Loretta stepped out and looked up. “I’ll be right up, sweetie.”
“If I hear any more yelling,” Marshall said to her, “I’m coming down.”
And now Atwater stepped out. “Just shut the goddamn window.”
“I think I’ll leave it open,” Marshall told him. Atwater looked at Loretta, then walked to the car and opened the door.
“Come on and have some coffee if you want it,” she said.
“Good night,” said Atwater.
“I said, come on and have some coffee. Please.”
“Please?”
Loretta repeated the word.
Marshall closed the window.
Chapter 10
His dreams were all of the many faces, and the one face. The staring, small face, gliding in and out of scenes. And then he was laboring through some thickness of air, trying to reach his mother. In the morning, he found her asleep in her chair, wearing her robe and slippers, but with her stockings still on. She had spent at least part of the night cleaning; the dust mop was leaning against the wall by her chair. There was no sign of Atwater. As he moved through the room, into the kitchen to get himself some cereal, she woke and yawned, as if satisfied with her night’s sleep. She came creakily into the kitchen and put coffee on. He watched her without speaking.
After a time, it seemed clear that she was avoiding the prospect of speech. She went into the other room while the coffee perked, and put the mop away. He heard her puttering around in her room. He ate the cereal, washed the bowl and spoon and put them away, then went to his own room and got into his dark blue blazer, black slacks, white shirt, and dark blue tie. When he was dressed, he stood for a minute in front of the mirror, assuming the poses of Kennedy at a news conference, pointing, choosing another questioner. He had the hair just about right now. He stood close and tried the smile. His teeth weren’t quite straight enough, or big enough. He stepped back and pointed again, looking serious, presidential. It would be a picture the news services would circulate, perhaps, after he was assassinated. The thought brought him back to himself. It was embarrassing, like waking from an erotic dream. He went back into the kitchen and sat at the table again, restless, worried about this daydream side of him that could take him so far away. His mother came back in, having changed into her dark green dress, the back of which wasn’t zipped. She stood at the counter and poured the coffee.
“Clark and I are going out today,” she said without turning. “You look like you must have plans, too.”
He decided against telling her what Alice and her friends were planning. He said, “Nothing special.”
“You’re all dressed up. You want to look nice for your lady love.”
He said nothing.
“Does that embarrass you, son?”
“No.”
“You seem—well, embarrassed about it all. I thought you looked that way last night at the party, too. Why should a young man be embarrassed about his engagement. It’s not as if this is some game among children at school. Alice is a grown woman.”
If there was anything to say in reply to these observations of hers, he didn’t know what it might be.
A moment later, she said, “Zip me up?”
He stood, and did so, then sat down again at the table.
She turned and leaned on the counter, holding the saucer with her cup of coffee on it. “I had too much tea last night.” She lifted the cup to her lips.
He said nothing.
And she paused. “Are you mad at me?”
“No,” he said.
“You hate Clark.”
“Hate is a mortal sin.”
This seemed to irritate her. “Okay, you don’t like him.”
Marshall said nothing.
“Maybe he’s not much,” she said. “But I have to work for him.”
“Does that mean you have to take his guff?” Marshall said.
She spoke before he had finished the question. “Yes!” Then she slapped the cup back into its saucer. “It does.”
They were both quiet. Perhaps a minute passed. She sipped the coffee, and he sat staring at his hands on the table.
“Want some coffee?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
“He’s not all bad sometimes, Walter. He has his moments.”
“I don’t like the way he talks to you.”
“It’s just his way. He doesn’t mean it.”
“It sounds terrible.”
A moment later, she said, “His intentions are honorable.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Marshall said.
“No,” she said, looking at her hands. “I guess not.”
A little later, Atwater honked for her, and she hurried out the door, leaving him with admonitions to be careful, to put away his dishes if he was eating lunch at home, and not to be out late. He went to the window and watched the car pull away from the curb. Then he went into his room and tried to pray, kneeling by his bed. It was too quiet. He felt obscurely guilty, as though he had done something in the night that he should be sorry for, only he couldn’t decipher what it might be. He had tried to be faithful and honest. He was going to go ahead and marry Alice. Abruptly, he thought of sex, and of the fact that he was alone here. The room seemed to shift a fraction inward, as though the walls were closing in. If Alice came here now, she would want to do it.
It.
His blood told him this was true, and somehow he could feel the swiftness with which his spiritual resolve might crumble, given this perfect opportunity and his own huge curiosity and yearning. He got to his feet, backed away from the innocent, smoothly made bed as though it had suddenly burst into flames, and hurried out of the room. He was standing outside in the summery warmth when Alice pulled up in her baby blue, ’51 Ford, with Stephen and Minnie in the back and Albert riding shotgun.
“Hurry up,” she said. “We’re late.”
Albert scooted into the middle and Marshall got in next to him. Albert smiled, sitting with his hands on his upraised knees. “I took the bus to Alice’s this morning. She gave me breakfast.”
“My father thinks I’m two-timing you,” she said to Marshall.
He looked back and greeted the others. Minnie was taking up most of the backseat, her hands folded on her heavy lap.
Alice said, “It’s Minnie’s friend Eva.”
“I know,” Marshall told her.
Minnie wore a black suit and a small pillbox hat with a black veil. She stared out the window. Stephen reached over and took one of her gloved hands into his own dark fingers.
“You remember everyone,” Alice said, pulling away from the curb.
The funeral was in Washington, at a small white church set back among big, spreading oaks whose leaves were starting to turn. The sun poured through the trees. There were many cars in the parking lot, and a line of people waiting to file into the church. Alice pulled into a space and they all got out, under the quiet gaze of those in line. Several of them recognized Minnie, and gestured hello. Others came a little toward them, offering hands. “Welcome,” one of them said to Marshall. “Thank you for coming.”
Inside the church, people were standing along the side aisles and in the back. There were no seats left. The dead woman lay in an open coffin at the front, a thin dark face bordered with white hair surrounded by light blue satin. The coffin seemed propped against an enormous escarpment of flowers. Someone played softly on an organ, and a slow procession of people moved past, saying their prayers and farewells. At the podium, a very heavy man stood, seeming to attend to everything. His dark face and close-set eyes seemed pinched with the effort to keep silent. Finally, he spoke. “Oh, Lord Jesus, receive your sistuh Eva unto your care today. She has lived the full life, the good life in your name, oh Lord.”
“Amen,” came from someone in the seats.
“Say it, Reverend,” someone else uttered.
“Uh-huh,” said someone else.
Marshall was astonished at the seeming disturba
nce, though he kept from showing it.
“Miss Eva lived a life of grace,” the reverend said.
And again the voices rose separately from the congregation. “Amen, bruthuh.”
“Bless his name.”
“And she has gone to her blessed relief, in a chariot of angels. I said, she has gone to her relief, my friends, in a chariot of angels.”
And the voices rose again. “Say it, Reverend.”
“Praise be.”
The reverend seemed to be gaining strength from these admonitions. He raised his voice now, and shook slightly, so that the flesh of his jaw trembled. “B-a-a-w-n in the dark night and degra-da-shun of slavery, bruthuhs and sistuhs, b-a-a-w-n in the trial of fire and in the chains of o-preshun, I don’t believe you heard me, bruthuhs and sistuhs.”
There were several assenting voices, this time speaking at once. And almost instantly it was quiet again. Marshall felt himself being drawn into the silence.
“And made her way to freedom,” the big man said quietly.
“Tell it, Reverend,” a woman said.
“Mmm-hmm,” said another.
“Made her way to freedom, bruthuhs and sistuhs, and demanded-a—”
“Amen.”
“Demanded-a—”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Demanded-a—”
“Praise God.”
“Demanded-a—that she be free.” Now the big man took a long breath and raised his eyes to heaven. “And was free.”
“Amen.”
“Lived free.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Raised her children free.”
“Yes.”
“Raised her grandchildren free.”
“Praise God, yes.”
“Raised her great-grandchildren and her great-great-grandchildren free.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Lived a life of grace with her loved ones and her dear ones all around her unto that day when the angels descended-a. Halleluyuh. Lived her life of grace unto her one hundred sixth year, praise Jesus’ name.”
“Say it, Reverend.”
“Amen.”
“Amen, bruthuh,” Minnie said.
“…His name.”
“Jesus.”
“Came though hard times,” the reverend went on, “with grace. Raised her sons Jeffrey and Joshua in grace. Helped raise her grandchildren and great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren in grace. Lived her life in grace.” As he repeated the word, the congregation began to clap hands and cry out, so that the whole church was filled with the sound—everyone, Alice and Minnie and Stephen and Albert, too, calling “Amen” with the rest; and Walter came to know that his was the only silence now. The litany went on, growing deeper in intensity, and after each utterance of the word “grace,” the heavy voice made a small in suck of air, like a gasp, which punctuated everything, almost as though this sound were beating time with the roar of the other voices.
“Taught her childrun to love, in grace. Ah. Taught her friends the meaning of love, in grace. Ah. Taught all her neighbors the meaning of charity, in grace. Ah. Bore her sorrows, in grace. Ah. Praised her joy, in grace. Ah. Spent her moanings, in grace. Ah. Spent her afternoons in grace. Ah. Spent her evenings in grace. Ah. In JEE-sus’ name. Ah. And lived in the dignity of her faith, through the changes and the depredations and the sorrows. Ah. Through the fire and the tri-al. Ah. Lived in God’s grace through the troubles and the inequities. Ah. Lawd, yes. Ah. And was in all her ways a pleasure unto the sight of Gawd. Ah. Praise JEE-zus. Ah. Praise JEE-zus. Ah. Praise his holy name. Ah. Amen. Ah. Amen. Ah. Amen. Ah.”
And now it seemed that the voices made a chorus of encouraging cries, which led into something like a collective sigh, the many voices becoming a single voice, a rapturous din, slowing to the music of an organ, a hymn, singing.
What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear…
They sang four or five other songs, ending with “Amazing Grace.” And then the family stood to carry Eva to her last rest. The coffin was closed, and the procession began, out onto the shady brown lawn, in the quiet morning. The coffin was put in the back of the black hearse, and the doors closed on it. People stood and exchanged hugs and handshakes and murmurous talk, then walked by the members of the family, who waited in a line at the end of the sidewalk. Two old men, four women ranging in age from very old to very young, and three small children.
“Thank you for coming,” one woman said to Alice.
“I’m so sorry,” Alice said.
“Nuthin’ to be sorry fuh, young miss.”
“A tri-umph,” someone else said.
“Thank you,” said one of the men.
“Beautiful ceremony,” Albert said.
When they had all gotten back into the car, Stephen said, “Minnie’s got to say something to Eva’s granddaughter.”
Marshall saw her on the other end of the lawn, making her way across the grass, helping what appeared to be a much older woman. Minnie’s legs were muscular and heavy, like the legs of a big man. She walked on tiptoe, oddly like a dancer.
“How old is Minnie?” Marshall asked.
“Seventy-four,” said Stephen and Alice in the same breath.
Marshall stared.
“I know,” Alice said. “She doesn’t look close to seventy-four.”
“It was a beautiful ceremony,” Albert said.
“I wish we’d gone to church when I was growing up,” said Alice. “I think I’ve missed something.” She squeezed Marshall’s hand. “I’m planning to make up for it.”
He repressed the urge to tell her that his church was nothing like this, not remotely like this. Even so, he was suffused by the sense that he had seen something awe-inspiring and wonderful. He felt oddly banked, held in. At the same time, he believed that what he had witnessed was primitive and strange, and he imagined what he might find to say to these people about the mysterious faith he practiced so assiduously. Their sincerity moved him, and troubled him.
“My daddy was a Methodist,” Stephen said. “We went every Sunday and listened to some preacher go on about hellfire and damnation. And nothing at all about the misery we were in all the time. I stopped going as soon as I was old enough to decide for myself. I’d go to Dr. King’s church, though, if I could.”
“I’d love to,” Alice said. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
She had addressed Marshall, who hadn’t quite understood her.
“Oh, wait. That’s—you couldn’t go into his church, could you? My father said, well…”
“What did your father say?”
“Well…” she said, and paused. “Well…but how did you do it today? Wasn’t that a sin? Going into a Baptist church like that?”
“It was a funeral,” Walter Marshall said. “I don’t think…” But he wasn’t certain. He could feel the color rising in his cheeks.
“Hey—have you committed a sin, here?”
“No,” he said with too much emphasis. “It would have to be something I willed. And I wasn’t even thinking about it. It was a funeral.”
“Well, and actually we sort of dragooned you, didn’t we?”
“No, you didn’t, either,” Marshall said.
“Okay.”
They waited for Minnie to come to them.
The ride into Maryland was sober and quiet. There were logistical things to get established, and as they neared Pope’s Creek, Stephen began going through them. “We do not answer taunts, or any name-calling. We’re always polite, and show no anger, not even if we’re hit or knocked around. If they manhandle you, go limp. Absolutely limp. Do not at any point encourage or incite them. What we want is polite and quiet determination. We go in and sit down and ask for menus, and then we wait—all afternoon, if it takes that long. And into the night. If people hit, you can duck away from it, but don’t hit back. And when they grab hold, relax all your muscles and just become dead weight. We have to make ourselves wait for them to drag us out of the p
lace, if that’s what it comes to, and then we have to take whatever comes.”
“They better not try draggin’ me,” Minnie said. “They’re gonna hurt themselves.”
“We have to let them do whatever they want to.”
“What will they do?” Marshall asked. He had tried to keep the mounting apprehension out of his voice. He was beginning to wish secretly that he had found some way out of this.
“Mostly it’s name-calling,” said Alice. “Around here. I mean, the law’s been signed. You know?”
“The police might come and take us away on some trumped-up charge. Disturbing the peace. That’s what it was for the guys who went in there and tried to get served last week.”
“They’d arrest us? Really? Here?”
“You ain’t never been arrested, chile?”
“They didn’t arrest them,” Stephen said. “They took them to a high school gym and let them sit for a few hours and then let them go.”
“Is it—just us?” Albert asked.
“Diane’s going to meet us there with some friends.”
“Do the people—the restaurant people—do they know we’re coming?” Marshall asked.
“I wouldn’t really know,” said Stephen. Then he frowned. “If you’re having second thoughts—”
“Oh, no,” Marshall hurried to say. “Not at all.” In his mind, he said a prayer, asking for courage. He would suffer whatever happened as an expiation for sin. Briefly, he felt almost elated by the prospect of it. But as he gazed out at the passing countryside, the fear came back.
“Would’n be messin’ with this foolishness,” Minnie said. She had evidently been speaking to herself. She looked out the window.
“You can stay in the car, Minnie. Nobody expects you to get in the way of trouble.”
“You just mine your own bidness, na. I buried Eva today. I done made up my mind.”
The sky was darkening out over the highway in the distance; they were in Maryland, heading out Route 5 toward Waldorf. When they pulled off the highway in the direction of Pope’s Creek, Stephen said, “Get ready.”
The restaurant was on the river, part of it jutting out over the water. There were many cars in the lot, and next to the building was a wooden pier on which several men stood talking. They wore T-shirts and jeans. Five or six big boats were moored to the pier, and electric wires ran from tall poles at either end. Across the water, a row of dark trees cast a jagged shadow along the edge of the sun- and cloud-reflected smoothness of the surface.
Good Evening Mr. and Mrs. America, and All the Ships at Sea Page 22
