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me find my strength in thee," the mourners sang, most of them through free-flowing tears and no small number of cries and wails, and ten men, five on each side, lowered the casket into the lime-lined hole. "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust," the preacher said, and the mourners took turns tossing fistfuls of dirt on top. Beau and Tobias held up their father, Little Si and Mack held up Ruthie, First and Maisy held up Uncle Will—literally, as all three were on the verge of collapsing. Then it was over, the funeral for Nellie Thatcher. Her family—Maisy and First included in that number—rode the horse-drawn wagon back home. About half of the mourners followed, the other half returning to their homes. Four men remained to cover the casket, completely filling in the hole, adding lime as a preserving agent as well as a scent-camouflaging and insect-repelling one. When they were finished, they anchored the carved plaque in the dirt: