When they joined, Gertrude could not stop her body from moving in a way that was foreign to her mind. She was certain that it had never performed such a dance, yet her hips rolled of their own accord. She was no longer in control of her body. Hezekiah was a puppeteer manipulating her with his hands and mouth. She could only hold onto his shoulders as she cried out for Jesus in a way that had never happened in church. There was a final burst of electricity that jolted through her body, and her throat went hoarse from utterings she could not later remember speaking. They lay spent in each other’s arms.
“Wuz dat how you thought it wuz gon’ be?” he asked, still nuzzled in the hollow of her neck.
“No. Ain’t nobody ever said nothin’ like what I felt,” she answered, absently stroking his thigh. “I ain’t neva felt so wonderful, Hezekiah.”
But along with sexual satisfaction brewed guilt. Gertrude had been raised like all southern girls to remain chaste until marriage, unleash the pent-up energy for procreation, and then repackage it to be rationed out and scheduled like weekly pot roast meals. Gertrude was unable to reconcile her elation and her shame. She became equally eager and nervous to go to bed. At dinner, she fidgeted with the cornbread crumbs that had escaped her plate onto the table.
Noticing her preoccupation, Hezekiah grabbed her hand. “What’s the matter, Trudy? You ain’t happy?”
She lifted her eyes to meet his. “I . . . I’m . . .” She could not find the words to describe the ecstatic nights that overshadowed her mundane days. Hezekiah waited patiently. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “I’m so happy with you that I don’t know how to be by myself.”
Hezekiah grinned. “You jes needs a hobby . . . somethin’ to do when um workin’.” He continued to stroke her hand.
Gertrude felt heat rising from his touch. “Maybe I can help out at church.”
“That’s a good idea! Dey always tryin’ to git folks up dere to be on committees and such.” Hezekiah’s fingers traveled up her arm, causing Gertrude to shiver in response. “You feelin’ tired?”
“No!” she answered more forcibly than she had intended, but she did not want to miss out on any of the night’s activities.
Hezekiah smiled. “Well, I guess you wanna stay up a while then?”
Gertrude’s jaw dropped. She didn’t want to stay up either. “No,” she responded softly, lowering her eyes.
Hezekiah chuckled. He was playing with her.
Boldly she returned her gaze to his eyes. “Take me to bed, Hezekiah.”
Three years, two children, and one church-volunteer job later, Gertrude’s opinion had changed. She began to distrust the rapturous feelings of the physical intimacy. Waiting in the house for Hezekiah felt more wrong than right. She spent her days repenting the night’s activities. Her nighttime prayers were frequently interrupted when Hezekiah knelt beside her, then behind her. She clutched the small thin cross at her neck, and it became unclear to whom her whispers of “sweet Jeezus” were directed. Eventually, Jesus the Christ won, and Hezekiah began his transformation into the man that Deuce struggled to describe to Eve decades later. But what neither Deuce nor his wife, Evelyn, could bring themselves to share with Eve was what she wanted to know most: what happened to her grandfather.
Hezekiah moved two towns over, to Montezuma, and kept company with the women of Macon County, who were just as neglected as he. Men who were too busy with their work, their gambling, and their own indiscretions urged their wives to “go to Mann” to fix broken chairs, holes in chicken coops, and leaky roofs; and Hezekiah Mann made those repairs and found himself also mending broken hearts, renewing self-confidence, and scratching incessant itches. Much can be said about gossiping housewives, but among the women of Ideal, not one uttered a word to their husbands or to Gertrude, who called many of them friends.
Every weekend, Hezekiah traveled the ten miles from Montezuma to Ideal to work the plot of land on which Gertrude’s house sat. It was this land that fed them while most others were either starving or leaving by the busload to the North. Hezekiah worked, and his wife continued to beg him to return to their home and the church for good. For Gertrude, everything could be solved in the church. She was certain that all Hezekiah need do was give testimony in church and let everyone know that he had seen the error of his heathen ways and was ready to repent. In his mind, he would repent as soon as she was ready to do the same.
When Hezekiah did return a while later, it had nothing to do with repenting his heathen ways. Times were always hard for colored folk, but now even white folks were feeling the squeeze, which meant that it could only get worse. People were starting to steal anything they could lay their hands on. Hezekiah worried about Gertrude and their two small girls. Hezekiah loved both of his children, but he had a tender spot for Mercy. It was after her birth, the last of his children with Gertrude, that Hezekiah had felt the presence of God.
Holding that tiny brown form in his hands caused him to fill with so much energy that Hezekiah could not help but feel and believe in the presence of God. Gertrude attended church several days a week, and Hezekiah acknowledged that it was good for her. Anything that lifted the spirit was a good thing. Gertrude had the church, and Hezekiah had his own devices for elevating the spirit. With the birth of Mercy, he had one more to add to his pile. Hezekiah imagined that if Gertrude felt in church even half of what he felt around Mercy, he could understand her unwavering attendance.
It was these thoughts that kept him company on his return to Ideal. Hezekiah wanted to bring the girls some candy. He also thought that it would be appropriate to enter their house with money. Gertrude would probably need some things for the house. People could say much about Hezekiah, but no one could ever call him a man that did not support his family, even if he hadn’t been living with them. Hezekiah didn’t have much money with him, but he knew exactly where he could find more.
Before it became Johnita’s Inn, where Eve lodged, Johnita’s Place was a local boardinghouse frequented by her grandfather. Hezekiah and Johnita had at one time been very close before he met and married her cousin Gertrude. Since then, he had managed to frequent every other gambling spot in town, and there weren’t many others from which to choose. Still, he reckoned that Johnita knew that what they had in the past was nothing more than a glorified friendship. It had been many years since he had lain in Johnita’s bed. Yet when he entered the boardinghouse, she greeted him as if it had been not more than a week’s passing. Hezekiah merely tipped his hat toward her and maneuvered his muscular frame past her with surprising agility. He ambled down the dark staircase toward the meandering cigar smoke and syncopated sounds of “Twelfth Street Rag” competing against the hoots and hollers of the basement crowd.
“Hezekiah!” Johnita shouted at the quickly retreating figure. Hezekiah continued his downward stroll, oblivious to her calls. His mind was fixed on money, his girls, and whether Gertrude would be in a loving mood. They were still man and wife after all. That line of reasoning had served as adequate justification for their past couplings, but lately Gertrude had become more and more hesitant. Hezekiah considered her increasing aversion as cause to find sexual release from more willing participants. But now that he would be moving back, Gertrude would have to open up to compromise.
When Hezekiah walked into the basement, men greeted him with handshakes and women planted red lip marks on his face. He floated around leaving smiles on faces even as he glided away from poker tables with collections of money that would never make it to the landlords or grocers for which they were intended. Hezekiah was a gambler with an enviable streak of luck, and he loved to gamble, win or lose. As he eased past the crammed tables overflowing with cards, liquor, and chicken dinners, a pair of arms encircled his broad shoulders. Soft breasts pressed against his spine, and the scent of jasmine tickled his nostrils. Hezekiah took a moment to compose himself as he pulled away from the embrace and faced his smiling assailant.
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br /> “Claudette, ain’t you got nothin’ betta to do than try to get me kilt?” He could not help returning the smile as his gaze waltzed over the voluptuous frame snuggly housed in a bright red dress that matched her generous lips.
Claudette returned the gaze appreciatively and stroked Hezekiah’s arm. “Well, shuga, least you git a taste of heaven ’fore you go.”
Hezekiah shifted backward to place some distance between them. “I’m fo’ real, woman. What you wanna play around wit me fo’ when you got a big important man like Big C?”
“Well, maybe Big C ain’t so big,” Claudette responded, closing the gap that once was between them.
“Shh. Why you gotta be so loud and . . . and . . .” He glanced around.
“And sexy?” she supplied.
“I was gonna say wanton,” Hezekiah finished. The crowded space seemed to facilitate Claudette’s intention to get closer to him, and he could feel her hips pureeing against him. He placed his hands firmly on her waist and shoved her away. “Woman, thou art loose.”
“Since when did you start quotin’ scripture, sinner?” Claudette teased.
“Since the devil sent his concubine in here wearin’ a red dress.” Hezekiah countered.
Claudette pointed a red-tipped finger at her chest and feigned a look of surprise. “I know you ain’t talkin’ ’bout me, is you, Hezekiah?” Her voice was rising slightly, and he could smell the gin wafting through her ruby lips.
Hezekiah took hold of her elbow and guided her through the noisy crowd into a storage closet. He closed the door behind them. Claudette threw her arms around his neck. “Hezekiah, I thought you’d never—”
Hezekiah shoved her away. His jaw was locked in tension and his brows were furrowed. “Look, Claudette, you all woman. You know that. You got a lot of . . .” Hezekiah struggled for the words that would compliment yet discourage further advances. “You got a lot of gifts, Claudette.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” She smiled and sauntered toward him.
“But I’m a married man.” Hezekiah continued.
“That never stopped you before.” Claudette grazed his chest with her palm. “E’ryone know that you like other women’s . . . gifts. You layin’ up with half the menfolks’ women in here! So why not with me, Hezekiah?”
“Claudette, you know better than me.” Hezekiah leaned on a shelf that held a variety of preserved fruits in mason jars. Each was clearly labeled in a script he recognized as belonging to Johnita. Yet Claudette’s words rang true. He was a man whose demons had been out of control. With the return home, Hezekiah hoped that a change would come.
“Why you scared of Big C?” Claudette hissed at him. “Is he the only real man out there that want a real woman like me?”
The reality of her womanhood was that there wasn’t a place for it in this world of racketeers, womanizers, and God-fearing women. Hezekiah was correct. Claudette was wanton, but it was a wantonness that defied the neat packaging of sexual desire. Claudette wanted more than she could have, more than there existed for her to have. She wanted more. She wanted forbidden love. In her eyes, she and Hezekiah were the same—two people trapped by other people’s expectations.
“Yeah. I suppose that’s why he called Big C.” Hezekiah turned to exit.
“Don’t you walk out on me, Hezekiah!” Claudette screamed at his back, pained by his lack of understanding and distraught by his inability to conceive of sex as comradery.
“Bye, Claudette.”
“Hezekiah, wait.”
Hezekiah paused as Claudette moved closer and placed her hand on his chest, tilted her lips to his ear and whispered, “Please. Take me with you tonight.”
Looking into her eyes, Hezekiah saw fear, but he chose not to investigate further. He had his own family to tend to. “Just . . . just be a man about it, Claude.”
Claudette recoiled with a sharp intake. “And you’re supposed to be one of the good ones.”
With a lowered head, Hezekiah quietly removed her hands and exited the pantry directly into the path of Big C.
“Hey, Big C.” Hezekiah tried to think of something else to say, but it didn’t matter. Big C tightened his lips around a cigar. He took a long pull and slowly exhaled the smoke into Hezekiah’s face, then turned and walked away.
Hezekiah no longer felt the electric jolt of excitement to gamble. It had been replaced by an inexplicable sadness and a longing to see his family. That closet contained more than a contemptuous vixen. It held Truth. Hezekiah had come face-to-face with himself through Claudette’s accusations. She had mirrored the licentious fiend within him. Hezekiah stayed a while longer, but his concentration had been broken and he quickly lost the money he had won earlier. The room was gradually emptying as the hour grew from late to early.
As was custom at the end of the night, Claudette took to the makeshift stage area and serenaded the late-night departure of drunkards and the house cleaning. Her presence commanded the full attention of remaining patrons. It had only been a week since she’d stumbled to the very stage, plied by gin and heartache from a frequent argument with Johnita.
“Johnny, please let’s just leave this God-forsaken town! There are places where we can go. Bigger places that won’t take notice . . .” she pleaded.
Johnita silenced her with a raised palm. “Claude, you don’t have no attachments here, but I do! I have a business. Do you know how hard it is for a Negro woman to have a business? One that ain’t washing white folks’ drawls or cleaning they toilets?”
Their private arguments spread out to others like small rivers feeding into larger lakes. Johnita pressed against Hezekiah upon his arrival, and the previous week Claudette, intoxicated and impassioned, had taken the stage.
“It’s not time yet, Claudette,” the drummer hissed through bites of fried chicken.
“Just follow my lead, boys.” Claudette’s ruby lips glistened beneath the single light illuminating the stage. She wrapped her arms around the bassist’s neck, loosened his necktie, and smoothly removed it. She placed the tie around her own neck, where it hung loosely against her bare neckline as she turned and faced her audience. Unlike at the end of the night, the room was filled to capacity.
Her voice rang clear and loud, slicing through the room. “Manly man!” She sang and shimmied around the stage. “A manly man wasn’t enough for me.”
The audience cheered and hooted as Claudette’s invocation of the manly man became deeper. “My manly man cheated on me.” They were drawn into her confessional as coconspirators and clapped and stomped their feet as the band found the rhythm.
“It seems the manly man I sought was me!” Claudette’s song declared before inquiring toward a man at one of the card tables, “What do manly men do to deserve the soft touch of a woman?”
He responded lewdly with his tongue. Claudette smirked and pushed him back into his chair. The audience howled at the rebuff as she sauntered toward the back of the room, where Johnita stood, face stiffened with a mix of disbelief and fear.
“And if I must add tough to my womanhood in order to partake of that sweetness . . .” Claudette crooned.
Johnita shook her head and silently pleaded with her eyes for Claudette to end the song but to no avail.
Claudette’s voice dropped and scratched as if coated in gravel. “Then call me daddy!” She swaggered back toward the stage. “Call me Claude! Call me, lover, and let me bulldagger on!”
The night rode the fervor, and Johnita’s Place pulsated with the energy of a living, breathing organism complete with heart and blood but also a malignant mass within its walls. In a corner of the room, apart from the gyrating bodies, sat Big C with piercing eyes that never left Claudette’s form.
A week later, he watched from the same seat. His eyes scanned the crowd and landed on Hezekiah faltering on the staircase before returning to a seat and training his eyes on Clau
dette on the stage. He followed Claudette’s gaze past Hezekiah to Johnita slowly drawing on a cigarette at the back of the room.
Everyone moved in slow motion, breathing through the smoke and silence, waiting for Claudette’s song. Wondering if it would resemble the boldness of the raunchy “Manly Man” or the usual sadness of a dying night yielding to the impending
morning.
Claudette’s eyes sopped up the sadness in the room and sought Johnita. Her voice caressed the lyrics, layering the refrain “this bitter earth” in beautiful despair.
This bitter earth / Well, what a fruit it bears
What good is love / Mmm, that no one shares?
And if my life is like the dust / Ooh, that hides the glow of a rose
What good am I? / Heaven only knows
Hezekiah watched her, entranced. He would go home. He would spend more time with Ann, his older daughter. She was Gertrude’s child in every way. A daughter that any father would be proud of, yet next to Mercy, Ann appeared so rigid. She obeyed Gertrude without question while Mercy questioned everything. He loved it! He felt more secure about Mercy growing into womanhood. She would be able to discern the types of men that could be trusted from . . . He hesitated in his thoughts as the honest completion to his sentence came to him. Mercy would be able to distinguish well-intentioned men from men who were like him.
Hezekiah was anxious to reach the warm shelter of home. His steps squished as his feet made contact with the mud-caked road. Sniffing the air, he surmised that the day’s earlier rain was a mere sample of what was yet to come. The night sky growled its concurrence, and lightning briefly illuminated the horizon just enough for him to see the faint silhouette of the house as he trod toward it. He barely heard the approaching motorcar. He froze in his steps. A motorcar meant one of two things: white folks or Big C.
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