by Cynthia Bond
Chauncy tipped carefully over the entrance, then walked leisurely into the yard. Ruby wrapped the robe around her that Ephram had bought at P & K, then went to the doorway as she saw Ephram turn the corner.
He walked towards the yard, suitcase and plastic bag in hand. His face seemed to fall into confusion with each step. By the time he reached them, Ruby saw his arms taut, his jaw tight. Chauncy stepped right up to Ephram, his hand outstretched, a look of sincerity painted across his face.
“Hey man I was hoping to find you here.”
Ephram just stood there waiting, letting Chauncy’s hand hang in the soft rain.
“Yeah man, figured you wasn’t stayin’ round there with all that foolishness.”
Ruby saw Ephram set down his bags as he listened.
“I come out to ’poligize for all that ’bout your mama. Men gone be men but don’t nobody need to be draggin’ all that back out to light. It ain’t right. Me, I’m gonna have a talk with both Sim and Percy. They ought to know better.”
Ephram turned to Ruby and said low and steady, “What’s he doing here?”
Before Ruby could answer, Ephram hauled back and hit Chauncy square on the jaw. Chauncy staggered back, a look of shock washing over him. Ephram charged again, punching Chauncy in the face, once, twice, until the two men went tumbling.
Ruby rushed to them, screaming, “Y’all stop! Stop!” She turned to Ephram. “Ain’t nothing happen! Stop! He come here to see you about something so I wait inside.”
Chauncy jumped in, honesty stirred into every word. “Man, hold on now! I was trying to get you to come back with me for the reception. Damn! Ain’t no need for that! Past is past with us. What kind a’ man I be to trespass in the here and now.” He gathered himself and added the truth that always makes a lie more plausible, “Mama asked for you special. ’Sides, I needs you to explain to her why I ain’t there at the burial on account how you got sick all over my shirt!” He strode to the tree, grabbing his shirt and jacket, proof of his sincerity. He waved them about as he walked back. “Look what you done, man! Now you know somebody’s got to answer for it. You know what she’s like. She ain’t gonna believe nothing I say. Gonna have my hide. Hell, she try to cut a switch for Percy just yesterday.”
Ruby looked at Chauncy and realized that he was the best liar she had ever seen. Even she almost believed him.
Heaving, Ephram looked into the man, searching, then he calmed and said, “Yeah, Supra don’t play. But I can’t help you. I wasn’t there neither. Left right after you.”
“So you coming?”
“No, I’m done for today.”
“Don’t make me beg.”
“I can’t help you,” Ephram said.
“All right, I’ll have to settle for that.” Chauncy said finally, “I was wrong today, man, at that grave. We all was. I’m sorry for that.”
When Ephram turned away, Chauncy winked at Ruby. He then half trotted down the road past the bend and was quickly out of sight.
Ephram looked into Ruby. “What happened to your face?”
“I fell against that chinaberry while I was playing with my babies.”
Ephram took a step back so she answered his feet, “Hell, man, I’d tell you. I’ve got nothing to hide. You ain’t my boyfriend or nothing. I do as I please, so why wouldn’t I tell you.”
“You—he didn’t do nothing?”
“Ephram, I swear, he was knocking on that door two minutes before you came. I’ve never said two words to that fool.”
He sighed like air leaving a tire, and Ruby learned that quickly, how easily lied to Ephram Jennings was.
CHAUNCY RANKIN ran like a colt down the forest road. At forty-seven he still felt the raw power in his easy movements. He was just the kind of man he admired, tall, good-looking and clever as hell. It didn’t hurt that God had gifted him with length where length was most needed and the width to strike an ax hard enough to fell a medium-sized tree. Chauncy broke into a fine sweat, pushing his body a little bit harder. He knew he would have her again and soon by the looks of it, and damned, if messing with Ephram hadn’t turned her out. She looked good enough to eat. He felt a burning pride that he had been chosen, of all the men, to be welded to the Dyboù. Only the best and strongest were picked, so of course, it had been him. He would rage with might over the pit fire. He would rule.
Chauncy would have laughed out loud but he didn’t have the time. There truly was going to be hell to pay for not being at the burial. The best he could do was blame it on Ephram and his fall into damnation and sin. Why else would he pick a fight in a graveyard? Hell, the mood folks were in, Chauncy figured, he could say just about anything and they’d just tsk-tsk at the stealing of a good boy’s soul. Ephram Jennings deserved all of it and more, being with a born whore, a woman who had laid not only with him, but with half the parish. More than anything Chauncy was grateful that the Brothers had never invited Ephram to the pit fire. A man like that wasn’t worthy to gather their kindling.
THE PINES towered high above Ruby and Ephram as they stood in the front yard, looking at each other in the haze. It was as if the clouds couldn’t decide whether to finish the storm properly or just leave it alone, so it lived a kind of half-life over their heads. It was Ruby who reached her hand through that uncertainty and pulled Ephram towards her.
In spite of the lie or maybe because of it, she felt the soft of the man like a balm. Lying was the shield she had picked up against the hate of life. It would save her still. It would keep this man beneath—no, beside her. She put her head against his chest and heard the steady beat under his sternum. She was a used thing. She was nothing, except his arms wrapped around her, and she felt her heart squeeze in her chest.
Ruby felt the dirt and terror of the afternoon melting.
Ephram looked down and saw shame covering her like a bushel. He lifted up her face.
Ruby saw something in his eyes. It was akin to respect, and shone like a candle. It was so bright, the light entered her, so she couldn’t help but look around. In that instant Ruby saw the walls of her own soul, saw things sparkling there she had never thought to look upon. Pictures of women, old, ancient with eyes like eagles, hands with love burning. She saw Maggie. There were sparkling lights lining the walls, gemstones gleaming. There was a lifetime of learning scribbled there, and a march towards life in spite of the hell that had been dealt her. Ruby blinked against it and then quickly the light went out. She looked away from Ephram, but she knew, knew in that moment that she had seen it, that she could never again pretend she had not felt her worth. It would always haunt her, tug upon her in her darkest moments.
So Ruby kissed Ephram. She had to stand on tiptoe to do it.
Ephram felt her hand glancing the back of his neck and then, soft like the mist around them, Ruby held her lips against his. His hand found her hair and let his fingers rest in a tangle. The other barely touched her waist. She did not press or move, but still Ephram felt a rush through his chest, a steel in his legs, and then she held his lower lip between hers and suckled softly. Then the tip of his tongue. Had she become sugarcane? Did she know the secrets of the stalks? He felt their syrup in her kiss.
Ruby breathed in the man, his salty scent, the faint odor of his aftershave. She took his air into her lungs and held it as he began kissing her, his hands firm now, in her hair, on her back, fingers tight against her ribs. Some powdery feeling collected at the back of her throat and her chest rose too quickly and released with a moan. When she pulled away her eyes were wet.
She looked down at the earth because she couldn’t look directly at the man. She could not give her heart to him. She could never hand over what had been ripped away so long ago. Still, she could stand shoulder to chest beside him. She looked up at the sky. It had made a decision and suddenly poured full and free about them. They did not move.
Ephram almost reached out to touch her cheek but a flash of lightning stopped him. He counted silently and the thunder rolled when he reached nine.<
br />
Together like children they waited and counted the next flash. They stopped at seven. The storm was coming closer. Ruby felt the urge to leap against Ephram and hold him too tight, to weep into his collar and thank him for her salvation, but instead she punched his right arm and said, “Nice suit.”
“You like it?”
“Sure do.” Ruby stepped towards the house then turned around. “If you’ve got any others like him at home tell them they’re welcome to come over and stay awhile.”
Ephram smiled. “Six at least. But they don’t go nowhere without their shoes.”
“I suppose the shoes don’t go nowhere without them socks.”
“They’re pushy that way. Matter of fact, they so presumptuous, they jumped in that there bag and dragged me all the way here.”
“Did they?”
“They sho did.”
“Well, if they went to all that trouble, no telling what else they likely to do. I ’spose we best let them on in.”
Ephram went to get the bag. The ice cream was a bit mashed, but still cold in the sack.
They were both grinning when they reached the porch.
The rain fell so hard it started singing. They were almost at the door when they both saw the last traces of the red powder streaking in front of the door. Ruby took a step back. The sight of it sent a spark of anger across Ephram’s chest; he bent down and sniffed. He thought of the stories he’d heard since childhood, of hexes and spells and curses under the blood moon.
“Foolishness.” Then to Ruby he said, “Wait here.”
She leaned against the porch and watched the dark woods as Ephram ducked inside. A quiet terror washed over her. The scent of Aqua Velva lifted with the wind tinged with tobacco. It lasted for only a second. Ephram came out with a scrub brush. He made quick work of finishing what the rain had started; when he was done he rinsed his hands at the pump and put the bags in the house. He lifted Ruby by the waist and easily carried her to the door’s threshold, then paused as the crow started fussing again in the trees, soaked and angry. It cawed, Child, I’d watch myself if I was you.
Over Ephram’s shoulder, a soft outline formed in the dark, and for a moment Ruby saw the Reverend Jennings like a puff of smoke. In the warmth of Ephram’s arms, Ruby tucked it away as a trick of shadow.
“Shut up Maggie,” she whispered, as Ephram carried her into the house.
Chapter 19
Celia walked into her silent home after the Rankins’ reception. The fact that Ephram had left during the burial was embarrassment enough, but when he failed to make Junie’s reception, Celia had felt a shame she hadn’t known since her mama rubbed her nakedness in God’s face. She had kept peeking towards the door when it opened, certain that the men and women of Liberty, that threats and plain decency, would have waved Ephram’s little boat home. When it became clear that it had not, she had burned inside of her skin. Supra’s smirk when she handed Celia a piece of Verde’s lopsided coconut cake crushed Celia’s chest in on itself. She stooped just a bit from the effort to accept it.
Now, alone in her home, the empty pans in the shelves and unused plates in the cupboards, brought their daddy, the Reverend, to mind. The slice of loneliness heaped upon her plate when he was killed by those White men from Neches came back to her. The food she’d kept on hand for him, the smoked ham and salt pork, the pickled trotters and the hot peppers in vinegar for his greens, all waited for years until the twisted lids grew mold. Neither she nor Ephram had found the gumption to go near it.
Thirty-three years later, Celia knew that the food waiting in the refrigerator for Ephram would soon start to curl and lose its crisp. The mountains of his favorites sat in new Tupperware: fried chicken and pork chops, okra with tomato and corn, fresh yeast rolls, collard greens, black-eyed peas with butter rice, potato salad, lemon meringue pie, sweet potato pie, blackberry cobbler and more. All made with a certainty that Ephram, hungry and guilty, would surely be home by sunset with his tail on a plate.
As she looked about the house the practical business of life without him began to unroll before her. Without the new bags coming home every day from the Piggly Wiggly, her larder would soon run low. And what was she to do? Walk the mile to P & K and tote her own bags home? Past the Rankins’ land and everyone wandering down to Bloom’s Juke come evening? Even paying some young man to do it would have proved shameful, as if she had no family, no relation who cared enough to tend to her needs. Where would she get her stamps? Who would post her letters? Who would accompany her to purchase her wigs in Newton and so much more?
Celia sat upon the plastic slipcovers on her mint velour sofa. It was not only the loss of him, but who had gained. Ruby Bell was not just a girl. Celia knew what she was and how she had become that way. Celia was one of the few women in Liberty who knew about the pit fires. Others whispered over white ashes, but she had been there. She had seen the thing one evening and seen the girl who took delight in sin and debauchery. That girl was Ruby Bell.
Celia felt her stomach grip and churn with fear for her boy. A hunger rose from her body, and she crept into the kitchen. Bowls upon bowls of a glistening Sunday repast waited. Celia ate. She gnawed chicken to the bone and scraped the cartilage. She gulped unchewed mouthfuls of perfectly seasoned okra, corn bread found near the back, rolls crammed too full in her mouth for her molars to bite down. She stuffed and stuffed until food fell down her gown, pushing the handfuls almost to the back of her throat, so that her breath was labored and the food locked in her throat. Then she padded to the bathroom, knelt down on the pink shag throw rug. Her hands met her lips, her fingers white from pressing together. She let them part and slid two fingers into her throat. She pressed a secret button and up it all came in a gush. In a matter of seconds it was done. Her body shook like a train screeching to a stop. Then she was empty. After she washed her hands, she used the same two fingers to pull the lever on the toilet. She turned away as it all swirled down.
It had been years since Celia had prayed on the bathroom floor and her throat burned from the effort. At fourteen, after her mama left, it had somehow helped her to manage the business of living and raising Ephram and taking care of her daddy—but it had begun when she was twelve, the night Ruby dragged her daddy into hellfire, where he swam, and eventually drowned.
In those days, Celia trailed after her papa. She didn’t know why, except that he needed looking after. Her mama kept her eyes on Ephram and didn’t seem to care much about Celia, much less her own husband. Celia had noticed how she always looked down at the ground when he came into the room, or busied herself with the wash—any little thing to keep herself too high and proud for her daddy. Being educated like she was, she liked to lord it over him.
Everyone in the house had picked their partners. Ephram and her mama. The Reverend and his church. Celia was left alone, so she followed her daddy.
First she started walking behind him when he went to the church some off days to help the head of the Women’s Auxiliary tend to some chores. She made sure he didn’t see her; still she would wait for him in the thicket of trees. She would take little things she imagined might come in handy. A tea cake wrapped in a napkin, if he found himself out somewhere hungry. A canteen with sweet water—she’d even measured the sugar in herself. Smelling salts, a toothpick, a pack of matches and sometimes a fresh pair of socks. She invented all types of instances when he might do something like step into a mud puddle on the way to a meeting with the Church Board, and she would show up out of nowhere to clean up his shoe and hand him the socks. He might faint from all of his work, and there she would be, with sweet water and reviving salts.
So one night, when she heard her daddy going out, Celia followed after him. Her mama and Ephram fast asleep, she had thrown on her waiting school dress and shoes, then walked out into the pines. She had known he did work out in the back woods, where some folks believed in conjure and went to a Godless woman named Ma Tante.
Celia thought, That is where he must be walkin
g, to minister to the heathens, who, she had heard, prayed to something other than Jesus. She was well practiced at walking silently behind him, and he never turned once, but walked proudly through the trees until he reached a glowing fire surrounded by men.
Celia watched her daddy smile big and set the men at ease. Some Celia knew and she was shocked to learn that they were heathens and would therefore be left behind during the rapture. She was too far away to hear him, but she watched her daddy speaking in earnest, trying to save their souls from purgatory, and sure enough, they were listening—each and every one. They nodded and Celia knew that come Sunday they would be in Marion Lake, being baptized by her father.
Then something strange happened. The flames seemed to grow larger and the wind picked up, then came little girls. Celia figured they had been sent there to bring their daddies home, until she saw Ruby Bell, who didn’t have a daddy at all—at least not one who would show his face.
When Ruby stepped out her daddy stared at her and all of his words just fell to the wayside. Celia could tell something was wrong with her daddy. The other girls started crying—but not Ruby, who stood still as anything. Celia wanted to know what was behind that fire, what was hiding out in those woods she couldn’t see. The men started shuffling too. Without her daddy’s words to stop them, they started pounding on some kind of drum and moving their lips all at the same time.
Then Celia watched a type of bedevilment take hold of her daddy. He started swaying with the drums, started moving his mouth with the other men. Celia began praying for him. She pressed her hands tight together and called on Jesus, and the Father. It didn’t help.
It seemed like her daddy, the one she poured coffee for every morning, because her mother was too slow about it—it seemed like he was gone, and this man, looking dead-eyed at Ruby, was all that was left. She wished she had brought something to help him, but nothing in her little bag would help, not even the salts.
