by ANDREA SMITH
“Cain’t say me,” Naz repeated.
“I wasn’t,” she said. The room roared. Naz’s laughter was as loud as any. Bonnie finally answered, “Van Eddie.”
A collective groan tolled out among the men. The women looked around as if they were all speaking another language. Naz’s expression remained thoughtful.
“What about Bobby Spencer,” Reverend McCoy asked.
“Boy, ain’t nothin’ next to Satchell Paige,” Deacon Lewis put in. “Satchell the one…he the one fo’ sho’!”
“Satchell’s good alright,” Wilbur called out. “Flashy and fast as night!”
Naz quieted the men by simply raising his hand. Then he said to Bonnie, “Gal, why in the world you pick Van Eddie?”
“Van ain’t no joke,” Horace Dean defended. “Might’ve picked him myself.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Mrs. Reverend Sunday cut in. “But there are other ladies present in this room.”
“Amen,” Tilde Royce called.
“We regret that we don’t know nearly as much about baseball as Bonnie,” Mrs. Reverend Sunday went on, “but we do have questions of our own for Naz.” A wave of feminine voices rose up in agreement.
As the conversation continued, Bonnie sat quietly. Naz graciously answered the women’s questions, which mostly concerned when he was going to settle down with a good woman and if he’d stay in the Three Sisters and how many children he wanted to have and if he was looking for a God-fearing girl. But every so often, Bonnie would find Naz’s eyes on her. She had never felt so special. She could feel the hum of his laughter still vibrating inside of her. And she had to take a breath at the thought that the questions he had asked had as much intensity as he had offered to any of the men.
Bonnie was suddenly thankful to Wilbur for insisting that she come to all those games. That afternoon she felt herself floating. Above the buttermilk biscuits and sliced roast beef. Above glamorous Thora, pretty Edris Collins, Mrs. Reverend Sunday, the Bell sisters and all the other ladies. Also above Daddy Wilbur, who sat as proud as a big red rooster. This was Bonnie’s afternoon. This was her time. And the only day that felt more exciting was the day that she married Naz Wilder.
Bonnie shook her husband awake in the tub. He often fell asleep under her gentle massage and soothing version of “Stormy Weather.” The soapy water swirled through the black ringlets of hair on his chest. She ran the washcloth over his legs and past the jagged scar on his knee. Groggy and content, Naz finally pulled himself up, patted himself dry and slipped into his pajama bottoms. He lay down beside her in bed. Just seconds later, his eyes closed. She thought he would fall asleep now and stay asleep until at least noon. Reverend Duncan would send a harsh word home and some would ask if Naz was alright, but most would understand if he didn’t make church the next day, for most of the Brethren from the same hunting trip would be likewise absent.
She, herself, was beginning to doze, when he reached out to hold Bonnie. His eyes fluttered open and he pulled her close. Soon his shifting became urgent. Bonnie could suddenly feel his indecision about what he needed more: sleep or her.
“What you think?” he whispered.
His breath on the back of her neck made her body tingle. “Umm-hmm,” she replied.
Naz yanked down his pajama bottoms, then slipped her panties off and pulled her cotton gown up above her head. Bonnie felt her breath catch in her chest as her husband lifted himself on top of her. She prayed that as she rocked beneath him, his passion, her prayers, the light of the moon—anything—might lead to a child. It was the wanting of a baby that hurt so bad. The yearning. It was feeling her own flat stomach against her palm and knowing that time was passing. So even now, as Naz moved deeply inside of her, the only desire she felt was that he fill the empty space inside of her womb and her heart. Naz quickened his pace. Just when she felt his body begin to mount toward that place he loved, she gripped him around the waist, rolled over and flipped herself on top.
“Bonita?” he yelled out.
His voice was filled with as much shock as helpless pleasure. The sight of Bonnie on top of him, her hair falling into his face, her body bending so that her nipples brushed his cheek, was all too much. His legs stiffened and his head fell back on the pillow. Naz cried out from the bottom of his soul. Bonnie had never seen her husband react this way. But it was real. There was passion. She had “stirred things up.”
Naz lay beneath her, too exhausted to move. Bonnie didn’t budge. She dared not disturb the spawning angels, and stayed draped across his body. In the quiet, she could feel Naz wondering about her behavior. Naz lifted her and she slipped into her place beside him. He slowly sat up and swung his legs to the side of the bed and leaned forward with his head in his hands.
“How you think to do somethin’ like that?” he asked.
“Jes’…come to me, I guess,” she said.
“Ain’t nuthin’ ever come to you like that befo’!”
She sat up and rubbed his back. Naz was quiet for a moment, like he was deep in thought. Then he said, “Don’t think I like you like that.”
“Seem like you liked it jes’ fine.” Bonnie felt shy now, but still happy by what had happened between them.
He shook his head no. “It ain’t fo’ you, Bonita.”
“What?”
“That kinda thing…it ain’t fo’ you.”
Bonnie felt confused. “Seem like you really liked it.”
“No.”
“Are you…sho’?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am, I am sho’. That kinda thing…it ain’t fo’ no decent woman.”
Decent woman, Bonnie thought. Thora was a decent woman and surely her and Horace’s private life was filled with such intimate moments. Decent woman? Bonnie pulled the sheet over her naked chest. Her husband, the man she loved most in the world, had suddenly made her feel cheap. Common. Naz slid back into bed and turned his back. Bonnie felt hurt and confused. Their lovemaking was different, yes, yet what of the excitement in her husband just moments ago? Naz had reached his moment full of more fire than they’d had in years. Bonnie shut her eyes. Maybe it wasn’t her place to change things. Maybe he didn’t like it. But she did. Whether Naz wanted to admit it or not, there was heat, yet his back faced her like a closed door. Bonnie wasn’t quite sure how she should feel right now. But pain and confusion aside, she prayed that the fire might finally fill her womb with life.
THREE
There were never enough pigs-in-a-blanket to go around. The half-dozen women in attendance at the Ladies of the Blessed Harvest meeting might have gotten two each. Not that Bonnie counted, or even cared for pigs-in-a-blanket in the first place. But she did know that the lack of food was avoidable. Especially given that this was Tilde Monroe’s house and Tilde was so methodical in her planning. Moreover, Tilde was the first to gossip about anyone’s unkempt house or unkempt kids. Bonnie acknowledged that this was just finger food, but when the ladies sat with two doughy cocktail franks wobbling on a spacious paper plate—well…it looked strange, cheap. Still, no one ever complained, at least not to Tilde Monroe’s face.
Bonnie glanced at the petunia-shaped wall clock above the mantel. The meeting hadn’t started yet and already she was checking the time. Bonnie drummed her fingertips on a carnation-spotted doily that covered the armrest of her chair. On one side of her was an end table loaded with Monroe family photos; and on the other, a window that faced out on Tilde’s backyard. As they waited for the last lady to arrive, Bonnie settled back into the floral cushion. Sitting in Tilde’s house was like being trapped in a garish garden. Flowers of all sizes and textures sprang from every part of the room. The second armchair, where Olive Lockie sat, was dappled with yellow daisies, and the couch where Laretha Bennett and Miss Idella rested was splashed with floating lavender wreaths. The finishing touch, an area rug covered with just about every kind of flower, spread over most of the floor.
“Ladies of the Blessed Harvest,” Tilde announced as she rose ceremoniously,
“let us start with our thanks to the Lord.”
“What about Delphine,” Olive called out. “She ain’t here yet.”
“Delphine come in late all the time,” Tilde said. “I’m ready to start this meeting now.”
“But the rules say that we supposed to wait ’til everybody get here,” Olive protested.
Tilde placed her pudgy hands in her lap. “May I remind you, Olive,” she started, “that I’m the one who made up them rules. And I’m the one who say when we start and when we wait!”
“Well, excuse the hell outta me,” Olive mumbled.
Tilde Monroe, self-appointed leader of the Ladies of the Blessed Harvest, was none too shy about reminding folks that the club was her idea. The six women met twice a month, each time at a different woman’s house. Tilde first convened the ladies three years ago to organize an annual dance. Initially the dance had been handled by the Women’s Auxiliary at the Piney Grove Baptist Church. Year after year, attendance waned because the dance became as boring as the senior deacon’s church announcements. But worse, the dance never succeeded in bringing in any money. Then Tilde stepped in. She held a separate meeting to plan a separate dance, this time at the lodge. Not only did the affair bring in money, but folks professed to having the best time ever. Bonnie knew it was because the dance was at the lodge instead of the church. Most could party without the sanctity of the altar right above their heads.
“Let us start with our thanks to the Lord,” Tilde repeated. All rose and held hands until a circle was formed. Olive bowed her head reluctantly. Bonnie could feel the firm grip of Laretha on one side and Miss Idella on the other.
“You put us here fo’ a reason, my Father,” Tilde started. “I pray we serve you the best way we can.”
Often the prayer circle was quick, but when Tilde led the invocation, it lasted a while.
“We are but jes’ women,” Tilde went on, “humble wives and mothers. But, Lord, we pray to do yo’ service.” Tilde’s voice rose as it reached for confirmation from the women.
“Amen,” Laretha called.
After a few minutes, Bonnie could feel the connection break in the circle. Most had already given their thanks and moved on. But Tilde had the light. Miss Idella shifted from one leg to the other. Laretha’s breath was loud and impatient. Tilde’s voice reached the last righteous swell before she ended with, “We thank you, O Lord. Humbly, Father, we thank you. Amen.”
A silence fell over the room as the five women took their seats. Tilde pounded the coffee table with a meat tenderizer and it bent beneath the blow. Bonnie had often thought that the table would completely collapse. “What’s on the agenda first?” she asked.
“Olive Lockie got the flo’,” Laretha announced.
Olive slipped on her black half glasses and looked down at her notes. “Clothes drive,” she announced.
“Befo’ we get to that,” Miss Idella said, raising her hand, “I got somethin’ to say.”
“Miss Idella got the flo’,” Laretha called out.
“Lord ha’ mercy, Laretha,” Tilde whined. “You ain’t got to say that ever’ time somebody talk. Jes’ go’n, Miss Idella, and speak yo’ piece.”
Miss Idella stood with her hands on her hips. At sixty-one, she was the elder of the six women and often the voice of reason. The ladies recognized this and respected it. She cleared her throat with a loud “a-hem,” then tugged on either side of her unnaturally red wig. “I believe,” she began, “that, from now on, whosoever come in late should be charged an extra ten cent dues.”
“Great idea,” Laretha called out.
Tilde looked straight ahead, her lips pinched thoughtfully.
Bonnie recalled the times when she put in Delphine Peterson’s dues because the woman couldn’t afford to pay them. Delphine loved attending the meetings of the Ladies of the Blessed Harvest and Bonnie knew she felt proud to be a part of the group. With a bit of shame in her eyes, Delphine would smile wanly, then try to repay Bonnie. Sometimes she’d send her older boy, Davey, to Blackberry Corner to mow Bonnie’s lawn or prune the berry bushes. Though Bonnie wouldn’t mind putting in the extra ten cents, she knew that Delphine would surely feel even more embarrassed and beholden than she did already.
“I hear what you sayin’, Miss Idella,” Olive cut in, “but Delphine is the onliest one who come in late.”
“So…” Tilde said.
“Delphine got six kids,” Olive explained. “She cain’t hardly afford the fifty cent as it is.”
Bonnie was glad that someone had brought up the point. Though if Olive hadn’t, she probably wouldn’t have had the nerve to say it herself.
“Well, maybe that’ll make Delphine git her hind-parts here on time,” Tilde snipped. “However, I need to think on it.”
“Yes, let’s let Tilde think on it,” Laretha said.
Olive rolled her eyes at Laretha. It was a known fact that Laretha always took Tilde’s side in everything. The result was that Tilde appointed the woman vice president of their little organization.
Tilde pounded the table again. “Clothes drive…”
The ladies’ agenda usually centered on such things as helping some of the older members in the congregation with their shopping, cooking and cleaning, or organizing the men’s lodge to help a church member farm his land. Then, once official business was out of the way, the conversation usually slipped into tittle-tattle and hearsay.
“Olive, I hope you been saving yo’ kids’ clothes, fast as they grow,” Tilde said.
“I put ’em aside. But, girl, Thomas’s pants be threadbare befo’ he even grow out of ’em.”
“I know that’s right,” Tilde chuckled. “Natalie ain’t got ne’er a dress without a hole or some grass or food stain.”
Bonnie wore a forced smile as she listened to the women discuss their children. She didn’t find it dull but the subject was painful. As the ladies chatted, Bonnie glanced at the end table beside the couch. Photos of Tilde and Cal at community picnics and church socials were spread out among other family snapshots. Most were of their children, four chubby yellow puffs that looked to be plucked from one of Tilde’s fat arms. Her three boys—Gary, Cedric and Cal Jr.—and her daughter and oldest child, Natalie, all had the same face: fat cheeks, pug noses and lazy brown eyes. In fact, if it weren’t for the pink ribbon that held a chunk of Natalie’s short hair, Bonnie wouldn’t know one from the other.
“I got two or three bags of old toys from my grands,” Miss Idella said.
“How ’bout y’all drop ’em at the church befo’ choir rehearsal,” Tilde suggested.
Bonnie found it interesting that some of the women felt it necessary to jot this information on the valentine-bordered paper that Tilde had saved from the Loving Hearts dance that she had chaired last February. But Bonnie knew that these meetings, as small as they seemed, made the women of Canaan Creek feel like they were just as important as the men.
“Next time we get together,” Tilde went on, “we’ll sort out the clothes befo’ we take ’em on over to the Red Cross.”
“Red Cross?” Miss Idella countered. “Girl, I ain’t studyin’ ’bout no Red Cross! Plenty a folks right here in the Three Sisters need them clothes.”
“That is the truth,” Olive chimed in.
Tilde locked her arms across her heavy chest. “Alright,” she huffed. “If y’all wanna leave ’em at the church, then go’n leave ’em at the church!”
Whether at the Red Cross or at the church, Bonnie already knew that all but Tilde would be sorting clothes. Tilde was good at rallying folks, but come time to step into action, she often disappeared, leaving the grudge work to the other ladies. It was Bonnie who tended to the old folks that couldn’t shop for themselves. Miss Idella administered to the sick and shut-ins, and Olive and Bonnie both sat with folks’ children when they needed a night out.
Just then the bell rang. Tilde poked her head out into the hall. “Natalie,” she called. “Let Miss Delphine in.”
With four
girls and two boys, ages ranging from three to seventeen, Delphine was always a bit frazzled. Her clothes were hardly ever ironed and she wore her hair in two frizzy braids. Bonnie understood why she often went unkempt. Delphine tended to her kids first. And surely, after plaiting the heads of her four young girls, the woman barely had the energy to do her own.
“Excuse my lateness,” she said. “Myra and Sissy both got a devil of a cold and my youngest—”
“Next order of business,” Tilde said, ignoring the woman’s rambling.
Delphine took a seat on the couch. She waved at Bonnie across the floor and Bonnie gave a tiny wink.
“Ever’body bring they recipes?” Tilde asked.
The light cinnamon scent of Dentyne gum, a Sunday service staple, came from open handbags as the women eagerly removed their recipe cards. Bonnie pulled out her recipe for blackberry cobbler and passed it to Miss Idella, while Olive handed her recipe to Bonnie. Tilde had come up with a new twist for the bake sale this year. Each woman was to prepare another’s favorite dessert. Bonnie recognized that this was a recipe for disaster, because if one woman happened to bake a dish better than the original, there would be no end to the grief. But Tilde felt that this was a “very clever” idea, so Bonnie courteously accepted Olive’s recipe for Red Velvet Cake.
“I didn’t write it in the recipe,” Olive whispered to Bonnie, “but fo’ the cake batter…”
“Yes,” Bonnie said, trying to feign interest.
“Instead of the red dye…I use a cup a beet juice.”
“Shut yo’ mouth, girl.”
“Gi’ the batter a sweeter taste! Don’t tell nobody I told you that, Bonnie Wilder.”
Bonnie raised her palm toward the heavens. Olive flashed a trusting smile, then turned back to the group. As Tilde went on about pricing for the bake sale, Bonnie’s attention drifted out the back window. A pink sheet billowing on the clothesline had caught onto the branch of a camphor tree. Pale pink gloriously tented the yard. About a hundred feet away from the house, Bonnie caught sight of the very edge of the creek. A soft wave rippled in the water. Though Blackberry Corner was nine miles away from here, the creek flowed by both her and Tilde’s back doors. Tilde could see it from her porch, but Bonnie had to venture a little ways into the green behind her house. Many folks in the Three Sisters had the waters in common. Bonnie could walk through the woods and find more than a half-dozen dwellings along the twelve-mile path that touched on or near the banks. As a child, she had collected baskets of loganberries, wild grapes or persimmons for her neighbors. She would knock on their back doors and they’d give her a nickel for a basket. Some of the families still lived in these houses, though the generations had changed. Lola Flocker resided in the house closest to Bonnie. She had taken over the deed from her mama. The elder of the Benson boys lived about three miles from Lola, with his wife and two kids. The next house over, once owned by Shirley and Basil Stokes, was now foreclosed and abandoned. The Bell sisters lived about six miles from the Stokes’ place. Then there was Tilde.