Jilo

by J. D. Horn

  It wasn’t a desire to confess to her sin. She couldn’t bring herself to see what she had done as a sin. She loved Professor Ward. Lionel. She believed he loved her, too. He had told her so. Many times. The first back in June, shortly after the last day of the term, right before he left for a month in New York. His revelation had come as a surprise. An even a greater shock was the realization that her own feelings for Lionel went beyond those of student and mentor.

  And she had no intent of claiming him, of flouncing their love in Mrs. Ward’s face. Jilo’s love for Lionel, and his for her, was a different kind of love. Spiritual. It didn’t need the bonds or trappings of traditional marriage to make it holy.

  They had spoken of it often. Their love didn’t need the approval of society or the God it had fabricated to keep the fearful in check. Their love was modern. Unbound by law and tradition. So it didn’t matter that another woman shared Lionel’s name, even if he regretted ever forging that bond. His love for Jilo was somehow more real, more pure, free as it was from any claims of ownership.

  Lionel had married too young by his own admission, and though he’d made his vows in good faith, he was no longer the young man who’d pledged himself body and soul to his wife. Besides, his wife was a completely different woman than she’d led him to believe. Now, as a mature man, Lionel dreamed of casting off the bondage of conventionality. Fleeing the proper world that had him trapped and heading out into the world of the liberated mind. And yes, he wanted to take Jilo with him. According to him, it was only Mrs. Ward’s fragile health that kept him bound to her.

  They had danced around the act for months. A touch of the hands. A brush of his lips against hers. She hadn’t expected it to happen the way it had, so quickly. But after so many months of holding back, his hands had suddenly been all over her. His need had flared up with a shocking intensity. And while she’d imagined it differently, he seemed to have planned the whole thing from start to finish—his wife was with her sister on a train to Tuskegee, and there had been a supply of prophylactics at hand. He had chosen, she realized, to take advantage of his temporary freedom. She only wished he would have discussed it with her first. Perhaps then the experience wouldn’t have felt so—she searched her heart for the right word—sordid.

  And then there was the way he had acted afterward . . . She’d given him what he wanted. Willingly. But the way his eyes had failed to meet hers after the fact had left her feeling . . . well, if not sinful, soiled. Damaged. Was he disappointed? Had she disappointed him?

  After leaving his house, she had set out walking, and something had brought her here, to Five Points Baptist. She nearly turned toward home, but the same thing that had brought her this far tugged at her again. Without precisely meaning to, she climbed up the concrete steps, nearly stumbling in her hurry.

  She reached for the door’s large brass pull, her hand feeling small and cold as she grasped ahold of it and opened the door. The scent of worn hymnals and an overabundance of furniture polish administered lovingly by the ladies’ council nearly overwhelmed her.

  Not for the first time, it struck her that the interior of the church somewhat resembled a theater. The pulpit and choir loft shared a raised stage, with a curved apron that Pastor Jones would strut back and forth over when he got himself worked up in his preaching. A set of stairs ran down each side of the stage, and the altar was situated between the rise of the apron and the first row of pews. Jilo walked down the aisle and took a seat in the third row.

  The church only had a single stained-glass window, set into its eastern wall. From her schooling, Jilo understood the chemistry behind the glass’s rich colors. Nickel or perhaps copper oxide would have been used to create the blues of the sky. Beams of silver nitrate light touched the white cross made of tin oxide and arsenic—strange that something so deadly could create such beauty. Iron and chromium combined for the green grass in which the cross was planted. A white dove hovered above. Across the arms of the cross was draped a cloth, stained brilliant red with selenium and cadmium rather than the messiah’s blood.

  Still, even though she understood the chemistry behind the vivid colors, whenever the sun lit up the window, its beauty touched her. The pastor would say the sight was touching her soul. But no, she reminded herself, the voice in her head sounding more like Lionel’s than her own, it was chemistry that created the hues, and biological chemistry that created her emotional reaction to them.

  Normally she prided herself on her ability to see beyond superstition and emotionality, but today, she felt empty and alone. Though she wished she could allow herself to take comfort from patently absurd beliefs, she’d seen too many folk come to her nana out of desperation and a desire for magic. Nana had never come right out and admitted it, but she would always give a knowing smile whenever Jilo asked if any of it were real. No, Jilo didn’t want to build her world on superstitions. She cared only for what she could touch. What she could measure.

  It didn’t matter now anyway. The sun slanted down from the west, no longer imbuing the window with colored light, taking even that small pleasure from her.

  The church was mostly silent, but she knew she wasn’t alone. A small room sat off to the right of the pulpit. A squeaking sound from within betrayed the pastor’s presence.

  He kept a room at home for prayer, study, and—as Jilo could well testify—the occasional disciplinary discussion with the young women who lived beneath his roof. The office he kept here was where he wore his public face, tending to his flock and advising them in their times of trouble. Yes, as with all men, there were two sides to Pastor Jones—the public and the private. As much as Jilo resented him at times, she held it to his credit that the side he showed to the public was, if anything, less perfect than the one he showed at home. He saved his best for those closest to him. That grudging respect was tempered by the annoyance she felt toward this man. So why, out of all the places on God’s green earth—she paused a moment to ponder her odd choice of words—when she felt her lowest and most confused, had she been drawn to the one place he was certain to be?

  The squeak sounded again, and Jilo could make out the rumble of a chair’s coasters gliding across a wooden floor. She raised her eyes to look at him the moment he came to the doorway. If his face had shown the slightest surprise at her presence, if he had asked what she was doing there, why she’d come, she would have jumped up and bounded down the aisle. But he said nothing, and his expression struck her as one of quiet relief, the lines on his face smoothing at the sight of her. He came down the steps, and after standing off to the side for a moment, circled around and took a seat on the pew behind her.

  “I see you girls as my children, you know. We both do, Sally and I.” He rarely referred to his wife by her Christian name, preferring to speak of her as Mrs. Jones, like she was an extension of himself rather than a person in her own right. “I shudder to think of where I’d be without my Sally,” he said, almost as if reading her mind. “I could no more do without her than without . . . well, let’s just say that without her, I doubt that I would be.” A moment of silence passed between them, but it was nothing like the angry awkwardness of the times they’d spent sitting across from each other with locked horns.

  “When she found me,” he continued, “I was a broken man. I know what it means to be as low as a man can get and still draw breath. The White King,” Jilo’s ears pricked up at the name, as she used to hear folk whisper about the “kings” from time to time back in Savannah. She had no idea how such an odd bit of superstition could have gotten its start. “He nearly had me. But Mrs. Jones, she found me, and she patched the pieces of this raggedy man back together.”

  He fell silent, and for a moment, Jilo felt as tempted as Lot’s wife to cast a backward glance. “I know you think I am behind the times,” he finally said. “A creature of another era. I understand. In your shoes, at your age, well, undoubtedly I would have seen myself in the same light. It’s right that the young move us forward. It’s necessary. Bu
t sometimes that desire to buck the past can be dangerous and reckless. If I seem to hold on to my ideals too tightly, know that it is because I have walked up many a slippery hill. However you see me, remember this when you are appraising my character; I’m not a strong man, but I do care for you. I would like to think that in time, you’ll come to see that. I hate that we so often find ourselves facing off like adversaries.”

  Jilo didn’t look back, but she nodded in agreement. This time she wasn’t tempted to turn. Speaking face-to-face might break the fragile spell that seemed to hold them in this place of peace, of understanding. “Why didn’t you?” she said, then, realizing that her thought had been elliptical, added, “Have children. Of your own, I mean.”

  His reply came slowly, causing Jilo to fear she’d overstepped, but then he sighed. “We tried to have children, Sally and I, but it wasn’t His will.” The pew behind her moaned as he shifted his weight. “I know she blames herself, but I think . . .” He paused. “Well, you’d think I was crazy if I told you what I think.” The pew moaned again, this time with greater vehemence. Jilo realized he was standing, and she spun around. Without quite meaning to, she clasped his hand. For a fearful moment their eyes met, but she felt at peace with him, and judging from the way he relaxed back onto the pew, he seemed to feel the same way.

  “What do you care what a silly girl like me thinks anyway?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “You might be surprised by how much I care.” He leaned a bit forward. “And you’re not a silly girl. You’re an intelligent young woman. A headstrong young woman . . .” he started, but held up his hands and laughed when she pursed her lips and looked down her nose at him. “You are very much like the daughter I imagine I might have had, if I had been so blessed.” She returned his smile.

  What would her father have thought of this man as her guardian? Nana Wills had certainly approved, so she figured Jesse Wills would’ve, too. Her thoughts turned dark. What would her father have thought of Lionel? She knew what Nana would think. She’d kill him if she found out what they’d done.

  The pastor leaned back and draped his arm over the back of the pew. “I always knew I wanted to preach the word of God. Ever since I was a little boy.” He bit his lip and squinted at her. “You see, I knew I had been called . . . chosen, if you will. Many in this world are filled with doubt, but not I, ’cause I know there is something out there. The grace of God has allowed me to see with my own eyes what others perceive through faith.” The corners of his mouth twitched up into a nervous smile. “I’ve seen His angels,” he said, “I’ve been taken up by angels. And well, they changed me. I think they did things to prevent me from becoming a father. To ensure I could concentrate on spreading the word.”

  Jilo blinked with surprise, but bit her tongue.

  “See, you do think I’m crazy.”

  She weighed her words before speaking. “No, I don’t think that. I do think that when we’re children, we can have dreams that seem very real to us.” She laughed. “I once dreamed that my big sister Poppy tried to eat my baby sister. Took days for my nana to convince me it’d only been a dream.”

  He nodded, a sad expression washing over his face. “Yes, I understand what you say is true, but these visitations, they happened more than once.” He lowered his gaze, as if he didn’t want to see her response. “Still do from time to time. I see their holy light, and I am taken up”—he raised his hands and waved them in praise—“ ‘whether in the body, or out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth;’ Second Corinthians, chapter twelve, verse three,” he quoted, his reference to the good book causing his voice to lift and take on the animated quality it had when he was preaching. But then his voice fell flat and came out in a whisper. “They’ve shown me things, things to come on this earth. Clouds of fire rising up from the earth to the sky. Death and destruction like this world has never known, with only a remnant to survive.”

  He leaned forward, clenching the back of her pew, and she felt herself leaning away from him. “ ‘And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see.’ And I did, for they gave me no choice. I turned my head. I sought to avert my gaze. But no matter where I looked, it was the same. Stretched out before me was a desolate wasteland. Everywhere, fire and wind, and the seas burned clean away.” His voice trailed off, and his face turned ashen as his eyes looked out into nothingness. “Not even Mrs. Jones knows any of this.” His eyes turned toward her, a flicker of some dawning awareness in them.

  He shook his head. Pushing against the pew, he rose to his feet. “Please forget I’ve said any of this.” He towered over her, slowly regaining control of himself, and raised his hand to his temple. “I spend too much time contemplating things that are not of this world. Perhaps you’re correct. Perhaps I let my imagination carry me away. Just forget my nonsense.”

  But then his expression changed again, and the wide-eyed fright melted away into a mask of nearly paternal disappointment. His chest rose and fell, and he reached out and placed his hand along her jaw. She felt the urge to look away, but he turned her face up so that her eyes met his. “But another seal has been broken.”

  FIVE

  May 1953

  “I’d like to thank you for joining us today, Miss Wills,” said the dean of students, Lewis Washington, looking over his spectacles at her like he was considering a slug he’d just uncovered in a prize flowerbed. The wooden smile he forced to his lips came too late to sweeten the tone that underlay his words. He sat facing her, his substantial desk forming an effective barrier between them. The office’s other chairs had been pulled into a straight line, stretching out from her left side to the ominously closed door.

  These other seats had been filled by Jane Temple, the school registrar, Professor Charles, head professor of chemistry, and Lionel. She forced herself to think of him as Professor Ward lest she make a slip and an untoward familiarity show through. Graduation was less than six weeks away, and she was counting on recommendations from him and the others with him. “It’s an honor, sir,” she said.

  Dean Washington smiled again, though this time the expression struck her as sincere. He looked from side to side, giving both professors and Miss Temple a look that seemed to tell them that they could relax, that there would be no trouble here. He leaned back in his large leather wingback chair, turning a bit to the side, and folded his hands on his round stomach. “I have been looking over your records, Miss Wills, and I have to tell you that I am impressed.” He spun the chair back to the center, not taking his eyes from her or his hands off his gut. “Your achievements here have indeed been outstanding.”

  He stared at her, his face beaming with benevolence, and rocked in his chair, seeming to await a response. “Thank you, sir,” she said a moment after the silence began to feel heavy.

  No longer rocking, he leaned forward and planted his hand on his desk, his stomach reaching out to touch its drawer. “Such a fine young lady,” he said, looking first at Charles and then at Ward.

  Professor Charles must have read the comment as an invitation to speak. “One of the finest students I have ever had the pleasure to teach.”

  Somehow his words affected her more than the dean’s compliment. Winning this man’s approval meant a lot to her. Jilo blushed and lowered her head.

  “Don’t you agree, Lionel?” Dean Washington asked.

  Lionel—Professor Ward’s lips curled into a smooth smile. “Unequaled.” Jilo glanced over at him, wishing that he still looked at her in private the way he regarded her now. Although their affair had continued, he no longer volunteered the words, “I love you.” When pressed, he would offer her, “You should know that I do,” but he grew cooler with each passing day. He cited pressures from work—although Jilo had begun to write and grade the exams for his courses over a year and a half ago, long before the physical aspect of their love had begun to be expressed. He blamed his wife’s continued declining health, alth
ough Mrs. Ward had begun to spend more time at her sister’s home than her own. He spoke with resentment of Jilo’s “clinginess”—explaining her own insecurities as the reason he had begun to pull away.

  Last week Jilo had spotted Jeannette Walker, a freshman, a pretty girl with an hourglass shape and a secondhand intellect, carrying Professor Ward’s copy of Leaves of Grass. With a singular lack of care, she had left it deserted on a picnic table outside the auditorium with heavy clouds building overhead. Jilo had rescued it . . . and then watched later as the panicked girl returned, frantically seeking to retrieve that which she had so callously abandoned. It wasn’t stealing. This book belonged to Jilo now. She’d earned it.

  Lionel had used this book as a tool to seduce her, and she had paid for it with her flesh. With her heart. The words “the embrace of love and resistance,” haunted her now, for they seemed to have divined the course of the affair, understanding it in a way Jilo herself only did now that she’d witnessed its full fruition. “I sing the body electric,” Ward had quoted, “The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them,” he’d continued, pressing her back into the wall as he leaned one arm forward to brace himself and wrapped a leg around hers. He’d held them locked together like that, his lips hovering a mere hairsbreadth from her own, as he spoke in a soft whisper the remainder of the stanza. That moment. Yes, it was precisely then that she had fallen in love with him. “You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.” A gate he now shunned in favor of a new portal.

  “Unequaled,” she heard her own voice repeat Professor Ward’s appraisal of her, using the word as an agreement, a pledge, a threat, and a promise all rolled into one. A worry line creased his forehead, but other than that he remained cool. Perhaps for the first time, she saw him completely—not as her love, not as the mate who completed her, but as a vain and aging man. A seaman whose sextant had enabled him to navigate this course many times before; an actor who’d returned again and again to the same role, employing the same props for each performance. “You’re far too kind. I’m sure you’ve known many like me before.”