It was all Em could do not to feel inadequate, given that she wore only an old faded housedress, with her own hair done up in plaits and hidden away beneath a wrap. But she drew herself up anyway, and reminded herself that she needed no parasol to keep her skin fine; the sun did that itself, and black didn’t crack beneath its blessing. Those were just surface things, anyway.
The White Lady was nearly all surface; that was the nature of her kind. That was how this meeting would go, then: an appearance of grace and gentility, covering the substance of battle.
“Why, I’ve come to see ’bout you, Miss Emmaline,” the White Lady said, as if they were in the middle of a conversation and not the beginning. Her voice was light and sweet, as honeyed as her yellow eyes. “You know me?” “Yes, ma’am,” Em said, because she knew the children were watching and it wouldn’t do for them, ’specially the boys, to think they could smart off to white ladies. Even if this one wasn’t really a white lady. “Heard here and there you was coming.”
“Did you, now!” She simpered, dimples flashing, and flicked at her skirts.
As she did this, Em caught a glimpse of a figure behind her: a little black girl, couldn’t have been more than seven, crouched and holding the pole of the great big parasol over the woman’s head. The little girl’s feet were bare beneath the simple white shift she wore, and her eyes were still and empty. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you heard,” the White Lady said, unfolding a little lace fan and fluttering it at herself. “Figured you’d have your ways. Could I trouble you for some tea or lemonade, though, Miss Emmaline?
It’s always almighty hot in this land. Not that that bothers your kind like it does mine.”
“Mighty hot indeed,” Emmaline agreed evenly. She nodded to Pauline, who stood beside her trembling a little. Even a half-trained girlchild knew power when she saw it. Pauline jumped, but went inside. “This land made its natural people brown for a reason, though, ma’am, long before either your’n or most of mine came along. Seems to me you could make yourself fit the land better— if you wanted, of course.”
The woman extended one long, thin arm and ran her fingers up the pearly skin, looking almost bemused to find such flesh upon herself. “I should, I suppose, but you know there’s more reward than price comes with this skin.” Em did indeed know. “Pauline’s gone to fetch some tea for you, ma’am. No lemonade, I’m afraid; lemons cost too dear when you got three children and no husband, see.”
“Ah, yes! About those children of yours.”
As much as Emmaline thought she had braced herself, she still couldn’t help tensing up when the White Lady’s yellow eyes shifted to dance over the faces of Jim and Sample. Lord, but she should’ve guessed! America wasn’t the Old Country; these days the White Folk didn’t bother with silly tricks or living in mounds, and they didn’t stay hidden, for why should they? But the one thing they still did, in spades here in this land of cheap flesh, was steal children. And if they kept to children of a certain hue, why, the police didn’t even ask after them. Emmaline set her jaw.
The woman’s eyes lingered on Jim long enough to be worrying. Jim, smart one that he was, had gone still and quiet, looking down at his feet, knowing better than to meet any white woman’s gaze. Sample was all a-bristle, not liking the way the woman was eyeballing his little brother; ah, damnation, Emmaline never should’ve picked for Sample’s father a man who liked to fight. Boy was gonna get himself in trouble some day.
Em had a feeling, though, that this was a feint. Then Pauline came back onto the porch with a big sweating glass of iced tea... and sure enough, the White Lady’s gaze landed on the girl with much more than greed for a cool drink. Pauline stopped there, with her eyes narrowed, because like Emmaline, she knew what was beneath the surface. The woman laughed prettily at the look on the girl’s face.
“Trouble comin’ tell,” the White Lady sang, still grinning. “Trouble comin’ fine! Nought to pay the price but sweet blood like fine wine.” She had a beautiful voice—lilting and hymn-reverberant and high as birds flew. Hardly sounded human, in fact, which was fitting enough.
Em raised a hand in praise anyway, because beauty was meant to be acknowledged, and to deny it would just invite her further in. “Trouble always coming, ma’am,” she replied to the song. “Some’a us, this world made of trouble. Not that you folk help.”
“Aww, Miss Emmaline, don’t be like that. Come on here, girl, with that tea.
It’s powerful hot.”
Em glanced at Pauline; Pauline nodded once, tightly. Then she walked down the steps to the bottommost slat—no further—and held forth the glass. The White Lady sighed, throwing a look at Em. “Ought to raise your children to show some respect, Miss Emmaline.”
“Lots of ways to show respect, ma’am.”
The White Lady sniffed. Then she turned her head, and the little girl who’d been holding the parasol straightened and came around her. The parasol stayed where it was, holding itself up against the ground. As the child moved forward, Em’s skin came all over goosebumps. Wasn’t right, seeing a child who should’ve been lively so empty of life and magic. The little girl twitched a little while she walked, as if with a palsy, or as if jerked on strings. She stopped before Pauline and held her hands up, and Em didn’t blame Pauline at all for her grimace as she pushed the glass into the child’s hands.
“Whose was she?” Emmaline asked, as the little girl twitched and moved to bring the tea back to her mistress.
“Nobody who matters, Miss Em, don’t you mind.” The White Lady took the glass of tea, then smoothed a hand over the child’s soft cap of hair with an almost fond smile. “Such a lovely girl, though, isn’t she? Everybody says you folk can’t be beautiful, but that’s just not true. Where else would I be able to get this?” She preened, smoothing a hand over one unblemished, shining cheek.
“She had power,” Pauline said then. Em started; she was used to Pauline keeping her mouth shut around white folks, like a good sensible girl should.
But Pauline was still staring at the little girl in horror. Her expression hardened, though, from shock into disgust. “She had power, and you took it. Like a damn thief.”
The White Lady’s eyebrows looked to have climbed into her red hair for a moment. Emmaline was right there with her, shocked at Pauline’s cheek.
She snapped without thinking, “Pauline Elizabeth, shut your mouth before I shut it.”
Pauline shut up, though Emmaline could see the resentful flex of muscle along her jaw. But the White Lady let out a soft laugh, chilling them both into silence.
“Well! I can’t say I think much of how you’re raising your children, Miss Emmaline. Negro children never can sit still and be quiet, I suppose. Of course I took her power, girl; not like she could do anything with it. Now. I think I’m owed an apology, don’t you?”
Damnation. Stiffly, Emmaline said, “I’m sorry for my daughter’s foolishness, ma’am. I’ll see to her when we’re done talking.”
“Oh, but that isn’t enough, Miss Em.” The White Lady tilted her head, long red lashes catching the light. “Honestly, how’s she going to learn respect if you do all the apologizing for her?”
Pauline spoke tightly, with a darting glance at Emmaline for permission to speak. “I’m sorry too, ma’am.”
“Now, see? That wasn’t so hard.” The White Lady gestured with the tinkling glass of tea at Pauline, beaming. “But don’t you think you owe me a bit more, after smarting off like that? Why, I’m wounded. You called me a thief! And even if I am, it’s the principle of the thing.” She stepped forward.
“I think you should come with me for a while, and learn respect. Don’t you?”
“No, ma’am,” Emmaline snapped, before Pauline could dig herself further into trouble. “I don’t think she owes you a thing beyond what you’ve had.” “Oh, now, be reasonable.” The White Lady stepped forward once more, almost to the porch steps—but then she paused, her smile fading just a little. When she glanced off
to the side, she spied the rosemary bush at last, growing scraggly in the summer heat. Growing, though, still, and by its growth weaving a bit of protection around the house. Beginning to frown, the woman glanced to the other side; there was plenty of sage, too, thriving in the heat unlike the rosemary.
Eyes widening, the woman finally turned about, spying at last the prize of Emmaline’s yard: the sycamore fig. It grew in an arc over on the far side of the yard, because many years ago some neighborhood children had played on it and nearly broken its trunk. It had survived, though—through the heat, through the breaking, and through isolation, for it was nearly the only one of its kind in America. By the stories Emmaline’s own mother had told of its planting, the seed-fig had been smuggled over from Africa herself, tucked into some poor soul’s wound to keep it safe and living through the Middle Passage.
“Supposed to be rowan, thorn, and ash,” said the White Lady. All at once she sounded sulky.
Emmaline lifted her chin. “That’d work too,” she said, “’cause Lord knows I got some Scots Irish in me from my poor slave foremothers’ travails. But this ain’t the soil of Eire; red Alabama dirt roots different protectors. And you ain’t the same as your’n back in the Old Country neither, not after all these years of drinking Negro blood, so rosemary, sage, and fig will do for you.”
The White Lady let out a huffy little sound... but then she took a dainty step back. She started to raise the glass of tea, then paused, focusing sharply on it; her lip curled. Then she glared at Pauline.
“Just a little bit of acorn flour, ma’am,” Pauline said, with such exaggerated innocence in her voice that Emmaline had to stifle a smile in spite of herself.
“For flavor?”
“Rosemary, sage, and fig to bind,” said the White Lady. It was clear now that she was furious, as she held the glass of tea out from herself and then dropped it. The tea spilled into the grass, and the glass split into three pieces.
She drew in a deep breath, visibly mastering temper. “And oak to strike the blow. Well, Miss Emmaline, I’ll grant you won this one, but it leaves us in a bit of a fix. You can’t keep yours safe everywhere, and I can’t be chasing after ’em all damn day and night.” She thought a moment. “How ’bout a deal?” “Ain’t enough water in the river Jordan,” Emmaline snapped. “Sure?” The White Lady’s grin crept back, like a dog badly banished.
“Safety and prosperity for the rest, if you give me but one?”
“I done told you no,” Emmaline said. She was forgetting to pretend polite; well, Sample hadn’t gotten it only from his father. “How many more times I got to—”
“What kind of safety?” asked Pauline.
“Lord, have mercy, I’mma have to kill this girl,” Emmaline could not help muttering. But Pauline had set her jaw in that tight, stubborn way that meant she didn’t care if she got a smack for it. She persisted: “How much prosperity?”
Oh, and if that didn’t spread the White Lady’s grin nearly from ear to ear.
“Why, lots, sugar. Bless your heart!”
“Girl, shut your mouth,” Emmaline snapped. But the White Lady held up a hand, and all at once Emmaline found herself unable to speak. Oh, Mercy!
Em knew, then. Stupid, stupid girl.
“Pauline, don’t!” blurted Jim, but the White Lady eyed him too, and he was shut up as firmly as Emmaline herself. Sample just stared from one to the other of his siblings and from them to the White Lady, his hands flexing as if he wanted to hit somebody, but wasn’t sure where to start. “Children should be seen and not heard,” said the White Lady, gesturing gracefully with the fan. “But ladies with that blood like wine, sweet and high and so fine, get some choices in the matter ’til it’s taken from them. What say you, Miss Pauline?”
Pauline, to her credit, glanced at Emmaline again. Her belligerence had faded by now, and her small face was properly anxious and afraid. Then, though, her jaw firmed, and she faced the White Lady squarely. “You said trouble was comin’.”
“Oh, indeed.” The White Lady let her gaze drip left and right, syruping all over the boys. “So much trouble! Folks getting uppity from here to the Carolinas. De-seg-gregation! Non-discrim-ination! And don’t you know them bullnecks will be hitting back fast, beating y’all back into your place.”
She stopped her gaze on hotheaded Sample; Sample set his jaw. “Hitting back hard, I tell you, on boys who think to be called men.”
Pauline caught her breath. Then, though, thank the Lord, she bit her bottom lip. “I want to speak to my mother.”
There was a moment’s long, pent pause. Then the White Lady flipped her fan back up into a blurring wave, dropping into a mocking curtsy. The servant child moved jerkily back behind her, taking hold of the parasol again. “Seeking counsel is wise, and within the rules besides,” the White Lady admitted. “Not too much counsel, though, little miss. Some deals don’t last long.”
With that, she flounced off with the child in tow—though Emmaline noted that she skirted wide around the sycamore fig before passing behind a pine tree and vanishing.
The instant Emmaline could speak and move she did, hurrying over to Pauline and slapping the tar out of the girl before she could speak. “Didn’t I tell you about folks like that?” she demanded, pointing with a shaking hand after the White Lady. “Didn’t I tell you they’ll put a pretty orange in your hand and snatch it back with the hand attached?”
It had been happening more and more lately that Pauline defied her—but then, this was only proper, was it not? A girl coming into her womanhood, and her adult power, should speak her mind sometimes. “I know, Momma,”
Pauline said, without a trace of apology. Her voice was so calm and strong and even that Emmaline blinked. “But I had dreams.”
“Well, you should’ve told me! And you should’ve told me about the blood coming, I know how to make you safe for at least a bit of time, and—” “You can’t make me safe, Momma.” Pauline said it so sharp, her gaze so hard, that Emmaline could only flinch back. “That’s why you told me what to be scared of, ain’t it? So I could make myself safe. And I know, ’cause you taught me, that it’s a woman’s job to fight for hers.”
“That’s a man’s job,” Jim said, scowling—though he too should’ve been quiet, cowed by the slap. Sample nodded fiercely. Emmaline groaned and put a hand in the air for strength; all of her children had forgotten how to mind, all at once.
“Decent folks’ job, then,” Pauline said back, with a little heat. “But Momma, I saw it in the dream. People marching! Big ol’ redneck bulls, standing up like men, holding dogs and billy clubs. Blood everywhere.”
Emmaline’s skin went all a-prickle with remembered fear. Yet there was no fear in Pauline’s face as she went on, her voice rising in excitement. “At the end of it, though, Momma, at the end... I saw white children and black children sitting by each other in school. It was yellow and brown and red children there, too! Black people at the front of a bus! Momma...” Pauline bit her lip, then leaned forward to whisper, though there was no one to hear but family. “I saw a black man in a big white house.”
There were always black men in the big white houses of downtown Birmingham. Who else was going to tend their gardens or wash their cars?
And yet... there was a fervor in Pauline’s gaze that warned Emmaline there was something more to her daughter’s dreams.
Didn’t matter, though. The world didn’t change. And somebody had to protect her fool children from themselves.
Seething with pent-up anger and fear, Emmaline herded the children inside.
She made them go to bed early, with no supper for smarting off, because they had to learn—Pauline especially. Wasn’t no prosperity worth a girlchild’s soul and what little innocence life allowed her. Wasn’t no safety for black boys beyond what humility bought them, little as that was.
And while they slept, Emmaline burned sage, and she prayed to every ancestor of three continents who might listen, and then she set herself up in a chair
before the door with her grandmother’s old musket across her knees.
She would stay up day and night, if she had to, for her children’s sake. After a few hours had passed in slow and taut silence, and the candles burned low, and the weight of drowsiness pressed on the back of her head like a blanket, Emmaline got up to keep herself awake. She peeked in the boys’ room: they were snoring, curled up, though Jim had a half-eaten peach still in his hand, sneaked out from some hiding place or another against just such an occasion of their mother’s wrath.
Pauline’s room, though, was cold from the open window wafting sharp bitter wind over the girl’s empty bed.
THERE WOULD BE only one place the girl could have gone: the Fairgrounds, in the shadow of Red Mountain.
Emmaline ran to Renee’s house, since Renee had the only working phone on the street. There she called Frank, who came over bringing his mule. The mule ran like it knew what was at stake, so fast and hard that Emmaline’s bottom was raw long before she reached the place.
The Fairgrounds were only Fairgrounds once a year. The rest of the time it was just a fallow field, occasionally used for harness racing. Long ago, though, it had been the breaking ground of a plantation—the place where new slaves, freshly force-marched up from the port of Mobile, got branded and stripped of name and spirit before being sent into the fields. As Emmaline halted the mule and slid off its back, she felt all that old blood there in the ground, mixed with old tears and the red dirt beneath her feet. White Folk fed on that sort of magic. This would be a place of power for them.
As Em reached the top of the hill, she saw that Pauline stood beneath a pine that was being strangled by a carpet of kudzu. Before her stood the White Lady—shining even more now, her skin catching the moon’s gleam in the way of her people, ears gone to points and mouth too wide and full of sharp fangs. They both turned as Emmaline thumped up, out of breath, her legs shaking from holding so tight to the mule’s sides. Still, she moved to stand between them, in front of Pauline and facing the White Lady. “I ain’t gon’ let you!”
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume Eleven Page 49
