They came back to make love there when the guests had dispersed and the sky had grown dark and starry; and again on the night of their first anniversary, and the next year and the next.
Until the babies became children, and her life an uninterrupted blur of domesticity and toil. An overtime schedule of parenting and hard work made the frivolities of youth an indulgence she could no longer spare the time for, much less the energy. Besides, they had moved to town for a time, and the pebble-strewn dirt road to the elm made for an inhospitable journey. And so it was honey let’s just do it in the yard it’s more convenient; and then honey let’s just do it on the floor; and then honey I’m tired let’s just do it tomorrow; and finally, they did not do it at all or talk about doing it or, eventually, even think about it.
But when he was gone, she could think of little else: his hands his mouth his breath and his eyes, wide with wonder and excitement when he came.
Sometimes, she recalled the smell of hibiscus and juniper, on a dew-soaked April morning, beneath the elm.
And there lived in Sister the memory of things horrid to recall; things she had lived in her own time; things passed to her from her mother, and her mother, who had received them from hers. Sister chose not to recall. She would not cause her daughter to recall. They would be free of this memory, and pure. The former days were past, carefully interred, and securely, she thought; and all things had become new.
LICKSKILLET, WARREN COUNTY, NORTH CAROLINA
SEPTEMBER, 1873
There had been a time when life was new, and love untried; when love, in fact, had filled these very rooms. That had been when she was young and thoughtless. She had assumed that things would always be this way. Never had it occurred to her that he was not “future-minded.” The too lavish gifts during the early days of their marriage, she had accepted eagerly and with appreciation. He was a good man, hardworking and devoted. Maturity, purpose, and a vision for their future would come later. She had been sure of it, as she squeezed his large brown hand, dry even in the sweltering summer heat. She had envisioned growing old together.
But not so soon, and not like this. She could not recall just how or when the fabric of their well-woven love had become frayed at its edges, the delicate porcelain bracelets and carved figurines becoming relics of a long past and foolish time of extravagance. The babies had come in rapid succession, leaving her strained and impatient, as cruel, cold winters, scant meals, and past due debts ushered in a harsh reality.
They whispered of her Sunday mornings, supposing that she did not hear: He be wit’ his woman on Thursday nights, while she prayin’. Straight-backed, steely-eyed, Sister brushed past these women in their severe white dresses and, one child’s small hand held tightly in each of hers, she lowered herself stiffly onto a pew, all the while staring straight ahead at the mammoth cross that lent a calculated austerity to the otherwise humble schoolhouse, which on Sundays doubled as the Bull Swamp Methodist Church. Thus seated, she would squeeze her eyes shut against the hot torrent of tears that pushed past her lashes to stream down her carefully powdered cheeks. Always, she thanked God first for her height and carriage. They communicated a haughtiness and indifference that she did not possess but needed desperately to convey, enabling her to disguise her pain as piety until it subsided, finally, mercifully, if only briefly.
And after a time, she would no longer wonder about his paramours, about who, how long, how frequently, or how many. These questions, like most others, would cease to matter. Gone—the artless girl of so many hopes and unspoken pleas ago; gone, her eyes would tell him each time he looked at her, to some distant place where his touch no longer melted her and his tears no longer moved her and his words, thankfully, could no longer hurt her.
This morning, as on many others, she rose before dawn to begin her washing. But this time, she paused in the doorway of her shotgun hut, squinting at the darkness that stretched ahead, listening, but hearing only the breathing of her sleeping children.
Last night, she had dreamed an indecipherable dream of yellow-eyed witches and devilment, and things unspoken, unheard of. She had dreamed of pirates and thieves transporting human treasure stolen from another continent; of loss and sorrow and heaviness too awesome to bear; and of a broken heart, and contrite spirit. She had dreamed of a great black bird, its wings spanning an ocean. Without understanding, she had nodded and said: Yes, Lord. Thy perfect will be done.
Neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me. Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child . . .
LICKSKILLET, NORTH CAROLINA
MARCH, 1874
I cry in the daytime, but thou hearest not; and in the night season, and am not silent.
—Psalm 22:2
This night Sister did not pray. She had deliberately not prayed for weeks now, taking care not to whisper thanks in the mornings or before she ate her meals, as had been her custom; not leading the children in prayer as she tucked them in at night. They looked at her curiously, and she felt all the more the glaring omission, the absence of God in her daily routine.
But she had felt God’s absence from her heart for some time now. She was angry. Mama is angry at Daddy, the children thought. Or at God. She kissed them lovingly, the boy a replica of his father, handsome and sly; the girl a reddish brown, testament to a Cherokee ancestor whose name was not recorded in the family bible. Another child, a burnished boy with blazing eyes, had succumbed to cholera in infancy. She wondered if that loss had been the beginning of their end. Her eyes closed for a moment as she queried God for the thousandth time. Then she reminded herself, as she blew out the lamp and closed the door against the puzzled expressions on the faces of her children, of her own resolve not to think on such things, to not think or care or feel, and above all, to refrain from prayer, from the thought that anyone would hear her if she prayed. Faith involved risk, and she lacked these days the fortitude to believe.
Night after night she steeled herself against the need to vent, to cry and labor before God as she had been taught, to unburden herself and fall to thankful, restless sleep. She was angry.
For a decade, she had done all things correctly, a soldier of faith and humility, her citizenship celestial, her allegiance to her man and her God—not the god of her oppressors, but the God of her longing, her prayers. And him. She had withstood his self-indulgences and insults to her personhood, his myriad small betrayals, those countless accumulated injuries. She had been the obedient servant, mopping up his messes, both literal and figurative, defending and excusing his transgressions, stopping just short of calling him Lord.
She had been studious and attentive to God’s will, careful to select a God-fearing man, and still, he had turned suddenly, it seemed to Sister, into someone else; someone who could leave her behind as offhandedly as a man changing his clothes, discarding her as soiled laundry, yet another mess for her to clean up: the wreckage of her own visage to tidy up and hide, again atoning, her own blood covering his sins; the malady of her own spirit to heal alone, unloved, and untouched.
Wearily she lay down and blew out the single candle that gave light to her room.
My God, my God why hast thou forsaken me?
Why art thou so far . . .
Slowly, she succumbed to sleep, and a woman appeared quite suddenly, either in a dream or in the backyard. Sister was not certain. Intrigued, she rose to her knees to better view the scene outside the small, square window that faced the backyard. The woman, slight but muscular, with an oddly cunning, almost insane look about her face, was kneeling on a dirt floor strewn with straw. She was quite dark, with striking features and a muslin scarf askew on her short, tight locks. Sister could, she felt, almost reach into this other world, both real and surreal, and touch the bony, earnest face, trace the outline of the bulbous lips the color of raisins that moved silently. The woman leaned over suddenly, doubled over with her face to the ground. She appea
red to be praying. Then, she sat up resolutely, and Sister noticed for the first time one small breast exposed by a savage tear in her dress, one ashen knee scraped bloody, and ten broken, dirty fingernails as the woman brought her hands to her face and cried. Touched by the woman’s distress, Sister searched for words of comfort. A slight movement not six feet from the woman caught Sister’s eye; and there, on the dirt floor, lay a tiny bloody mass of human flesh and exposed bone, gasping desperately and hopelessly for life.
The woman vanished with all of her surroundings.
Sister awoke with a start.
Each morning thereafter, Sister awoke with an aching jaw and grinding teeth, surprised to find how tightly they had been clenched throughout the night. Her back began to give her trouble. Her hair fell out in clumps.
And a spirit came to rest upon her. Subtle at first, it went unnoticed as she went about her tasks: Aloneness; then Sadness followed. Before she knew it, they had settled comfortably, growing sturdy and rotund.
The others, Anger and Worry and Death, also flourished unnoticed. Each day began to blur into the next as Sister slowly came undone, detaching herself from her children, her surroundings, her miserable reality.
Before long, her absence from the pews at Bull Swamp caught the attention of the overtly righteous: Those who with practiced eye sought out and discovered opportunities for public displays of charity and compassion. This vanguard brought the following disturbing report to the Bull Swamp Motherhood Board and Missionary Group Number Two: Sister had been feeling poorly. Her usually tidy home was in disarray, and the children needed tending to. Certain of their heavenly reward, the women determined that they would visit Sister at home.
And so they came with covered heads, outfitted in white and carrying their bibles. They opened steaming covered dishes, fed the children, and saw that they bathed. They set the disordered house to gleaming, tactfully not mentioning or alluding to the wayward husband’s conspicuous absence.
Finally, silently, the women joined hands in prayer. It had become apparent to all present that their reserved Sister, whose snooty arrogance had often occasioned their annoyance, was in a much more sorry state than they had first imagined: Her sickness was one of spirit, not flesh, and her ailment was of the heart.
As they began to pray and leap and shout in earnest, they noted that their formerly pious Sister did not pray, but instead stared glassy-eyed ahead, an expression of serene patience on her heretofore expressionless face. One by one, they fell silent.
And within each one of them, godness stirred, moving them to compassion. Mother Hedgebeth moved to take Sister’s hand.
“Baby, we don’t know what it is, but it ain’t go’ do you no good to hold it in. ’Taint no secret what God can do if you jes—”
“ ’Taint no God.” An audible and collective gasp was followed by a hushed astonishment in the small spotless room, and Sister smiled contemptuously at the cadre of stunned believers. “Betcha didn’t know that,” she added.
SHOCCO CREEK, WARREN COUNTY, NORTH CAROLINA
JUNE, 1874
There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch.
—Deuteronomy 18:10—Exodus 22:18
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.
—Exodus 22:18
It was June. The merciless heat and the endless outpouring of anger, sorrow, and hurt had taken its toll. No more today, she thought. She feared that her power was waning. Wiping the sweat from her brow, the sorceress sat heavily in a cane-backed chair. She sighed, releasing a gale that whistled faintly as it moved across the barely furnished room; wove its way through the rows of candles arranged on small, rectangular tables of varying heights; and settled against a wall covered with gilt-framed mirrors. She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the dwindling, late-afternoon light that peeked through the small round window above her head. The skin was becoming sallow. Small bags were forming beneath the eyes. She was weary.
But there would be more.
The warm evening sun beckoned the choir from its stand at the holiness church across the road. Hearing their voices, the sorceress opened the whitewashed door and moved onto the porch of her clapboard house. She watched them file down the three steps of their rickety house of worship, fanning themselves with their slender brown hands, to stand in a ragtag semicircle, their plaintive, mournful song drifting across the road. Sensing a presence nearby, the sorceress glanced to the right of the house. A young woman, perhaps in her late teens, was approaching, her jet black hair shining in the setting sun. The sorceress moved to meet her at the door.
Brown, timid, and fragile in appearance, the young woman’s lip trembled. Her hand shook slightly as she introduced herself—Queen Marie was her name—and pressed a crumpled dollar bill into the sorceress’ hand.
The sorceress glanced once more across the road and led the young woman inside, watching closely as Queen Marie’s eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, then gestured toward a battered chair. Queen Marie sat, glancing eagerly up at her hostess, an imposing figure over six feet in height, her hair concealed by a white cotton head wrap. For several moments, neither woman spoke.
“Watcha want, Chile?” The witch’s voice, melodic and sweet, belied her ascetic appearance. She was a yellow woman, large and square, with broad African features and slanted amber eyes. When she spoke, her lips barely moved, and Queen Marie doubted that it was, in fact, she who had spoken. She fidgeted, uncomfortable beneath the gaze of the all-knowing yellow eyes. She could not answer.
Once, she had written a poem.
A wandering soul . . .
It had been before she met Prince, but she had known that she would, someday.
The man of my heart is a wandering soul
She had known that he would be troubled, and elusive, a challenge to love.
from path to path
and from door to door—
See?
She lifted both hands to reveal the horizontal scars that embellished each wrist.
I have tried to stop him
She had assumed that the sorceress could hear her words. The yellow eyes confirmed that she did.
Like the memory of a tryst long laid to rest
he is present
yet absent/he is
as sand in the fingers of a child
never tarrying long
always leaving
my longing heart enveloped
in the billowing dust of his departure . . .
The poem had ended there. Now, she sought the words that could describe her desperation and obsession. It had become evident, very early on, that she could no longer hold his attention. She was bested by his memory of a love that was dead, yet remained, a miraculous hope, in his heart: Someday, some way, he believed, his wife would look at him in that way again, that worshipful, adoring way; and all of Queen Marie’s efforts had failed to distract him from this confidence.
The girls outside the lone small window sang of God’s amazing grace and o! how sweet the sound; and of how they had come to stay, Lord, until they died. The girl sobbed. The sorceress looked away.
“Go, Chile.”
Queen Marie looked up in surprise. The small, hot room was suddenly cool. The sorceress’ eyes seemed to sparkle with—insanity? “Go,” she repeated. “You have your wish.”
The girl sat frozen, too frightened to move, yet afraid to disobey, determined not to leave this place without accomplishing the purpose for which she had come. “He—,” she began, then faltered under the burning gaze of the sorceress. “He has forgotten his wife?” She choked on the words, having voiced her desire without first forming the conscious intent to do so.
The yellow woman stared for a moment at the young woman. “ She has left him.”
An unease quite unlike any the girl had ever experienced began to creep up within her, and settling first in her
stomach, it filled her to the base of her throat. For a moment, she fought the impulse to vomit. Then she collected herself and, standing unsteadily, sweating in the cool, dark room, she left the clapboard house of the evil yellow woman, closing the door softly behind her.
LICKSKILLET, NORTH CAROLINA
JUNE, 1874
For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God . . .
—Exodus 20:5
The door was opened slightly when he stumbled up the two wooden steps and determined that yes, this was the one: his house. The girl jumped up to hug his waist when she saw him standing in the doorway, an only slightly drunken grin making him appear adolescent and penitent, his eyes scanning the disheveled room for his long-suffering and forgiving wife. He caught the belated attention of his son, who glanced at him with his own eyes from a corner across the room where the boy sat, his back against the wall, studying a worn picture book that lay open on his knees.
The boy did not stand or greet his father. This hurt, but only for a moment. He wandered toward the back of the house, his gait casual if slightly unsteady. The room with the cornhusk mattress was empty. He saw her through the small square window that faced the backyard, sitting on the edge of a straight-backed wooden chair, her back turned toward the window. She was clad in overalls with no shirt, her shoulders hunched and thinner than he recalled, her hair longer but more sparse, hanging just past her shoulders in one thin braid. He squinted, moving closer to the window.
She was shelling peas, tossing them into one iron pot and the pods into another. She turned to find him watching her through the window, but did not appear surprised, only nodded slightly as if to acknowledge his presence. Slowly, she wiped the sheen of sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist before turning back to her work.
Sapphire's Grave Page 2