by Edgardo Vega
Butterworth had brought her yards of cloth, recalling how much she enjoyed sewing. That week they traveled to Mobile and he bought her a brand-new Singer electric sewing machine. His job at the university paid well enough and he was a thrifty man. The expense of the trip and the gifts hardly made a dent in his savings. At one point he asked again about Melinda and his mother explained, as she had in her letters back then, that she’d passed on in 1946, drowned in the lake, but most likely somebody took a liking to her, forced himself on the poor girl, and then killed her. He’d wanted to ask if she suspected anyone and was the person black or white, but thought better of it. What difference did it make? His sister was dead.
Alfred Butterworth wanted to apologize to his mother for running away, but didn’t want to unearth those memories. He still didn’t know what had come over him that day. His best explanation had always been that he’d grown tired of being beaten and humiliated. But he’d had another reason, and he had a need to find out if he had been justified. He inquired about his aunt Louisa and was told that she still lived down the road. One morning he walked the two miles down to his aunt’s house, noticing that many new houses had sprung up along the still unpaved road, the dust rising from it, the countryside wilted in the winter sun. When he got there he saw that, as in the case of his mother’s house, rooms had been added and there were electrical appliances scattered about: television set, toaster, fans, and even an electric blanket in his aunt’s bedroom, which she proudly showed off.
Butterworth told his aunt he’d felt bad about running away after what he’d done. His aunt replied there was no need to apologize. Maybe the Reverend Lockwood had it coming to him.
“The man had two sides. No different than most folks, but in him it was glaring, since he was supposed to be bringing everyone the word of God, and while there isn’t a body alive who can claim perfection, a preacher has to set an example and Reverend Lockwood often fell short of that, if truth be told.”
She explained, in rather convoluted language, how Reverend Lockwood had at one point also attempted to romance her.
“I never told your mother,” his aunt said. “It would’ve broken her heart, with everything that has happened in her life, but I warned him that if he got out of line again, not only your mother but the entire community would hear from me.”
“I guess he didn’t pay you no mind,” he said.
“Folks like him can’t help themselves, I guess. But your mother’s got to share the blame for ever taking up with him,” his aunt said and went on to explain.
Because it wasn’t as if his mother hadn’t been forewarned by the conjure woman in Mississippi to whom cousin Rachel had taken her. Around a year later a man rode up to the house on a mule and dismounted. He was dressed in black and carried a Bible and very politely announced that he was the Reverend Isaiah Lockwood from Atlanta, Georgia. By that time his mother had forgotten everything Miss Lulu McAlpin had said, and as busy as her life was her heart gave three skips and two jumps. She was utterly and helplessly charmed by the Reverend Lockwood, who dismounted from his mule, saw that God had set in front of him a fairly young, pliable woman in need of assistance, and who could know except the good Lord what might come of a situation such as this one.
The first thing Isaiah Lockwood did was ask to speak to her husband. His mother told the Reverend of her husband’s death. Reverend Lockwood closed his eyes solemnly and mumbled a prayer about the Lord keep him and then asked if it was too much trouble if he gave the mule some water, and since it was near dark could he let the mule graze nearby. Also given that he was a stranger, he shouldn’t be traveling the countryside that late, and could he rest the night over in the shed by the well.
His mother said that would be no problem and that they didn’t have much in the way of food, but if he was willing to say grace for them, he could join in. “Tain’t much,” his mother said. “Just some yams, a little okra, and parsnip greens in fatback. We also got a pan of cornbread, and some buttermilk if you don’t mind it thick,” she said.
“Simpering like a young fool over the man,” his aunt recounted. The Reverend, according to his aunt, ate like the twelve lost tribes, burped, excused himself, and the next morning he was up bright and early chopping wood, milking the cow, collecting eggs, drawing water, and generally making himself useful so that his mother was sincerely grateful that God had chosen to reward her suffering.
A week passed and the Reverend Lockwood was still making himself useful and making Cornelia Butterworth’s heart flutter for he was a fine specimen of a man, his skin black and smooth and, although his teeth were already long and yellow, being he was in his fifties, he was lean and strong. Going into town to purchase goods, he was eventually able to trade for a wagon for his mule to pull. They began to plant more vegetables and sell them. On his trips into town he was also able to learn that, although there was a church in Pinckney, there was no black preacher around, the last one having passed away. The Reverend Lockwood went into the church, chased the bats and mice out, and, with saw and hammer, water and soap, got the church in shape and began to preach on Sundays. With great determination, smiling sometimes, chiding at others, he was soon able to convey to the congregation the importance of tithing.
“Why did they think white folks owned the entire earth and half the sky? There is no reason other than they tithe. Yes, sir. They don’t look up and say, I’m sorry, Lord, I can only give you one percent of the money my crop brought this year. No, sir. White folks are grateful that their harvest is bountiful and they turn over ten percent of their earnings to the work of the Lord. So if you want to see your riches grow, brothers and sisters, tithe.”
Soon after, Reverend Lockwood had little tithing envelopes printed. The envelopes said in beautiful gothic lettering:
EBENEZER BAPTIST CHURCH
PINCKNEY, ALABAMA
REV. ISAIAH LOCKWOOD, PASTOR
“Just like they do in the African Zion Baptist in Atlanta!” said one of the sisters in the Ladies Aid. “My cousin Bertha lives there and that’s exactly what she told me.”
Overnight, the members of the church began to deliver into the collection plates dollars and coins. Whether out of desperation or the fact that they now had to work harder, people actually began to prosper and soon the church was filled every Sunday. From the meager offerings of the sharecroppers and the folks in the town, Reverend Lockwood was able to purchase wood from the mill and began to build, with Cornelia Butterworth’s permission, an extension to her small two-room house.
“One moonlit night, six months after the Reverend Lockwood’s arrival, when the weather was too hot to sleep, your mother came out to the kitchen porch after you and Melinda were asleep, and the Reverend Lockwood came and sat next to her,” his aunt continued. “One thing led to another and before the night was over they had been intimate, and before the week was out they were living together as man and wife.” Knowing he would gain greater respect from the congregation as a true, God-fearing man, the Reverend suggested to Cornelia that they be properly married. One weekend three-year-old Alfred and his sister, Melinda, were brought to their aunt Louisa’s house, and his mother and the Reverend Lockwood went into Mobile to be married.
“When they returned, your mother was the happiest she’d ever been,” Aunt Louisa said.
The Reverend Lockwood worked hard at the farm, and in time, with the use of his mule, he plowed a good piece of the land behind the house, leasing it from the owners, the Pritchards, whose mansion sat in white splendor in the distance. With the money brought in by the corn, beans, and watermelons that the Reverend and Cornelia planted, they were able to buy pigs, and within two or three years they had a healthy boar and two sows and began raising pigs. Some of the pigs they sold, others they slaughtered. The Reverend Lockwood even built a smokehouse where they began curing hams and shoulders and pickling feet and knuckles, and making chitterlings, and soon business was so good that, at the urging of Malcolm Pritchard, who recognized a good bus
iness opportunity when he saw one, the Reverend Lockwood and his bride built a spacious new wing on the house and a store next to it. Now people, black and white, came from all over the county to buy pork products from the Lockwoods.
Over the next five years Cornelia Lockwood gave birth to three more children: Nathan, Luke, and Miriam Lockwood. By the time Alfred Butterworth was eight years old the Reverend had expanded the store, from which he now also sold dry and canned goods, clothing, and household items.
“Isaiah Lockwood was like King Midas. Everything he touched turned to gold. But he was a man driven in odd directions. Easily tempted by the flesh,” Butterworth’s aunt said.
As the haze of his memories began to lift, Butterworth recalled being in the store as a young boy when a man about the age of thirty came in and said he had to feed his family but things hadn’t gone well on his recent selling trip and he was wondering whether the Reverend could give him some items of food on credit.
“I’m from up near Bessemer, but my wife’s mamma’s from down here. We came to stay a spell till things get better. Me and my Lizzie got two little ones and I’d be indebted to you if you could do that for us.”
“What do you sell, young man?” the Reverend Lockwood had said.
“Musical instruments. Brass and wind, both. For a company in Memphis, Tennessee. Also sheet music and if you have a pianola, I can get the latest rolls for you.”
“You don’t say?” Reverend Lockwood exclaimed. “And are you a musician?”
“Yes, sir, I certainly am. My daddy was from New Orleans and he taught all of us.”
“And can you teach music?”
“Yes, sir. I certainly can.”
“Well, I’m very happy to hear that. How would you like to help me start a colored folks’ band right here in this town? You’re welcome to charge five cents per lesson.”
“Yes, sir, I would like that very much.”
Alfred Butterworth was looking through his aunt’s lace curtains into the yard, recalling again those days when he was beginning to explore his life. He closed his eyes for a moment, turned to Louisa Blake, his aunt, and said that things were coming back to him.
“Nathan Winslow St. Charles was a neatly dressed, meticulous man with very long, slender fingers and a great love for music. He suggested the clarinet for you, I believe,” his aunt said.
Butterworth nodded again and recalled that he had liked the instrument instantly. It was different from the others. And when Mr. St. Charles played, it had sent shivers through him. In no time he learned to read music and was playing simple classical pieces and some Stephen Foster tunes like “Old Black Joe,” “Massa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground,” and “Camptown Races.” One joyful aspect of the music and the subsequent formation of the band was that it provided so much pleasure for Melinda. Butterworth loved to see Melinda smile when she heard the music, her mind attempting to decipher how it was produced and her eyes blind.
By the time he was twelve he was playing pieces by Mozart and Beethoven easily, Mr. St. Charles telling him that he was a very talented musician and that in time he would do everything that he could to aid him in finding a good conservatory, perhaps up north, in New York or Boston. Inspired by Mr. St. Charles’s praise, young Alfred Butterworth began helping teach the younger children of the congregation. But the harder he worked, the more dissatisfied his stepfather became, the Reverend demanding that he devote more time to the store, the farm, and the smokehouse. When young Alfred protested, his stepfather went into a blinding rage in which he struck the boy repeatedly with a razor strop. More punishment followed, over the most minor of infractions. He was often left dazed and bleeding after a beating when an errant blow caught him near the face. In time the beatings became a daily occurrence. He went to his mother, but she said that what the Reverend Lockwood was doing hurt him more than he could ever imagine. “He just wants you to learn the value of hard work,” his mother said.
One afternoon, about three weeks after his thirteenth birthday, he came in late because he had stopped to talk with May Thigpen, who was fifteen years old, very pretty, and learning the flute. It seemed to him that she was kind of sweet on him from the way she looked at him. They had walked leisurely to her house, the two of them carrying their instruments in their cases, stretching the time as much as possible and talking mostly about geography and different songbirds. When he showed up at the store, the Reverend Lockwood was fuming and spitting. He told young Alfred to go into the back and pull down his trousers.
Butterworth shook his head over and over, feeling his bladder starting to go, as it always did during a beating, so that invariably he felt the urine coursing down his leg and later hated himself and beat his own head with his fist for allowing himself to be humiliated.
“It ain’t right, Daddy,” he said. “I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
“Then where were you?”
“I was just walking May to her house. I’m sorry I’m late. It’s just a few minutes. I’ll stay longer and clean up and work all day tomorrow.”
“May Thigpen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She’s a hussy, and her father’s a blasphemer. On top of that, he makes moonshine whiskey. An abomination in the eyes of the Lord.”
“May’s not a hussy, Daddy. She’s a wonderful girl.”
“Don’t you sass me, boy,” Isaiah Lockwood said, towering over the slightly built Alfred. “Just go in the back and drop your britches.”
“It ain’t right,” he said, and immediately felt the slap, the large hand knocking him down and disorienting his mind.
In an instant his stepfather was on him, kicking him, so that he could do nothing but scurry on all fours to the back of the store. Time stopped then and he steeled himself for the beating, but he wouldn’t remove his trousers and refused to stand up. He curled up and covered his head until the Reverend Lockwood had spent himself and he was panting as if he had been running. The bell on the door clanged and his stepfather left him lying against a flour sack. Alfred Butterworth could taste the salt of his tears and the mucus running from his nose, but he hadn’t wet his pants. He stood and went out to the back, drew water from the pump, and poured it over himself, needing to wash away whatever of the humiliation still stuck to him.
He couldn’t go back into the store, couldn’t face his stepfather because if he did he would want to kill him and then God would punish him further. Where was his own father? Was he in Heaven? “Help me, Daddy,” he thought. “God, help me, please,” he prayed, his eyes closed momentarily. He walked away, moving aimlessly as the sun set and the crickets and frogs took over the night. When he finally returned home his mother said that his stepfather was very upset with him and he ought to eat his supper, do his prayers, go to bed, and in the morning ask the Reverend Lockwood’s forgiveness.
“Yes, Mama,” he said.
He did exactly as his mother had asked and went back to his routine. Mr. St. Charles, however, could tell immediately that something had happened to him. It was as if his spirit had been damaged and he no longer wished to learn or know anything about music. May Thigpen waited for him on Friday after rehearsal, but he shook his head and said he couldn’t talk to her. She grabbed his arm and very sternly said, “Alfred Butterworth, I ain’t done nothing to you for you to just push me away like I was some old rag. I know he beat you. My daddy told me.”
They talked for a while and then he went over to Blue Thigpen’s house and ate supper with them. Blue Thigpen was the most menacing-looking man he’d ever seen. Blue hardly ever spoke. He nodded and every once in a while you’d hear a yep or a nope, but other than that he said nothing. After supper Blue sat out on the porch smoking his corncob pipe and cleaning a shotgun. When Alfred Butterworth got ready to leave, he stepped off the porch, thanked Mrs. Thigpen, said goodbye to May, and began to say good night to Blue Thigpen.
“Ho, there,” Blue said.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Thigpen.”
“You best get yourself on
outta that house, heah?” said Blue Thigpen. “That man ain’t gonna rest till he kill you. And then it’s gonna be too late, unless you’s one of these fools that believe in ghosts?”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Thank you, sir,” he said, walking backward away from the porch, turning and running through the yard, hearing the sounds of the approaching evening.
When he got home it was dark and way past bedtime. All the lamps were off, but he heard rustling coming from the barn. He figured maybe a fox or some other animal had gotten caught inside and was trying to get out, but the dogs were sleeping, and usually when there was an intruder, human or animal, they’d be up and about, barking and carrying on. He let himself into the barn slowly and edged himself along the side, silently, making sure the horses and cows didn’t stir. One of the dogs came up and sidled against him. He reached down and petted it. And then he saw his stepfather bending over Melinda. He only saw the outline of the two bodies, but Isaiah Lockwood was spreading her legs and he was letting himself down on his sister. He’d wanted to scream for him to stop, but knew that his stepfather would kill him and his sister. Unable to do anything to stop it, he left and went into the house and climbed into bed with his clothes on. He couldn’t fall asleep, his being racked by the new anger. After a while he heard his stepfather and Melinda when they returned to the house.
A week later he decided to leave. He knew where the house money was kept, and, after packing some clothes in a paisley bag, he got his clarinet in its case and placed everything under his bed. In the middle of the night he got up, dressed, set his bag and case outside on the porch, and returned inside to the kitchen. In one of the drawers of the hutch, he fished around until he found his mother’s sewing basket. Beneath a pin cushion he found the folded bills. He took two tens and a few one-dollar bills and went back outside. He hadn’t taken ten steps past the barn before an overwhelming spasm of anger came over him.
