by Beth Hoffman
The four of us gathered at the kitchen table. Nobody said much, but as I went down the hall to use the bathroom, I heard Nadine say, “That son of a bitch deserved a whole lot worse than a broken nose.”
“Devil’s spawn,” Chessie said. “That’s what he is.”
What they said after that, I don’t know. The minute I closed the bathroom door, I got down on my knees and clutched the toilet bowl, retching until my eyes watered. I flushed the toilet and curled up on the cool tile floor, feeling my pulse throb at the base of my throat.
Oletta rapped on the door. “Cecelia? Child, are you all right?”
I sat up and wiped sweat from my face. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be out in a minute.”
After washing my face with cold water and rinsing my mouth, I returned to the kitchen and sat next to Oletta. Nadine sat slumped in a chair, arms crossed over her chest as she stared out the window. “That bastard stole my diamond necklace,” she said, angrily. “My gold watch too.”
Chessie reached out and rested her hand on Nadine’s shoulder. “His judgment day is comin’, sistah.” She leaned close to Nadine and shook her head. “Look what he done to you. That chain cut into your skin.”
That’s when I saw a bright red mark on the back of her neck.
Oletta went into the pantry and returned with a small bottle of iodine. She dabbed it along the wound, her lips pressed together, a scowl on her face.
The toot of a horn sounded from the street and Nadine turned from the window. “I’d know the sound of that horn anywhere. That’s Taye.”
We all fi led down the hallway toward the front door, and before Chessie descended the steps, I reached out and touched her arm. She covered my hand with hers and looked deep into my eyes. As I watched her lumber down the steps, her sack of stones hanging heavy from her fingers, I thanked God that her name had been written in my Life Book.
Minute by slow minute, the afternoon light faded into the long shadows of evening. Though Oletta kept me busy, washing out the cooler and vacuuming sand from inside Aunt Tootie’s car, I couldn’t stop thinking about the man at Tybee Island. He had ignited a dark, unnameable fear that burned deep into my bones. Every sharp sound made me jump, and it felt unbearable when Oletta moved out of my sight. When she used the bathroom, I stood outside the door, breathing in small puffs of air while my stomach churned.
After a cold supper of leftovers, of which neither of us ate much, we sat outside on the porch glider. I curled up close to Oletta and rested my head in her lap. As she rocked her foot from heel to toe, sending the glider into an easy rhythmic movement, I turned and looked up at her. “Oletta, are we safe?”
“Yes, child, we’re safe.”
“What about Aunt Tootie, will she be able to help get Nadine’s jewelry back?”
“I don’t know. But when she gets home, I’ll tell her what happened and see what she thinks we should do.” Oletta then closed her eyes and started humming a song.
When it was time for bed, I clung to Oletta like lint to a wool sock as she went through the house, locking the doors and securing the windows. Slowly we climbed the stairs, and as we reached the doorway of her bedroom, she stopped and pulled me close. “These legs of mine are tired, but before we go to bed I’ve got something to say. Now, I want you to listen. Will you do that?”
I nodded.
“What happened today was a terrible thing, but I believe with all my heart that the Good Lord is holdin’ all of us in His arms. That man don’t know who we are or where we live, and he ain’t gonna find out. We all need to be careful in this world, but I promise you, for every bad person on this earth there’s a hundred good ones.”
I buried my face into her soft bosom. Though I wanted to ask if I could sleep in her room, I didn’t want her to think I was a big baby.
“Everything will be all right, child. The house is locked up nice’n tight, so you go on up to bed and get some sleep. I’ll be right here if you need me. I’ll leave the door open.” She patted my arm, said good night, and shuffled into the bedroom.
For hours I lay on my bed, fully dressed, eyes pressed wide against the darkness. When the grandfather clock sent eleven slow bongs into the night, I slid off my bed. With my pillow and blanket tucked in my arms, I crept down the stairs. The rugs felt cool and smooth against my bare feet as I moved down the shadowy hall. I stopped at the doorway of Oletta’s bedroom and peeked in. The moonlight fi ltered through the window blinds and fell across her face in pale stripes of blue. She was sleeping on her side, covered lightly by a sheet. One of her arms was dangling over the side of the bed.
Careful not to make a sound, I tiptoed across the room, set the pillow on the floor next to the bed, and lay down. Being close to Oletta calmed my mind, and soon my breathing fell into rhythm with hers.
Though I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, my thoughts were pierced by images of the man at Tybee Island: the hatred in his eyes, the icy glint that flashed from the blade of his knife, his sneer. The horror of it crawled like a living thing beneath my skin.
I thought about the terror Omu experienced when she was ripped from the sandy beach of her homeland. And now, all these years later, her magic stones had saved us from harm on what we thought was a safe beach.
I thought about how Oletta, Chessie, and Nadine were too scared to call the police for no other reason but the color of their skin. Though nearly two hundred years had passed since Omu’s life had been destroyed, I realized that in some ways things really hadn’t changed all that much for colored folks. I thought about that for a long time.
As I watched a slant of moonlight glide across the flowery wallpaper, I reached up and took hold of Oletta’s hand.
Sixteen
The day following the attack at Tybee Island left me raw with fear. I wouldn’t even go out on the porch in broad daylight unless Oletta was with me. No matter what she was doing, I’d hover close, but she didn’t seem to mind. Even when I got underfoot, she’d give me a squeeze and tell me everything was all right.
After we did laundry, I helped Oletta make a cherry pie. When she pulled it from the oven and turned to set it on the counter, she nearly fell over me. The bubbling hot juice splashed over the edge of the pot holders and burned her fingers. Though she didn’t scold me, she sat me down at the kitchen table for a long talk.
“I know you’re scared,” she said, smoothing an ice cube over her blistering fingers, “but you gotta grab hold of yourself. Every time you give in to your fears, you’re lettin’ that man win. And every time you do that, he gets stronger while you get weaker. Givin’ in to your fears will rob you blind. You’ll end up a prisoner to that man for the rest of your life.”
I sat quietly and listened to all she said. Deep down I had the feeling that Oletta most likely knew all that was worth knowing, not in book-learning ways, but in the ways that really mattered, ways that let you hum songs during the day and sleep peacefully at night. I knew she was right about me needing to take hold of myself, but I was at a loss as to how to go about it. No sooner did I wonder about that than Oletta rose from the chair. “C’mon, today’s the day—you’ve got to reclaim your power.”
She took Aunt Tootie’s floral snips and wicker basket from the shelf in the hall, handed them to me, and opened the back door. When we stepped onto the porch, she said, “Now I want you to go on over to the garden and cut me a nice bouquet. Keep the stems long enough to put in water. I’m gonna stand right here and watch. Nothing bad is gonna happen to you.”
The thought of being so far from Oletta was unbearable, but I took a deep breath and did as I was told, the whole time chewing the inside of my lip. When I reached the far edge of the garden, I spun around and was relieved to see her standing in a shaft of sunlight, watching me.
“Okay, now go ahead and cut me some flowers,” she called out.
After I cut enough for a good-size bouquet, Oletta said, “Now take the basket and go over to the side of the house. Cut me some roses.”
Go
ing to the rose garden meant Oletta would be out of my sight. “But . . . but, will you go with me?”
“It’s all right, child,” she called out. “Go on now, cut me some pretty roses. I like the red ones with the pink centers. I’ll be waitin’ right here.”
I knew I had to do it, so I wrenched my feet free from the earth and headed for the side of the house, turning twice to make certain Oletta was still on the porch. Quickly I snipped a handful of roses, never once caring that I pricked my fi ngers till they bled. I raced to the back of the house and looked for Oletta. And there she was, standing on the porch, just as she’d promised.
“Now c’mon and walk back to me, but take your time and do it nice and slow. Hold your head proud. Walk like you ain’t afraid of a thing.”
I tried real hard not to run, but when I reached the patio I propelled myself up the steps at a preposterous speed.
Oletta held me close. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Every day you’ll get stronger and stronger.” She stepped back, held me at arm’s length, and looked deep into my eyes. “Just remember what I told you. Don’t let nobody rob you of your freedom. Now let’s go inside and get the flowers in some water.”
As Oletta stood at the counter and arranged the flowers in a vase, the doorbell sounded. I followed her down the hallway, still her shadow, still fearful of what might happen if she got out of my sight. When she opened the door, Nadine all but shoved Chessie into the foy-yay and said, “Oletta, did you see the morning paper?”
When Chessie saw me standing behind Oletta, she reached back, grabbed Nadine’s arm, and flashed her a warning look.
Nadine forced a smile. “Well, hello, Cecelia. How’re you doing today?”
“Fine,” I answered thinly, immediately sensing something was wrong.
“Oletta, can we talk to you for a few minutes?” Chessie said.
Though Chessie and Nadine tried to act casual, I saw the look that telegraphed between them, and there was nothing casual about it.
Oletta’s face eclipsed from surprise to concern as she closed the door and turned the bolt. “Cecelia, go on up to your bedroom and stay there till I call you.”
“But . . . but I don’t want to be alone. And—”
Oletta raised her eyebrows. “Did you already forget what we talked about today?”
I looked down and shook my head.
“All right, now you go on and do as I say. I won’t be long.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I climbed the stairs as the three of them headed toward the kitchen. When I reached the second floor, I stopped and leaned over the railing. Oletta’s voice boomed up the stairs, “What did I just tell you?” She put her hands on her hips and gave me a warning look. “When I ask you to do something, you do it. Understand?”
I nodded and walked to the door of the third floor. But instead of going to my bedroom, I stopped and waited a moment. Slowly I inched my way down the hall. I tried to hear what was going on, but the texture of their voices was low, as if they were conducting some sort of serious tribunal. I pulled off my sneakers and tiptoed down the steps. But I still couldn’t hear their words. Though I knew disobeying Oletta was the absolute worst thing I could do, I couldn’t stop myself from darting down the hallway. If I couldn’t see her, knowing she was close was the next best thing. I crouched beside the china cupboard that stood outside the kitchen door and listened.
Oletta let out a moan, and I heard the rustle of paper. “I can’t believe it. What’s he tryin’ to pull?”
Nadine’s voice was bitter. “He’s tryin’ to frame us is what. I just hope nobody saw us.”
“Royal Watson knows we was there.”
“Oh, shit, that’s right. But she’s so stupid she don’t count.”
“And don’t forget, Miz Tootie knows too. She let us take her car.”
“When’s she comin’ back?” Chessie asked.
“Not for a few more days.”
“Good, maybe by that time things’ll quiet down. Just make sure you throw out the newspaper so she don’t see it.”
“She’ll hear about it no matter if she sees the paper or not,” Oletta said. “When she gets home, I’ll tell her about it myself.”
“No, you can’t!” Nadine said.
“You don’t know what’s been goin’ on here. Cecelia is scared half outta her mind. When Miz Tootie comes home, I’ll tell her what happened. She’ll go to the police and tell them the truth.”
Nadine’s voice shot up. “Oletta Jones, what’s wrong with you? Have you lost your mind? You know it don’t matter what the truth is. This is a setup, plain as day.”
“Nadine’s right,” Chessie said. “He hates coloreds. It’s a hate I ain’t seen in a long, long time.”
Her words sent chills racing up my arms.
Nadine’s voice was fi lled with fear. “You wouldn’t be talkin’ about goin’ to the police if you’d seen his face when he pulled that knife. He wanted to slit my throat just for the fun of it.”
“But Miz Tootie will help us if—”
“Oletta, don’t you get it? He robbed me and ended up getting his ass shellacked by Chessie. Now he’s spittin’ mad. He’s tryin’ to flesh us out. He wants us to go to the police so he can find out who we are! Me, Taye, and Chessie stayed up half the night talkin’ about it. Taye says if we go to the police, it’d be the same as diggin’ our own graves. That son of a bitch is connected to the Klan. He had a tattoo of a red circle with a black cross on the inside of his arm. I saw it with my own eyes!”
“Hush, Nadine,” Chessie said. “Keep your voice down.”
“You can’t tell Miz Tootie about this,” Nadine whispered. “It won’t matter to the police who Miz Tootie is or what she says—she wasn’t there. It’s our word against his. I said it yesterday and I’ll say it again: ain’t nobody gonna take the word of three colored women.”
After a long pause, Oletta sighed. “I have to tell her, for the child’s sake.”
Nadine’s voice was fi lled with fear. “Oletta, we been friends for over thirty years. I’m beggin’ you not to tell Miz Tootie. You’ve got to give us your word.”
There was a long moment of silence, then Chessie said, “Oletta, you gotta to do what you feel is right. Nobody in this room is in trouble but me. I’m the one who hit that man in the head. And I don’t regret it, neither. Good thing I was wearin’ them overalls, at least he thinks I was a man. That’ll throw the police off. Lord, they’ll be roundin’ up every big darky from here to Mississippi.”
“There’s nothin’ we can do about it now, but pray,” Oletta said. “So, c’mon, let’s pull ourselves together and give this up to the Lord.”
Afraid they were about to walk out of the kitchen, I flattened myself against the wall and held my breath.
The sound of chairs scraping across the floor was followed by a long moment of silence. Oletta then spoke, in a soft but powerful voice. “O Mighty Father, we come to you today in need . . .”
I crawled around the cabinet on my hands and knees and peeked into the kitchen. They were sitting at the table, heads bowed and eyes closed. They held hands across the table, making a circle with their brown arms. The image of them was a sight to behold: Chessie in a baggy plaid dress, Nadine in a flowery halter top and jeans rolled up to her knees, and Oletta in her white apron stained with cherry juice.
“Have mercy on us, Lord. Hold us close and guide us . . .”
I knew I had to get out of there, and fast. I pushed myself up from the floor and darted down the hall.
After supper, Oletta and I took glasses of sweet tea outside and sat on the porch—she mending a torn pocket on one of her aprons, me munching an apple and reading a book. Throughout dinner Oletta had been quieter than usual, and now she had fallen so silent that she wasn’t even humming a song like she usually did.
When I went into the house to throw away the apple core, I noticed the edge of a newspaper shoved deep inside the wastebasket. There was no doubt in my mind
that it was the paper Nadine and Chessie had brought for Oletta to see. Quietly, slowly, I dug it out and brushed off bread crumbs. I needed time to examine it, so I tiptoed across the kitchen and peeked out the window. Oletta was still absorbed in her sewing, so I took the newspaper into the bathroom and locked the door. I sat on the floor and smoothed out the wrinkles, but there was nothing of interest on the front page. I turned to the second page and scanned the columns, and when I got halfway down, I drew in a quick breath.
MAN ATTACKED AND ROBBED AT TYBEE ISLAND
In a secluded beach area of Tybee Island, Lucas Slade, age 34, was attacked yesterday afternoon by three Negroes—one man and two women. As a young white girl watched, the women demanded that Slade hand over his wallet and wristwatch. After Slade complied, the man knocked him to the ground and beat him in the head. Slade suffered a broken nose and fractured cheek-bone. Anyone with information is asked to call Detective Beauford . . .
So this was what Nadine meant when she’d used the word “framed.” As the vision of what had really happened flashed through my mind, a blistering heat rose from my belly. The fear I had been feeling was replaced with an anger so powerful that my hands shook.
After reading the article one last time, I crumpled the newspaper into a tight ball and returned to the kitchen. Careful not to make a sound, I shoved it deep into the wastebasket.
As I stepped toward the screen door, I heard Oletta mutter to herself, “Lord, Lord, we’re in a warehouse full of trouble . . .”
I waited a moment, then pushed the door open. Oletta stopped talking and glanced up. “I was just about to go in and see what you was doin’.” She put down her mending and looked at me closely. “Your face is flushed,” she said, reaching out and pressing her palm to my cheek. “You’re warm. Do you feel all right?”
