Glorious

by Bernice L. McFadden

  Alice allowed Easter to tuck her in. What followed was normal and natural, but still left the two of them breathless with astonishment.

  Alice threw her hands around Easter’s neck and pressed a kiss into her brown cheek.

  CHAPTER 34

  Miss Anthony, Alice’s squirrelly, bifocaled seventh-grade teacher, clapped her hands together and ordered her students to be quiet. She was grinning so hard her face looked as if it would crack. “Children,” she sang, “today is a very exciting day.” She came from behind the desk. “Today the library has received a very special gift.”

  “A horse?” Abigail Sessions shouted excitedly.

  Miss Anthony’s face fell slack. “No, not a horse,” she said as she waved the ridiculous statement away. “Today the library received the personal papers of a very well-respected and celebrated author named Meredith Tomas.”

  Delia Eubanks, who often bragged that she was the best reader in the world because her mother, Lollie Eubanks, was the town librarian, stated in a condescending tone, “Meredith Tomas? Well, I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Have we forgotten that we must be called on if we want to speak?” Miss Anthony’s tone was cutting, but sweet. “And Delia, I’m sure that there are many, many writers you are not familiar with.”

  A chuckle rippled through the classroom.

  “Meredith Tomas was a recipient of the Rosenfeld and Guggenheim—two very important and distinguished honors. She published poetry in her early years, then a number of short stories and novels later on in life. Her most famous novel, Sentiments in the Eves, is her greatest, most celebrated work.”

  The students looked bored.

  “And do you know why we should be proud of that?”

  The students shook their heads.

  “Because the story takes place right here in Waycross, that’s why!”

  The children reacted indifferently, but Miss Anthony was not to be deflated.

  “In fact, the New York Times called it the greatest work ever written on Negro life by a non-Negro!” She clapped her hands excitedly.

  Abigail’s hand shot up in the air and began waving like a flag. Miss Anthony nodded in her direction.

  “Too bad the coloreds won’t be able to read the book.”

  Miss Anthony’s eyelids fluttered and she reached for the fake pearls around her neck. “And why is that?”

  “Cause the library don’t grant coloreds library cards, that’s why,” said Abigail pointedly.

  Miss Anthony went red. “Oh, oh yes. I forgot,” she whispered.

  “And anyway,” a burly boy named Elijah interjected, “coloreds don’t read no how.”

  “Well, now—” Miss Anthony started, but Alice jumped to her feet and shouted, “Yes they do too! My maid reads!”

  Easter was making chicken soup with dumplings, diced carrots, and potatoes that she’d taken the time to cut into perfect cubes. When she reached for the ladle, she caught sight of a young Easter peering at her from the silver belly of the utensil. Gleaming marcelled hair, thin eyebrows, and a face painted like Clara Bow. She would never have gone out into streets looking like that. Well, the marcelled hair was fine, but the whorish makeup? Never!

  But up at 409 Edgecombe every day was Halloween. Meredith had the windows blacked out and then she draped Rain’s scarves and boas over everything with a limb—chandeliers, doorknobs, and vacant picture hooks. She insisted that they live by candlelight and candlelight alone. Guests were only received if they arrived wearing Venetian masks.

  The three of them lived like unaccompanied minors, spending their days playing dress-up, walking on the furniture, eating pancakes for dinner, roast beef for breakfast, and cake for supper. They filled the bathtub with three cases of champagne, jumped in, and splashed about like seals. And through it all, the little slanted-eyed boy came and went.

  It was sweet delirium for weeks, and then after that it was just delirium.

  “Easter, Easter!”

  Easter remained hushed in her memories.

  The backdoor creaked open and Shannon stumbled in. “Easter, what in the world is wrong with you? I’ve been calling you since forever!”

  “Ma’am?”

  Shannon shot Easter an annoyed look. “I said,” she began slowly, “I’ve been calling you for some time.”

  Easter rested the ladle down on the table and wiped at her eyes. “Sorry, just lost in my work, I guess.”

  “Really?” Shannon spouted sarcastically.

  Easter reached for the bottle of BMX.

  “I want a bologna sandwich, not too much mayonnaise and no lettuce,” Shannon said as she stroked her neck. “And another martini.”

  Easter nodded. It was 1:30.

  It was just as well because she hadn’t wanted to keep thinking about that time.

  CHAPTER 35

  Easter was having a good laugh out there in the garden all by herself. Alice bit into an apple and watched curiously from the opposite side of the mesh screen. She was drawn to her now. She offered her help around the house, asked Easter to teach her how to snap the dust rag the way she’d seen her do. When Easter wasn’t looking, Alice stole her Pall Malls and hid behind the garage and practiced blowing smoky circles into the air.

  She questioned Easter about Dr. King’s credentials and Easter was more than happy to enlighten her. And the question Alice posed about Negroes having tails almost broke Easter in two with laughter as she assured her that she had never met anyone with a tail.

  Alice crept outside, careful not to let the door slam, and when Easter turned around the girl was less than two feet away from her.

  “What you want, child?” Easter asked, panting. “Ain’t proper to be sneaking up on an old woman like that. Could give me a heart attack and then who would cook your meals and wash your dirty drawers!” Her tone was filled with humor and her eyes shimmered wet with joyful tears.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “This.” Easter leaned over, bent her knees, crossed her eyes, and stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth. She raised herself up onto the balls of her feet, planted both hands on her kneecaps, and proceeded to flap her legs together like wings. It was the most ridiculous dance Alice had ever seen.

  “What are you doing that for?”

  “Just being silly, sometimes you have to just be silly!”

  Alice was afraid for her. She felt a woman her size and her age shouldn’t be exerting herself in that fashion. “Stop it,” she whispered fearfully, but Easter ignored her.

  “Come on, you try it.”

  Alice folded her arms. “Nope. And you shouldn’t be doing it either, it makes you look ridiculous.”

  “Aw, c’mon,” Easter pleaded between laughs.

  The stupid dance and the joy that Easter seemed to derive from it were infectious and Alice found the corners of her mouth twitching. A giggle tickled its way up her throat and then burst from her mouth in a snort, causing Easter to howl. Alice acquiesced—she crossed her eyes and began imitating Easter’s outrageous movements. They laughed and danced until they were so tired they could do little more than collapse into the patio chairs.

  “Where did you learn to do that?”

  Easter tilted her head toward the blue sky. “Ah,” she breathed, “a very long time ago in a place far, far away.”

  While the children were asleep and Dobbs and Shannon Everson sat on opposite ends of the sofa watching The Dean Martin Show, Easter was out on the porch in the rocking chair, listening to crickets hum as she read the newspaper by moonlight.

  She read articles about a rogue hog, socialism in Cuba, the suicide of Ernest Hemingway, and the impending arrival of the personal papers donated to the town’s library by the now deceased, renowned writer Meredith Tomas.

  Her mind had been known to play tricks on her and so to be sure, Easter reread the lines and then smoked four cigarettes, in succession, down to the butts. When she went to bed that night, her mind was a tornado of images that swept her back
to the moment that became her first step in a long journey back to the very place she had run away from.

  CHAPTER 36

  In Harlem the streets burned with gossip. Apparently the penthouse at 409 Edgecombe, which Meredith had playfully dubbed Heaven, had turned into some type of hell.

  Meredith was no longer taking visitors—no matter how extraordinarily beautiful their Venetian masks were. The phone rang without answer until the line went dead. The grocery store had not delivered food to the penthouse in weeks. Someone had suggested that the Negro women who lived there had mutinied and tied Meredith to the wooden post of her bed and were forcing her to eat out of her dog’s bowl. If the butler wasn’t dead, said the concerned individual, then he was in on it too. “We can’t waste any more time. Something has to be done, I’m going to call the authorities.”

  When the butler answered the door, the police officers’ rigid stance immediately relaxed. They asked for Meredith Tomas and a look of disdain wafted across the butler’s face. He ushered them into the music room where he instructed them to wait. Minutes later, Meredith floated in draped in golden silk pajamas; her hair was covered in a matching cloche.

  She batted heavy lashes at them and purred, “How can I help you today, officers?”

  They stated the concerns of the worried acquaintance and as they did their eyes crawled over her, expertly examining her body for bruises, her eyes for fear or insanity, and felt like idiots when they found nothing.

  Meredith laughed, “Do I look like a woman in peril?” And she took the hand of the more handsome officer and started toward the parlor where Easter and Rain were lounging on the sofa with playing cards in their hands. They raised their eyes when Meredith and the officers entered and Easter uttered, “Oh, hello,” and Rain said, “Never mind them, go fish.”

  In the hallway, as the officers stood waiting for the elevator, they fathomed that they had been made the butt of someone’s lame joke. Nothing at all looked out of place in that apartment; it was odd that the windows were blacked out, but other than that, nothing. Normal.

  The handsome officer stomped his police force—issued boot and slapped his thigh. “Hey, I forgot, it’s April first!”

  “So?”

  “April first, April Fool’s Day.”

  “Oh yeah. Well, they got us good.”

  When the elevator doors slid open a young boy dressed in gray knickers and matching jacket stepped out. The gold tin badge pinned to the front of the hat he wore read, Western Union.

  The boy snapped his hand to his forehead in salute and the officers returned the gesture and then stepped laughing into the elevator.

  Most mornings Easter hummed, or at the very least muttered to herself in a singsong fashion. But her night had been filled with bitter memories that left a ball of anger in her throat, and so she was as quiet as a leaf while she prepared and served the family breakfast. Dobbs opened his mouth to make a request, but Easter slammed the platter of pancakes down so hard onto the table that his mouth snapped shut again.

  There was no conversation that morning. Even Junior was quiet. In the kitchen Easter cussed under her breath, banged pots together, and dumped a whole tray of silverware into the sink. The family exchanged nervous glances and then one-by-one disappeared to different parts of the house. Only Alice remained at the table, and when the door swung open again, Easter charged into the dining room like a wild boar and began clearing the table.

  “Um, Easter, I—”

  Easter stopped, raised her head, and glared at Alice. “Why you always up under me, huh?”

  Alice found herself blinking uncontrollably.

  “Go on outside and play, go on away from me.”

  Easter spun around and slammed back through the door, leaving Alice seated at the table, choking on her tears.

  CHAPTER 37

  To Miss Anthony’s dismay, Meredith’s personal papers—a dozen handwritten letters, several newspaper clippings, and five first-edition, autographed copies of her debut novel, along with a few photographs of her posed with notable scribes—arrived in Waycross without even a hint of fanfare.

  Miss Anthony herself transported the items from the train station to the library and arranged them under two separate glass showcases that were set on a wooden table and positioned near the entrance of the library so they couldn’t be missed.

  The following Monday Miss Anthony brought her class to the library to view the treasures. Hardly able to contain her excitement, she flittered about like a bird as she pointed out various articles and objects behind the glass. She spewed information—both historical and hearsay—with all the reserve of a greyhound awaiting the gunshot.

  Again the children looked bored.

  “Okay, boys and girls, you can go and pick your books for the week,” she said, and all of the children except Alice quickly scattered. Miss Anthony was thrilled.

  Alice held her face so close to the glass that her breath left little clouds of fog on the surface. The name wasn’t right: E.V. Gibbs. But that face—younger and thinner—was definitely Easter’s. She was sure of it.

  The Tattler article read:

  Best Novel on Negro Life Competition (April 1, 1923) Publisher Horace Liveright offered a prize of $2,000 and a publishing contract for the best novel written on Negro life. Liveright reportedly received over two hundred entries, but regrets that there is only one prize. The winning announcement was made today. Liveright told this reporter, “Only two of the entries proved admissible for the conditions presented and those two had a remarkable number of ‘literary coincidences.’ The judges labored over the two entries for days and in the end decided that the rightful owner of the manuscript and the winner of the competition is novelist and Negrophile, Meredith Tomas.”

  When asked who the “other” entrant was, a source, who shall remain nameless, advised that it was none other than short story writer and essayist E.V. Gibbs—who, as some of you know, is the widow of Marcus Garvey’s would-be assassin and secretary to Meredith Tomas. You put two and two together. Can you say plagiarist?

  CHAPTER 38

  Sunday came around again and Easter left the house just as the morning light spread across the rooftops. In those early hours, a shutting door sounded like a tree falling and Alice’s eyes popped open at the sound. She thought of the silverware, the Fabergé egg, and the word “plagiarist,” and wrestled with the sheets and the blanket before tumbling out of bed and rushing to the window. She caught a glimpse of the bobbing purple flower as Easter made her way down the road. A minute later, sneakers in hand, sleep crusted at the corners of her eyes, Alice snuck past the closed door of her parents’ bedroom, down the stairs, and out the door.

  Easter marched down the road like a soldier off to war. It was the same tread she used the day she left Waycross, then Valdosta, and, in later years, Harlem, Philly, Chicago—the list was endless. But this was the end of the line for her now. There was no place else for her to go. The doors were closed to places she hadn’t been; she was just too old to start over.

  And what a sorrowful ending to a life that had at times sparked and snapped with excitement. The road behind her was paved with good and bad, and that was fine—that was life. But to come to the end of one’s days and find that the person who had smiled in your face while sinking a blade deep into your back, the person who had hated and despised you so severely, was now bringing you more misery even as she lay dead and cold in her coffin—well, that was just too much for any person to swallow.

  Easter had refused to hate Meredith Tomas—had refused despite the fact that her life was turning to dust. She’d seen what hate could do. Her mother had said that hate was a chain that dragged you under—but Easter now feared that she was wrong because she’d seen people stand on the shoulders of hate and pluck money and power from the very top shelves of the universe.

  What had not hating gotten her? A twin bed in a closet-sized room off the kitchen of her white employer’s home, that’s what! And what was that? Tha
t was shit!

  Alice could barely keep up and stay out of sight at the same time. She’d tailed Easter past the church and deep into the colored section of the town. Alice had never been that far on foot and she felt her heart begin to clamor. “Where in the world is she going?” she wondered aloud.

  Easter stopped, turned her head back and forth as if she was lost, and then abruptly started walking again. She stepped off the road and into a cornfield.

  Easter violently shoved the stalks aside, clearing a straight path for Alice to follow. At the foot of the field the land spread green again, and even though the house Easter grew up in was gone, she recognized the place to be her childhood home.

  The oak tree was taller than she remembered; it towered so high that when she tilted her head back to gaze at it, she became dizzy.

  Alice crouched down and watched Easter circle the trunk of the tree, and then Easter grabbed hold of the tree and struggled down to her knees. From her pocketbook, she removed a spoon and began to dig. After a few moments she raised her head and used the back of her hand to wipe sweat from her forehead and the tears from her eyes.

  She dug until the heap of unearthed dirt resembled a pyramid and the spoon finally hit tin.

  Alice crept closer and squinted at the object Easter had unearthed, but from where she stood she couldn’t quite make it out.

  Easter sat back on her haunches and gently brushed the dirt from the tin, revealing the red and brown paisley design. Time and the elements had rusted the lid shut and Easter wrestled with it for quite some time, slamming it angrily against the bark of the tree, flinging it down to the ground, pounding it with her fist, but to no avail.

  Frustrated and whipped, she collapsed against the tree and gazed down at her torn stockings and filthy dress. The rounded toes of Alice’s sneakers suddenly stepped into view. Easter raised her eyes and was genuinely surprised to see the girl standing there.