How could she know his discomfort was not from remorse at annoying his wife or riling the sensibilities of the Parkers but from fear of being found out? He was not one of those liars convinced of his own falsehoods. He knew what he was: a thief of hearts, a poseur, common as dirt. He knew his bliss was founded on an accident of bravery committed years before he knew Guilford, Mississippi, or Beadie Sassaport existed, an act committed amid enormous tragedy. He felt he could never repeat that act even if—God forbid—a similar occasion arose. What he had done had been a product of the moment, of the dark clouds, the thick air, the screams of the river that terrible day. His deeds that day were an act of nature much like an earthquake or a tornado, both of which occur violently without warning. His actions happened outside himself. He was as much a stunned observer of his own behavior that day as those who’d stared down the levee to gape at him. A wildness had swept through his blood, and it propelled his hands, his legs, the words out of his throat into an utterly alien place, exotic with terror. When he pondered that surge of ferocity, and he pondered it often, he determined that this was the way prophets of old felt. And since he never quite stopped feeling the awful rush of that moment, he absolved himself of his sins. A divine instrument is entitled to material compensation, he figured, or should be, and he overcame his fear and returned to the lie that was his miraculous life.
Like all the best lies, Bernard Levy’s life was entirely plausible. Every weekday morning, he rose at seven and ate what his wife had their cook fix up for him. He left for his office by eight o’clock like every other vigorous man on his street. Upon arrival, he exchanged pleasantries with his secretary and entered his inner sanctum. There, he read the newspaper, telephoned his cronies, and crafted spurious correspondence for his secretary to type up and mail to out of state drops maintained by the scant handful of associates who knew his true identity. At least once a week, he ordered a transfer of funds from a secret place to his marital accounts at Sassaport Savings and Loan. The orders, written in a code his secretary could not decipher, requested things like: “Kindly ship posthaste seventy-two pounds of chicken feed, 20 percent protein, 32 percent filler, by rail to Fine Fellow Plantation, Greenville, as a sampler.” By choosing secretaries more interested in reading True Confessions and Photoplay than raising livestock, he was secure none would question his curious percentages and arcane weights. Lunchtimes, he went home for a big meal of his favorite delicacies. For an hour or so, he played with his daughters and admired his infant son. Afterward, he often took a nap on the couch in his office, the door closed to avoid accusations of indolence. Other than that, his days were passed in schmoozing. He was a champion schmoozer. He could spin tales with the best of them and was an attentive audience as well. When that comical face of his went serious, he looked kindly and blameless as a picture book saint prompting people to tell him their troubles and ask his advice. And he’d give it, he’d give it gladly with a flair he’d learned from his daddy while perched upon that wastrel’s knee.
Son, Bernard’s daddy told him when he was no bigger than a hound dog pup, there ain’t nothing a sufferin’ man likes better than havin’ a hope or two. Whenever you’re givin’ a brother comfort after hearin’ the sad tale of his wretchedness, be sure to tell him somethin’ that’ll make him think everything’s gonna be alright, even if you can see plain as day he’s hurtlin’ down a fast road straight through the gapin’ gates of hell. Tell him his woman loves him unto death no matter how round her heels are and that little bump the doc cut outta his baby’s face ain’t nothin’ more’n a boil. Tell him with a straight eye and back it up with a story you have on the best authority is God’s own truth. Foreign stories work the best. I’ve found most people will believe anythin’ you tell ’em if the principals hail from France or Brazil.
It was the most useful thing the man ever said to him. There might have been more, but Bernard’s daddy disappeared downriver before the boy was six years old. Bernard did not remember much of him. He often thought the only way he’d managed to hold on to that particular memory was that the man’s knee was exceedingly bony and hurt to perch upon. Pain wipes out memory, he told Beadie when she’d survived her first labor and wondered aloud how it was women ever decide to get pregnant twice. Then again, he went on, sometimes pain etches memory deep in the mind. But there’s no middle. Why, I recall a man I met once. Good-lookin’ fellah. Tall and black-haired with a handsome mustache just like John Barrymore’s. Now he was from . . .
São Paulo? Beadie asked giving him that lips pursing, eyelash fluttering upturned look that never failed to slay him and was particularly fetching when beamed from her hospital bed with her hair framed in a satin headband the same color pink as her quilted bed jacket and tied up in a floppy bow at the crown of her head.
He warmed from his toes to his earlobes and kissed her cheeks one after the other.
No, not São Paulo.
Her voice went soft and low.
Marseille?
His went to a whisper.
No.
Then he kissed her again until he quite forgot his story of the John Barrymore look-alike. He kept on kissing her until the nurse came in carrying little Sophie who was squawking up a storm. Sophie. Born with a full head of hair. The nurses called her the mad Prussian because she hollered so much underneath that tall furry helmet. Pretty as her mama only with her daddy’s chin, which is to say no more chin than a dimpled dollop just beneath her lower lip followed by a slope of skin from there to her throat, an aspect that undermined the overall effect considerably. The next two girls were more fortunate, as they had chins at least and their mama’s eyes, but neither was graced with her aristocratic nose and instead sported bulbous ones. Only the boy, the long-awaited son, Mickey Moe, had features that mirrored his mama’s physical harmony and his daddy’s fair and rosy complexion rather than her darkish one. Once she had him, Beadie announced to her husband, Well, there he is, darlin’. Perfection. I see no need to attempt to surpass this achievement. Do you mind much if I pack it in, so to speak?
Four children was a respectable number in those days, earnest without being excessive. None of them were outright stupid, although Eudora Jean came close, and all of them were obedient and temperate. Since he was beginning to be concerned with the way childbearing had afflicted his wife’s beloved body, which belonged to him, after all, and not those little suckers, Bernard Levy supported her decision.
At a family wedding held a few months after, when a handful of ladies burdened by the heat and the weight of their sixth or seventh pregnancies shared complaints, Beadie, out of the blue, bragged to the assembled that she possessed the most modern, the most ethically advanced of men. If you all would like, she said, I could arrange for him to drop a word of procreative wisdom into your husbands’ ears. He surely can explain to them that there is no reason in 1937, no reason at all, for a woman to have more children than she wants.
Although she intended to be helpful, Beadie’s suggestion prompted a tidal wave of resentment in the hearts of her sisters and cousins. How dare she say we don’t want our babies! they complained behind her back. What manner of unnatural relations do you all think those two are havin’ anyway? They accused her of being more interested in amassing additions to her silver service than sweet Jewish souls brought forth to honor the Lord.
Suffice it to say, when Beadie’s downfall eventually occurred, there were none but false sympathies from her kin. Pride goeth before, they whispered at the dedication of Bernard’s gravestone, a marker one grade up from a pauper’s. Happy to console the poor widow, their faces puckered in empathy while their hearts nourished a secret flicker of delight.
Before the war, they were more than eager to attend Beadie’s family parties, especially the picnics on the south lawn of the big house on Orchard Street. They knew the repast would be elegant. The out of doors didn’t cramp Beadie’s style. She’d serve soup to nuts and everything just so. She’d hire entertainment, too, puppet shows for the li
ttle ones and, depending on the solemnity of the occasion, chamber quartets from Jackson or jazzmen from downriver for the adults. If the latter, the young people would dance, getting their dancing shoes grass-stained. Things could get quite humorous when the ground was a bit damp. Nobody cared. Those were high times. Everyone else in the family felt the pinch of the Depression. For some, it was a downright punch. But one could always expect a grand soiree at Beadie’s, a throwback to the good old days when all of them were swells and felt confident about the future. There’d be champagne smuggled in from God knew where, fish with two sauces, and cuts of beef some hadn’t seen since ’29.
Something strange happened at one of these parties, an affair celebrating Rachel Marie’s sixth birthday. Beadie hired a traveling company to put on a play recalling the new smash-hit film The Wizard of Oz. The clan sat on folding chairs under a big tent watching the song and dance of a man who could kick up his legs almost as high as Ray Bolger himself. He flapped wet noodle arms and sauntered down a yellow brick road made of cardboard, which cut a swath through Beadie’s vegetable garden. Suddenly, just as he disappeared into the cornrows, the man shrieked. A moment later, he slowly backed out. His expression was bug-eyed, afraid. Later on, he claimed he was merely embarrassed at being startled out of character.
Every soul in the audience gasped in excitement. They craned their necks and straightened in their seats, especially the children up front, expecting an appearance of the wicked witch or one of her minions. The film had not yet opened in Jackson—everything Beadie did at these parties was up to the minute—and no one was exactly sure what came next.
Out of the cornrows emerged the tallest Negro any of them had ever seen, with shoulders so broad they looked fit to carry Atlas’s burden. None could interpret the interloper’s gender. There was a distinct femininity about the figure, its movement, swaying and silent, but the size and shape was distinctly masculine. Taking center stage, the creature planted two feet in a wide stance, studied them with eyes like fire bores seeking the truth, and bold as brass spoke in a flat voice that further confused the matter of gender.
Where is the master of this house? I have business with him.
The world went silent. The uninvited’s appearance had thrown Beadie into a near swoon. After making sure his wife was safely seated, Bernard Levy stepped forward. Here I am, he said. If you’ll kindly respect the natal day of my baby girl, we might step aside to discuss whatever business you came to effect. The intruder nodded and followed him to the bower and trellis at the east side of the main house where the two spoke intensely for some time, attracting more attention than the garden players. They waved their arms in the air, turned from each other, whipped back. They slapped their foreheads or put palms to their cheeks as if registering both shock and sorrow. An apparent agreement was reached. Bernard raised a hand and placed it on the giant’s shoulder—he looked to stand on his toes to do so—then gave the stranger a strong, solemn shake of the head. Subsequently, the visitor walked, lead-footed as a zombie, to the front of the house, turned down the road without so much as a backward glance, and was never seen again as far as anyone knew.
Times being what they were, none of the Sassaports celebrating Rachel Marie that day noticed the reactions of the servants of the house to these events. Those attached to the house and the day labor were all on the back porch by the kitchen, serving drinks, enjoying the play. When the stranger appeared, they froze, drop-jawed. Half raised their eyes to heaven and prayed to Jesus. The other half poked one another in the ribs with their elbows, sharing a knowledge none of the white folks could possibly possess. Except Bernard.
Truth be told, help left Miss Beadie’s employ with some regularity. It was difficult to keep up with her rigid formulations of behavior. Folks worked for six months or so and quit, often directly after one of her demanding parties. No one was surprised, it was not even worth comment, when the day after Rachel Marie’s birthday, the cook and Bernard’s right-hand man packed their bags before breakfast and left by noon. Everyone assumed they’d been fired. After all, someone had to pay for the humiliation the stranger had caused Beadie, and it was not unusual in that time for blame to be assigned collectively by race. Nor did it seem strange that those who replaced the banished arrived by nightfall. They were Sara Kate, a winsome young woman the color of milk chocolate, and her husband, Roland, a big, strong man, midnight black, with hands the size of hams. What was remarkable was that these two lasted decades in the Levy household. Not even the war or Bernard’s death pried them from it. And not a single soul put two and two together to come up with the fact that their employment had something to do with the oddity in the cornrows. That is, not until Mickey Moe and Laura Anne Needleman put their loving heads together.
Despite the mystery and disruption of her household, Beadie gave the world a happy face the next day as part of a determined campaign to make everyone forget it. Those who plied her on the subject received a dismissive response. Oh, my husband’s into all kind of business, she said, who can keep up with it all? Meeting the Chinese wall of her dazzling smile, the curious stopped asking questions after a time and life went back to normal. Bernard had made his explanations, his wife kept them to herself. From the outside looking in, Beadie was content, all her early expectations were fulfilled. Then the war ripped everything away. Just after the Japanese attacked in 1941, Bernard enlisted along with everyone else they knew who was neither too old nor unfit for duty. He left a padlocked strongbox stuffed with hard cash in his wife’s care. In time, the box went empty, prompting Beadie to tap into her husband’s bank accounts. She discovered there was far less there than she thought, and no fresh moneys came in apart from his combat pay, a matter of much confusion to all she approached about it. There are surely more accounts! she insisted in despair to her cousin Abie, the weak-eyed, flat-footed vice president of his uncle’s bank. In a voice of command Isabella herself might admire, she issued fiats. Search for them! she directed. And do not speak to me until you have found them!
Lord, how she’d huffed out of Sassaport Savings and Loan that day. Her heels looked to sprout puffs of steam as she took her leave with head high and eyes narrowed to angry slits, her mouth pressed and pulsing. She and Abie did not speak for three years, until VJ Day, when the woman lost herself in the spirit of release that seized them all. Up to then, it was silent Beadie, fuming Beadie, bereft Beadie, uncomprehending, miserable Beadie, alone with three little girls and a young son, cruelly forced to deal with the rude practicalities of life.
The first casualty of her war was her beauty. She lost weight and the luster of her hair. She didn’t sleep much. Dark, puffy flesh circled her eyes, while the corners of her mouth turned down. Her charm was next. Dismayed and confused as she was, she was not an optimistic citizen but spoke gloomily, even on days when the news was good and the president promised victory. I do not expect to see my husband again in warm flesh, she said to whoever would listen. I have seen his end before me as clearly as I can see Stars and Bars flappin’ there against the flagpole at the post office. When the war news was bad and not even FDR could gloss it, she advised the family to study German along with enough evangelical phraseology to mask their origins. As a result, most of her people gave her a wide berth. Who needed a pessimist during wartime?
Her masculine cousins deferred from military service or too young for it avoided her company completely. This was unfortunate since what she wanted, what she needed was a man, even a man manqué, someone, anyone, who would take over the functions of the male in a world that had not raised her for manly tasks yet thrust them upon her. With no one else to depend on, she zeroed in on Mickey Moe, all of four and a half years old at the time of his daddy’s departure overseas, calling him “my little man” and “man of the house,” dressing him in long pants straight away even in summer. Since everyone knew manly men loved the outdoors and suffered inside, whenever he tripped and tore holes in the knees, she sewed on patches in a hurry, popped a salt pill in
his mouth, slapped his rump, and sent her little man back out into the sun to sweat.
As a result, Mickey Moe assumed a good old boy’s rites and rituals long before he had the tooth for it. He never once questioned whether the role suited him. Since there were no able-bodied men around him for a time and since the ones returned from war were each and every one of them scarred in some manner, visible and not, he was left to fashion his own code of manly behavior from whatever instincts he could muster or from observing old or infirm white folk and the Negroes around him, too.
From Uncle Benny Lee, who suffered from asthma and the catarrh, he learned to cough and spit and do it only outdoors or in the proper receptacle indoors if such might be had. From Mr. Banning, the bitter old man from across the street, who dragged behind him the leg he’d mangled in the first great war, muttering a blue streak with every step, he learned how and when to properly swear. Roland, Mama’s housekeeper’s husband, a huge burly man black as coal and in the prime of life, was denied military service when he’d attempted to enlist, because the draft board determined that the womenfolk needed some brawn back home with all the men gone and that Roland, unlike some of them uppity bucks, was a safe bet, meek as a mouse due to being tongue lashed half to death by his wife. From Roland, Mickey Moe learned to hold his hat at waist level and study the ground to make himself look humble and small when the occasion demanded, no matter how he felt inside. Since Mama’s car did not get any younger during the war, nor her hot water heater, Roland taught him about motors and how things mechanical worked. Many was the afternoon Mickey Moe trudged along behind him from basement to driveway, carrying his toolbox. He learned the function of the instruments within when Roland asked politely, Master Mickey Moe, might you please hand me the Phillips screwdriver?
Another black man he knew, old Bald Horace, sold vegetables and dairy products door-to-door from a hand-pulled cart. Bald Horace taught the boy all about livestock and when to pick peppers depending on what color you wanted them. He taught him how good Mississippi dirt smelled of a damp morning, how fine the rising sun felt on the back of the neck. All these skills were topped off with his mama’s instruction in manners, making him a good old boy, more or less, by the time he was nine, except he couldn’t shoot worth a dang and he didn’t know what bravado was nor how to imitate it. He wasn’t stoic at all, in fact, he was something of a secret crybaby. All those things had to come to him later on at a hard and high price. Until they did, he made enough of a show to fool most of the people he met.
One More River Page 3
