The Persecution of Mildred Dunlap

by Paulette Mahurin

  “Good to see you. Was wondering if you’d like to take a ride out to see Zach Langford with me?”

  “All the way to Walker Junction?”

  “Yeah, he has a horse he wants me to take a look at before he offers it to someone else. Good price. We could grab a bite there…”

  “I don’t know, Charley. That’s an awful long time to be away. I need to make dinner for Edra.”

  “Edra can come along.”

  Edra, hearing her name, went back onto the porch in a supportive show for Mildred. “Did I hear my name?”

  “I was just telling Mildred it’d be fine for you to come along with us to Walker Junction.”

  “No.” Edra shook her head. “No.”

  Mildred looked at Charley, begging sympathy. “Charley, I better not. Maybe you can just stay a while now then go to Zach’s yourself?”

  “Why sure, if that’s what you’d like.”

  “Think it’d be best.” She turned to Edra. “Would you mind making some tea?”

  Edra nodded.

  “So tell me, are you thinking of getting another horse?”

  They made small talk while Edra fixed the tea. They talked about the horse, Charley’s doing some carpenter work for the school, and spending time out at the Whitmore’s. When Edra returned, they had tea and continued the light banter till he left.

  Mildred went in to find Edra folding laundry. “That wasn’t too bad.”

  Edra put a pile of clothes into a drawer. “True.”

  “If we can just stay the course, we’ll be okay.”

  “That’s a funny expression. Never heard you use it before.”

  Mildred tried to remember where she’d seen it. Then it dawned on her it was in the play she read by Marlow based on the Faust story, about a man who sells his soul to the devil. She found it metaphorically telling that she would use this now and wondered if the nightmares and physical changes were a result of her selling her soul by compromising her integrity. Was something being revealed she needed to pay attention to? And, if so, was it too late to do anything about it? Or would she have time, like the deal Faustus struck with Lucifer, before the axe fell? Have I damned myself to hell? “It’s from that play I read a while back. You didn’t want to read it.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Continue to pursue the goal despite criticisms or barriers.”

  Edra smiled. “That sure says it.”

  “You seem to be sitting easier with this now.”

  “Well, today’s a pretty okay day. So, for right now…” Edra laughed, “I can say yeah.”

  “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” OSCAR WILDE

  13

  Charley lived on the north side of town, around the corner and just down the side street from Gus Spivey’s General Store. His home sided the small wood schoolhouse that he, with several others, helped build. He loved to put his carpentry trade to use to help children, and before Emma took ill often stopped by the school to assist with odd jobs. Although he didn’t spend much of his time reading, he enjoyed helping the children after school with theirs.

  The morning after his visit to Mildred’s, he awoke, looked out the window of his one-bedroom house to the empty schoolyard, and envisioned children running and giggling, playing tag, jump rope, and hopscotch. Mildred Dunlap, you sure were smart to bring Mabel around that first time. He dressed, put on his hat, and made his way up the street. As he turned the corner, he found Gus opening his store.

  “Morning, Gus.”

  Gus smiled. “Hey, Charley. On your way to church?”

  “Yes. Too bad you have to keep shop on Sundays. You’d sure be welcome.”

  “Mighty nice of you to say so, Charley. You know how it goes with running a business. Somebody has to do it.” Gus feigned a laugh.

  Charley figured that Gus stayed open for the few travelers passing through in need of food, drink, or emergency supplies. He continued down Main Street where most of the stores were closed.

  Men and women in their Sunday best, little girls in their patent leather shoes, and little boys in bowties filed into the church on the south end of town. A slight breeze blowing through the open windows failed to cool off the July heat and stuffy interior.

  Amos Jenkins stood before the congregation and took a breath. He had been the minister of the Red River Pass Protestant Church for the past eleven years, sent by a sister church on the east coast after the previous minister, Crayton Miller, had died of measles. Crayton had put the congregation to sleep with his boring sermons, and the townsfolk were glad when new blood arrived. Amos filled the pews and did not disappoint.

  The Jenkins were a handsome family. Amos and Rebecca had three children full of life and fun who attended services on Sunday.

  Amos looked at his family sitting in the second row and smiled. “Let’s talk.” Still smiling, his eyes ran over the congregation nodding or mumbling their hellos, being sure to include everyone. “I am smiling, but some of you may not when I tell you what I am going to talk about today.”

  The room hushed, but for a few younger restless children.

  “Death.” He paused. “Why do the smiles go out of you when I say that word? Look at you. Look around at the person next to you. Yes, death. It is coming to each and every one of us. And we sit here afraid of it.”

  Several coughs erupted. A boy sneezed. Handkerchiefs were raised to wipe sweaty foreheads. Adult voices hushed up the young ones. All eyes gazed forward.

  “Was Jesus afraid? What can we learn from that day when he walked to his death for us?” He paused, took a deep breath, and glanced around with a peacefulness that put the crowd at ease. He was lit up with a gift, a knowing that words can’t touch on the actual. Like a painting representing its subject, words were representations. He compensated with his demeanor, attitude, gestures, which spoke volumes where language fell short. He knew that the best he could do was to point at what he was trying to say and use his speech wisely in an attempt to get through to the hearts of his congregation. “In those darkest hours…what do we see?” He looked over to a wall on the right side of the church at a painting showing Jesus on the cross. “Look at the peaceful expression on his face. What is that?” He knew that a pause for silence was more effective than continuing, so he stood looking at the painting until the room went silent with him. When you could hear a piece of paper drop, he continued, “The light shines on the darkness. It shines within. Always. Look at his eyes…at his darkest moment…there’s that spark.”

  A coughing child caught the attention of his mother. “Shhhh.”

  Amos waited for the child to gain composure before continuing. “The light within…” He went on to preach about hope as long as one has faith in God, that in our darkest hours the light of God shines within to see us through. He talked about death as a metaphor and not just of the flesh, that all things pass and are impermanent. “All things except the light within…it shines on the darkness. Fear not. Have faith.” He raised his voice. “God is always with us. Faith be with you! God be with you!” He had barely taken a breath while delivering his message.

  A woman in the back screamed, “Praise God!” Then another, until the entire room joined in. “Praise God!” Mouths were agape, eyes wide open, and attention no longer distracted by the hot stuffy room.

  He felt energized by the cheers.

  There were more scattered calls of “Praise God!”

  Just then a yellow warbler flew in through an open window, grabbing Amos’s attention. He laughed. “Well, look who’s come to join us.”

  A couple of men rose to try to shoo it out.

  “Seems that our sermon has concluded.”

  Laugher erupted.

  “Madeline will now play a hymn for us.” She pressed the pedal on the pump organ and began playing “Steal Away to Jesus.” Some members of the congregation readied themselves to leave. Purses shuffled, hymnals were placed back in their holders
, and a child whined he was hungry.

  Midway through, Josie nudged Satchel that she wanted to leave. She grabbed hold of their two boys and left with Satchel following. When they got outside she whispered to Satchel, “Why’d they have to play that damn nigger song?”

  “What’s a nigger, mamma?” Matt, her elder son, asked.

  Satchel tightened his grip on her arm and whispered back, “Josie! Not here.”

  When the hymn came to an end, most of the congregation began to leave. Frank with Helene carrying little Frankie, and Mabel walked up to Josie. Helene asked, “How’d you like that? Wasn’t that something?”

  “I swear,” Josie said under her breath. “Amos has brought that northern nigger influence here. Can’t we do better than that?”

  Satchel shot Josie a look that said, Shut up! Helene stepped back, tightening her hold on little Frankie, grabbed Mabel’s hand, and nervously moved on with her family.

  Inside the church, Charley waited for everyone to leave. He wanted to stay put and let Amos’s words linger. It was the first time he’d been back for a sermon since Emma’s death and although he missed her deeply it didn’t hurt as much as when she passed. He wondered if that’s what Amos meant by what he said, that the light would see you through.

  When the aisles were emptied, he walked out and around to the back to Emma’s gravesite. He sat down beside the headstone and patted the dirt above where her body was laid to rest. “I miss you,” he whispered, feeling the emptiness that he had never experienced through all their years together. “There’s a part of me never going to be the same and I ain’t never going to love again like with you.” Tears flowed freely. The sound of a neighbor’s barking dog caught his attention. “But there’s life here. I still got life in me just like that dog.” He looked over to where the barking was coming from to see a black dog wagging its tail and taking a treat from its owner.

  He glanced up as a breeze fluttered a few greenish-brown needles of the pinyon pine several feet away, the colors contrasting against the gentle blue sky. As he looked at the other graves, he thought of all the lives that had come and gone, the sorrow that their deaths had brought to those who loved them, and his memories flooded in. He remembered when he first met Emma at a dance. To him, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever set eyes on, and it seemed too good to be true that after several dates she liked him just as much as he liked her. He remembered the sorrow they felt over him being unable to get her pregnant, the joy they shared with their beloved dog Slappy, and how they had come to name him that. He’d never do nothing without our slapping our hands to get his attention. What a silly dog. We had so many good years together, my darling Emma.

  Charley inhaled a deep breath, feeling the tears dripping onto his suit jacket. Pausing to listen to the rustle of the trees as the wind became stronger, he observed the dust kick up and tumbleweeds scatter about, while the neighbor’s dog across the street sat watching him. He felt a part of life. Even in his sorrow he was glad to be alive, unexpectedly grateful. He patted the grave and said, “I’ll be getting on now. I’ll come back tomorrow. I love you, my Emma.”

  As Mildred and Edra sat together on their front porch bench, Mildred said, “Those flowers are so beautiful.” She pointed to the desert brickell-bush that grew along the sides of the porch. “And I sure love our view of the rolling hills.” She sounded nostalgic.

  “Sundays are calm,” said Edra. “Love our sermon from the birds. That’s church enough for me.”

  Mildred nodded her agreement.

  “I wouldn’t want to be around all those busybodies and gossips sitting in church right now anyway!” Edra raised her voice.

  Mildred moved closer to her. “How you really doing?”

  “Truth be told? I don’t want to upset you…”

  “Go on.”

  “I wish we could undo the whole thing. Wish we could just move and start all over,” moaned Edra. “I still think Charley’s showing too much interest in you and I don’t like…”

  “We’ve been through this before. You know how I feel about that. Besides, where would we go? Where would we ever be free to just be ourselves without worrying that someone will see something, make trouble for us, or maybe even worse? Where do we go that we don’t take ourselves along? People are no different no matter where we’d go. At least here we have our excuses. Here…we’re probably safer here, staying put.”

  Edra pouted. “You don’t want to leave this land. It means more to you than me.”

  “You know that’s not true! I do love this land. If I felt we could find a place where we could be…” Mildred paused and looked straight into Edra’s dark green eyes. “You know, if I really believed we could go somewhere and just live simply, I would. I love you that much.”

  “Well then, can’t you just tell Charley you only like him as a friend?” Edra pleaded.

  “Oh, Edra.” Mildred sighed deeply. “If only it were that easy.”

  “I just keep hoping…” Edra swatted at a fly buzzing around her face.

  Mildred took her hand. “You live in false hope and you open yourself up to be bushwhacked. We need to be smart about what we do.” Mildred brought Edra’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “I love you so much.”

  “Oh Mil…I know.” Edra paused. “I know you’re right. I’m sorry I keep bringing this up. I want to be supportive but...it’s so hard for me to…”

  “You bring it up to me as much as you want if it makes you feel any better.”

  “What about you? I determine I’m going to be strong for you, then two days later I’m a mess again.”

  “Oh honey, you know I’m a strong woman. As long as we have each other, we’ll just keep holding each other up.” Mildred knew it was best not to mention how exhausted she felt.

  Edra’s attention became distracted.

  “Where’d you wander off to?” asked Mildred.

  “Look at that spider web.” Edra pointed to a messy looking web with a long-legged marbled cellar spider applying a white silk to a captured deer fly. “That poor fly.”

  “Probably the same one you tried to kill just a few seconds ago.” Mildred laughed, releasing a flow of blood between her legs.

  “It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious.” OSCAR WILDE

  14

  The ennui of late summer had set into Red River Pass along with the unbearable heat. Mildred had sent a note with Ben to Charley, which said Edra was not well and she needed to tend to her. These things take their time, she wrote and begged his patience. Charley took kindly to it and occupied his time with odd jobs and tending to the children after school. This not only served to calm down things with Mildred and Edra but it helped to play out the stories, rampant in town, of Mildred and Charley’s picnic at the lake and their meal at the cafe. No new telegrams of note had arrived to stir up the town in these several weeks, so Satchel was glad when the news came in. He arrived home shortly after five in a very good mood. Josie greeted him at the front door.

  “Hey, Satchel. Shorty brought us a present today…” She was interrupted by laughter from her two boys emanating from their bedroom. “Finish your chores, boys!” she yelled. Placing her attention back to Satchel, she said, “Guess who gets to clean up after Shorty?”

  Shorty acquired his name from Satchel, when a cousin who came through on a visit two summers ago gave the cat to him and told him he was an American shorthair. The Purdues loved him for his hunting prowess that reduced the rodents in the house. Although he needed no coaxing, Josie egged him on to catch, torment, and kill the mice population invading their place. Get ’em, Shorty! When Shorty caught a mouse and let it drop, she’d demanded, Pick it up! Kill it! When the cat had complied with her command, he was generously rewarded with treats. She was proud of Shorty, particularly since she knew his ancestors came to America on the Mayflower, which gave her bragging rights to lord it over friends who she professed had measly strays. Josie looked at the dead mou
se on the floor in the living room and smiled. “That’s my good boy. Now clean it up, Satchel.”

  “Here, take a look at these,” he said as he waved a couple of telegrams he was holding. He knew he risked upsetting her over the news, especially the one about a Negro, but he also knew that if he did not bring the telegrams home first, she would be all over him. He was sure that the news about Booker T. Washington’s Atlanta Address was going to infuriate her. He was well aware of her view on Negroes being allowed to succeed, that it should never have happened, let alone have them gain any sovereignty. He never understood why she had such an aversion to people of color, but after broaching the subject with her several times, only to be shut down, he gave up asking about it. What he hoped was that the other telegram, about the Jew in France, would dull the impact.

  Satchel held out the first telegram.

  Josie grabbed it out of his hand and said, “Now, go clean up that critter.”

  She began to read. “Are you kidding me! Has this been posted at Gus’s yet?”

  “Not yet.” Satchel knelt and scooped up the dead mouse with a small hand spade.

  She continued reading about Washington’s Atlanta Address, which highlighted his extremely charismatic nature, a magnet for people of wealth and power. It said he was a representative of the last generation of black leaders who had been born into slavery. “All those rich white folk supporting that man! Why he’s no better than any other slave. A black slave mamma and a white man! They should have drowned him when he was born! God damn them all to hell!” she screamed, then threw the telegram to the floor and ran out the back door.

  Satchel ran after her and found her leaning into a tall tree crying her eyes out.

  “Why!” she screamed. “God damn it all to hell! Those no-goods!”