by Beth White
Joelle looked at Selah. “Why do you want him to come to dinner?”
Schuyler’s laugh cheered her for some reason. It told her he wasn’t in as much pain as she’d feared, and it drew her gaze back to him. The vertical lines between his eyebrows and the hitch in one shoulder still worried her, but at least his voice sounded normal. “Believe me, I would come,” he said, winking at Levi, “but I have another engagement tonight.”
Levi’s hazel eyes were troubled. “Are you sure?”
“Wouldn’t give it up for anything,” Schuyler said easily. “Important for my campaign.”
“You were so intent on impressing General Forrest,” Joelle said, forgetting that she had vowed not to argue with him ever again. “You brought him all the way to Tupelo for that purpose. Now you’re going out of your way to avoid him.”
His expression was inscrutable. “Circumstances change.”
“Indeed they do.” Stung, she said to her sister, “Good luck convincing him to do anything remotely sensible. Would you mind collecting Delfina? I need to see what Gil is doing before we leave. Perhaps he’d like to come dine with us tonight.”
Without stopping to see if the arrow had hit its mark, she wheeled and marched down the aisle toward the back door of the church. Circumstances change indeed. Pompous donkey. Fell out a window indeed. Ridiculous idiot.
She sighed. Dinner would be boring without him. Oh, how she missed him when he wasn’t around.
Outside the church, she hesitated on the shallow front step, shading her eyes against a thin, watery sun peering through clouds left over from last night’s storm. The trees dripped rainwater onto the wagons parked underneath them, and children played in the puddles along the road. Clusters of family groups stood talking about the service—particularly their cosmopolitan guest—about upcoming town events, about new babies and an old-timer who had passed away during the week.
She didn’t see Gil’s tall figure anywhere at first, until her reluctant gaze skimmed the Whitmore family. Joelle had avoided Mrs. Whitmore since the confrontation last Sunday. Had that only been a week ago? A lifetime of events seemed to have occurred in the meantime.
And there was Gil, comfortably engaged with the Emporium owners, Mrs. Whitmore patting him on the arm with motherly indulgence. Well, wasn’t that just a fine howdy-do? As a general rule, when people indicated that they didn’t want to talk to Joelle, she was secretly relieved and had no problem otherwise occupying herself. For the second time in the space of a few minutes, she found herself barging into a conversation to which she hadn’t been invited.
Perhaps the apocalypse lurked over the horizon.
Joelle smiled up at Gil as she took his arm. “I wondered where you’d got to. Are you feeling all right, Gil?”
Mrs. Whitmore frowned. “Why would you ask that? We were having a perfectly congenial discussion about our grandson’s baptism.”
“Really?” Joelle tilted her head. “Don’t your son and his family go to the Baptist church? Have they started baptizing infants?”
“No, and that is exactly what—” Mrs. Whitmore gave an exasperated sigh. “Never mind. Reverend Reese has agreed to come to our home for lunch. Would you care to join us as well, Miss Daughtry?”
In the ranks of gracious invitations, that one rated right up there with “I suppose we have no choice but to let you come.”
Joelle smiled at the old bag. “No thank you, as I’m already engaged with my family.” Turning to Gil, she added, “But perhaps you would come to the hotel this afternoon for lemonade and then stay for dinner. Miss Fabio has expressed an interest in hearing more of the gospel.” And, if she could screw up her courage, she would take the opportunity to break his heart.
Gil’s expression brightened. “Did she? I must have done better than I—” He cleared his throat. “That is, I would be happy to come. Are you sure you won’t join me and the Whitmores for lunch?” He patted her hand on his arm.
She looked down, then did a double take. Gil’s knuckles were scored by deep, raw scratches, and she couldn’t help thinking of the scrapes on Schuyler’s cheeks and his obvious bodily injury. Coincidence—it had to be.
She didn’t want to be betrothed to this man, but neither did she wish him any harm. Furthermore, she had been fully aware of his infatuation with her for quite some time, and the idea of even hurting his feelings curdled her stomach. Still, there was something deeply unsettling about his behavior this morning. Come to think of it, he hadn’t looked her in the eye even once.
With a pang of dismay, she wondered if he had somehow found out about her encounter with Schuyler in the bathhouse. But the only person who knew about it—outside of herself and Schuyler—was ThomasAnne. ThomasAnne would never in a million years volunteer such information. Schuyler might, but—
She looked over her shoulder at the church building. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t tell Gil about that.
Besides, she was only creating what the Bible called “vain imaginations,” inventing trouble where there was none. Gil didn’t know about it.
“What’s the matter?” Gil asked, seeming to finally focus on her.
“Nothing.” She clung to his arm. “Everything is just fine.”
The crooked, muddy road to Shake Rag had been beaten into ruts over the last five years by innumerable sets of dark, mostly bare feet. Schuyler walked it all alone. He’d exchanged the fine new suit, purchased in Memphis, for faded breeches and a frayed shirt scrounged out of the bottom of his suitcase—items kept for working on the Daughtry House roofs, in the fields, wherever he’d been needed.
Sitting in church that morning, watching Gil Reese stumble over a sermon, had done something to his soul. He wasn’t sure if he was softer or harder, but he was different. If he hadn’t felt the lacerations on his back, if he hadn’t been able to see with his own eyes the bruises and cuts on the preacher’s shaking hands, he might have thought last night’s events had been a very bad dream.
We’re all broken. We all sit or stand in your presence, dressed in our best, pretending for one another that our lives are fine and dandy. But you see us. You know how we struggle to manage the weight of our guilt. Gil Reese—he’s no better or worse than me. I can’t begin to understand why he was in that place last night. Undoubtedly he wonders the same about me.
If I didn’t believe in your love and goodwill for us all, God, I would lose all hope. If I didn’t believe that you see me and know where I am right now, if I didn’t trust that there is some purpose for this craziness . . .
What would he do? Move to Memphis or back to Mobile or out to California and start over? Ask Joelle to go with him? Take her out of this circus and make a new life together, without the overhanging darkness that plagued the modern South? She would go, he knew it in his bones.
The very idea was ludicrous. Dishonor upon dishonor.
They both had responsibilities and family here who depended upon them. They each had made promises that must be fulfilled.
And he did believe. He did trust. God was real, he did see Schuyler Beaumont and Joelle Daughtry, and there was a purpose he was traveling toward. Maybe he couldn’t see it, maybe he’d have to wait until he was right on top of it before God showed him what to do. All he knew for now was that there were certain people he had to talk to before he climbed over the walls of Jericho without even a Caleb or a Rahab to watch his back.
He kept walking.
When he got to Shake Rag, he headed straight for the church, guided by the cross now affixed atop its steep roof. As he’d expected, the congregation was still there. People who had a lot to lose, he’d noticed, took more time to pray. They relied on each other, trusted one another, became vulnerable as brothers and sisters. There was something profound in that, something he wanted to sit down and think about when this was all over and he had the time.
He stood in the doorway, wondering. Not one soul sat in a pew. Most were on their knees facing the pews, with their elbows or foreheads on the seats. Many l
ay prostrate, facedown on the bare wooden floor. Schuyler absorbed the sounds, the smells of anguished intercession. A quiet, groaning rumble of prayer shook the little room and sent a shiver of longing through him.
His mission changed on the instant. He slipped in, edged along the wall, careful not to disturb anyone, and found a spot at the back near Tee-Toc and his family. Falling to his knees, he bowed to the floor and covered his head with his arms.
Sometime later, he became aware of the rumble fading to a sigh, a whisper, then silence. He sat up, wiping his face on his sleeve. Tee-Toc was staring at him as if an albatross had flown into the building and decided to nest on a pew.
“Mr. Schuyler? What you doing here?” The boy got to his feet. “Pastor, you better come. Mr. Schuyler’s here.”
Schuyler sat on his heels, looking around at the dark faces encircling him. Of course he recognized Mose and Horatia, Nathan and Charmion, Shug and India. Others he knew because they had worked at the hotel; some still did, and he saw them every day without really seeing them. Deeply humbled by that thought, he took in each one now, noting gradations of skin color, texture and design of hairline, nose and eye socket shape, curve of lips. Alien, frankly suspicious of him, but human in a way he’d not been consciously aware of. It was a little bit like watching a beautiful painting one had walked past every day suddenly coming to life.
He smiled at the thought. To his surprise, his startled audience smiled back at him. A couple of children giggled, their parents shushed them, and then a different rumble filled the little building. Laughter. Joy.
Schuyler got to his feet and met Pastor Boykin in the middle of the room. “Apologies for intruding on your meeting, Reverend. I didn’t know I needed it, but I did. I hope you don’t mind.”
The old man reached out to grip Schuyler’s shoulder, his dark, rheumy eyes boring into Schuyler’s with neither pretense nor deference. “You’re welcome to pray with us, son, anytime you want—and you don’t have to ask. But I think you came for another reason.”
Schuyler nodded. “You might want to come aside. There are children here, and what I have to say—” He broke off, swallowed.
The minister looked around. “India, you and Char take the little ones out to play, would you? We’ll tell you about it later.” After the two young mothers, with little fuss, had shepherded a clutch of youngsters under six or so out of the church, Boykin instructed the remaining congregation to return to their seats. “Come with me,” he told Schuyler quietly and returned to the pulpit. “Listen to our brother,” he said simply, then stood aside to give Schuyler the floor.
Schuyler didn’t know how to phrase his message without exposing his part in events, so he just blurted it out. “There are people in this community who resent you all because they’re afraid the little they have will be taken away and given to you by the government. They might not have the courage to do anything about their resentment, except there are others with evil intent who will use those fears to their own ends. There are still others who will stand by and let wrong prevail because they’re too lazy or indifferent to intervene. I’m ashamed to say I was in that third group until my own father’s life was taken by one or more of the evildoers—and I’m still not sure I know why. In any case, I took on the task of finding my father’s killer and handing him over to law enforcement, along with his leaders and minions.” Schuyler scanned his audience. There was concern here, certainly, and some anger, but none of the terror he’d expected. Indeed, there was a level of weary acceptance that was more telling than Schuyler was quite ready for.
He took a deep breath and continued. “You’re going to hear things about me, about my presence at meetings, my participation in demonstrations of power and force. I want you to know that I’m going to stay out of as much as I can without giving myself away. I’ve got to have information, and that comes at a certain cost.” Would they believe him? Would they ever forgive him if events took him down irreversible trails? “In fact, I really shouldn’t be here. If someone saw me come in here—”
“Nobody gon’ hear it from us, so don’t you fret,” Reverend Boykin said. “Finish your piece and we’ll decide what to do.”
Schuyler looked at the old man, nodded, then refocused on the congregation. “All right then. All I have is a warning. I’ve seen and heard plans for a series of nighttime attacks to come against every black church of any size, all across the state, and over into Alabama and Georgia. They’re going to burn and terrorize, and they might even lynch anybody found alone. Businesses could be targeted too, I’m not sure—but destroying the churches is the main goal, because they know that’s where the root of your strength is.”
There was a groan of understanding from the pews, a few muted “amens” and “What we gon’ do, Reverend?”
Schuyler hesitated, aware of Boykin’s quiet, intent prayerfulness at his shoulder. The Reverend would speak, and he should, but as Schuyler looked at the old man, respect and love flooding his heart, he added, “Reverend, can I say one more thing before I step down? You didn’t really need me to come here today. You are God’s people, and he could have brought you a warning in any way he saw fit. I guess I’m a little bit of Balaam’s ass in this situation!” He grinned at the laughter that rumbled through the room. “I know you don’t need me to rescue you—he fights for you. But I’d be honored if you’d allow me to stand with you.”
twenty
SEATED IN THE PAGODA SWING beside Mrs. Forrest, Joelle enjoyed the warmth of the waning afternoon sun on her back and the chilled glass of lemonade in her hand. After supper the men had taken fishing poles and bait to the creek, leaving the women to their hen party. Her two sisters and ThomasAnne carried the burden of the conversation floating around her, leaving her free to listen, watch faces, smile when something funny was said, and mentally record interesting turns of phrase.
But when Gil rounded the side of the house with Elberta Whitmore and her daughter Sophronia—mother to the unbaptized infant Roman—she knew there was something wrong. Even more wrong than there had been this morning during that awful sermon. The second and perhaps most obvious indication that she should have pretended to migraine and retired to her room was the folded newspaper tucked under Gil’s arm.
She got up out of the swing fast enough to slosh Mrs. Forrest’s lemonade. “Excuse me,” she mumbled and hurried to meet the new arrivals halfway. “Hello, Gil! I see you decided to come by after all.” With considerable trepidation, she eyed the newspaper, which he now brandished as if it were the sword of Damocles ready to drop and slice her in twain. “And you’ve brought guests. How enterprising of you.”
Gil frowned. “Enterprising? I should rather call it obedience to biblical exhortation. These ladies have accompanied me as witnesses.”
“Witnesses to what? Has someone stolen something from you or attacked you?” She looked at his bruised knuckles. “I knew there was something wrong this morning! What happened?”
He flushed. “Nobody attacked me. I’m talking about this article in yesterday’s paper. Mrs. Whitmore says you wrote it!”
The sword had fallen.
Joelle glanced over her shoulder at her family and guests in the pagoda. She could hear Selah’s husky alto chuckle, Aurora’s lighter voice, and Delfina answering in her butchered but charming Italio-English. Joelle was not going to subject them to this disaster that she had created.
Neither was she going to back down. All right then, here and now it was. “I realize that you are the acknowledged biblical scholar of the two of us, Gil, but you seem to have skipped over a very important part of this ‘exhortation’ to which you refer. If one has an offense against one’s brother—or sister, as the case may be—he is first to privately approach that person.”
Gil’s face grew even redder. “How dare you instruct me regarding scriptural protocol! You know very well you have lied to me, and to the community at large, by writing these articles under a false name! This is beyond the pale! It is unladylike. It is un
christian. It is embarrassing!”
“I’m sure you are embarrassed, and with good reason—if your accusation were true. What on earth makes you think that I am the same person as Mr. Hanson?” Lips tight, she looked at Mrs. Whitmore. “Who told you such nonsense?”
Elberta Whitmore folded her arms. “You are not the only intelligent woman in this town, Miss Daughtry! I was coming out of the bookstore next to the newspaper office one afternoon and saw you arrive. Naturally I was curious—a married man like Mr. McCanless in conference with a beautiful young woman for an extended period of time could not but strike me as odd!—so I waited until you left, then paid him a visit. To my surprise, he did not even mention your recent arrival and departure! Even more suspicious, I casually looked around and saw the manuscript Mr. McCanless had been reading upon his desk.”
“And you immediately connected that manuscript with me?” Careful not to deny anything outright, Joelle probed for information. “Why would you make that leap? And even if it were true, perhaps you could help me understand why that should offend you.”
“Don’t you address my mama in that sassy tone, Joelle Daughtry!” Sophronia drew herself up to her full five foot two, looking remarkably like her mother.
“If it were any of your business, Sophie—and it’s not—I’d remind you that we are not five years old anymore. I am a businesswoman with guests to entertain, and I’d appreciate it if someone would get to the point so I can return to them.” Joelle stared down her nose. Sometimes an extra inch or two came in very handy.
“The point,” Mrs. Whitmore said, “is that Reverend Reese has every reason to be embarrassed and outdone, for you have undermined his integrity at every turn. No young woman of modest upbringing would usurp God’s sanctuary to encourage Christian ladies to override their husbands’ political opinions. Neither would she demean herself with employment outside the home or turn her home into a public wayside inn, for every foreign tumbleweed and whiskey-sodden vagrant to find a place to lay his or her head.” She paused for breath, eyes protruding in her righteous zeal. “Can you deny any of the aforementioned facts?”
