She was made to feel welcome at Friendship immediately, partially because she was to be married to Mack McGinnis, whose family had belonged since the beginning, but in large part, she soon realized, because she was connected to First Freeman, and he was revered in the church. He also was revered in her heart, for the more time she spent with the old man, the more she found to love. He was kind and generous and nurturing—she already knew that about him. What she hadn't known was that he was funny, that he loved telling stories—tall tales they were—and when Ruthie would look askance and ask, "Is that the truth, Mr. First?" he would slap his thigh and giggle like a boy—and that he could cook! Her joy in him, however, always was tempered by a sadness there was no hiding from, the sadness that was what awaited her at home: Pa and Uncle Will, as lonely and dispirited as First Freeman was lively and connected to his surroundings. She also was sad for Little Si, who had to stay home and take care of Uncle Will and Pa, not one of whom could cook on a stove. All three were expert hunters, though, and they never tired of roasting on a spit over a fire whatever game they caught. Good thing they also liked coal-roasted potatoes, corn and turnips because that's all they ate when Ruthie was gone.
Ruthie also took great pleasure in the time spent alone with Beau. He picked her up on Friday night and drove her home on Sunday night, just the two of them in Beau's truck, and they talked almost the entire time. She hadn't known her older brothers well before they went to the War, and since Eubie didn't come home, she most likely never would get to know him. She knew Beau, though, and the more she learned about him, the more he surprised her. He naturally was a quiet man, made more so by the things he'd witnessed and experienced in Europe, things he couldn't bring himself to describe or explain. "It was too...too...ugly, Baby Sister. That's the only word I can think of. You and Little Silas and Mack, y'all read books and prob'ly have better words than that, but that's the best I can do. It was ugly and it stank."
"What do you mean, Beau? Stank how? Like the outhouse?"
"No, Baby Sister, not like that. Like...rot. Like...death. Like...blood. Like...everything evil and hateful and...and...ugly. That's all I can say. Except that it won't leave me alone. I close my eyes and I hear it and I see it. Bombs and mud and rotting bodies. And I always smell it."
"Is that why you won't eat meat? And why you don't like when it rains?"
"That's why."
"I'm going to learn French, Beau: How to speak it and read it and write it. And then I'm going to go find Eubie and bring him home."
"You think Mack's gon' let you go way 'cross that ocean to look for Eubie?"
"I already told him I was going."
"Then those Europeans better watch out. Ruth Thatcher McGinnis is comin' to town!"
"I never heard my name said like that."
"I hope you like how it sounds 'cause in two weeks, it'll be yours to keep."
***
Jonas didn't recognize his Pa when he walked into the grocery store in the middle of a muggy May afternoon. It had been raining off and on since breakfast, the humidity level rising with every cloudburst. It was as hot and muggy inside the store as out, and Jonas and his sister, who was working with him that day, decided to leave the front door open, so there was no tinkle of the above-the-door bell to alert them when a customer entered the store. So, Jonas looked up from his position behind the cash register every few seconds, and he saw the old man enter. And at first, that's all he saw: An old man walk in then pause and look all around. It was this looking around that identified his father to Jonas, for it wasn't the kind of looking a customer would do in search of a particular item; it was an assessing kind of look, determining whether things were in the right place, whether he liked what he saw.
Jonas came from behind the counter at full bore. He ran to the old man and grabbed him.
"Boy. You done growed quite a bit."
"Hey, Pa. Why didn't you call me to come get you?" He wrapped the old man in a bear hug and quickly released him, afraid of doing harm to what was little more than skin and bone.
"I tol' you I didn't want you nowhere near that prison."
Jonas nodded. After his first and only visit, he'd been ordered to stay away. He sent a box every week with pipe tobacco and the old man's favorite bologna, hard cheese and crackers, but he hadn't seen his father in more than a year, and as glad as he was that Pa was home, in truth, he had not missed him. "I'm glad you're back, Pa. Hey, Rachel. Come see who's here!"
Rachel looked their way then ran toward them, arms outstretched. "Oh, Pa. You're back. Thank God for that!"
"God ain't had nothin' to do with it."
Rachel was about to remonstrate but a look from Jonas stilled her, and the simultaneous arrival of several customers shifted her focus. She kissed her father's cheek and hurried away to tend to the customers, her business sense being almost as keen as her baby brother's.
"Things look real good 'round here, Boy. I been hearin' 'bout what a fine job you been doin' and it looks like that was nothin' but the truth."
Jonas was taken aback and more than a little angry. "Who told you that, Pa? You let other people come see you but not me?"
His Pa grabbed his arm with more strength than would have been expected from such a frail body. "You don't belong in a place that, you hear me? Not even to visit."
"You didn't belong there either, Pa."
"Maybe not for the reason they sent me, but I ain't so different from them who was in there with me. You—you surely are different, Boy. You and your Ma—y'all the same kinda people and I'm truly glad she never had to see me sent to a place like that. You understand me?"
"Yes, sir," Jonas said. "You hungry, Pa? Tired?"
The old man's shoulders drooped, and he sagged against Jonas. "I reckon I am, Boy."
"Let's go to the Crossing Café and get you fed. What do you feel like? Fried chicken and mashed potatoes or smothered pork chops? Some greens and yams?"
"All that, Boy. All that and some peach cobbler."
Jonas sought out Rachel and caught her eye. She nodded at him, letting him know that it was all right for him to leave, and, holding his Pa's arm, he led him out of the store. A fine mist was falling, warm like bath water. Zeb was taking in the scenery as if he'd been away for a dozen years instead of just slightly more than one. It was true that many changes had come to Carrie's Crossing in the last year. It also was true that the two most prominent commercial structures in the town bore the Thatcher name. Zeb noticed and a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
The bell above the door announced their arrival, but instead of Mr. Pace, Jonas and Zeb were welcomed by the new cook whose name Jonas had forgotten. She replaced Sue and was just as Colored and Jonas had forgotten about her. Or, more accurately, had given no particular thought to her. Zeb stopped in his tracks, and Jonas bumped into the back of him. He stared at the woman who was smiling a greeting at him.
"Good day to you, sir. And to you, Jonas. Y'all take a seat."
"What the hell?" Zeb roared, and all movement in the restaurant stopped. Quite a few of the diners didn't know or didn't recognize Zeb, but those who did readied themselves for whatever was coming next, which, as it happened, was the emergence of Charlie Pace from the kitchen, frowning and ready to pounce on whoever was making so much noise in his place. The frown turned into a scowl when he saw who it was.
"Zeb. I didn't know you were home."
"What the hell do you think you're doin' hirin' Colored? You know better'n that."
"I don't tell you how to run your stores, Zeb, you don't tell me how to run my café. Now, if you and Jonas are gonna eat, take a seat. Otherwise, close the door behind you."
Zeb glared at the Colored cook, who turned away and resumed her post at the grill. "I don't want her servin' me," he said, taking a table in the far corner of the room, his back to the cook. "Why didn't you tell me 'bout her, Boy?"
Jonas shrugged and shook his head. "Tell you what, Pa?" he said, hoping that he'd been successful
at hiding the irritation he felt. Not back in town fifteen minutes—
"Tell me that Pace had hired a Colored. I don't want her cookin' my food, either."
"Then you'll be hungry, Pa, because there's no place else to eat and she's the cook." Jonas put his napkin in his lap as Zeb got to his feet.
"Come on, Boy. Let's go."
"The food is really good, Pa."
"Don't tell me you eat here."
"Every day, breakfast and dinner," Jonas said. Then he looked directly into his father's eyes. "We don't have a house anymore, and even if we did, there wouldn't be anybody in it to cook for us. But you know what, Pa? I'd eat here anyway. I like eating here."
Zeb gave Jonas a hard look, then dropped back into his chair. He sat in silence as Jonas ordered food for them, as Charlie Pace brought napkins, cutlery, glasses of iced tea and a bowl of rolls. "I'm gon' get my land back is what I'm gon' do," he finally said, grabbing a roll and eating it whole, barely chewing before he swallowed.
"Get what land back, Pa?"
"You know what land," Zeb said in a tone of voice previously unknown to his son.
Jonas looked at his father, really looked at him. He looked different. Somebody who hadn't known him well before he went away most likely wouldn't recognize him now, without the long, prophet-like beard he'd always worn and with his hair cut close to the scalp instead of flowing around his head like some kind of hairy flower. Zeb's long, lean face now was clearly visible, as if he'd stopped trying to hide himself. His deep-set eyes were fiercely and brightly blue, the only part of him that didn't look old, because the rest of him clearly was. He was thin, too thin, and he seemed unable to straighten his back. His clothes, the same clothes that he'd worn when he was arrested over a year ago, hung on his skinny frame like the clothes that hung on wire hangers in their department store. The veins stood up in the backs of his hands like cords of wood stacked on a back porch, and Jonas noticed one thing that hadn't changed—his nails still were long and claw-like, still were dirty. He needed a bath and some clean clothes, and Jonas needed somebody to talk to, somebody he could tell how he felt about his pa who wouldn't think he was a bad son, somebody like Ruthie or Little Si.
Jonas had not allowed himself to think about his friends since that snowy day when Si told him that Ruthie was getting married, since that day when he came face-to-face with Mr. Mack McGinnis, the man who might already be married to Ruthie. Si had said in three months. That was in February. It now was May. Was Ruthie already married? Jonas hadn't visited his tree since Nellie Thatcher's death, since Mr. First Freeman told him to stay away. But he'd have to go there now. He needed to know...what? If Ruthie was married or if he still had any friends?
"Why do you hate Colored like you do, Pa?"
The question startled them both. Zeb stopped chewing and looked at Jonas as if the boy had told him there was poison in the food. "What kinda damfool question is that?"
Jonas shrugged, truly sorry that he'd spoken, for he knew there was no answer, and even if Pa did have some reason in his mind, he'd never share it with Jonas, or if he did, it probably wouldn't be the truth. "No kind, Pa. It don't...doesn't matter."
The old man gave a hoot, but Jonas didn't mistake it for laughter; it was anything but. "Sure it matters. Somebody as educated and right-talking like yourself—your kind don't say things if they don't matter," he said, the words both a challenge and a demand for an answer. The arrival of their food provided a temporary reprieve, but Jonas knew it was only temporary, for he could see the anger emanating from his father like heat waves off the blacktop road in the summer. They ate in silence, Jonas enjoying and appreciating the food as always. His Pa ate hunched over his plate, his arms encircling it protectively, and Jonas couldn't tell whether he was enjoying the food or whether he merely was all but half starved. Whatever the reason, he ate enough for two men twice his size, without apparent concern about who had cooked the food. It occurred to Jonas that the prison cooks probably were Colored and he had to will himself not to make the comment. Best to leave well enough alone. He heard his mother's voice in his head as clearly as if she was seated next to him, and he relaxed.
"Y'all doin' all right?" Charlie Pace asked as he gathered their empty places.
"Yessir, Mr. Pace. Doing just fine, thank you," Jonas answered. "If I ate any more, I'd pop a gut," he said, rubbing his belly.
"How 'bout some dessert? Pie, cake, cobbler?"
"We don't want no dessert," Zeb snarled, pushing is chair back. "We got to go."
Jonas got to his feet, reaching into his pocket for money. Pace waved the money away. "On the house," he said. "A welcome home to Zeb."
"Pay the man, Boy," he snapped at Jonas. "We don't take charity." He huffed his way to the front door.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Pace," Jonas said as he paid for their meal.
"No need for you to be sorry," Pace said, emphasizing the you.
It didn't take much for Jonas to catch up with Zeb, who walked slowly and hunched over. Like an old man, Jonas thought, not like a jack rabbit. Not like First Freeman and Maisy Cooper. "It's not just Colored you hate, is it? You hate everybody. Why, Pa? Why?"
Zeb didn't say anything for a moment. He just kept walking. It was raining now, not just misting, and because he walked so slowly, Zeb was getting soaked, though he seemed not to notice. Or to care. He stopped outside THATCHER'S MARKET and studied the store. Jonas knew he couldn't read, but he also knew his Pa had a keen eye and a keener intuition. "You been sellin' to niggers in my store?"
"Not inside the store, out the back door. To those who'll buy out the back door."
Zeb now turned his piercing gaze on his son. "What's that mean, those who'll buy out the back door? If they cain't come inside, where else they gon' buy?"
"Belle City," Jonas answered, "where they can go inside."
"Then let 'em all go to Belle City. We won't do no more sellin' to niggers."
"You're throwing away a lot of money," Jonas said. "I keep a separate ledger for the Back Door Sales, and it's a good bit of money."
Zeb opened the door to the market and the bell tinkled. "Don't matter," he said, "I don't need no nigger money."
Jonas didn't follow him inside. Instead, he walked around to the rear of the building and, as he expected, there were several people at the back door, huddled under the eaves, waiting to be served. "Y'all can't buy here anymore. My Pa is back and any of you who know him, you know how he is."
"Yeah, we know," said a man whom Jonas did not know. "Come on, y'all," he said and led the people away from the back door of THATCHER'S MARKET out into the rain.
"Tell everybody," Jonas called out as he watched them disappear into what had become a downpour, though he hadn't needed to say that; everybody would know soon enough that Zeb Thatcher was out of jail and back home. Everybody white and Colored, and at that thought, that realization, a swell of feelings and emotions so powerful rose in him that he literally staggered and fell back against the wall. Had he only pretended to be saddened by his father's imprisonment, pretended to miss him? That must be the case, he thought, because what he felt so overwhelmingly at the moment was a disgust that bordered on dislike, and he knew that if Zeb weren't his Pa, he'd have nothing to do with the man.
The door swung open with unnecessary force, slamming Jonas in the back. He moved quickly aside to find Pa glaring at him.
"I thought you'd be out here. Where your niggers?
"Gone."
"Gone where? Ain't nowhere for 'em to go," he said, peering into the rain.
"Why do you care where they went? You don't want 'em here so I told em to go."
He shook his head. "You might shouldn'ta done that, Boy. I just got a look at how much money we made through the back door already today—and that's with it rainin' cats and dogs." He looked at the rain again, as if reading it. "That was right smart thinkin' on your part, keepin' the money separated like that, so we can know what's what." He turned to go back inside. "Don't matter. They'll be b
ack t'morrow."
"Who'll be back tomorrow?" Jonas asked.
"The niggers."
"No, they won't. I told them to tell everybody that you were back and to stay away."
Zeb gave him a hard look, then he grinned. "Guess they know I mean bizness."
"Guess they hate you same as you hate them," Jonas said, and stepped into the rain. Before he could take more than two steps, Zeb had grabbed his arm and swung him around.
"They tell you that? They tell you they hate me?"
"They don't have to tell me, not in words."
"How you tell a body a thing if not with words?"
Jonas remembered First Freeman talking about Zeb. "I saw their eyes when I said they couldn't buy from here anymore, and why."
Zeb was quiet for a moment. "Let's get in outta the rain," he finally said. "Let's go to the pub." And he did a quick-step toward the building next door, to what Jonas called the storeroom. He unlocked the door and turned on the light. Zeb gasped. "What—" He looked around. "What is all this stuff? Who does it belong to?"
"It's ours, Pa. I buy things wholesale so we always have what we need, so we don't run out of things, especially things people buy all the time."
Zeb grabbed him in a tight hug. "Boy, I wish your Ma was here to see you. Ev'rything she said about you is the truth. You got to be the smartest man I ever met."
Belle City Page 21
