Tim looks at me puzzled, waiting for the punch line.
Grabbing his muscular arm, I lightly tug as my feet move through the grass toward his dark blue Ford F-150.
“If it makes you feel better, we can also pray for Ruby and cheap seats while I’m buying the tickets from Dad’s office.”
Go!
JACKSON
The door is slammed so hard it shakes the house. It is the exclamation point on the end of her rebellious sentence. Lebanon threatened to kill her in so many words, but I couldn’t tell her that. She would ask questions. She always asks questions. She wouldn’t cower like Alice. Go into her shell like Ruby. She would ask everything she could and there are answers that I’m not giving her. If she knew them, the risk of having her contempt for me grow into hatred becomes a certainty.
“I don’t know what to do with you both!” Joanna fumes beside me.
Moments of sorrow like this, the weariness in her eyes, the desperation of trying to pull two people together when both haven’t the will or heart to connect, cause me anguish. I see what Joanna gave up for me, what she continues to sacrifice. And I will continue to hold on to my secret. Joanna can be angry with me, be exasperated with me, but she can’t hate me if she doesn’t know. For her to hate me means she’s given up on me. And if she does this, I’m truly lost.
As I reach for her hand, she pulls it away, but I grab it. Not as a sign of aggression or dominance, but simply as an oath I mean to keep to her, though I have broken so many.
“I’ll make this right, Joanna. I will.”
No change in her face, in that beautiful caramel face. She only whispers, “I’m going to pray, Jackson. I’m going to pray and then I’m going to bed.”
The reassurance I seek I’ll not find from her tonight. Dulling thuds of water droplets continue to hit the inside of the cabinet coming from the leaking pipe. The gentle closing of the door and the hard squeak of the floor herald the entrance of J.P. and he just nods at me, goes to his room.
I follow him the few steps and ask, “You got something for dinner?”
A simple, “Mmm-hmm,” is the only response I receive.
“A burger?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He turns on his music, some rapper whose lyrics I can’t begin to decipher. Keeping the volume low, he then sits and begins laying out the materials to finish his portrait for a member our church, Minister Fitzgerald who commissioned it as a present for his brother’s eightieth birthday. Wilderness, a view of trees and grass and sky.
“Nice composition of the scene,” I say.
“Mmm-hmm.”
Dear God, is everyone in this house against me?
Layla, Joanna and J.P., we are family, but they are a close-knit tribe and I’m an interloper. That’s how it is and that’s my fault, but I want to change. I just don’t know how to talk to them, how to break through that wall.
I don’t know how to be a part of my family.
Effortlessly J.P. weaves the brush on the canvas and what was once bright white is green or blue or red or brown. And I envy him, because I think this is as close as one can possibly get to feeling like God did those first six days of the Earth’s genesis.
The lightest scratching of paint over the canvas is the only conversation inhabiting the room while I ponder another way to get more than one-word answers from my son.
“Your sister and I had a disagreement.”
He stops painting. “Dad, is there something you want?”
“I was wondering if you saw her before she left?”
“Yeah, she was pissed off. Y’all both have that thing where you squint really hard when you’re upset.”
“We do?”
“Mmm-hmm. You’re doing it now,” he points out. His smirk still manages to remain humble. He and Joanna both have that in common.
He continues, “Y’all are so much alike, which is why you’re at each other’s throats all the time.”
“Did she tell you where she was going, what she was doing?”
“Yes.” He continues to paint.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“No.”
Unlike his sister, there is no defiance in his voice, no disdain. There is simply the calm, honest conviction of the answers he will and will not give me.
“J.P., I’m going to figure out what that girl is up to, and she may get herself hurt while trying to find Ruby. We both don’t want that to happen.”
“If you’re talking about Lebanon, he isn’t going to do anything. He’s an old man.”
“We’re the same age, son.”
J.P. looks at me as if my statement failed to change his mind of what he considers old to be.
I’ll see what he says about this in thirty years.
“Lebanon is more dangerous than you think. He might try to hurt your sister to get to Ruby.”
“Isn’t he your friend?”
“Yes, he is.”
“My friends wouldn’t try to hurt someone I love.”
“He wasn’t—”
“Always like this,” J.P. finishes the sentence. “Yeah, I’ve heard you say that a lot. Thing is, me and Layla don’t know him like you used to. We only know him now.”
“He was kind—give you the shirt off his back.”
“You’re missing my point. I’m trying to say this holding on you’re doing, convincing yourself he’s still the same guy somewhere deep down, it isn’t serving anyone. Well, it’s not serving anyone that should really matter to you.”
“You do matter to me. You all do!”
“Mmm-hmm.”
The wood floor sings a creaky ballad as I move toward my son and his painting.
“I just want to protect her. Bring her home and keep her safe.”
“She wants to do the same thing for Ruby. Let her work this out.”
“I can’t do that, son.”
“Why not?”
I can’t provide him with an answer so I have nothing to offer, but silence.
“Tim is going with Layla and I trust he won’t let anything happen to her.”
“You don’t know that,” I say.
“Layla isn’t stupid. She has a plan and she’ll bring Ruby back, make her safe, get her away from Lebanon.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Life for us in this world, especially in this city, is never simple, but that doesn’t mean we don’t try and make it better.”
J.P. looks at me for some response, some affirmation to the truth of his statement, one that was wise beyond his almost twenty-one years, but I have nothing and my only reply before I walk out the door of his room is, “Mmm-hmm.”
CALVARY
September 27, 1960
King Saul lies inside a silver-and-brass casket; a plush ivory-colored lining cradles his corpse. It’s a handsome corpse missing King Saul’s signature rings that fetched Violet three hundred dollars at the pawnshop downtown yesterday.
She gave the money to Sara.
Mourners file past. “He look like he sleepin’.”
“They did him right,” says another.
“What world we livin’ in where they do this to a man of God? The Lord’s Chosen are surely living in the last days!” sobs Sister Wilson, throwing herself onto the coffin, her theatrics barely causing a raised head for she’s known to be dramatic, in need of great amounts of attention. Ushers rush to the front guiding her back to the pews and fan her with the cheap paper of an abandoned funeral program.
Chaos swirls inside those passing by his casket, the ones who mourned him. Did someone kill him because he had money? Because he was powerful? Because he was black? All of those things? Was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Many of the church members loved King Saul but didn’t know much about him. He was private about
his home life, about his daughter, Sara. They often wondered how he could afford his tailored suits or fancy rings on a part-time construction worker’s salary. Did it matter though? They adored his looks, reveled in his smooth words; others who harbored suspicions looked the other way because it wasn’t their business, and he was bringing enough bodies through the doors and money in the coffers to keep most satisfied. If he had failings, they were overlooked.
What goes on in your house, stays in your house.
Violet remains straight-backed in the first row. She recalls Gwendolyn Brooks’s poem “We Real Cool.” Thinking about rebellion and untimely death. But this time, it was necessary.
There isn’t anything to feel guilty about, Violet tells herself. Naomi merely did what was necessary, brought something ugly to an inevitable conclusion. Heroes kill ogres and dragons and bad men. King Saul was a bad man. They were heroes. Violet repeats this in her mind, over and over...and over still. All of us were responsible for this monster, and someone had to slay him, someone had to end this dark fairy tale.
No gaze of suspicion floats in their direction. Sara’s face remains as detached and beautiful as the marble cherubs posted on gravestones at Restvale Cemetery, where they’ll lay King Saul to rest in an hour. Naomi’s sullen appearance is the same as the faces gathering in the worship hall. She hasn’t spoken a word since that night four days prior.
“Sweetheart.” Violet’s father gently touches her arm. No longer Assistant Pastor Andrew Morrison, but now Senior Pastor Andrew Morrison, he bleakly smiles at his child. “Everyone’s fittin’ to leave after the last look at the body.”
“Good eulogy, Daddy. King—Pastor Saul would’ve loved what you said.”
Pastor Andrew Morrison glances at the casket. “I hope so.” He sits down, putting his arm around Violet, crushing her to him, a fierce embrace, something people tend to do at funerals. When it comes to death, there’s an unsettling awakening in the human spirit. Holding the people they love closer, wary something unfortunate or evil can befall them, causes such elevated affection, I assume.
Pastor Morrison whispers in Violet’s ear, “Thank you for your kind words, baby. Honestly, I don’t know if he’d like what I said. Saul was private, quiet about his faith, his life and such, but he was magic at that pulpit. I guess that’s what was important. God uses everyone. Even if we don’t always understand.” He glances again at the casket and kisses Violet on the cheek. “I also wanted to say thank you for being such a good friend to Sara. She’s been through a lot. I’m glad she’s going to Tennessee for a while. Isn’t that awful to say? Happy she’s going South? Lord knows what she might find there.”
“No. It isn’t awful to say that at all. Whatever she finds can’t be any worse than what she found here.”
Violet’s father cocks his head, looks at his daughter for some answer he won’t be able to retrieve from the depths of her dark gaze. “Hmph” is the only sound that escapes his lips.
King Saul’s body wasn’t discovered until the next morning by Sister Coates, the church secretary. The girls weren’t seen near the church as far as she could tell. The police questioned Sara later that day. Pants and a long-sleeved blouse covered any possible markings left by King Saul. They didn’t pay attention to the slight bruising near Sara’s neck, a possible clue left among the shattered glass. The detectives focused on a recent spate of robberies a few blocks north, figured King Saul surprised the thieves, fought them and was killed in the process. A tragedy.
Rising from the pew, Pastor Morrison walks over to Sara. “Pastor Saul’s godliness, his charity, all of the good things and the good times, that’s what people will remember. Not how he died, but that he was a righteous person, a righteous man. I pray you’ll take hold of the blessed fact your daddy’s in the loving arms of our Lord, rejoicing with Him, watching over you forever.”
All Sara can do is not scream at Pastor Morrison, at all of them. Congregants and pastors and ministers, everyone said nice things during the homegoing. The choir sang all King Saul’s favorite songs. They talked about a man who never existed: someone who was good and loved his poor, dead wife, Sophia, a pretty soul with golden eyes; how he never got over her passing; a man who cherished his daughter; a man who feared the Lord God with all his being until unexpectedly God called him Home.
No one speaks on King Saul’s most memorable traits for Sara: how hard he hit or slapped, how a very special look from him made you feel worthless, how his touch in the dark of night made your skin crawl.
Pastor Morrison hands Sara an envelope, which she opens to find fifty dollars. “Thank you,” Sara mumbles.
“Okay,” Pastor Morrison looks over the three girls. “We’re going to leave for Restvale in a few minutes. Lord knows how long it’ll take to get Sister Wilson to come to after all that whoopin’ and hollerin’.” Pastor Morrison makes his way past the girls and out of the main worship hall with the last batch of church members conversing in the back. Sara peaks over at Sister Wilson who seems to finally be regaining consciousness from whatever fake piety caused her to pass out in the first place. The ushers are escorting her away.
Now that the funeral is finally over, Violet smiles.
No one knows. No one knows.
The three girls remain while others wander off to their cars, sated from grief and graveside theatrics.
“The sun refused to shine today. Even it knew he was a piece of shit,” Sara says, first to break the long silence.
“It’s not Providence, Sara. It’s just the damn weather,” Naomi says.
Violet stares at Naomi’s mouth making sure she’s talking, her words almost suffocated by sudden and violent rumbles of thunder.
“Don’t look at me like that, Violet!”
“It’s just, you haven’t really said anything, since that night.”
“I’m just...still getting my head around what happened. I still see his blood. Feel it on my hands. I’m so scared of doing something wrong, saying something wrong. I don’t know how to be normal right now, speak normal. Everything I know about myself is gone. The only thing I do know is I’m damned,” says Naomi.
“No! You did what needed to be done to save yourself, to save Sara. King Saul could’ve been doing things to other girls. You’re not damned. You’re a hero. You’re a damn hero,” says Violet.
“I don’t think God sees me as a hero. God sees me as—” whispers Naomi.
“This time we leave God out of it,” says Sara. “If he had anything to do with creating Saul King, I’m leaving God out of what happened and what I’ll be doing with the rest of my life from now on. I suggest you both do the same.”
Errant drops of rain smack my windows. Sara walks to the casket. Long slender fingers caress the cold brass handles. “He’s gonna be buried next to Momma.” Sara closes her eyes and raises her head. “I’m sorry they’re burying him next to you.”
“We should go,” says Violet, extending her hand.
Sara lingers at the casket a bit longer. Bad people can do good things. Good people can say bad things. The world is mixed-up and when people do for you what Violet and Naomi did for her, then you cling to those people. No matter what.
“I died a lot of different ways these past few years, but I’d have been here—” she motions at the casket “—without y’all. There’s no thanking you, not enough words in the world to do that.” Sara turns to her friends. She repeats their promise, the phrase that holds all the gratitude and love she feels for her friends. “Forever and to the end,” Sara whispers.
“Forever and to the end,” Violet agrees.
Naomi gazes far off into the empty pews. She thinks about the cemetery, all the various stones representing lives once occupying the same world. She wonders how many of them were murdered. Feeling cold hands grip her shoulder, she thinks it’s Death, but finds only Sara’s face.
“You’re gonna be fine bec
ause you have to be,” Sara says firmly. “You can become okay with the bad things. If anyone can, it’s you. I used to think I was stronger than you, but I’m not. You’re stronger than me. You always will be.”
This is as close to hope Naomi has ever heard in Sara’s voice. More tears escape her eyes. Violet embraces them both. Six of the deacons, pallbearers, in blazing white gloves trudge to the front, ready to escort the casket to the hearse waiting outside. Even as the drops on my windows become a torrent, a cascade of miniature rivers saturating my bricks, the three girls remain.
They are made to stand together.
JACKSON
Mom sits with Sara who still sleeps deeply and softly hums a song I don’t know. The air holds the fragrance of dying roses. The time in this room seems a never-ending compilation of milliseconds, which gather into actual seconds and those seconds into minutes and those minutes into this last half hour. There are beeps from various expensive machines I can’t name. There’s a smell like someone tried to get the room cleaned, but whatever nastiness was there wouldn’t be removed by chemicals. I stand downwind from Mom so her magnolia perfume relieves my nostrils every few seconds.
“You need to fix this with Layla,” Mom whispers. The first words she’s uttered since the fight at the house.
“You’re gonna lecture me about my child?”
Mom gives me that look, the one that crinkles the skin around her mouth. Her eyes transform into icy black lakes. “Yes, because you are my child!”
Sara wheezes, uneven and raspy. Her body struggles for one breath, then another, then another. Her body jerks and moves at irregular intervals. She can’t even get peace when she closes her eyes.
“I raised you better than this, Jackson Blaisdell Potter. Much better. The things you said to her, it was beneath you.”
Layla’s words echo in my ears, better his whore than your daughter. I swear the girl split me clean in half. King Solomon couldn’t have done a better job.
“Why does everyone take her side?”
“Because the one person who should, doesn’t.”
Saving Ruby King Page 20
