The Sacred Place

by Daniel Black

  Sarah Jane’s father was the second child, a shy, quiet youngster who never bothered anybody. Named Jeremiah, Jr., folks called him Jerry when they called him at all. Sometimes days would pass before he’d utter a single word, and that was usually to his dog Pete. From a distance, his father watched him hold hourly conversations with Pete, crying and laughing as the dog seemingly did the same. Jerry’s navy blue-black complexion put off most colored folks, so Pete became his best (and sometimes his only) friend. Miss Mary reminded the boy constantly of his beauty, comparing his complexion to the midnight sky. Her exultations made Jerry smile and forgive others’ inability to see God in him. With large, puppy-dog eyes, a soft nature, and eyelashes longer than any woman’s, he caused many to wonder why such gorgeous features were cloaked under layers of diabolical blackness. Most rejected him as awkward-looking and smiled condescendingly. Seldom speaking in return, he was often thought impertinent and disrespectful.

  “What’s wrong wit dat boy, Miss Mary?” folks asked.

  She would smile softly, and return, “Nothin’. He jes know when other folks is full o’ shit.”

  Of course no one dared proceed, for Miss Mary was known to fight like a pinned bull to protect her children. “He be all right,” she assured people defensively.

  Jerry proved to be the smartest boy the Black school in Money ever graduated. At five, he already knew his times tables and could outread most of the fifteen-year-olds. The high yellow teacher searched Jerry’s exams desperately for errors, believing it impossible that a jet-black, poor country boy could be that smart, yet, finding few errors, she scribbled “A” on his papers in disgust and disdain. When called forth to read, he would simply stand and speak with an authority unknown to children—or adults for that matter—in rural Mississippi. The eloquence of his tongue, the confidence flowing from his demeanor, and the pride with which he held his shoulders made him at once the envy and the admiration of children who never imagined God to grant anybody Black such academic prowess. Jerry never thought of himself as different or gifted though. Actually, he was often depressed that his schoolwork was subpar, in his estimation, and troubled that others considered it so meticulous.

  After school, he never fellowshipped with other children, preferring to saunter through the woods with Pete and admire the brown, yellow, and golden leaves in the fall and gather wildflowers in the spring. Jeremiah thought something might be wrong with the boy, maybe that he needed a good whoopin’ or the love of Jesus Christ in his heart. But Miss Mary warned him not to lay a hand on Jerry or something bad would surely befall him. Jerry was a spirit child, she said, who had to be given space to be himself. “He don’t bother nobody, and ain’t nobody gon bother him,” she proclaimed. Jeremiah walked away, shaking his head.

  Late one April evening, a cottonmouth moccasin found its way into the barn-shack house and scared Miss Mary speechless. Hoping not to expose her utter fear of snakes, she froze, statuesque, and tried to remain calm. It was twelve-year-old Jerry who discovered his mother in the living room, staring at something that wouldn’t let her go. Following her gaze, he saw the three-inch-thick, black snake coiled in the middle of the floor as though claiming territory.

  “Don’t move, baby,” Miss Mary cried.

  Jerry approached the poisonous creature bravely and reached his small hand toward its head.

  “No!” his mother yelled, too afraid to rescue him.

  But Jerry proceeded, glancing at Miss Mary to assure her he was in no danger. Suddenly, the snake began to slither up his arm and curl around his neck. “It tickles,” he laughed heartily, and walked out the front door.

  Miss Mary followed in angst and wonder. She wanted to protest, planning the whoopin’ he was going to receive later, but in the moment, she was more intrigued than angry. Jerry led her to his scared place in the woods—a clearing deep in the middle of Old Man Chapman’s land—and whispered, “This is the Kingdom of God.”

  “Be careful, son,” was the best she could intone since Jerry provided no preamble for what was about to transpire.

  He uncoiled the snake from his neck and torso and gently placed it upon the earth. As it slithered away casually, Jerry said, “He won’t hurt you, Momma. He just got lost.” Miss Mary’s pretty mocha face was as pale as gardenia blossoms. She turned and ran home, weeping and gnashing her teeth, trying to convince herself she hadn’t seen what she had seen.

  “Now you stay put,” Jerry said in the direction of the snake. “Folks’ll hurt you if you get outta place.” He waved good-bye, then tried to ascertain how he’d explain this to his mother. Finding nothing to say, he decided to let God lead him.

  Miss Mary was sitting on the porch reading her Bible when Jerry returned.

  “It ain’t nothin’, Momma,” he mumbled, and sat on the lowest step just below her thick, flat feet.

  “It is somethin’,” she declared. “You got yo’self a gift, boy. I don’t know what de Lawd want wit chu, but He preparin’ you for somethin’.” She resumed reading and praying for understanding.

  In 1940, Jerry earned the first scholarship given to a Black boy from Money, Mississippi. He had never heard the word “Tougaloo” before, although the college was barely two hours away. The day before he left, his father advised, “Study hard, son, and make sho you mind dem teachas. A educated colored man git far in de world today.” He wanted to grab Jerry and hold him, yet Southern propriety insisted that he pat his son on the shoulder instead, hoping his touch alone conveyed the sentiment of his heart. Miss Mary, on the other hand, cried freely. A week before his departure, she dreamed about Jerry encountering a group of racist white men on the day of his college graduation. They took his mortarboard cap and stomped upon it.

  “You dat smart nigga from Money, ain’t cha?” they jeered.

  Jerry stared at them, unafraid.

  “Ain’t you gon say nothin’, nigger boy? Use some of dem big college words so we can see what you done learned.”

  Again, Jerry held his peace, waiting to see just how far these bigots would go. Attempting to walk away, he was overwhelmed with punches and kicks until, balled on the ground in a fetal position, he whimpered like Pete when Old Man Chapman ran over him.

  Miss Mary awakened and spent the rest of the night pleading with God to cover her baby with the blood of Jesus and to save him from hurt, harm, or danger.

  At Tougaloo, Jerry prospered. His stellar academic performance—3.8 first semester—made him a faculty favorite. The B came from Dr. Moore, a professor who swore Jerry stole the final exam for Biology 101 because no one had ever scored so perfectly on any of his tests. Unable to convince him otherwise, Jerry took the B as confirmation of his mother’s belief that, wherever you go, “somebody ain’t gon like you.” Other professors adored him. They bought him books, fed him, and encouraged his dream of becoming Money’s first Black doctor. However, upon graduation, Jerry returned to Money because Miss Mary’s health was deteriorating. She begged him to accept the scholarship to Howard University School of Medicine, but Jerry ignored her, spending his leisure time in The Sacred Place and doing everything possible to assist her healing.

  Billie Faye Moore started coming by often, hoping to take up with Jerry whom she had loved since childhood. Jerry liked her, too, but he had never thought about loving her.

  “I know you diff’rent, Jerry Johnson, and dat’s what I likes ’bout you,” Billie Faye told him one summer evening after his return. She had come by to check on Miss Mary, she said, but while she was there, she had a few choice words for Jerry, too.

  “You can ignore me if you want to, Mr. Jerry Johnson, but ain’t nobody never gone love you de way I do.” Billie Faye was known for being outspoken, bold, and absolutely unconcerned with what other folks thought. Still, people claimed she was the sweetest person de Good Lawd ever made. Her three hundred pounds did not hamper her self-confidence and, in fact, she carried her weight like one might a lethal weapon. Large, rounded hips and 44G breasts complemented each other and
functioned as armor for a rather delicate soul. Her perfectly round face boasted deep dimples and fat cheeks that shivered when she spoke, and her hair was always cut in a short afro. She often stood arms akimbo, even when laughing, and that very stance is what Jerry admired so deeply. He never told her that she would be exactly the type of woman he wanted—if he ever wanted one at all.

  “You can sit here and act like you don’t hear me if you want to, but I’m gon keep lovin’ you ’til you come to yo senses.” Billie Faye switched down the front steps.

  “Wait,” Jerry murmured intensely.

  Billie Faye smiled, turned around, and said, “It’s about time, fool. I wunnit gon’ wait foreva.”

  They sat on the porch and held hands as Billie Faye talked long into the night. Jerry never said anything, responding only with grunts and moans to assure his girlfriend that he was listening. And he was.

  By morning, he told his mother that he wanted to marry Billie Faye Moore.

  “Oh I likes her!” Miss Mary confirmed from her sickbed. Three days later, she was back to her old self again.

  When he told Jeremiah, his father teased, “Now dat’s a lotta woman, boy!”

  The wedding occurred late September in The Sacred Place. Because of its location, people left their wagons along the road and followed Jeremiah through the yellowing forest until they reached the clearing.

  “Shit! Dis look like heaven!” Tiny Dawson heralded. Children broke free of their parents and scattered across the opening while adults marveled at the beauty of the place. “De grass is so green!” somebody whispered. “And look at de jonquils! They done withered everywhere else!” another woman noted.

  Jerry stood tall in the center of the land, with outstretched arms like a one-member welcoming committee. Dressed in his good overalls and a white shirt, he smiled to see people coming from every direction to witness his wedding. He didn’t know that, after that day, people would frequent The Sacred Place as though each had found it, but he was glad to share paradise with whomever needed one.

  A few came only to see if Jerry was really going to do it, and when Billie Faye emerged from the woods, draped in an off-white gown trimmed in lace, Jerry wept like Jesus at Lazarus’s tomb, and all wondering ceased. The ceremony was conventional and lasted only about twenty minutes. After the two were pronounced husband and wife, and all the guests had gone, they made love right there in the middle of The Sacred Place. A deer stood nearby, watching the beauty of their sensuality, and birds chirped gleefully in praise. Neither had ever experienced another person’s body before, but their spirits told them what to do. At his climax, Jerry jerked and emitted a high-pitched whine that made Billie Faye laugh confidently. Then, he buried his head between her mountainous legs, searching desperately to provide her a similar ecstasy. When it came, she growled deep and long like a wild beast preparing for attack. Jerry laughed this time, and the two lay on their backs, completely exposed to the universe, unashamed.

  “What we got here, boys!” The cry startled them out of their leisure.

  Billie Faye and Jerry stood quickly, attempting to dress themselves. The white men snatched Billie Faye’s dress from her trembling hands.

  “We got ourselves a wedding! It’s dat smart nigger and his new bride! Look at this wedding dress!” The white men held Billie Faye’s gown high in the air and mocked its size.

  Jerry kept whispering, “Just stay calm,” hoping Billie Faye wouldn’t be her usual brazen self. She submitted in hopes of maintaining both their lives.

  One of the white men robed himself in Billie Faye’s wedding dress and pranced around the open space. “You married yo’self a Black cow, boy! She got ’nough milk in dem jugs to feed every nigger in Money!” He reached out and squeezed Billie Faye’s left breast. It wasn’t this act that took Jerry over the edge; it was the tears streaming down Billie Faye’s cheeks that catapulted him into action. Never having seen her weep before, Jerry knew her fighting spirit was slowly seeping away, and he couldn’t allow that. So he leapt at the man in Billie Faye’s dress and tore dirty white flesh from his face before anyone realized what happened. The other two men jumped on Jerry’s back and tried to separate him from their comrade, but Billie Faye lifted them—simultaneously—and tossed them, like discarded chicken bones, into the air. Regaining posture, they lunged back at her, one of them striking her with a wooden stick he found lying on the ground. She never flinched. Instead, she balled her hand tightly, gritted her teeth, and buried her Black fist inside the white man’s mouth. His blood splattered the earth of The Sacred Place, and he lost consciousness. Whether he was dead or alive, Billie Faye did not know. The other white man vanished through the woods.

  She turned quickly and saw her husband continuing to beat the Bride of Mockery mercilessly. “Let him go, Jerry!” Billie Faye begged, prying his arm from the man’s face, but Jerry was in another place and time. The memory of his ancestors who had experienced similar humiliation and grief visited itself upon his spirit and made him vow to end racial inequity once and for all. Or at least to balance the pain of it.

  “I said let him go!” Billie Faye protested again, this time pushing Jerry away from the limp white form. Jerry stood, teary-eyed, quivering. “It’s gon be okay,” Billie Faye comforted. She grabbed his arm and began running through the woods.

  “No, it ain’t,” he murmured softly. “No, it ain’t.”

  They decided to keep the incident to themselves. No need bringing other folks into it and making it more than it was. They expected retribution, knowing full well that they would never get by with beating two white men within a breath of their lives. But, for some reason, the men didn’t return. Sarah Jane was born a year later, on the anniversary of the incident, but still nothing had come of the matter. In fact, years transpired as though nothing had ever happened.

  Then, on Sarah Jane’s eighth birthday, the men came. They figured that, by then, the couple had convinced themselves that they had won and that whites were losing control of Southern Blacks. Such an illusion was precisely what the men desired in order to render a surprise, syrupy-sweet revenge.

  Billie Faye had left the cotton field early that day to bake Sarah Jane’s birthday cake. As she bent to retrieve it from the old woodstove, she heard the familiar voices.

  “Well, well. Dem titties still big like de wuz years ago. Ain’t that somethin’.”

  Billie Faye jerked around quickly, wondering how the men had entered unnoticed. “Get on outta hyeah, now! I don’t want no trouble!” She held the hot, cast-iron skillet in midair.

  “Oh, it’s gon be some trouble, now, darlin’. You didn’t really thank we wunnit comin’ back, now did ya?” He grinned broadly, showing a mouthful of discolored teeth. “We jes wanted to give y’all time to fo’get.”

  “Where’s dat husband o’ yours?” another one asked.

  “Not so fast, not so fast,” the first one said slowly, motioning for the other to be patient. “We gon have a little fun first.”

  Billie Faye knew she couldn’t conquer all three of them alone. Fear clouded her judgment and eroded her confidence. Yet she was never one to take things easily. She would hold her ground as long as she could, she determined, hoping that by then someone, by the grace of God, might happen by. That someone never came.

  As the men drew closer, her once intrepid spirit began to disintegrate.

  “Oh, you ain’t scairt, is ya?” one asked as he reached toward Billie Faye’s breast.

  In a flash, she laid the hot skillet against the right side of his face, causing him to stumble.

  The other two screamed variations of “Black nigger bitch” and wrestled Billie Faye to the floor. The Bride of Mockery reached under her dress, tore her panties from her flesh, then smelled his finger. “It’s ripe for the pickin’, boys!” he announced to the other whose total strength was expended binding her arms. The Bride of Mockery unzipped his pants and maneuvered his way between her stiff, uninviting legs. Both entered her before they left he
r bruised and bleeding.

  When she didn’t return to the field, Jerry thought little of it initially. Then, after imagining various scenarios, he saw the white men in his mind’s eye, and immediately dropped the cotton sack and began running. The swinging screen door told him he was already too late. “No!” he screamed, and ran faster.

  Billie Faye lay naked from the waist down. Jerry collapsed onto the floor beside her, repeating, “No, no, no! God, no!” as he covered her gently with the afghan from the sofa and kissed her lips lightly. Closing his eyes in search of strength he could not find, he cradled her in his arms and rocked soothingly, humming every song he knew until Jeremiah and Miss Mary came home. Then, he relinquished her into their care and sneaked out the back door. With his daddy’s shotgun and enough calm in his heart to keep from breaking down along the way, he proceeded across the railroad tracks to the white part of Money. Folks asked him where he was going with that shotgun, but Jerry ignored them, having resolved to complete the mission even if it were his last.

  He found the redneck white men drinking beer in front of the General Store. They were jovial and almost inebriated.

  “What chu want, boy?” they teased. “We didn’t hurt yo wife too badly now, did we?”

  Their laughter unleashed Jerry’s tears. His fledgling manhood was a gargantuan weight upon his soul, and he promised himself that, before the sun set that day, his soul would be free again.

  “What chu doin’ wit dat gun, Black boy? You ain’t mad, is ya?”

  That’s when Jerry shot all three men dead. His calm disposition made him proud of himself. He didn’t even hear the screaming of white women as their men fell. All he heard, in his head, was the “hurrahs!” of his own people. He had never thought of himself as a hero, but then again his mother always said, “De Lawd moves in mysterious ways.” He never questioned whether the death of the men was the will of God, having decided a few moments earlier that the will of God is whatever a man gathers the will to do.