Glorious

by Bernice L. McFadden

  One by one they reached up and shamefully touched the rough hair at the base of their necks and urged their hairdressers to get on with the slaying of the incorrigible curls.

  “You Bibb?” the sleek woman asked for the second time.

  Lumpkin responded without eye contact, “No, I’m Bibb’s sister.”

  The woman waited a moment, sighed, looked down at her cuticles, and then said, “Need my hair done, I hear this is the place.”

  “Sink closest to the back wall.”

  Dark eyes followed the woman as she sashayed past them. Someone made a slanderous comment about the silk wrapped around her neck, but no one dared laugh. Easter was busy screwing a lid onto a jar when she happened to look up. Surely she was seeing an illusion. Rain was walking toward her, moving like an apparition through the rippling drapes of steam that rose from heads of hair being hot-combed into submission.

  Easter couldn’t believe her eyes, and she brought the back of her hand to her forehead to check for fever. It couldn’t be her, Easter reasoned. She would have known Rain was in town. The earth would have moved, buildings would have crumbled—

  “R-Rain?”

  Rain gave her a flat look.

  Had her appearance changed that much? Easter quickly wiped the oil and perspiration from her face and snatched the hair cap from her head.

  A spark flashed in Rain’s eyes and then she offered a slight smile. “Easter?”

  Throw yourself at me, girl, wrap those arms around me, kiss me full on the lips—I don’t care who sees!

  But that didn’t happen. In the time they had been apart, it seemed that Rain had turned prim. Her lips curled and she said, “Imagine running into you here in Harlem.”

  Rain said this as if Harlem was the last place Easter should have been. Easter’s jaw went slack and the women gazed indifferently at one another.

  “You going to wash me or what?”

  The matter-of-fact air of the statement struck Easter across her face. The flashback that followed caught her off guard—Rain’s lips pressed against the lips of the girl—the memory lit a fire around her heart, and she saw herself lunging forward, catching Rain by her throat, and squeezing until her green eyes went dead.

  “Easy now,” Rain grinned and raised a cautious hand. “Can’t you take a joke?”

  Easter was still glaring at her.

  “Girl, you look mad enough to kill!” Rain slapped her thigh and laughed.

  Easter’s face crumbled—a joke?—

  “Serves you right,” Rain said, “you sneaking off in the middle of the night without even a ‘Goodbye, dog.’”

  I would never call you a dog, not ever.

  Rain took a step forward, her voice turned petal soft. “How do you think that made me feel?”

  One tear, as big as a raindrop, dribbled from the corner of Easter’s eye.

  “Don’t you start boo-hooing up in here, girl!” Rain’s voice quivered with emotion. But it was already too late; both of their faces were wet when they finally embraced.

  In the luncheonette the buzz of conversation competed with the sizzle of hamburgers and cheese sandwiches on the cook’s grill. But Easter heard none of that and saw less. Her senses were devoted to Rain and Rain alone.

  They’d taken a seat up front near the large window. “Tell me,” Easter said, as the waitress set a cup of coffee down before her. She wanted to hear only those things that directly involved Rain. The minor characters were of no consequence to her. Rain could have simply fixed her green eyes on her and babbled Me-me-me-me-me-me for all eternity and Easter would have died a happy death.

  So she began, her eyes swinging between Easter’s intent gaze and the ceaseless stream of people that moved up and down the sidewalk.

  Easter barely heard the story about the mob of white men with bad teeth and crazed eyes, wielding bats and shotguns, which raided Slocum’s camp.

  “Got the whole till.” Rain shook her head. “Broke Slocum’s arm and sliced the tip of his ear off.”

  Rain took a sip of her coffee and swirled the hot liquid around in her mouth. When she reached for her cigarette, Easter saw that her hand was shaking.

  “That was it for me.” Rain’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. She leaned back into the pillowed leather backing of the booth, turned her head, and blew a thin stream of smoke into the aproned hip of a passing waitress. “They smacked me around some,” she said, her eyes finding Easter’s again. “Coulda been worse I guess. Coulda been dead, ’stead of sitting here talking to you.” She fiddled with the knot in the silk scarf she wore around her neck.

  Rain dead? Easter couldn’t bear the thought of it.

  “I left, went to Philly. Got some people there, you know …” She trailed off, snubbed the cigarette out, and quickly lit another one. She took a puff, licked her lips, and Easter almost died.

  “Pie?”

  “Here,” Easter said irritably and pointed to the empty space on the table before dismissing the waitress with a sweep of her hand.

  The waitress gave Easter a cruel look and walked away, grumbling to herself.

  “You were saying.” Easter used her fork to scoop up a large portion of pie.

  Rain smoked and talked. There was a stop back home in New Orleans, a horrible fight with her sister, and an accusation made by a neighbor that cast Rain in a very bad light with the married women in her town.

  “You know I don’t care none about no niggers, Easter, you know niggers ain’t got nothing to offer but a swinging dick!”

  The last part was said in chorus; Easter, familiar with the bawdy phrase, had happily chimed in and they broke down with laughter until tears clung to their eyelashes.

  A stint in Houston followed. “Crackers worse there than anywhere I ever been!”

  Easter laughed so hard that water ran from her nose.

  “I hightailed it back to New Orleans, stayed with an uncle and his family. While I was there, my uncle told me that my son was living over in Covington.”

  She said “son” with a softness Easter didn’t think Rain capable of.

  “I ain’t seen that boy since he was a tot,” Rain spoke slowly. “Well you know, I told you all about that.”

  Easter nodded her head.

  “My uncle said it was only right that I go see the boy. Said children need to look on their parents even if they don’t know they’re parents. He said the boy will have a better footing in the world. Good luck and all.” She sighed and waved her hand. “Just some ole backwoods hoo-doo stuff.

  “So me and my uncle go to Covington and can’t for the life of us find the house. And we stop some folks and they say we not too far off, just down the road from where we headed. We get there and it’s this shabby blue house with lace curtains in the window and a picket fence.

  “I always wanted a house with a picket fence … Anyway, we walked up to the door and knocked and my stomach started to flutter cause I didn’t know what I was gonna say to my child—my very own child—or what I was gonna do. I felt faint, Easter, I thought I was gonna drop down right there on that porch!”

  Rain reached across the table and squeezed Easter’s hands.

  “The woman of the house opened the door and she wasn’t the wife I remembered. She smiled and said hello and my Uncle Cleavus—did I tell you his name was Cleavus? Well, Cleavus took off his hat and asked if Charlie Youngblood lived there and the woman said, ‘Yeah he live here, he my husband.’

  “She looked us up and down and I guess we seemed harmless so she invited us on in. And then Cleavus pointed at me and said, ‘This is my niece, Beulah—’”

  Easter’s jaw dropped and she coughed in surprise, “Beulah?”

  Rain’s eyes narrowed and she wagged her index finger in Easter’s face. “And if you ever call me that I’ll cut you,” she hissed. “Anyway, we walked in and there was old Charlie, sitting in the parlor in his slacks and suspenders, no undershirt, mind you, and his gut was as big and as round as I don’t know what!
I look on him and saw that he wasn’t even a shadow of what I’d known him to be.

  “Charlie smiled when he saw my uncle and jumped up and said, ‘Cleavus, you old dog you! What’s it been, ten, twelve years? What you doing here in Covington?’

  “They hugged and slapped one another on the backs and then Charlie looked over at me, and I could tell he didn’t know me from a hole in the wall. But the wife got to looking at me hard and then something clicked in her head and her expression curdled just like sour milk.

  “I stepped a little closer to Charlie, smiled real sweet, and said, ‘Charlie, I’m hurt, you don’t remember me.’ He looked like he was staring down the throat of the devil and stepped back so quickly he knocked up against the china cabinet and sent all those ceramic figurines to rattling. The wife was by his side lickety-split, fussing over him and hollering Baby this and Baby that.” Rain laughed. “He said, ‘Sure I remember you, Beulah.’ He looked at his wife and lied, ‘I ain’t seen her since she was a little itty-bitty thing,’ and my uncle Cleavus nodded and went along with the lie.

  “Then we all just stood there quiet and since no one seemed like they were gonna mention it, I said: ‘So how your kids doing?’ And the wife hopped straight up like something had bit her on the bottom of her feet.”

  Easter rubbed her hands together.

  “Charlie grunted and said that the kids were fine, just fine. He say, ‘Vaughn, my youngest boy, he helping me around the place, but he talking about following his brother, joining the army to serve his country. And me and my wife here, Lizzie, we got us a little girl name Corrine, she six years old.’”

  Rain wiped at her mouth and then looked down at her hands. When she looked up again her eyes were wet and she had a dreamy look on her face. “My son’s name is Vaughn … Right then their front door swung open and he walked in. I swear, Easter, I heard trumpets. Trumpets!”

  Rain smacked the table with her hand.

  “It wasn’t no mistakin’ that he was mine, ya hear me? That boy look like I spit him out. He look just like ME!” She wiped at her eyes and lit another cigarette. “Do you think every mother hears trumpets when their babies are around?” Her eyes blinked wildly, but Easter could tell from her tone that she was serious.

  “I dunno, Rain, maybe.”

  “Well, I heard them as sure as I am a child of God, I heard trumpets! That boy of mine is so handsome. So tall and so handsome!” Her voice was filled with music. “Lord,” she breathed. “Charlie, the old snake, told my boy that we were some folk he knew from back home. Had my child calling me Miss Beulah!”

  Rain clapped her hands together and swayed to music only she could hear.

  “I just couldn’t stop staring at him and all I wanted to do was throw my arms around him.”

  Easter used the pad of her index finger to trace figure eights on the table. “So why didn’t you?”

  Rain’s response was somber. “Cause if I had, I never would have let him go.”

  Rain used the napkin to dab at the corners of her eyes, and then retrieved her compact and lipstick from her purse. When she was done retouching her face she closed the compact with a sharp snap and Easter saw that only a residue of the softness remained.

  “Well, ain’t no use in crying over spilled milk, right? I went on to Gary, Indiana,” Rain continued, “and after a week or so I fell ill.” She shook her head in wonder. “It was like something had jumped on me and wouldn’t turn loose. I thought I was going to check out of this life for sure.”

  Easter gulped.

  “I sent a telegram to my friend Merry and she sent for me and I been here ever since.”

  “Who’s Merry? How long you been here?” Easter didn’t know which question she needed answered first.

  “Oh,” Rain turned her eyes up to the ceiling, “I been here ’bout six weeks now.” She leaned back, brought her hand to her mouth, and used the nail of her pinky finger to dislodge something from between her teeth.

  “Merry is my good friend. My good, good friend,” she proclaimed enthusiastically.

  Easter’s stomach knotted. “She the one from the tent?”

  Rain looked confused. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Easter mumbled.

  “Merry had her white doctor come up and check on me. He give me some tablets and in a few days I was feeling like my old self again.”

  “Her white doctor? Is she white?”

  “Yes,” Rain said pointedly.

  Easter didn’t want to hear anymore about this good, good friend and hastily changed the subject. “How did you know I was here?”

  Rain smiled wryly. “I seen you with your Jody. I was in the car with Merry, she drive like a fool—I called out to you, but who could hear with all the ruckus on Lenox Avenue. I watched y’all kiss goodbye, then he went his way and you stepped into the shop. What’s his name?”

  Easter went blank for a minute. In that short time Colin had become a distant memory; even their morning frolic had slipped into oblivion. Up until the time Rain had appeared, she could still feel the impressions of his fingers on her backside. But now … it was like he’d never been born. Easter felt ashamed, as if marrying Colin had somehow sullied her love for Rain.

  She wanted to ask, Do you forgive me? But instead, she grimaced and announced, “We’re married.”

  Rain’s eyes bulged and her face broke into a huge smile. She reached over and playfully slapped the back of Easter’s hand.

  “Sure nuff?”

  Easter nodded.

  “Well, congratulations!” she wailed, clapping her hands together.

  Easter reached for her spoon, muttered a barely audible “Thank you,” and then dunked the utensil into the cold cup of coffee.

  Rain waited. She expected something more than a thank you. A story perhaps—one that chronicled their meeting, courtship, and nuptials—but Easter remained mute, her gaze fixed on the dark, swirling funnel her stirring spoon conjured in the cold cup of joe.

  “So y’all got any babies?”

  Easter shook her head. She’d stopped using the vinegar pouch and still her menstrual arrived every month like clockwork. Colin wasn’t worried; he said God would know when the time was right. But Easter was concerned and wondered if during the abortion Chappo had removed something from her that she shouldn’t have.

  “Well I—I hope I get to meet this husband of yours.”

  Easter shrugged her shoulders, but kept her eyes lowered.

  Rain smoothed her hair, which signified yet another shift in the conversation. “So,” she leaned in and asked, “you still writing those stories?”

  Was she still writing those stories? That was like asking a former slave if he still wanted to be free. Of course she was still writing those stories. Writing kept her sane, kept her from spinning out of control, kept her tongue still whenever some white person spoke down to her. She had to write, it was the only thing that was completely hers, that she could look forward to at the end of her long day. There wasn’t one thing she owned that hadn’t belonged to someone before her, not a thread of clothing or pair of shoes—even the bed she and her husband slept on and their tattered sofa had had previous owners. But her stories didn’t belong to anyone else. She couldn’t even say that about the silver wedding band that graced her finger.

  You goddamn right she was still writing, writing like a fiend sometimes, writing herself into a fervor that left her shaken and drenched, writing until her fingers cramped and her spine ached, writing straight through the night and into the blue day.

  Was she still writing? She was writing to keep a grip on life, the evidence of which was right there on the skin of her index and middle fingers—dark indentations from the pencils she used. Was she still writing? Well, she had to leave something of herself behind, something that said she’d been there and had made a contribution, because she sensed that her body would never yield a child. So her stories had become her babies. And the fact that her babies were conceived in her mind and not her womb
did not make them any less alive, any less beautiful, any less loved, or any less glorious.

  “Yeah, I’m still writing,” she said.

  CHAPTER 13

  Colin cocked his head and listened to the silence and wondered why it was he couldn’t hear the sound of his life crumbling away. The signs had been there for some time. Those dreams of him waking to find that he’d lost every tooth in his mouth. And what of the one of him flying through the sky as natural as a swallow? And the nightmare that brought him the most uneasiness, the one where he climbed from his bed, walked to the window, and looked out to find that Harlem was gone, replaced with the turquoise sea of his homeland. The water was dotted with brightly painted wooden boats, holding erect fishermen, their muscled arms flexing as they cast their nets out over the waters. Sea gulls swooped and screamed in the sky above their heads, and on the sandy shore stood his mother, starfish and sea eggs scattered at her feet, hands cupped around her mouth as she shouted his name across the placid blue. From his window Colin waved to his mother and called, “I’m here, Mum, I’m here!” And that’s when the sea began to ripple and the boats bounced. The sky grew dark and in the distance the sea roared, arched its wet back, and came crashing to shore. When the waters receded, the sea gulls were gone, the fishermen and their boats were gone, and so was his mother.

  He always woke from that dream shaken, drenched in perspiration with the smell of sea water in his nostrils. And now, as he sat on the stoop solemnly smoking a cigarette, he realized that the dream had finally come to fruition, the evidence of which was clutched tightly in his hand.

  The letter was from his Aunt Nita but written in the hand of a neighbor. It said that his mother was sick, the roof of the house was falling in, the shop’s shelves were empty and thus its doors were closed and locked, and the pigs were dying of a mysterious disease. He was needed back home and if he couldn’t come, he needed to send money.

  Colin was in no position to do either. Over the past year he and Easter had managed to save one hundred and seventy five dollars, all of which he used to purchase—without Easter’s consent or knowledge—thirty-five shares of Marcus Garvey’s Black Star Line stock. According to what he’d been reading in the newspapers, the stock was now worth shit.