Father Poole turned to her quickly and said, “Go in the kitchen and get me a cold cloth.”
Jessie and the General raced into the kitchen, where she grabbed a dishrag and ran it under the cold tap. As she turned to leave, she saw Father Poole’s wallet and its contents on the floor. One thing in particular caught her eye. It was an opened letter whose seal reminded her of that on a letter she’d received from Rex two days before they heard he’d been killed. She had never showed it to Father Poole or Sister Ignatius.
Rex’s letter read as follows:
Dear Jessie,
I miss you, Theo, Father Fin, and Sis. I need to air my frustrations, and I don’t want Fin and Sis to know, since they went through so much to get me here. I hate Biloxi and don’t know whether I want to stay. The guys are all teasing me about my having tits and a voice higher than their sisters’. At first it was just giggling and pointing, but now they’ve gone so far as shitting on my pillow and putting dead animals in my locker. Just this morning I found a dead possum wrapped up in my blanket that I kept stored on the top shelf.
They’re all pretty mean, but no one nearly as mean as the ringleader. This asshole’s got a real hold on the others. In fact, I think he was the one who put the possum in my locker. He’s mean enough to hurt animals, I’m sure. His name is Private Zachary Black. If anything happens to me, remember his name.
Pray for me.
Love always,
Rex
Twenty-One
Broken Angels,
Broken Hearts
The newspaper came late to the Howell residence on the morning of February 25, 1942. Marshall Howell was proprietor of the largest pig farm in Mississippi this side of Jackson, or at least that’s what he claimed to his neighbors and customers. It was a title, whether accurate or not, that the semi-affluent Negro took seriously.
At the time young men were enlisting or being drafted left and right. People were taking this new and more widespread world war seriously. To most Americans it was no longer simply Europe’s problem. Now, with the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Americans were united as never before. Mothers and fathers said goodbye to their sons as they marched off to war, proud that their own flesh and blood would be defending the cause of liberty.
Marshall Howell, who had no kin to speak of, found himself in a unique position. With the war raging, the forty-eight-year-old had less competition from his fellow agriculturists, whose young farm hands, whether sons, nephews, grandsons, or hired help, were leaving in droves to go to war.
Somewhere Mr. Howell had read a statement by President Roosevelt, citing America’s unshakable determination and unity in a time of war. FDR’s speeches galvanized a nation and gave such hope to people that the United States once again felt invincible. This was all good news for Mr. Howell.
With so many white farmers now shorthanded, Marshall Howell thought that he was poised to become the highest profit-turner in Hinds County, or at least the wealthiest Negro in those parts. Regardless of what transpired, however, he would continue slopping the pigs in the morning, reading his paper over coffee and cornbread, and then going back out to clean the troughs and tend to the pigpens.
He liked to read but hadn’t always known how, since he never attended school. At age thirty-one, while shining shoes in Jackson, Marshall would kneel in front of white folks who read their newspapers to pass the time while he polished and buffed their shoes. He’d constantly turn his attention away from his work to study the words on the paper held in front of him. Over the years he was able to learn a couple of their sounds, and he soon got so engrossed that his buffing would slow down, nearly to just resting the brush on top of the customer’s foot.
While shining a Mr. Chambers’ shoes, Marshall paused to decipher a few letters on the front page of his cigar-smoking, heavy-set customer. He brought his eyes to within inches of the newspaper and tried to put together the sounds of three letters to make one word: N-O-T. He even went so far as to say it out loud.
Chambers not only heard this but also noticed that Marshall was no longer shining his shoes, for which he’d already paid a nickel.
He pulled the journal away violently, something Marshall was used to, since this wasn’t the first time he’d been distracted by trying to read a client’s newspaper.
“B-beggin’ your pardon, sir!” Marshall Howell said.
The fat white man just grunted, flicked a large cigar ash on top of his foot, and said in a nasty voice, “You call that a shine? You missed a spot. Now do it over! And since you’re taking up so much of my time, I’ll be wantin’ a refund of two cents on that nickel.”
Although this wasn’t the first time Marshall had been scolded for taking his mind off his work to read a client’s newspaper, it was the last.
Marshall Howell subsequently took up work with his dead father’s ex-employer, Mr. Orville Smith. He and his wife were getting on in years and needed someone to maintain their mansion, along with maids Betsy and Selma, whose grandparents, like Marshall’s, had been slaves on that same plantation. The Smiths had given up the cotton business a few years back and were looking forward to retirement. Marshall agreed to help with upkeep of the grounds and house if Mrs. Smith would teach him how to read. Having been a school teacher until she met and married Orville in 1913, the childless Velma Smith enjoyed taking Marshall under her wing. Although she hadn’t taught grammar school in nearly three decades, it felt good to tutor someone whom she could mold into a better-educated person, someone who would be better off than he was before once she was done with him.
Although Marshall considered himself an avid reader, writing was not his forte. He spelled fairly well, but always seemed to have trouble wording things. The proposed sign for his business was as much a testament to this truth as any you could find.
“MARSHALL HOWELL’S FAMOUS PIG STOCK! ANY HOG OF ANY SIZE! PORK! SAUSAGE! BACON! PIG’S FEET! I TAG THE EAR AND RAISE THE LITTLE BUGGERS UNTIL THEY’RE NICE AND FAT AND THEN… .” That’s too much, son! he thought to himself. He put the sheet of paper aside and started again with a blank one. As he chewed on the eraser of his pencil, there came a thump at his front door, which caused him to lose all concentration. When Marshall opened the door, to his astonishment no one was there. Something caught his eye, however, on the stoop below. It was the Jackson Daily Gazette that he’d always received by the time he sat down for breakfast at six in the morning. Now it was now almost nine, and the paper had just arrived.
“Mus’ be a new boy,” Marshall muttered to himself as he bent down slowly to pick it up, not wanting to wrench his back as he’d been known to do when he leaned forward too fast. Returning to the kitchen, he opened the newspaper and scanned the headline: “FDR AUTHORIZES INTERNMENT OF JAPANESE AMERICANS WITH EXEC. ORDER 9066.”
“Jap bastards,” Marshall thought as he turned the page with one hand while simultaneously wiping a few beads of sweat from his brow.
The air was unseasonably warm for February and Marshall began talking to his overweight tabby, a habit he found hard to break for someone who lived as isolated a life as he did.
“Gonna be a hot one, Jethro.” he said to the cat, who walked as casually as most cats do, and rubbed the side of his body against his master’s shins.
“WARNING ISSUED AGAIN FOR CALIFORNIA COAST. DANGER OF INVASION FROM JAPANESE FLEET.”
“Sons o’ bitches!” He turned another page. “EXEC. ORDER 9066” (continued from front page):
WHEREAS the successful prosecution of the war requires every possible protection against espionage and against sabotage, . . . I hereby authorize and direct the Secretary of War… to prescribe military areas in such places and of such extent as he may determine, from which any or all persons may be excluded, and with such respect to which, the right of any person to enter, remain in, or leave shall be subject to whatever restrictions the Secretary of War o
r the appropriate Military Commander may impose in his discretion. The Secretary of War is hereby authorized to provide for residents of any such area who are excluded therefrom, such transportation, food, shelter, and other accommodations as may be necessary… to accomplish the purpose of this order.
Forget the Japs, thought Marshall. Folks like me needs protection from the fuckin’ Ku Klux Klan.
On the next page something caught his eye. It was an article that had nothing to do with the war but instead with the Army barracks down in Biloxi. He read the headline: “DEATH OF PRIVATE AT BILOXI RULED SUICIDE.” Marshall Howell then read the article twice. As he finished it, he sighed. “Poo’ bastard. Ain’t no one deserves to die like dat.”
He drank the rest of his coffee and walked over to the counter to pour himself another cup. As he did so, he heard his front door open. He spun around, startled by the creak of the door hinge. Although he was near-sighted, he could make out that it was a tall white man. The blotches of dark on his face told Marshall that the man was dirty.
The stranger panted heavily as he shut the door behind him. Marshall kept his back pressed against the edge of the counter and slowly shuffled sideways away from his unwelcome guest.
“YOU!” the stranger said angrily. “What you got to eat around here?”
The white man walked slowly past Marshall and entered the living room.
“Now see here!” Marshall said. “I ain’t got nuttin’ for you! You head on outta here now, or I be callin’ the police!” This was an idle threat because he didn’t have a telephone. “You hearin’ me, son?” Marshall said more loudly, followed by a brief meow from Jethro.
The intruder had disappeared for the moment. Marshall then heard a faint sound coming from his bedroom, whose door lay just beyond the living room. It sounded like breaking glass. Mr. Howell walked faster toward his bedroom, determined to confront the stranger. As he reached the threshold, he heard the sound of a gun’s being cocked. An arm reached out from the blackness of the room and pointed the muzzle between Marshall’s eyes. The thief held one of Marshall’s pillow cases in his other hand, and Marshall could tell there were some items stuffed inside it.
“I’m making my way north,” the stranger said. “I need money. You got any money, boy?”
“I-I ain’t got none about.”
Now that he was closer to him, Marshall was able to make out the young man’s clothes. They appeared to be a dark green uniform, possibly military. A name was emblazoned in large print on the stranger’s breast pocket. Being an avid reader, Marshall Howell wanted to read what it said. He was able to make out the words “U.S. Army,” and before the gun discharged, instantly killing Mr. Howell, he was able to make out the name on the stranger’s uniform: BLACK.
Father Poole got up to refill his coffee cup and came back to the table in the Benson kitchen to read his newspaper dated February 25, 1942. Sister Ignatius sat in her chair completely still save for blinking, which even then she did only after long intervals of staring into empty space.
Coffee in hand, the priest collapsed noisily into his chair on purpose, hoping that would cause Ellen to snap at him to be more careful. He’d even settle for something along the lines of, “Don’t be such a clumsy ass, Phineas. You’re just as bad as the kids when you’re not watching what you’re doing.”
Phineas longed for her to be her old self, either of her old selves in fact. He was desperate to see her come out of her catatonic stupor, even for just a moment. She’d been this way ever since they’d found out about Rex’s death a few days before.
He shook the table again, this time by accident as he pushed his seat in, and some of his coffee spilled onto the tablecloth. He waited to hear Ellen scream, “CHRIST, PHINEAS! YOU’RE LIKE A BULL IN A CHINA SHOP!” But, again, nothing. Phineas thus read out loud the article about Rex Gunther’s death in the local paper, which had reprinted the story it had gotten from the reputable Biloxi Daily Bugle.
Biloxi, Mississippi: An eighteen-year-old Private was found dead in his barracks on the morning of February 20. A preliminary investigation indicated that he may have been the victim of foul play, but after a two-day inquiry officials have concluded that it was a suicide.
The deceased, Rex Gunther of Holly, New Hampshire, was found last Friday by three fellow Privates who live in the same barracks.
There are, as of now, unsubstantiated reports that the dead Private was an hermaphrodite, which at first led to speculation that this was a hate-driven crime. Yet the Army is withholding a statement of cause of death, stating that it is too graphic to print. A source does say, however, that the cause of death was brutal self-mutilation.
U.S. Army Major Stanley Zabrisky, interviewed yesterday afternoon, said, “Our hearts go out to that young man’s family. This was a tragic event for all involved, including the brave young cadets who found him in the barracks.”
Private Owen Anderson, one of the three cadets who found Gunther on Friday morning, was still visibly shaken. He had this to say: “He was okay. Quiet and to himself. You know how it is with some people. We all wanted to be friends with him. I guess he just had issues. I said that to my buddy Zach, who was with me when we found him just lying there. He said that we should have done more.”
The two other Privates who found Gunther were not available for comment, and the Army has not released their names.
Suddenly Sister Ignatius remarked, “That boy didn’t commit suicide, Phineas, and you know it.”
The priest put his hand on her shoulder. She looked at him with careworn eyes, and they both got up from the table. As they made their way back to the rectory, Sister Ignatius thought of all the times she had called their ward “Two-Sex Rex” and how guilty she now felt.
“There’s nothing we can do to bring back the dead,” she said to Phineas as they reached the halfway point to the Benson house. “And it makes things so much harder when you have as much regret as I do. I was mean to that kid, more than he deserved.”
Phineas took Ellen’s hand and rubbed as if warming it up after a long snowball fight. “How can you say that?” he said. “You loved Rex.”
“I said things to him,” she replied.
“He forgives you.”
“He’s dead, Phineas. HE’S DEAD!”
“I know that, darling.”
“So stop talking about him as if he’s still in the land of the living! He’s gone, and neither you nor I can ever change that!” She snatched her hand away from his and ran the rest of the way to the Benson house. Even when she’d reached the farthest point from him, Father Poole could hear her sobbing.
“Stop that!” Jessie shouted to Billy Norwin, who was watching her get dressed in the rectory’s upstairs bathroom. “FATHER FIN! SISTER!” she shouted.
“I’m not lookin’ at you,” Billy protested. “I mean, hell! There ain’t nuttin’ much to look at! Just a couple of tiny lumps.”
Jessie liked Billy a lot, though he was nearly five months younger but seemed at least two years older. He was tall with wavy blond hair and green eyes. Although she didn’t want to admit it, Jessie knew that her best friend, Sue Ellen, also liked Billy.
Jessie had told Father Fin and Sister once or twice that she envied the two of them. Although they seemed like two lonely sorts, the two still shared the same birthday. “You both at least have that in common,” Jessie told them on her twelfth birthday. “I have no common blood.”
What she meant by “common blood” Phineas and Sister Ignatius didn’t know and didn’t ask. They were content with the way things were, and Jessie was happy living with them on Holly Hill along with her ever-changing cohort of siblings. Yet Jessie always reminded Father Poole and Sister Ignatius that she had no delusions about them being her parents. She knew who her parents were, and she had kept a picture of them over her bed ever since she was a little girl. That had been S
ister’s idea.
Jessie kissed the image every night before going to bed, saying “Goodnight, Mom and Dad. I love you both.” On her birthday every year since she was seven, she’d add, “Tonight, when I blew out my candles, I wished that you two were alive again.” This she said every June 5th.
She also repeated it on her fifteenth birthday. She had been playing stickball behind the rectory, and as Jessie slid home her shirt tore. She went inside to change. Billy went in too, wanting to urinate. As they raced each other up the stairs, Jessie made it into the second-floor bathroom first.
After washing her face, Jessie thought that she would have been better off wearing mittens and a coat. Maybe then Billy Norwin wouldn’t have noticed her small breasts. And just maybe she wouldn’t have an ugly cut on her face that might make Billy Norwin look at Sue Ellen instead of her.
When she swung the door open, Billy was standing there, steadily observing her. She said nothing to him but raised her chin and walked grandly past him.
Swell was back on the hill by 3:30. She had made her way from Wheelwright Academy to the front door of the rectory in eighteen minutes. She brought two things with her, a gift for Jessie’s fifteenth birthday and news that she was in love.
At the rectory Father Poole smiled as he greeted her.
“Hi, Father Fin,” said Swell. “Is Jessie here?”
“She’s out back with the boys.”
“Okay. Thanks!”
“What have you got there?” asked the cleric.
“It’s a present for Jessie.”
“Oh, that’s so nice of you, Sue Ellen.”
It was a small box wrapped in colorful red paper, with a green bow on it. As he closed the front door, Father Poole thought that it might have been Christmas wrapping paper and a bow left over from the holidays.
Swell headed to the back of the rectory, where she heard screams and laughter. As she rounded the building’s corner, she saw movement in the bushes. She stopped for a closer look. It was little Ziggy, who jumped out at her and roared as best he could.
Embracing Darkness Page 35
