A Perilous Proposal

by Michael Phillips

“I don’t know . . . you’ve been so quiet and glum.”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” he said with a sigh. “But it ain’t you.”

  “What is it, then?” I persisted.

  He glanced away.

  I waited. Suddenly I realized that he was trembling. I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder. Slowly he turned to face me. His eyes were wet.

  “Oh, Jeremiah . . . what is it!” I said. I’d never seen him like this!

  “I . . . I haven’t been honest wiff you,” he said in a broken voice.

  “What . . . how do you mean?” I asked.

  “I haven’t tol’ you everythin’.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t reckon I been honest wiff my papa either,” he said. “But . . . but if we’s eber gwine git married, you an’ me, I mean . . . den we’s gotter be so honest wiff each other dat we’s got no secrets. An’ dat’s what’s been tearin’ me up sumfin dreadful inside—”

  His voice broke and he looked away.

  “Jeremiah, what is it!”

  “I . . . I got a terrible secret,” he struggled to continue, “an’ it’s killin’ me. It’s killin’ me worse dat I axed you ter marry me wiffout tellin’ you. ’Cause you got ter know what kind ob person I am, an’ dat maybe I ain’t what you think. It’s like I lied ter you an’ I hate myself fo it. But I can’t lie no more.”

  “But you can tell me now,” I said. “It’s all right that you didn’t tell me before.”

  He sniffed and wiped at his eyes. He drew in two or three breaths to try to steady himself. But even when he started again, his voice was shaky and soft and broken. Whatever it was, he was right—it was tearing at him inside. I could see that he was in torment.

  “I tol’ you about my mama . . .” he began.

  “Yes,” I nodded.

  “But I didn’t tell you da whole truf, dat her dying— oh, God!—it . . . wuz my own fault!”

  The words filled poor Jeremiah with anguish. They stung him with a pain I can hardly imagine. I could see it in his face. He was trembling to keep from bursting into sobs.

  He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He could hardly get anything out.

  But now that he had made the admission that had haunted his nightmares and even his waking hours, he couldn’t stop. He had let the healing knife go down into the deepest place where the tormenting secret had hidden so long.

  “I wuz such a cantankerous an’ selfish boy,” he said. “I wuz full ob anger. My mama wuz as good a lady as dere is. But I wuz so full ob myself I cudn’t see past my own nose. She did everythin’ fo me. She wuz so strong when dey sol’ us an’ sent us away so dat Papa cud neber find us. She wuz about as strong an’ courageous a woman as dere cud be. But I wuz jes’ selfish an’ angry. An’ when dat day came when Massa Winegaard tol’ me ter go ter dat white drifter wiff sum tools, my anger got da better ob me. I got angry at Mama too, an’ I gots ter live wiff dat terrible thought. I got selfish an’ lazy, an’ so Mama went instead. An’ dat white no-good drifter, he tried ter rape her an’ he hit her an’ she fell and got hurt real bad. An’ a week later, she wuz dead an’ it wuz all on account er me. If I’d jes’ dun what I wuz tol’ . . . she’d still be alive! It wuz my own fault!”

  The last words came out in a forlorn wail of remorse. I could hardly stand the awful sound of it—to see someone I loved in such torment!

  Jeremiah stopped and almost shuddered in horror. He was blinking hard but couldn’t stop the flow of tears from his eyes. I was in an agony to see him suffer so! I couldn’t imagine how terrible the guilt must be.

  “I went crazy wiff rage,” he said. “I shud hab seen den what an evil thing da anger inside me wuz. I shud hab seen it. But I wuz too young an’ selfish ter see my heart fo what it wuz. I can’t hardly recollect what happened next. When I saw dat white man an’ my mama lying dere an’ him wiff his clothes half off, I lost my head. An’ I ran at him an’ attacked him wiff a fury I didn’t eben know wuz in me. An’ I hit at him an’ den grabbed a rock an’ just kept hittin’ an’ hittin’ him. An’ when I came ter myself, dere wuz blood everywhere. I knew he was dead an’ dat I’d killed him. I knew I’d be hanged if dey foun’ out. I looked aroun’ an’ saw da stream dere, an’ I drug him to it an’ washed away all da blood an’ tried ter git it off my hands, but it wudn’t wash off. Den I drug him down past where I thought dey’d fin’ him, where dere wuz a little falls where da stream dropped in ter da river. I pushed him over an’ watched dat body float away. An’ den I went back an’ got my mama an’ ran fo help. I cud hardly sleep for weeks after dat, knowin’ what I’d done. An’ a week later, Mama was dead.”

  Jeremiah stopped and at last broke down sobbing with the most bitter grief I’ve ever heard.

  “Oh, Jeremiah!” I said, trying to comfort him. I was holding his hand. He was sweating and trembling.

  “Mayme,” he said, “I killed a man. I got da blood ob a man on my hands an’ it won’t come off. I’s a murderer, Mayme, an’ I can’t live wiff myself for da torment ob it. You won’t neber want ter marry me now, an’ I got ter bear da guilt ob my own mama’s dyin’ wiff it. I got two people dat’s dead on account ob me, an’ da guilt ob it’s more terrible den I kin live wiff. I’d die myself ter take away da voices haunting me at night!”

  He was sobbing uncontrollably. All I could do was gently stroke his hand and sit with him. There were no words to comfort him. Only forgiveness could do that. It would be a hard forgiveness for him to find.

  It was a long time before he began to breathe more easily. When he next spoke his voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Ain’t no good comes ob anger, Mayme,” he said. “It’s a bad thing. But even den, after all dat, I cudn’t see dat it wuz all my anger dat was da cause ob it. So I got angrier an’ angrier at my pa, trying ter blame him when it wuz me I shud hab been lookin’ at. Da guilt wuz so terrible dat I cudn’t look at myself. So I blamed him. Anger’s a terrible thing, Mayme. It kin jes’ destroy a man inside. What kind ob person am I ter hab lived such a lie all dis time!”

  Again Jeremiah quietly wept. Several minutes went by. Gradually the storm passed.

  We continued to talk. Eventually Jeremiah told me most of what happened since that time. He must have talked for more than an hour, telling me things he never had before, about his childhood as a slave, about his father’s leaving, about Micah Duff and his years with the army company, then about the Dawson family he’d met. Once he started talking about his past, it was like a dam across a river had burst and he wanted to tell me every single thing that had ever happened to him. I think that’s when I first began to think that his story needed to be told too, just like Katie’s and mine. That’s when I realized that mine and Katie’s story wasn’t only our own story but that it was a story about a whole lot of people and an important time in the country when a lot of people’s lives were changing. Jeremiah was one of those. His story was my story, just like, in a different way, Henry’s was too, and Katie’s and Josepha’s and Emma’s, and maybe even Micah Duff’s, for all I knew. Anyway, that’s how it seemed to me at the time.

  “When I met dem Dawsons,” Jeremiah said, “wiff everythin’ Micah Duff wuz sayin’ ter me, dat’s when a first bit ob light began ter dawn on me dat anger wuz sumthin’ dat destroyed people inside. Dat place wuz plumb full er hate, Mayme. But dat didn’t stop me from lashin’ out an’ still blamin’ my papa when I saw him. But den when I met you an’ Miz Katie, if anyone had da right ter feel anger, I reckon, it’s you an’ Miss Katie. Yet dis place here is as filled wiff love as dat Dawson place wuz ob hate. Dat’s when I started thinkin’ ’bout some ob what Micah Duff tol’ me. He wuz a good man too, maybe jes’ like my papa. He did nuthin’ but good ter me. He saved my life twice. But finally I got angry at him too, an’ jes’ lef’ him wiffout a word. Da same thing I got angry at my daddy fo doin’, but dat he never did, I really did ter Micah Duff. All my blamin’ other people . . . I shud hab been lookin’ at myself! I jes’ lef’ Mi
cah. How cud I do dat ter such a kind man? What kind er person wud do such a thing! Dat’s when I began ter think dat no matter what happens, nobody has ter let anger get a root inside ter grow an’ fester like I saw it had done in me. Dat Dawson girl wuz so full er hate. But nuthin’ so bad had happened ter her as ter you an’ Miz Katie. She let herself git full er hate. It wuz her own fault, jes’ like my anger wuz my fault. I didn’t hab ter get angry, but I did. I cud hardly stand ter look at myself an’ see dat I wuz jes’ like dat Dawson girl. I wuz full ob anger too. Mine wuz jes’ more hidden so folks didn’t see it. But it was dere. I convinced myself dat if Papa hadn’t lef’ us, Mama’d still be alive. But dat wuz jes’ ’cause I cudn’t look at myself. I wuz jes’ tryin’ ter hide from my own guilt. Da anger and da blame—it’s been dere all along, cuz I let it be dere. Ain’t nobody’s doin’ but my own.”

  He stopped and looked up into my eyes, almost like a little child.

  “What shud I do, Mayme?” he asked. “What kin I do ter git rid ob da terrible guilt?”

  “Have you talked to your papa?” I said.

  “Some, but not ’bout dis.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to tell him?”

  “I reckon so. Dat’ll be hard.”

  “There’s no other way for it to be clean between you,” I said.

  “I reckon you’s right. If it’s what I got ter do, den it’s what I got ter do. I reckon it’s time I started doin’ what’s right. Micah Duff wud say dat’s what it takes ter be a man.”

  FATHER AND SON

  54

  JEREMIAH WAS SPENT. THE TALK AND HIS CONFESSION and the tears had all drained him.

  But Mayme was right. He knew he needed to talk to his father. The forgiveness he needed could only come between father and son. With the flood of emotions already flowing so freely, it seemed this was the day for it. He needed to allow himself at last to accept his father’s love completely.

  Mayme left Jeremiah sitting where he was, and went looking for Henry. She found him in the barn.

  “I think you need to talk to Jeremiah,” she said.

  Henry looked straight into her eyes with question.

  “Is he ready?” he asked hopefully.

  “You knew?” she asked.

  “How cud I not see dat he wuz mighty troubled inside,” nodded Henry. “I seen da gnawin’ away in his soul all dis time. I knew he wuz strugglin’ wiff blaming me fo sum kin’ er trouble inside him. But my seein’ it wudn’t do him no good. He had ter see it fo hisself.”

  “I think he does now,” Mayme said. “I think he’s ready to tell you about it.”

  Henry nodded again and left the barn.

  He saw Jeremiah seated out away from the house. Softly he approached.

  “Mayme tells me you an’ her’s been talkin’ ’bout sum hard things,” he said.

  Jeremiah glanced up and half smiled. It was a sad and weary smile, but almost a peaceful one, as if the hardest battle of the war had already been fought. There was no trace of hostility in his expression as there might once have been at Henry’s words.

  “Did she tell you everythin’?” he asked.

  “She said dere wuz sum things I needed ter hear from yo own mouf.”

  Jeremiah nodded. “Dat soun’s like Mayme, all right,” he said.

  Henry sat down. “You want ter tell me ’bout it?”

  Jeremiah nodded again. “I reckon I finally do.”

  They sat for five or ten minutes. For Jeremiah to tell Mayme what he had done was one thing. But to confess his guilt to his own father took all the more courage. He didn’t find it easy to begin.

  Once he did, the story and his confession flowed out in a torrent of relief. At last he was unburdened from his dreadful secret. Henry’s tears were even more plentiful than Jeremiah’s. There is no pain so deep as that of a loving father’s suffering on behalf of his son. If Jeremiah had been worried that his father would condemn him after his admission, nothing could have been further from the truth. Henry’s weeping sorrow was all for Jeremiah. His tender words of compassion wrapped the son in a cloak of forgiveness. And at last Jeremiah was ready to let that cloak embrace him.

  “I’s so sorry, Papa,” said Jeremiah. “I let myself think wrong things ’bout you. I shud er known dey wuzn’t true. I know I wuz wrong. You wuz a good man an’ Mama always said you wuz a good father ter me . . . I’s so sorry! When I said before, right when I came, dat I didn’t want you ter call me yo son, dat wuz da cruelest thing a son cud say ter his own father. Dat wuz so wrong er me. I’s so sorry, Papa! I’m proud fo you ter call me yo son now. An’ I’s proud ter be yo son.”

  Henry’s heart filled with quiet gratitude. His prayers, not for himself but for his son, had been answered!

  “We’s all dun things we’s ashamed ob,” he said, blinking back the tears in his eyes. “I blamed myself fo talkin’ too much an’ angerin’ Mr. Clarkson. We kin both say it wuz our fault. An’ dat ain’t ter say dere ain’t sum truf in dat. But now we gots ter look ahead. We dun what we dun. So we ax da Lord’s forgiveness, den we look ahead. Den we forgive ourselves an’ each other too, an’ keep lookin’ ahead.”

  Jeremiah nodded. It would take a long time for the full reality of what had just happened to sink all the way inside him and do its complete work. But the change had begun. Forgiveness had begun to live in him.

  Then he remembered.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny object, held it a moment, then handed it to Henry.

  The sight of the carved wooden horse, worn smooth and shiny from years in his son’s pocket, brought a new flood of tears to Henry’s eyes. The sight was full of the memory of the wife of his youth.

  “She tol’ me ter fin’ you an’ gib you dis,” said Jeremiah. “I don’ know why I didn’t gib you dis afore . . . jes’ didn’t seem like da right time, I reckon. But here it is now. An’ she had sumfin she wanted me ter say. As angry as I got at you in my mind, I cudn’t ever forgit her words.”

  Henry waited. His heart was too full of too many things to speak.

  “She said ter tell you dat you wuz da bes’ man she’d ever known, and dat she loved you and never stopped lovin’ you, dat she never loved anudder man in her life an’ dat you wuz the best man da Lord cud hab given her.”

  Henry broke down and wept freely at his dear wife’s words.

  He stood. Jeremiah also rose to his feet and faced him. Father and son embraced.

  The sunlight of the father’s forgiveness had sent away the darkness of the son’s enmity. The grain of Jeremiah Patterson’s character was at last ready to grow straight and true. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  His anger gone, he was at last free to live.

  A WOMAN’S HONOR

  55

  The sense of danger didn’t go away.

  Everyone for miles knew about the two cross burnings. And everyone knew why they had happened.

  Whenever any of us went to town now, there were some people who were nice and others who refused even to look at us. Some people who might have wanted to be friendly seemed afraid to act too nice toward my papa and Mr. Ward, as if someone might see them and then they would be in danger themselves. Mr. Thurston had stepped in to help Jeremiah against Deke Steeves. That had angered certain men and now he was in danger too. People didn’t want that same thing happening to them.

  By now Deke Steeves was older than when Jeremiah had first come, and so was Weed Jenkins. His voice had finally changed and he had put a little meat on his bones. Both boys were mean as sin. Everyone in town was afraid of them. If they took it into their heads that they didn’t like someone, broken windows and all kinds of mischief might result. Deke Steeves was not the kind of person you wanted as your enemy.

  And everyone knew that Sheriff Jenkins wouldn’t do anything about it because Weed was his own son.

  Finally the undercurrent of hostility and anger on both sides boiled over.

  It was probably a mistake, but on
e day Katie and I both went into town with my papa. We hadn’t been in so long, because of what people were saying about us. But on this day we wanted to go with him. Papa had business with Mr. Taylor at the bank. Katie and I both had a couple errands we wanted to take care of.

  “Everything will be fine,” said Papa. “We’ll just go into town, take care of our business, say hello to Henry and Jeremiah, and be gone before anyone even knows we’re there.”

  So we got dressed up and headed for Greens Crossing.

  It was September. I had just turned nineteen a couple weeks before. It had been a cold summer and the weather had delayed the cotton harvest. We were planning to start in a few days without any idea that calamity was about to break in on our lives.

  Papa parked the wagon on the street near the general store. He walked off in the direction of the bank. Katie headed into the store, and I went up to the livery hoping to see Jeremiah for a few minutes. But he wasn’t there. Henry said he’d been at Mr. Watson’s all day.

  I left and walked back along the boardwalk toward the store to rejoin Katie. I had gone about halfway when from across the street I saw a group of white boys who hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier. I didn’t know where they’d come from, but they were there now. And they were watching me.

  I quickened my step. But the worst thing you can do in a situation like that is show you’re afraid. The minute you try to run from a dog, it takes off running straight at you. The boys had seen me glance in their direction and start walking faster. It was all the bait they needed. Immediately they came out into the street toward me, walking diagonally to cut me off before I could get back to Mrs. Hammond’s. I didn’t know who they were, but they were some of the same boys who had bothered Jeremiah before.

  “Hey, pretty girl,” one of them called out. “What’s your hurry? Come over here.”

  My heart was pounding and I began walking faster yet.

  “What do you want to talk to a nigger girl for, Deke?” said one of the younger boys, running to catch up with the boy who was talking to me.