“You went to church today?” Booger continued.
“Yep,” I answered.
“Where you go?” Booger asked.
“St. Philip’s.”
“You’se a Catholic?” Booger asked with innocent eyes. I had no idea what the answer meant.
“Yeah, he’s Catholic, ole stupid nigga. Why else would he go to church there?” chimed in Raymond Earl.
“They food might be good over there,” Booger responded with his best logic.
“They don’t give us food,” I said.
“Then why you go? You gotta spend all that time up in there, they could at least have some food. Them Baptists be havin’ food,” Booger continued.
“They don’t be in there all day. Them Catholics be in there for a minute, then they go home,” Raymond Earl explained.
“Yawl don’t have to come back to church for evening service?” Booger asked.
“Nawh, you just gotta go to one service. It be about an hour,” I answered.
“An hour?” they both exclaimed, astonished that Catholics didn’t subscribe to the Baptist tradition of most of Sunday spent in church.
“Yep. About an hour. If you go early in the morning or on Saturday, it be shorter,” I explained.
“I wanna be Catholic,” Booger admitted.
I was on a roll now. I told them about being an altar boy and the vestments.
“The priest wears a cape?” Booger asked.
“Yeah. And he can fly,” I answered, pushing it a bit, but I told you I was on a roll.
“Nawh-unh,” Raymond Earl chided.
“For real,” I said. “Come by and see.”
“Ask your momma if we can go to church with you next week,” Raymond Earl asked.
“Okay,” I said. It seemed simple enough.
Across the street, a screen door slammed against a hate-filled home—
“You think you’se a man?”
Joe Boy flew out of the door, landing in his front yard. His red eyes were wet, but he wasn’t crying. His father rushed out of the house carrying a broom and beat the shit out of him. But he didn’t cry; rather he curled up on the ground and took it until his drunk father tired and returned inside. Joe Boy waited for a minute, then got up slowly, legs welted from burning straw. We made eye contact. Bad idea. He directed his anger toward me.
“Ti’ John, time to come in,” Mother yelled from the door.
I dashed inside, escaping Joe Boy’s loathsome stare.
Later that night—
“Momma?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Can Raymond Earl and Booger come to church with us next week?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I said no.”
“Ain’t church for everybody?”
She stopped washing dishes and let her hands rest in Palmolive.
* * *
1. Every black Catholic had heard of Father McKnight, the Caribbean-born civil rights activist who raised more than his fair share of hell with the diocese. Some thought he was a radical, but what can you expect from a black man whose vocation is to lead?
eight
joseph street
Opelousas, Louisiana, c. 1944
Margaret Malveaux liked to sweep the floor. She told herself that the Devil manifested himself in dust particles collected around homes to spy on people, waiting for a moment of weakness. In fact, she even said that witches flew on brooms that they stole from Christian households so that people couldn’t sweep the Devil out of their house. And with two small children, Patrice and Herman, plus operating a small grocery store while her husband, Joseph, worked at the oil mill, Margaret found herself in continuous motion around the floors of her home store in Opelousas, Louisiana.
World War II had been going on for some time, and many had speculated that it was coming to a close and soon battle-weary white men would return home to reclaim their jobs. She worried for her brothers, half of whom were on the front line in Europe while the other half were brokering deals between black sharecroppers and black grocery store owners from Lake Charles to Baton Rouge. She prayed that her brothers in uniform would return home in one piece, and for that she hoped that the war would end quickly. But she also prayed that her deal-making brothers were saving their money because the Klan had already gotten news that the Lemelle boys were getting rich and not a white man, Cajun or American, was seeing a penny of it. And for that, she prayed that the war would last long enough for her brothers to save a fortune. So she swept harder while saying a Rosary, the blessed beads rapping against the broom, for she gripped both, creating an echo to her labor.
She glanced out the front door of the store. A big green Buick with a white convertible top rumbled down the gravel road on Joseph Street, leaving a white trail of dust. Joseph Street in the summer. Hot noontime air slowed down everything but the singing cicadas. The gravel road led directly to train tracks that led directly to LouAna Oil Mill, which made cooking oil from cotton seeds.
At noon, the mill sounded its lunchtime horn, competing with the bells of St. Landry’s Catholic Church a few miles away, each calling to its faithful, a constant reminder of obligation. She knew her husband wasn’t coming home for lunch as usual. He, like other black men in town, had recently volunteered his free time to build a new church for the Holy Ghost Catholic Church parishioners. A new church built of bricks and faith with a tall steeple like St. Landry’s, which was only three blocks away. We should have a church that we can be proud of, many thought, because St. Landry’s was not an option for Margaret or Joseph or anybody who looked like them, even the discreetly passé blanche. Because although St. Landry’s was a Catholic church promoting the Holy Trinity, confession, and the forgiveness of sins, it did not welcome its darker brethren with open arms except with a roped-off colored section in the rear pews.
Margaret squinted at the fast-moving Buick. Mr. Tex was always in a hurry. Small shotgun houses in pleasant colors lined the tree-lined street with four-foot runoff ditches along both sides. This was her home.
She rested against the doorframe, hand on her hip, reflective on all she had seen but anxious for all she had left to do. Her long black wavy hair was pulled back, off her shoulders, allowing sweat to collect on her honey-hued neck. At thirty, her face was beginning to round out with supple cheeks, losing the jawline of a vigorous, independent twenty-something for a focused, caring, rotund visage. But it was her magical hazel eyes that delivered her messages like diamond streetlights for those she encountered, accentuating every emotion with two sparkles, leaving everyone with the impression that she meant exactly what she said. An arresting honesty so pure that she never had to say much. But she did have much to say, and for that, she was a powerful woman. This magical allure had caused Joseph Malveaux to chase Margaret Lemelle around three parishes during the Great Depression like Sir Galahad seeking the Holy Grail.
Her truth was her attraction, felt by all who came in contact with her, including the tall blonde who was sauntering masterfully across the gravel road in short shorts, hair in a scarf, and a yellow shirt tied together above her navel to highlight her D cups just as the green Buick turned off Joseph Street. Her working name was Peaches. And, yes, she was a prostitute.
Margaret knew Peaches wanted to use the phone. They had the only phone in the neighborhood, and most of the girls that worked at La Jolie Blanche made their personal calls at Malveaux’s Grocery. La Jolie Blanche was a gambling/whorehouse stuck in the black neighborhood called the New Editions yet only serviced white clients. It was run by two mob guys from Chicago, Mr. Tex and his hotheaded, cigar-smoking brother, Frank. Night after night, nice cars would park in the makeshift parking lot of La Jolie Blanche. Business usually started around the time Margaret finished teaching catechism on her porch. And even though La Jolie Blanche was planted smack-dab in the middle of a black neighborhood, the only black person allowed on the premises was the old cook from Leonville, Miss Helen. One may wonder how an upstand
ing, Catholic woman like Margaret may have felt about a whorehouse across the street from her home and children, but then again, La Jolie Blanche was their biggest customer. Moreover, Margaret couldn’t find the grounds to judge, being a follower of the mighty J.C. and all.
She thought about this while watching Peaches tell more lies to her family in Florida with Hollywood flair and false pleasantries. Margaret eyed the tall, well-built woman from head to toe, then slowly took a few steps toward the front door with her very own special gait. She had a limp.
It had only been a few months since she’d started walking without those painful wooden crutches. Years before when her brothers were running shine with the Fontenot Brothers, she’d agreed to secrete a large box of rifle bullets. But new inventory and scarce ration books forced her to move the heavy box to the rear of the store by herself. Fearing that the bullets would explode if dropped, she fell with the box in hand. She was paralyzed from the neck down, staring at the hole in the tin roof as her infant, Patrice, and young son, Herman, cried, not knowing what to do.
The doctor said she’d never walk again.
As she lay in bed on her back, her thoughts weren’t governed by her disability but the care of her children. They needed her. In the late hours as weary Joseph snored away the day’s toil at the mill, she offered a bargain with God:
If you let me walk so that I can take care of my babies, I promise, Lord, I will forever bring souls to your church.
She said this aloud with her diamond eyes open so God could attest to her truth. He believed her, and one year later her feet touched the familiar cypress floors of her home. And even though dust had collected after a year of neglect, she knew that the Devil would find no weakness, for she was now in the service of God.
Ten minutes later, Peaches finished broadcasting her lies, then returned to La Jolie Blanche with a loaf of Evangeline Maid bread, so good and wholesome, soft and white. Margaret dutifully cleaned the phone receiver with Lysol because being Catholic didn’t make you immune to syphilis.
Margaret kept her promise with God from the very moment she stood on her own two feet. She worked at Holy Ghost, tending the linens, and taught catechism on her porch. Her emphasis was baptism, believing that one can only get to Heaven if one has been baptized. Day after day she began a slow and methodical mission of converting people to Catholicism. She wasn’t pushy but was effective. She formed the Home Circle Club, an informal group of black Catholic women who sold crawfish étouffée and played Pokeno on Fridays to raise money for the new church that was under construction. She was committed.
The entire town of Opelousas watched as these black folks put the new church together. Some white folks shook their heads and laughed. Klansmen theorized on who sold them niggers red bricks. But nothing was going to stop them. Not World War II or racism. And Margaret continued teaching children about the Trinity even as a small, elderly black man took careful steps up her driveway while she told the story of David and the giant Goliath.
“Good day, sir. Can I help you?” she asked the elderly man.
“No, ma’am. I just wanna listen,” he responded in a weary voice.
The kids made room for him on the porch steps, amused by their ancient guest. Margaret offered him a glass of water, but he declined, so she continued with the story. And after class was over and the kids went home, the old man remained on the porch. Margaret approached.
“That’s all for today, sir.”
“Mrs. Malveaux, my name is Ezekiel Williams but everybody calls me Pops,” he said and extended his old black hands, both of them, the way you shake when you really mean it or you’re really grateful. He was all of five feet tall with a slight hunch. Jet-black skin offset by snow-white hair. His eyes were red, pupils discolored to unnatural gray. He’d seen some things, Margaret thought. She’d seen the old man walk around the neighborhood, mostly along the train tracks.
“I wanted to know if you could teach me about God,” he said with a pure heart, eyebrows raised with the utmost sincerity.
“Have you been baptized?” Margaret inquired, as she had done initially with many of her converts.
“No, ma’am. Cain’t say I have.”
“Well, how old are you?” she asked.
“Don’t know. I’m right from slavery time, ma’am. Don’t know much about God, but I reckon I should, bein’ that I hope to see Him one day,” Pops said with a gentle smile. “Reckon I gotta get right with God.”
Margaret agreed to teach Pops privately in her home in the evenings. She was able to track down a birth certificate issued by the Freedmen’s Bureau stating that Ezekiel “Squirrel” Williams was born on October 28, 1844, in Greenville, Mississippi, making him one hundred years old. In his early years, he’d had a reputation for climbing trees and freeing slaves with the help of the Appaloosa tribe, the Black Legs. After the Civil War, he made a name for himself ferrying people and goods through the network of bayous that webbed Louisiana. Who would’ve guessed that Pops had already lived an entire century; he was playful and excited all of the time. He had most of his faculties and seemed to be managing quite well by himself. He especially enjoyed playing with Herman and baby Patrice, making game of her toes and fingers while teasing Herman with his false teeth.
For Margaret, Pops had become a cause célèbre. She even managed to get him registered to vote although he couldn’t write his own name. And Pops was willing to do whatever she asked because she was preparing him for the glory of God, as he would say.
On the evening of his baptism he stood in Margaret’s dining room with a sullen look. “I don’t have no clothes for church. And I know church is a special place,” he said, head hanging low.
“Don’t worry. I’ll give you some clothes. It’ll be your baptism present,” Margaret offered.
He slowly raised his white head; rivulets of tears shone against his black skin, glistening like snail juice on hot asphalt. But salt wouldn’t kill his joy knowing that a better life waited for him behind the pearly gates. Mary would be there. And all of his children. Two ex-wives. And one granddaughter. All waiting on Squirrel, waiting to reclaim love, to rejoin family, to live forever in peace.
He felt young again and excused himself to the Malveaux backyard, where he found a small ladder next to the chicken coop and placed it against a low-hanging pear tree. He gazed at the tree, surveying its branches and limbs until he spotted a sufficient branch. With quick feet, Squirrel the Amazing Tree Nigger, as he was called by Masta Williams before the Civil War, was back on a branch eight feet off the ground, one hand holding the trunk and the other hand reaching out to God, figuring soon enough God would grab his hand and help him climb higher.
News of Pops’s baptism spread throughout St. Landry Parish and the diocese of Lafayette. Soon Margaret received news that the archbishop was coming to town to honor her for her missionary work. She had brought 112 converts to the Catholic Church, a remarkable achievement. But there was only one rub. She was to be honored not at her church, Holy Ghost, but three blocks away at St. Landry’s. Segregated.
The idea of a segregated church didn’t really cause much commotion in Opelousas or many other Southern towns in the Jim Crow South. Most facilities drew the line anyway; why should church be different? But Margaret was aware of the extreme contradiction between faith and practice. If God didn’t see differences, then why should His children? She was being honored at a church that saw differences, a complete offense to the Gospel considering the differences were but a fiction in the eyes of God but were a fact at St. Landry’s. But she was as much an activist as a Catholic, participating in voter registration with as much vigor as she taught CCE classes. If she took a stand against segregation and declined the invitation, she would offend the diocese and, arguably, the Catholic Church. Yet if she accepted the invitation, she might feel the sting of hypocrisy, contradicting her civil rights activities. She desired to do neither, and after she put Patrice and Herman to bed, she made a Rosary and asked the Blessed Mothe
r for guidance.
The day she was to be honored by the archbishop, Margaret had been on a nonstop Novena. And although she had dressed herself and her children for church, she hadn’t made up her mind about attending the service at St. Landry’s. Everyone in town knew about the honor. The Daily World had published a front-page story on Margaret’s accomplishment complete with a photo, which was noteworthy considering the newspaper, at that time, didn’t make a habit of posting photos of Negroes unless they committed a crime or were performing nearby. All of the town was talking about it, assuming she would gratefully accept the honor. But she still had reservations. Faith versus Race. That was the question. Herman came to the door in a cute suit with short pants.
“Momma? We goin’ to church?” he asked.
She was still on her knees, leaning against the bed where Patrice was lying, hands clasped with Rosary beads. The children don’t understand this race thing, Lord, she thought. It’s hard being colored. The world expecting so little from you and you expecting so much from yourself, she pondered. We’re remembered for what we do, particularly making the hard choice rather than taking the easy, convenient path. This was her philosophy, and she made a choice. She turned to her child and said—
“No.”
“What about all them people?” Herman asked.
Margaret stood up slowly, took painful steps to the front door, and opened it.
About a hundred or so black folks had gathered in front of her house and cheered when she opened the door. Pops was in front in his baptismal suit and bowed deeply, honoring the queen of Catholicism. Margaret was at a loss for words, touched by the outpouring of love from the crowd, mostly children. After a second look, she noticed that many were people whom she’d brought to the Catholic faith. Her very own apostles.
Church was for everybody, Margaret thought as she stood before the white parishioners of St. Landry’s, eyeing her children, who sat on Pops’s lap in the colored section. When Patrice was old enough, Margaret would tell her about the incident and the honor. She would tell Patrice that the community expected her to receive the honor, not only for herself and her missionary work but to highlight the fact that anybody can be worthy in the eyes of God regardless of how they look, light-skinned or not.
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