Belle City

by Penny Mickelbury

  Jonas was rendered speechless. All the animosity and dislike his father had fostered in him in the last hour was on the verge of evaporating. "You left me in charge, Pa. I didn't want to let you down."

  "If it hadn'ta been for you, I'd be broke right now."

  "No, Pa. That's not true," Jonas said, and he started to tell Zeb how hard his sisters and brothers-in-law had worked during the last year. Zeb listened and nodded his head as he walked around looking at and touching the various items of merchandise piled about.

  "They just did what you told 'em to do," he said, then asked, "How much money we got?"

  Jonas told him because he knew, almost to the penny. "You want to see it?"

  Zeb hopped from one foot to the other like a young child expecting a visit from St. Nick, and he followed Jonas as he weaved through the boxes and crates of goods until he was behind what used to be the bar of Zeb's Pub. He lifted a floorboard in the corner and began to remove metal boxes—six in all. Zeb's eyes were huge. "That's money? In all them boxes? That's all my money?" He danced a little jig, around and around in a circle. "Show it to me, Boy. Show it to me. I wanna see it. I wanna count it."

  Jonas opened the boxes and displayed the cash, and he was almost as overcome as Zeb, despite the fact that he knew how much money there was—after all, he'd put it there—but he'd never looked at all of it at one time, in all six boxes.

  "I need me a drink of whiskey. Let's celebrate. Where's the whiskey?"

  Jonas looked at his Pa as if he'd spoken in tongues. "There's no whiskey here."

  "Where is it, then? What happened to it? You didn't sell it all, did you?"

  "Pa, what are you talking about?"

  "I'm talkin' 'about the whiskey that fella from Belle City brings over here," Zeb snarled. "What whiskey you think I'm talkin' 'bout?"

  Jonas knew now to be very, very careful. He wouldn't lie to Zeb, but neither would he leave himself vulnerable to the man's abuse. "You want me to tell what that man said when he got here to deliver his whiskey and found out you were in jail? If you want I'll tell you what he called me, what he called Rachel."

  "I don't care what he called you. What did you do with the whiskey?"

  "What do you think I did with it, Pa, seeing as how it had gotten you locked up? Since I wasn't locked up with you, what do you think I did with the whiskey?" Jonas was angry and he didn't care if Zeb knew it. One thing for sure: The old man couldn't beat on him anymore and, Jonas realized, he no longer was afraid of him. He saw Zeb reach that same conclusion at the moment he felt it, and he reveled in the power he felt. That's how you tell a body a thing without using words, Jonas thought.

  "Then who sells whiskey 'round here? Somebody got to sell it." Jonas shook his head and left it to Zeb to interpret the action: Either Jonas didn't know or he was prepared to write his father off as a hopeless case. "That's all right, I don't need you. I'll find out for myself what I need to know." He grabbed some bills from one of the boxes and stuffed it into his pants pocket. "Hide this money back where cain't nobody find it," he said and stomped away and out.

  Jonas stood where he was for a long moment, thinking too many thoughts at once. He had to will his brain to slow down, and when that happened, the first thing he did was banish all angry thoughts of Zeb. He would waste no more time or energy on the man. His mother had told him once, in her gentle way, not to judge him too harshly. "Your pa is who he is, Jonas, and that's all he can be. It's all any of us can be, is who we are. He's not a bad man, he's just who he is." Well, Jonas thought to himself: You be who you are, and I'll be who I am. And who Jonas was in that moment was a man determined to protect what he'd earned so that he could live the life of his choosing. He looked around for a new hiding place for the six metal boxes that he had shown Zeb—and for the two metal boxes that he had not displayed, for that money was his and his alone. That was the money he had earned working with Beau Thatcher buying and selling illegal whiskey, and he had no intention of sharing if with Zeb—or anyone else.

  He knew every inch of this place. He'd chosen to hide the profits from the stores behind the bar because he'd easily discovered the loose floorboards. He returned two of the boxes to this place, knowing—expecting—that Zeb would look for it. Then he went in search of another place, a place that Zeb couldn't find. His own money he kept hidden in a crawlspace in the ceiling, but he didn't want the two sources of money in the same location; he needed to find a new place to hide the profits from the stores. He was walking around in circles before he realized what he was doing and stopped himself. He had, not five minutes ago, sworn not to give his Pa anymore power over him, and what was he doing? He shook his head, disgusted with his own self. He stalked over to the bar and glared at the boxes of money as if they'd done something to offend him. He returned them to their place beneath the floorboard, along with the other two. If Zeb wanted to come take all the money and spend it on cheap whiskey, so be it. Of course, Jonas thought to himself with a wicked grin as he locked the door, he'd have to break in first.

  ***

  Beau had the gate open and was waiting for him at the alley entrance to First Freeman's backyard. Jonas liked the alleys in Belle City and wished there were more of them, but as the city grew and prospered, the alleys became driveways and backyards because those responsible for the growth and prosperity thought alleys were common and country.

  "Hey, Jonas."

  "Hey, Beau."

  And that was all they said to each other until the whiskey was transferred from Jonas's car to Beau's car and they'd taken care of the monetary matters, which was so satisfactory that they had seriously considered quitting because they'd made so much money. However, First Freeman put a stop to that thought in hurry with his pronouncement that "there's no such thing as enough money" along with his suggestion that they actually increase their sales—most of Beau's clients were out of whiskey before the end of the month and Jonas only made one delivery each month—on the last Thursday—so his customers would be ready for the weekend.

  Jonas looked forward to the monthly visits with Beau and Mr. First, and he looked all around for the old man. "Where's Mr. First?" he asked Beau.

  "He's over at the church. He thinks they can't get everything ready without him," Beau said and pulled out his pocket watch and pressed the button that flipped it open. Beau was, Jonas thought, more proud of having learned how to tell time than he was of all the money he'd made.

  Jonas gave him a wide smile. "Y'all got yourselves a new kinda church, one you go to on Thursdays?"

  In return, Beau gave him an odd look. "You know Ruthie's gettin' herself married, don't you? To Mack McGinnis?"

  The grin fled from Jonas's face. He nodded. "Si told me."

  "It's on Saturday, and it's—" Beau didn't finish his sentence because the look on Jonas's face stopped the words in his throat: The boy looked like a giant mosquito had sucked all the blood out of him in one gulp, and Beau knew that Mack had been one hundred percent right in saying that Jonas loved Ruthie—they all had been right. It had been only Little Si and Beau himself who'd doubted such a possibility. He studied Jonas's face. All the blood had returned in a rush, and he now looked like he was burning with fever. Beau didn't know what to say to him—how to tell him to stop being such a fool, how to tell him that every male related to Ruthie would kill him if ever he acted on his feelings. As far as Beau knew, that had never happened, and given what he knew of Jonas, he really didn't think it ever would. Yet and still…

  "Tell Ruthie for me…and Mack…I said congratulations and many happy returns," Jonas said, backing away from Beau and toward his car.

  "I'll do that, Jonas, and I'll see you next month—if not before," and at the confused look on the boy's face, he explained that Ruthie and Mack would be living in Carrie's Crossing after they married. "We can't get Pa and Uncle Will to move over here, and we can't leave 'em by their selves, 'specially with your Pa talking crazy like he's doing."

  "What do you mean, Beau, about my Pa
talking crazy?"

  Beau had to laugh at the mix of confusion, shock and surprise that played across Jonas's face. Uncle Will and Mr. First often said that white people treated Colored people as if they were blind, deaf and dumb—as if they neither saw, heard nor understood what whites were saying or doing, and Beau had seen the point proved more than once…and now, again. "He tells it to just about anybody who'll listen, Jonas, how he's taking back his land, taking back what belongs to him, and what he'll do to anybody gets in his way."

  "Oh, Lord," Jonas groaned. Zeb had made that claim to him, but he didn't know the old man was saying it to other people. He shook Beau's hand and got in his car. Beau opened the gate and Jonas backed out into the alley. None of the several Colored people who had moved out of the way gave him any particular notice, but Jonas noticed them, noticed them pay him little heed, and not for the first time; he marveled at how different things would be if one of them were alone in an alley in the white section of town. It's why he and Beau conducted their business in First Freeman's backyard instead of on the side of the road or in darkened parking lots—no matter where they'd met, a white person would notice Beau and demand that Jonas explain what the nigger was doing. Why, then, didn't they remark on his presence in their environment? What did they think he was doing there? Did Beau ever worry about his safety the way he worried about Beau's?

  It would have pained Jonas to know that Beau gave him not another thought, for even as he was closing and locking the gate with Jonas not yet out of sight, he was out of mind. Beau's only thought was of his baby sister's wedding and what a special occasion it would be and how proud he was of her and how so many people that she hadn't even known a few short months ago were now doing everything they could to make Saturday a day she would never forget.

  ***

  If someone had asked her to give words to her feelings, Ruthie would first have had to stop her head from spinning. She didn't know, from moment to moment, what she was thinking or feeling beyond the excitement that was, at times, so intense she felt she would faint. She was a farm girl who'd spent her life in the company only of her family—and all of them men and boys, the only woman regularly part of her life was her mother. Now she was surrounded by women—old ones and young ones—all of them infused with the same purpose. And the boys and men whom she loved now more than ever, her Pa and her brothers and Uncle Will and Mr. First, the way they looked at her—she knew they were seeing Nellie, missing Nellie, and putting all their love for the absent Nellie on the shoulders of the one remaining woman in their lives.

  Of the women now caring for Ruthie, only Maisy Cooper had known Nellie Thatcher, but all the others—her soon to be mother-in-law, Tobias's mother-in-law, Tobias's wife and her sisters, the women of Friendship Baptist Church—they all told Ruthie how proud Nellie would be of her, and how happy she would be for her, and Ruthie believed them. Individually, these women knew more about life and living than Ruthie ever had. Collectively, they knew all there was to know, and Ruthie was and forever would be grateful to them for sharing that knowledge.

  Her wedding day was a blur. She remembered waking that Saturday morning only because in that first instant of awareness, she'd forgotten what day it was. As soon as she remembered, her head began spinning, and the spinning continued unabated until that evening. She did remember arriving at the church and having a moment of panic when there was no one there. "Everybody's inside already," Little Si told her, and she looked at him as if her were a stranger. He had on a suit with a tie. She'd never seen him in a suit—didn't know he owned one. Her next memory was of being inside the church, and indeed, everybody was inside already, so many people her eyes couldn't see them all at one time. Holding the arms of Pa and Uncle Will, the three of them walked down the aisle. That's when she saw Mack standing there, his Pa and brothers beside him. Pa and Uncle Will, holding her arms, holding her up, were all but carrying her until her feet found themselves. She didn't remember Pa and Uncle Will saying they gave the bride to her groom, and she didn't really remember promising to love, honor and obey her husband though standing beside Mack, holding his hand, turning from the minister to face the congregation is clear in her mind. Her head finally stopped spinning at the reception at Mack's parents house where all the people she loved and who loved her laughed and cried and hugged her and told her how beautiful she was, how much like Nellie she was. But she wasn't Nellie. She was Ruth Thatcher McGinnis.

  How different things were—and yet how much the same. She already knew how small her hometown looked from her weekend visits back and forth to Belle City, but she hadn't expected that her house would seem so small. Pa and Uncle Will now slept in the cabin Mack had built and called home, and Little Si slept up in the attic, giving Ruthie and Mack most of the house to call their own. It was Ruthie's house now, as it once had been Nellie's house. Ruthie still did all the cooking and cleaning, but now the men deferred to her: What vegetables did she want planted, what game did she want hunted, did she want fish or fowl, and would she please make corn bread for dinner or biscuits for breakfast?

  Almost all of the few Colored still remaining in the town came to visit her and Mack, and to wish them well. They all brought gifts—usually a pie or a cake—but Louise Cooper, who was Maisy's husband's sister, brought two very pretty plates, cups and saucers, and Essie Mae Miller, the cook at the café, brought flowers to plant in the yard. Ruthie hugged her tightly, then pulled her out into the yard to discuss where they'd look best. Pa, Little Si, and Mack were painting the house, the decision having been made that they no longer would abide by the unspoken law that prohibited Colored people from painting their houses and planting flowers in their yards. Their boldness worried Uncle Will, but it pleased him, too.

  It took Ruthie a while to realize it, but her visitors and well-wishers came to bear witness to the truth of what the Thatchers were up to, as well as to extend their congratulations. Yes, it was true: The house gleamed white in the bright sun and the flowers of many colors raised their faces to that same brightness to be nourished, and though only the front was painted so far, in addition to being impressed, the visitors were giddy with pride that there were Colored people sufficiently bold and well-off to indulge such a luxury. And though the Thatchers basked in the warmth of all the well-wishing, they also instinctively understood that some things were best left undisplayed and unsaid. That's why Ruthie told no one about the house Mack's father and brothers were building for them in Belle City, and why the automobile that was their wedding present always was parked in the barn. Still, their efforts to beautify their surroundings did not go unnoticed. On the day that Ruthie and Mack were celebrating their two-month anniversary, Police Chief Tom Fordham paid them a visit.

  Big Si, who'd been up since before daybreak weeding and hoeing, was napping on the porch on a long, low bench that Mack had made for him. It had pillows and a head rest and Big Si said it was more comfortable than his bed. In fact, he'd slept there on the last three nights because it was so hot. Ruthie was sitting on the porch steps shelling the peas and shucking the corn that she had picked that morning. Little Si, who'd been hunting and fishing, was in the barn cleaning his catch. Mack, who had been in the schoolhouse preparing the next day's lesson after hauling water from the creek, was headed back to the house when he saw the police car. He ran to the house and up the porch steps without a word, alerting Ruthie and Big Si to potential trouble. They knew how much trouble when the wireless suddenly went silent. Mack was on the porch, standing in front of Ruthie, when the police car roared into the yard, kicking up dust and gravel.

  Little Si, hearing the unusual sound of a motor vehicle moving too fast, looked out the barn door. He saw the police car and hurried out of the back door of the barn, into the back door of the house, carrying both his shot gun and his rifle. He gave only a fleeting thought to the consequences of shooting a white man, especially the chief of police, because he would shoot him to protect his family.

  Tom Fordham took his time getting
out of his car, took his time walking up the path of river rocks and stones to the front of the house, took his time looking all around, all the while making certain that none of his thoughts were readable on his face, for what he was thinking was that it was no wonder people like Zeb Thatcher and his cronies were resentful of how these Coloreds were living because it indeed was better than how the poor whites of Carrie's Crossing were living. The chief could have pointed out that hard work was the key, because everything he saw screamed out that back-breaking hard labor is what made the place look like it looked: The river stones had to be carried from the river—hundreds of them; the path had be dug and the stones arranged so they would fit. It must have taken months, if not years. Same thing was true for the rocks that bordered the flower beds—and these were big rocks, not stones. It would take mules and men to move them up here to the house. And this yard was swept every day, probably twice a day. The weeding and hoeing had to be done daily, and the chicken coop looked as if it had been built yesterday. Just like Zeb, the chief thought, to be mad 'cause niggers had a nice place to live, without giving a single thought to how much work they'd had to do to have such a place.

  "How y'all?" the chief said when he finally made his way to the front of the house. Squinting, because he was looking directly into the sun, he saw a man on the steps behind the young woman who was sitting there, and a man in front of her, and he saw somebody standing behind the screen door, and he put his hand on his gun belt.

  "We fine, Chief Fordham, how you doin'?" Big Si nodded and lifted his hat. Then he wiped his brow and head with his kerchief before returning the hat, as if that's why he'd removed it in the first place.

  Fordham noticed, and his eyes narrowed into an even tighter squint. "Y'all know better'n to go paintin' the house and plantin' these flowers, ain't that right?" And when nobody spoke, he looked at the door. You, inside. Come on out here.