In Love and Trouble

by Alice Walker

  “Ten dollars for one area, twenty for two,” said Tante Rosie.

  “Make it the mouth,” said Mrs. Kemhuff. “That is what I see most vividly in my dreams.” She laid a ten-dollar bill in the lap of Tante Rosie.

  “Let me explain what we will do,” said Tante Rosie, coming near the woman and speaking softly to her, as a doctor would speak to a patient. “First we will make a potion that has a long history of use in our profession. It is a mixture of hair and nail parings of the person in question, a bit of their water and feces, a piece of their clothing heavy with their own scents, and I think in this case we might as well add a pinch of goober dust; that is, dust from the graveyard. This woman will not outlive you by more than six months.”

  I had thought the two women had forgotten about me, but now Tante Rosie turned to me and said, “You will have to go out to Mrs. Kemhuff’s house. She will have to be instructed in the recitation of the curse-prayer. You will show her how to dress the black candles and how to pay Death for his interception in her behalf.”

  Then she moved over to the shelf that held her numerous supplies: oils of Bad and Good Luck Essence, dried herbs, creams, powders, and candles. She took two large black candles and placed them in Mrs. Kemhuff’s hands. She also gave her a small bag of powder and told her to burn it on her table (as an altar) while she was praying the curse-prayer. I was to show Mrs. Kemhuff how to “dress” the candles in vinegar so they would be purified for her purpose.

  She told Mrs. Kemhuff that each morning and evening for nine days she was to light the candles, burn the powder, recite the curse-prayer from her knees and concentrate all her powers on getting her message through to Death and the Man-God. As far as the Supreme Mother of Us All was concerned, She could only be moved by the pleas of the Man-God. Tante Rosie herself would recite the curse-prayer at the same time that Mrs. Kemhuff did, and together she thought the two prayers, prayed with respect, could not help but move the Man-God, who, in turn, would unchain Death who would already be eager to come down on the little moppet. But her death would be slow in coming because first the Man-God had to hear all of the prayers.

  “We will take those parts of herself that we collect, the feces, water, nail parings, et cetera, and plant them where they will bring for you the best results. Within a year’s time the earth will be rid of the woman herself, even as almost immediately you will be rid of her grin. Do you want something else for only two dollars that will make you feel happy even today?” asked Tante Rosie.

  But Mrs. Kemhuff shook her head. “I’m carefree enough already, knowing that her end will be before another year. As for happiness, it is something that deserts you once you know it can be bought and sold. I will not live to see the end result of your work, Tante Rosie, but my grave will fit nicer, having someone proud again who has righted a wrong and by so doing lies straight and proud throughout eternity.”

  And Mrs. Kemhuff turned and left, bearing herself grandly out of the room. It was as if she had regained her youth; her shawls were like a stately toga, her white hair seemed to sparkle.

  2

  To The Man God: O great One, I have been sorely tried by my enemies and have been blasphemed and lied against. My good thoughts and my honest actions have been turned to bad actions and dishonest ideas. My home has been disrespected, my children have been cursed and ill-treated. My dear ones have been backbitten and their virtue questioned. O Man God, I beg that this that I ask for my enemies shall come to pass:

  That the South wind shall scorch their bodies and make them wither and shall not be tempered to them. That the North wind shall freeze their blood and numb their muscles and that it shall not be tempered to them. That the West wind shall blow away their life’s breath and will not leave their hair grow, and that their fingernails shall fall off and their bones shall crumble. That the East wind shall make their minds grow dark, their sight shall fail and their seed dry up so that they shall not multiply.

  I ask that their fathers and mothers from their furtherest generation will not intercede for them before the great throne, and the wombs of their women shall not bear fruit except for strangers, and that they shall become extinct. I pray that the children who may come shall be weak of mind and paralyzed of limb and that they themselves shall curse them in their turn for ever turning the breath of life into their bodies. I pray that disease and death shall be forever with them and that their worldly goods shall not prosper, and that their crops shall not multiply and that their cows, their sheep, and their hogs and all their living beasts shall die of starvation and thirst. I pray that their house shall be unroofed and that the rain, the thunder and lightning shall find the innermost recesses of their home and that the foundation shall crumble and the floods tear it asunder. I pray that the sun shall not shed its rays on them in benevolence, but instead it shall beat down on them and burn them and destroy them. I pray that the moon shall not give them peace, but instead shall deride them and decry them and cause their minds to shrivel. I pray that their friends shall betray them and cause them loss of power, of gold and of silver, and that their enemies shall smite them until they beg for mercy which shall not be given them. I pray that their tongues shall forget how to speak in sweet words, and that it shall be paralyzed and that all about them will be desolation, pestilence and death. O Man God, I ask you for all these things because they have dragged me in the dust and destroyed my good name; broken my heart and caused me to curse the day that I was born. So be it.

  This curse-prayer was regularly used and taught by rootworkers, but since I did not know it by heart, as Tante Rosie did, I recited it straight from Zora Neale Hurston’s book, Mules and Men, and Mrs. Kemhuff and I learned it on our knees together. We were soon dressing the candles in vinegar, lighting them, kneeling and praying—intoning the words rhythmically—as if we had been doing it this way for years. I was moved by the fervor with which Mrs. Kemhuff prayed. Often she would clench her fists before her closed eyes and bite the insides of her wrists as the women do in Greece.

  3

  According to courthouse records Sarah Marie Sadler, “the little moppet,” was born in 1910. She was in her early twenties during the Depression. In 1932 she married Ben Jonathan Holley, who later inherited a small chain of grocery stores and owned a plantation and an impressive stand of timber. In the spring of 1963, Mrs. Holley was fifty-three years old. She was the mother of three children, a boy and two girls; the boy a floundering clothes salesman, the girls married and oblivious, mothers themselves.

  The elder Holleys lived six miles out in the country, their house was large, and Mrs. Holley’s hobbies were shopping for antiques, gossiping with colored women, discussing her husband’s health and her children’s babies, and making spoon bread. I was able to glean this much from the drunken ramblings of the Holleys’ cook, a malevolent nanny with gout, who had raised, in her prime, at least one tan Holley, a preacher whom the Holleys had sent to Morehouse.

  “I bet I could get the nanny to give us all the information and nail parings we could ever use,” I said to Tante Rosie. For the grumpy woman drank muscatel like a sow and clearly hated Mrs. Holley. However, it was hard to get her tipsy enough for truly revealing talk and we were quickly running out of funds.

  “That’s not the way,” Tante Rosie said one evening as she sat in her car and watched me lead the nanny out of the dreary but secret-evoking recesses of the Six Forks Bar. We had already spent six dollars on muscatel.

  “You can’t trust gossips or drunks,” said Tante Rosie. “You let the woman we are working on give you everything you need, and from her own lips.”

  “But that is the craziest thing I have ever heard,” I said. “How can I talk to her about putting a fix on her without making her mad, or maybe even scaring her to death?”

  Tante Rosie merely grunted.

  “Rule number one. OBSERVATION OF SUBJECT. Write that down among your crumpled notes.”

  “In other words—?”

  “Be direct, but not blunt.�
�

  On my way to the Holley plantation I came up with the idea of pretending to be searching for a fictitious person. Then I had an even better idea. I parked Tante Rosie’s Bonneville at the edge of the spacious yard, which was dotted with mimosas and camellias. Tante Rosie had insisted I wear a brilliant orange robe and as I walked it swished and blew about my legs. Mrs. Holley was on the back patio steps, engaged in conversation with a young and beautiful black girl. They stared in amazement at the length and brilliance of my attire.

  “Mrs. Holley, I think it’s time for me to go,” said the girl.

  “Don’t be silly,” said the matronly Mrs. Holley. “She is probably just a light-skinned African who is on her way somewhere and got lost.” She nudged the black girl in the ribs and they both broke into giggles.

  “How do you do?” I asked.

  “Just fine, how you?” said Mrs. Holley, while the black girl looked on askance. They had been talking with their heads close together and stood up together when I spoke.

  “I am looking for a Josiah Henson”—a runaway slave and the original Uncle Tom in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel, I might have added. “Could you tell me if he lives on your place?”

  “That name sounds awful familiar,” said the black girl.

  “Are you the Mrs. Holley?” I asked gratuitously, while Mrs. Holley was distracted. She was sure she had never heard the name.

  “Of course,” she said, and smiled, pleating the side of her dress. She was a grayish blonde with an ashen untanned face, and her hands were five blunt and pampered fingers each. “And this is my … ah … my friend, Caroline Williams.”

  Caroline nodded curdy.

  “Somebody told me ole Josiah might be out this way. …”

  “Well, we hadn’t seen him,” said Mrs. Holley. “We were just here shelling some peas, enjoying this nice sunshine.”

  “Are you a light African?” asked Caroline.

  “No,” I said. “I work with Tante Rosie, the rootworker. I’m learning the profession.”

  “Whatever for?” asked Mrs. Holley. “I would have thought a nice-looking girl like yourself could find a better way to spend her time. I been hearing about Tante Rosie since I was a little bitty child, but everybody always said that rootworking was just a whole lot of n——, I mean colored foolishness. Of course we don’t believe in that kind of thing, do we, Caroline?”

  “Naw.”

  The younger woman put a hand on the older woman’s arm, possessively, as if to say “You get away from here, bending my white folks’ ear with your crazy mess!” From the kitchen window a dark remorseful face worked itself into various messages of “Go away!” It was the drunken nanny.

  “I wonder if you would care to prove you do not believe in rootworking?”

  “Prove?” said the white woman indignantly.

  “Prove?” asked the black woman with scorn.

  “That is the word,” I said.

  “Why, not that I’m afraid of any of this nigger magic!” said Mrs. Holley staunchly, placing a reassuring hand on Caroline’s shoulder. I was the nigger, not she.

  “In that case won’t you show us how much you don’t have fear of it.” With the word us I placed Caroline in the same nigger category with me. Let her smolder! Now Mrs. Holley stood alone, the great white innovator and scientific scourge, forced to man the Christian fort against heathen nigger paganism.

  “Of course, if you like,” she said immediately, drawing herself up in the best English manner. Stiff upper lip, what? and all that. She had been grinning throughout. Now she covered her teeth with her scant two lips and her face became flat and resolute. Like so many white women in sections of the country where the race was still “pure” her mouth could have been formed by the minute slash of a thin sword.

  “Do you know a Mrs. Hannah Lou Kemhuff?” I asked.

  “No I do not.”

  “She is not white, Mrs. Holley, she is black.”

  “Hannah Lou, Hannah Lou …do we know a Hannah Lou?” she asked, turning to Caroline.

  “No, ma’am, we don’t!” said Caroline.

  “Well, she knows you. Says she met you on the bread lines during the Depression and that because she was dressed up you wouldn’t give her any corn meal. Or red beans. Or something like that.”

  “Bread lines, Depression, dressed up, corn meal? … I don’t know what you’re talking about!” No shaft of remembrance probed the depths of what she had done to colored people more than twenty years ago.

  “It doesn’t really matter, since you don’t believe … but she says you did her wrong, and being a good Christian, she believes all wrongs are eventually righted in the Lord’s good time. She came to us for help only when she began to feel the Lord’s good time might be too far away. Because we do not deal in the work of unmerited destruction, Tante Rosie and I did not see how we could take the case.” I said this humbly, with as much pious intonation as I could muster.

  “Well, I’m glad,” said Mrs. Holley, who had been running through the back years on her fingers.

  “But,” I said, “we told her what she could do to bring about restitution of peaceful spirit, which she claimed you robbed her of in a moment during which, as is now evident, you were not concerned. You were getting married the following spring.”

  “That was ’32,” said Mrs. Holley. “Hannah Lou?”

  “The same.”

  “How black was she? Sometimes I can recall colored faces that way.”

  “That is not relevant,” I said, “since you do not believe. …”

  “Well of course I don’t believe!” said Mrs. Holley.

  “I am nothing in this feud between you,” I said. “Neither is Tante Rosie. Neither of us had any idea until after Mrs. Kemhuff left that you were the woman she spoke of. We are familiar with the deep and sincere interest you take in the poor colored children at Christmastime each year. We know you have gone out of your way to hire needy people to work on your farm. We know you have been an example of Christian charity and a beacon force of brotherly love. And right before my eyes I can see it is true you have Negro friends.”

  “Just what is it you want?” asked Mrs. Holley.

  “What Mrs. Kemhuff wants are some nail parings, not many, just a few; some hair (that from a comb will do), some water and some feces—and if you don’t feel like doing either number one or number two, I will wait—and a bit of clothing, something that you have worn in the last year. Something with some of your odor on it.”

  “What!” Mrs. Holley screeched.

  “They say this combination, with the right prayers, can eat away part of a person just like the disease that ruins so much fine antique pewter.”

  Mrs. Holley blanched. With a motherly fluttering of hands Caroline helped her into a patio chair.

  “Go get my medicine,” said Mrs. Holley, and Caroline started from the spot like a gazelle.

  “Git away from here! Git away!”

  I spun around just in time to save my head from a whack with a gigantic dust mop. It was the drunken nanny, drunk no more, flying to the defense of her mistress.

  “She just a tramp and a phony!” she reassured Mrs. Holley, who was caught up in an authentic faint.

  4

  Not long after I saw Mrs. Holley, Hannah Kemhuff was buried. Tante Rosie and I followed the casket to the cemetery. Tante Rosie most elegant in black. Then we made our way through briers and grass to the highway. Mrs. Kemhuff rested in a tangly grove, off to herself, though reasonably near her husband and babies. Few people came to the funeral, which made the faces of Mrs. Holley’s nanny and husband stand out all the more plainly. They had come to verify the fact that this dead person was indeed the Hannah Lou Kemhuff whom Mr. Holley had initiated a search for, having the entire county militia at his disposal.

  Several months later we read in the paper that Sarah Marie Sadler Holley had also passed away. The paper spoke of her former beauty and vivacity, as a young woman, and of her concern for those less fortunate
than herself as a married woman and pillar of the community and her church. It spoke briefly of her harsh and lengthy illness. It said all who knew her were sure her soul would find peace in heaven, just as her shrunken body had endured so much pain and heartache here on earth. Caroline had kept us up to date on the decline of Mrs. Holley. After my visit, relations between them became strained and Mrs. Holley eventually became too frightened of Caroline’s darkness to allow her close to her. A week after I’d talked to them Mrs. Holley began having her meals in her bedroom upstairs. Then she started doing everything else there as well. She collected stray hairs from her head and comb with the greatest attention and consistency, not to say desperation. She ate her fingernails. But the most bizarre of all was her response to Mrs. Kemhuff’s petition for a specimen of feces and water. Not trusting any longer the earthen secrecy of the water mains, she no longer flushed. Together with the nanny Mrs. Holley preferred to store those relics of what she ate (which became almost nothing and then nothing, the nanny had told Caroline) and they kept it all in barrels and plastic bags in the upstairs closets. In a few weeks it became impossible for anyone to endure the smell of the house, even Mrs. Holley’s husband, who loved her but during the weeks before her death slept in a spare room of the nanny’s house.

  The mouth that had grinned behind the hands grinned no more. The constant anxiety lest a stray strand of hair be lost and the foul odor of the house soon brought to the hands a constant seeking motion, to the eyes a glazed and vacant stare, and to the mouth a tightly puckered frown, one which only death might smooth.

  The Welcome Table

  for sister Clara Ward

  I’m going to sit at the Welcome table

  Shout my troubles over

  Walk and talk with Jesus

  Tell God how you treat me

  One of these days!

  —Spiritual

  THE OLD WOMAN STOOD with eyes uplifted in her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes: high shoes polished about the tops and toes, a long rusty dress adorned with an old corsage, long withered, and the remnants of an elegant silk scarf as headrag stained with grease from the many oily pigtails underneath. Perhaps she had known suffering. There was a dazed and sleepy look in her aged blue-brown eyes. But for those who searched hastily for “reasons” in that old tight face, shut now like an ancient door, there was nothing to be read. And so they gazed nakedly upon their own fear transferred; a fear of the black and the old, a terror of the unknown as well as of the deeply known. Some of those who saw her there on the church steps spoke words about her that were hardly fit to be heard, others held their pious peace; and some felt vague stirrings of pity, small and persistent and hazy, as if she were an old collie turned out to die.