by Cynthia Bond
Then, from the big thicket, the spirit of another child appeared, a boy, about twelve, with a noose about his neck. Then another, a little tan girl, hands bound. Then another. And another. One with blood soaked through her clothes. One child, naked, eyes red. More came, walking slowly across the earth towards her, with stories of their deaths hanging just above their heads. Ruby remembered a word she had heard Maggie’s mother say once—“tarrens,” the spirits of murdered children. Tarrens. All of the children who had been killed in those woods. They were speeding towards her. Their faces washed in horror. They were running from the creature between the pines. At first she was scared. Then she heard them, a hundred little whispers, each voice a thread, weaving such a sorrowful blanket.
So she waited on the porch. Then, one by one they slipped into her body for protection. One by one she let them in.
Ruby walked into the house and sat with her back against the wall in the kitchen, her eyes on the front door, her empty stomach grinding, heart banging beneath her ribs. She felt the Dyboù in the ink of the pines. Watching, shifting the branches. Ruby waited. She waited with nothing but her hands and her fear to save them—but if he came, she would try. Sweat dripped down her neck and collected in the hollow at the base of her throat. It streamed down her sternum. As morning broke, Ruby knew, like a nail rusted in her sternum, that sooner or later, he would come again and try to take them.
Mixed in the cacophony of all she had lost, and all she had found, Ruby stumbled into a merciful sleep.
That night the old crow perched just above her on the rooftop. She would stay and watch over her until dawn.
Chapter 6
Ephram walked quickly into the heart of town. Four-forty. Time slipping. He saw the congregation of men at P & K, laughing, frowning, faces ripe with sweat. They loomed ahead on the porch. He’d hoped to miss their evening game but the day had grown old on him.
Verde May Rankin, Chauncy’s younger sister, was picking out dried goods and discussing the latest Ebony with Miss P. Ephram faded into the spice shelf and waited, his hand keeping a soft, anxious beat. Verde May, the unfortunate recipient of the Rankin males’ bulk and height, leaned into Miss P and paused just above Billy Dee Williams and the “Pretty Black Men” article he was featured in.
“If he was a grapefruit, I would squeeze him dry.”
Miss P chuckled. “Girl, you greedy, I be set with one little drop.”
Both women shared a laugh.
Leaning against bottles of cayenne and cinnamon, Ephram remembered the day Ruby had arrived back in Liberty. Eleven years ago, in August of 1963, hundreds of thousands of Negroes had marched in Washington, D.C., exactly two days before Ruby showed up at P & K. Ruby had bucked the tide and made her way behind enemy lines. Ephram had seen her standing in the exact same spot Verde May stood today. She’d worn city shoes with straps and height, carried four sleek pink bags. Thick black lines framed her questioning eyes, a nervous smile on her red lips. Her hair was pressed straighter than some White folks’ and twisted up high on her head. It was the first time Ephram had seen Ruby properly since they drank hot cocoa at Ma Tante’s.
Before that, Ephram had spotted Ruby twice from a distance. At thirteen he’d seen her one Sunday through the church window. He’d wanted to bolt up and call out to her, but Celia had shot him a look that kept him nailed to his pew. He’d had to wait five years to see Ruby again. She’d been with Maggie at sunset. He was nearly a stone’s throw from them on the road. Maggie in men’s coveralls, Ruby pretty in white lace. They were arm and arm. He’d watched Ruby once again tiptoe and press her forehead against Maggie’s chin on the quiet road, just as he had seen her do at Marion Lake so many years ago. They stayed that way for a beat, then two. It was a soft simple thing that felt like a paw resting on his heart. Then they’d turned and walked towards Bell land.
That August of ’63 in P & K, Ephram had seen the girl he’d known right away. Everyone knew her, but were taken aback by the thick of her perfume and the clip of her speech. Ephram heard Miss P say later that Ruby sounded like a radio broadcaster. It seemed to Ephram that in the thirteen years she’d been gone, she’d ironed Liberty right out of her voice.
There’d been a crowd on the porch peeking in, men and women, a row of children hiding behind the pickles and candy. It wasn’t until Ruby asked about Maggie that she softened like cotton candy. It was then the porch seemed to see her as Charlotte Bell’s daughter, Papa Bell’s grandbaby. In that open door, Ephram watched as Miss P went to give the girl a hug. Ruby bristled and inched back, shaming the older woman into converting her gesture into straightening Tabasco bottles on a nearby shelf.
Then Ruby spoke slowly, as if addressing a group of first graders. She asked if someone could carry her to her land. Not Papa Bell’s, not her dead grandmama’s, but hers. It looked as if folks took note of that right away. She said she’d be willing to pay twenty dollars for the courtesy. Before anyone could answer, she purchased Clorox, a mop, a broom and a stack of dishcloths as if someone giving her a ride had already been decided. And although each and every person within earshot looked offended, she was right. Twenty dollars was twenty dollars. Charlie Wilkins volunteered.
Ephram had been getting Celia a Sunday paper when he heard her. Saw her. Saw the circles of sweat under the blue of her sundress as he came close to lay the dime and nickel down on the counter. He was careful not to brush her as he swept silently from the store.
She tried to tip Percy Rankin two dollars for gallantly carrying her bags to Charlie’s car and opening the door for her, without an inkling that she was insulting both the family and the man. Then she drove away, leaving a cloud of disdain behind her like an unpleasant scent.
Ephram had seen all of this and did not know why he’d felt pierced through with a crushing sorrow. He had kept to himself the rest of that day. He forgot to wish Celia a pleasant sleep. He did not brush his teeth or put on fresh pajamas. He lay in his thin bed, fully clothed, staring into the night. He did not fall asleep until dawn.
“WHAT YOU need today, Ephram?” Miss P asked him warmly. At sixty-nine, everything on her was round and smooth, her eyes, cheeks and jaw. Her fluffy white hair rounded to a bun in back. Her neck rolled into her full breasts, which gave way to even fuller hips and thighs. She always reminded Ephram of bread fresh out of the oven.
“Didn’t see you there. Me and Verde discussin’ serious business here.” She winked at Ephram.
Verde May had retrieved her copy of Ebony and was leaning over Billy Dee, who smiled up at her from the counter. She ignored Ephram completely.
“So what you need?”
“Bit of iodine and cotton, brown thread and a needle, please Miss P.”
“Give me a minute, baby.” She disappeared into the back as Chauncy strode into the store, opened the glass cooler and retrieved a Pepsi-Cola. He studied his sister, Verde May, as he opened the bottle against the counter.
“Look like the canary drooling after the cat.”
Verde answered without looking up, “Look like yo’ fly is open.”
Chauncy quickly zipped up and slumped out to the porch.
Miss P reappeared with his items. She punched them into her ancient register.
“That’ll be four ninety-five, Ephram.”
Ephram glanced at his wristwatch, minutes melting, disappearing. He edged around Verde May to get to the counter. It was awkward with the cake. She shifted in an angry huff. He reached into his pocket and realized he’d left his wallet sitting on the corner of his dresser.
“Er-uh. Forgive me Miss P. I gone and left my wallet on my dresser. I’ll get them things tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t hear it. You pay me tomorrow after church. Look like we getting a new Church Mother.” She winked at Ephram and smiled.
Verde cut her eyes at Ephram, put her money on the counter. “I’m gone take me a Crush out the cooler.” At that she rolled Billy Dee and all the other Pretty Black Men under her arm, grabbed a soda and saunter
ed out of the store and down the street.
Miss P smiled and her voice dropped low, “Verde’s just mad cuz she wants her mama to win instead of yours. Supra Rankin ain’t got a chance. Celia as good as Church Mother already.”
“Thank you for saying so, Miss P.”
“No thanks needed, it’s us need to thank her for all she do round here with her Sanctified Saids, her ministering to them drunks down at Bloom’s and sprinkling holy water over pit fire ashes fools been burning in them woods. Don’t know what we’d do without her.” Then Miss P looked at Ephram and then at the cake resting in his right hand. “Where she sending you this late with one a’ her cakes?”
“Mo Perty’s wife sick again.”
“Lord that dyspepsia can be a burden.”
“Yes it can Miss P. Thank you kindly.”
He crossed the doorway onto the porch of men and took care to edge past them. The game over, they were mid-conversation.
Ephram had successfully made his way to the bottom stair when there was a loud creak. All eyes on the porch turned to him.
“Hey Ephram,” Gubber called out, “where you going with that cake?”
“Mo Perty’s wife is sick.”
Moss Renfolk spoke out, “Naw she ain’t. I seen her take the Red Bus into Newton this morning.”
Gubber laughed. “Then you going nowhere but Hades fo’ lying. Bring your black ass up here so I can get a nose full.”
Such was the holy adulation of Celia’s cakes that the whole of the porch waited, so Ephram reluctantly walked up a few steps and lifted the cloth.
“Damn that shit smell good!” Gubber let out a wolf whistle. “How ’bout a little taste,” he half teased, half asked.
Ephram quickly covered the cake.
Chauncy instigated, “Ephram, put up yo’ dukes. I believe Gubber ’bout to tackle you for that confection.” Then, “What she making fo’ my Uncle Junie’s repast day after tomorrow?”
“One angel cake, two sweet potato pies and some of her fig preserves.”
“That’s why you and me gone be friends fo’ life Ephram Jennings.”
Charlie grinned. “I’m damn happy when I take ill, cuz I know Celia Jennings soon come knocking.”
Gubber said wistfully, “Woman can cook like a mule can piss.”
Ephram eyed the open forest and began his escape.
Percy tensed with unspent gossip. “Speaking of piss, did y’all hear what that Bell gal done yesterday?” He had their attention. “Sat up in the middle of the road and peed all over herself. Like all that midnight hooping and hollerin’ wasn’t enough.”
Gubber sneered. “Somebody need to put her out her misery.”
Chauncy leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t be so quick. Just cuz a toad got warts don’t mean he ain’t taste good when you fry him up.”
Ephram watched Moss draw the door to the store closed. He always did this when the talk turned unchristian.
Gubber spat back, “I don’t eat no toads.”
Percy nudged Gubber, winked at his brother. “Maybe you should start. Somebody tell me they got nice, long tongues and knows just how to use them.”
Moss shook his head. “I ain’t never heard such.”
“Mouths too …” Percy put a stamp on it.
Chauncy added the postscript, “A man ain’t no better than a fly, so what he gone do if a juicy frog come along and beg to lash him with her tongue? The Devil hisself wanna do that I’d be hard-pressed to say no.”
Moss shot out, “No suh! That happen, sho’ nuff?”
“May God strike me.”
Moss fell into wonderment—like he’d just watched his dog sit up and moo.
Percy added, “Just last Thursday night. I know cuz I was there.”
Moss mouthed, “Lawd-a-mercy.”
Ephram couldn’t move. He felt his legs growing into the rail on the step. His feet were the planks, nailed tight to the beams. He couldn’t walk away now, not if God had ordered him to. He stood on the stairs like solid wood until Gubber handed him a proposition.
“Play me a game.”
Ephram felt the wood in his legs tingle and walk up the stairs. A familiar dull ache began just above his knee. There was nowhere else to walk. No road to follow. No door to be knocked on and opened. Once he was sitting Gubber added, “Put yo’ money down. Fifty cent a game.”
Ephram felt his lips moving. “I ain’t got no money on me, Gub.”
The two had been fast friends at thirteen, but the memory of that had long since faded into the wallpaper. Now they grunted at one another if they happened to pass on the street.
“Then play me fo’ that cake.”
Percy interjected, “Cake worth more than two bits.”
Moss added, “I seen it go for as high as seven dollars at the Juneteenth auction.”
Gubber relented. “Hell, I’ll give you five whole dollars if you win, which you ain’t ’bout to do.” Suddenly Ephram wanted to be rid of the cake. Wanted it stuffed between Gubber’s large teeth, so he nodded yes and the porch leaned in to watch. Moss eased the store door open again and Miss P peeked out of the screen, ever grateful for Moss’s timely gallantry. It was almost closing time, but she would let the boys finish their dominoes.
The “cake game” lived in the mouths of men until suppertime. It wasn’t an event of great consequence, but it was something. Gubber Samuels had lain down the gauntlet and Ephram Jennings had picked it up. They’d had Moss hold the cake while the two men played. Gubber won the draw. They’d chosen their seven bones and quick as lightning Gubber slapped down a double six. Ephram hadn’t one single six and that fast had to knock. Gubber put down a blank/six combo. Again Ephram had to pass. So Gubber had started talking dirt about Ephram’s luck and added something about his flat feet. At one point Gubber was down to four bones before Ephram laid a single tile. Everyone talked about how steady and solemn Ephram had played Gubber, how even when they were down to one tile each, Ephram hadn’t once looked up from the game. When he laid out that four/two and Gubber had to admit that he was beat, Gubber got so mad that he messed up his cussing. “Fucker-mother, bitches of sons.” Until the whole porch laughed. In the end after Ephram won, folks talked about how he walked from the porch in a kind of daze.
How Gubber Samuels had followed after him and whispered something that made Ephram yank away, cake teetering, then stomp down the road. How Gubber made his way back to his seat and grinned, “Don’t mess with a man ain’t wet his wick in twenty year.”
Charlie eased the door closed as Miss P counted out her register. He bent low. “Ain’t natural.”
“Been knowing his crusty butt too long,” Gubber expounded. “Lying, carrying angel cake, sweating aftershave? Mule out courting.”
Chauncy Rankin stated fact. “Nothing more pitiful than a grown fella lose track his manhood.”
Gubber added, “Shit so backed up he like to kill some poor bitch when he let loose.”
Charlie looked out towards the darkening woods. “Who he sparking out that’a way? Ain’t nothing but Rupert Shankle’s and a patch of headstones.”
A flash glinted in Chauncy’s eye. “And Ruby Bell.”
“Jesus wept.” Charlie blanched.
Miss P easily put the game away inside of the door, then walked out of the store and put her key in the ancient lock. Her movements ushered the men from the porch.
As he stepped onto the road Chauncy whistled and said, “Like collecting brimstone in hell. Man hit the jackpot.”
Gubber spit. “Waste a good cake, you asked me.”
The men gathered close like old hens for one last scratch of sundown gossip—then scattered, each to his own dinner table to fill their bellies with the steaming, spiced handiwork of women.
FOR EPHRAM Jennings the game had been a kind of water torture of the mind. He remembered a picture book that Charlie and Lem passed around at Bloom’s some Saturday nights, of women doing all manner of things. It made him both ashamed and excited. Nake
d and twisting, mouths open, kneeling, waists bent, bodies like feed bags, fit to each man’s liking. Then he put Ruby’s face on each of those mind pictures and lost the fight against embarrassment, Devil lust and jealousy. And worst of all, fear. He knew in the moment that he could never, even in his dreams, fill the well of Chauncy Rankin’s voice, the gait of his stride, or the practiced slide of his touch.
So a hope that had lived in Ephram for thirty-five years against odds even Job couldn’t fathom died. Right there on the steps of P & K. With the sun yawning towards night and eleven grown men laughing around him.
It wasn’t that Ephram hadn’t sampled some bit of life for himself. When he turned sixteen K.O. had lied to Celia about a Young Men’s Bible Conference, and instead dragged Gubber and him down to Fair Street in Beaumont. He’d said it was something a boy’s daddy ought to do, but since neither boy had one, he had taken on the job.
The woman had been banana pudding yellow and as fat as a prize hog, with a pink corset pushing and shoving her flesh into place, but her face was smooth and sweet as a child’s doll, and her top lip had been painted into two little red triangles. She’d smelled like sweat, ammonia and Tootsie Pops. He’d fumbled and tumbled until her impatient hand guided him to her soft center. The release had been magnificent. Almost as great as the shame that followed.
Many years later there had been Gubber’s cousin, Baby Girl, fast, young and shaped like trouble. His one true girlfriend. She never removed her panties but let him do whatever was possible with the benefit of loose elastic around her full, plump legs. He spent every dime he made on her, until they were discovered behind P & K, where Celia had followed him. She yanked them apart so hard and fast, Baby’s panties, at long last, fell to the ground. After a night of demons being prayed from his flesh by Celia and ten good church members, that was the end of that.
Ephram walked farther into the piney woods and felt a low ebb tickling his joints, his knees. As he crossed the clearing Ruby’s gris-gris slipped to the ground and was covered by a puff of dust.
