by Bush, Holly
“Which of those things caused your anger?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you angry he said the Southern doctors were wrong or that you may walk again?”
Beulah’s implications slowly sunk in. He was madder now than before. Reed turned his chair sharply, bumping into the railing. He fumbled in his pocket for the key to his rooms and rolled swiftly past this woman. The audacity, he thought, to think I prefer this life of watching and listening rather than doing. She had the unmitigated gall to continue.
“Don’t let your fear turn to anger. God has a plan for you. Don’t let your fear stand in His way.”
“To imply I prefer the life in this chair,” Reed shouted. “You have no idea what my life is like. What my hopes and dreams were. Don’t dare throw God in my face.” Reed started over the threshold of the hotel and hissed, “Bold nigger.”
He heard Beulah’s intake of breath. She swept past him as he struggled to wheel himself inside.
Reed sat staring out the window of his room. For a while he was so angry, he could do nothing but curse. She thinks I’m afraid to walk, afraid to live. Over and over he dismissed the conversation with Beulah. She was nothing to him. She was pompous and arrogant as well as colored. Then why, he said to himself, why can I not release her comments, and why do I dwell on them? Could she be right? Do I hide behind these leather straps and wheels? But in such a short amount of time, how could she know enough of me to form an opinion? May hap I’m obvious, crystal clear to others and fog-shrouded to myself. “Good Lord,” he said aloud, “I must be dim-witted as well.” She’s a former slave, now a glorified laundress, and I lend credence to her thoughts.
Reed planned to pull his weary body into bed, when a letter on his desk caught his eye. He picked it up and wheeled back to the window. In the moonlight he recognized his mother’s neat script. Reed was certain the letter he sent home would not have arrived at the plantation yet. She must have posted this while I still traveled, Reed thought.
Dear Reed,
I have not heard from you and am beginning to worry. Hopefully you will read this letter and remember there are those back here who miss you. I hope your travels went well, and you arrived safely. Father and Winston send their greetings.
Do you like your cousin Henry and his wife? I am anxious to hear of their hotel. My brother brags constantly, and I admit I am curious if he is right. Are there many attorneys in Fenton? Do you think you will have trouble starting a practice? Write and apprise me of all the details. Do not forget important tidbits like what Henry’s wife looks like and what she wears. She could not possibly be as pretty as your Uncle says.
I pray every night that my urging for you to make this drastic change was the right one. More than anything I want you to be happy. Open your heart, Reed. I beg of you to forget the past and find new joys and friends. I fear our shabby porch became your cloister. Do not be afraid, Reed. I know in my soul that God has much for you to do and be. Let Him lead you. With all my love, Mother.
Reed could hear his mother speak every word she had written. He chuckled to himself as he read her requests for “tidbits.” But as he read the last paragraph, he could not stop the echo of Beulah’s words from floating through. “God has a plan for you. Do not let your fear stand in His way.” Reed watched the morning sun begin to turn the landscape from black to blue shadows. He wearied of introspection and climbed into his bed. But his eyes would not stay shut as he heard the hotel employees begin their morning rituals. He crossed his hands over his chest and pondered two women. One who gave birth to him and knew him as few others did. And one he had just met. If they were right, Reed thought and yawned, I have been wrong … wrong … so wrong. That chant lulled him to sleep.
Chapter Three
Belle read horrible war stories from three years ago on the faded, yellowed and crumbling newsprint that covered holes in the cabin. Women across the country rallied for the right to vote for the president of the United States. Belle smiled, thinking someday she may be able to read the names on the ballot and make her mark, recording in history her vote to help elect a president. She wished she could read right here in the cabin, beside the fire, with her cat curled in her lap. Belle had carried home a bundle of recent newspapers left in the alley of The Fenton Gazette. She snapped beans on the papers, reading column after column. Belle told her father she was going to stuff some new holes with the newsprint, and he seemed satisfied, turning back to his bottle. Frank eyed her, and she stared at him innocently.
The day before, while Pa went to the privy and Jed stilled snored, Frank asked her to write his name. Belle looked at him strangely.
“Just write it,” Frank hissed.
Belle looked over her shoulder at Jed sleeping and out the window as her father made his way over the uneven ground. “F-R-A-N-K,” she whispered. She wrote with an edge of coal in the margin of the paper under potato peelings. Belle continued, writing their last name.
Frank eyes shifted from the paper to his brother, and he quickly tore the written words away.
“I’ll try and make you a copy of the alphabet,” Belle said softly. Frank nodded and looked up at her. She smiled broadly at him. “I wish we were alone. You’d learn it all real fast.”
Frank stuffed the newsprint in his pocket as Jed began to stir.
Belle cubed potatoes for soup and wished she had a ham bone for flavor. She looked down at her dress, dirty and torn, but it didn’t dim her happiness. Belle scrubbed the rough wooden table and drove a splinter under her nail. Even that sting could not deter her smile. She could read. And Belle felt surely that learning was the key to her future. She didn’t want to farm and clean for her drunken brothers and father. Belle wanted a home of her own with lace curtains and a cloth on the table for dinner. She hoarded pennies for her future. Whether it be with a man of her choosing here in town or some faraway place she’d never been, that man would not let Jed bully her. He would appreciate the meals she cooked and a clean house, and together they would teach their children. She would read those children fairy tales and Bible stories, and life would be perfect.
* * *
“Where ya going, Belle?” Jed asked.
“Church.”
Jed sat back in his chair and stared at her. “Lotsa church goin’ lately.”
“Somebody’s got to pray for your soul, Jed Richards,” Belle said as she pulled her worn shawl over her head.
“No need to pray for me, girlie. You stay here and finish your chores.”
Belle turned to him and looked at her father snoring soundly in his chair. “No.”
Jed shook his head. “Whadya say?”
The reading gave Belle courage in some odd way, and she decided it was time to use it. She took a deep breath and spoke softly. “The clothes are washed, dinner dishes put up, and I already have something started for tomorrow. I weeded the last of the beans and beets and am going start canning this week. I swept the house clean. I’m going to the Bible meeting.”
Jed’s lip lifted on one side, and he stood at the table. “When I says you stay, you stay.”
Frank’s head swung from side to side as he watched his brother and sister spar. “Leave her be, Jed. Whatsa harm in church? She ain’t out at some saloon for God’s sake.”
Jed looked down at his brother and back to Belle. “Better not be whoring.”
As if she would sleep with a man that was not her husband. She turned to leave and Jed watched her. She pulled the door closed and shouted, “Damaged goods won’t fetch ya that mare, will they, Jed?”
Jed flew out of his seat after her, and she heard Frank telling him to sit down. She may have pushed too far this time. But her time was coming. Nineteen-years-old, a virgin, a good cook and a sweet disposition, she thought to herself and smiled. What else could a man want? Belle’s smile dropped. She had yet to meet that happy, loving man that would take her away and bring her children. Her gloom faded as she neared the Freeman’s farmhouse.
* * *
Reed waited as Henry checked in a young couple near dinnertime. “Have a minute?”
Henry looked at Reed, shoved his hands in his pockets and approached. He said nothing.
“I wanted to apologize for my foul temper last night. It was none of your doing, and you didn’t deserve my sharp tongue.”
“Alright, Reed. Apology accepted,” Henry said.
Reed wheeled back to his room and left the door open. When he heard Beulah’s voice, he went to the door and waited. She swept past him, laundresses in tow. “Miss Beulah? May I have a moment of your time?”
Her head snapped to him, and she directed the young women out to the kitchen. “I have nothing to say to you.”
Reed deserved that he supposed. “You’re right. I’m asking, though, as a … as a friend for a few minutes.”
She stepped past him into his rooms.
Reed began to shut the door.
“I would prefer the door remained open,” Beulah said.
“I suppose you’re right.” Reed chewed his nail and wondered where to begin. His head dropped as he thought of his father’s reaction to what he was about to do. “I believe I owe you an apology.”
Beulah stood still, lips pursed, staring at him. “Go on.”
This was part of the reason he liked this woman. She would not let this be easy. “The words I used last night. Ah, bold nigger.” Reed saw Beulah flinch. “They were rude and unjustified. I’m sorry.”
“Words like those, hateful words can cut like a knife.”
“You’re right.” Reed took a deep breath. “I don’t like this wheel chair, Beulah. Whatever you may think.”
“There is work to be done. Excuse me,” Beulah said. As she pulled the door shut, she turned back to him. “Your interpretation of the word ‘friend’ baffles me. We will never be friends. History, yours and mine both, will never allow it.”
Reed watched her go. And that history imprisons me even as it sets Beulah free.
Near sunset Reed sat on the back porch. His trip to the courthouse had been fruitful. Two more clients with easy work as well would bring him much needed silver He had almost gone to Jim Lowell’s office but talked himself out of it before he did. Reed ate his dinner with the employees and listened, maybe for the first time, to their tales of tragedies, humor and boredom. Beulah sat beside him, silently. Victory was his, though, when the woman passed the plate of pickles without him asking. He smiled at her and raised his brows. Beulah turned away.
Near eight o’clock, as Reed sat on the back porch, Beulah left the hotel.
“Miss Beulah.”
“Mr. Jackson.”
Reed watched her follow the stone path around the porch and pass just feet away from him. She carries books, he realized. One looked much like the primer his mother had taught him and his brothers from when they were small. Reed wheeled himself down the ramp, wondering. I know Beulah reads, he thought. Why a primer? At the end of the hotel walk he looked right and left. Reed saw her walking, head tall, ignoring comments as she passed. He followed her to the end of the sidewalk to the front of a saloon. Two young boys threw dice against the wall, and Reed beckoned them.
He strained to see Beulah walking in the dim shadows of twilight. “Tilt my chair back, boys, and do it quickly. I have a penny for you both.”
“Sure, mister,” a freckled face boy said.
“Wheel me down this step,” Reed said. “Yes, that’s right.” The two boys together tilted Reed’s chair back, and he heard their grunts from his weight. “One step, that’s all.”
Reed nearly toppled, but the chair miraculously righted itself, and he gave the boys some change from his vest pocket. He negotiated ruts and hurried to catch a glimpse of Beulah. When he finally caught sight of her swinging black skirts, she turned from the main road. Two men rode by on horseback and stared at Reed. His hand went without conscious thought to his side where a pistol would have sat. He was careful of ditches as the road became worse. The hair on the back of his neck stood, and he stopped. Reed wheeled slowly, and when he came to where Beulah had turned, he saw nothing. His breathing and heartbeat settled as he sat, and he peered into the trees. As he contemplated his trip back to town in the now darkness, he heard voices.
Reed rolled down the lane and heard a hymn being sung. The path he took was even and packed tight. From fifty yards his eyes made out twinkling candle light, and the swell of voices rose. The small structure, now feet away, hummed with the song. Reed could not get to a window, but pulled himself to the side of the door and listened. A church service, he thought, as his shoulders slumped. Nothing mysterious or even interesting here. He wheeled himself from the weeds and was stopped when a briar wound into his wheel. “Shit,” he cursed as the hymn ended.
The voices silenced, and Reed heard a man’s hushes. He hurried to pull the thorned branch away when the door opened.
A tall black man peered into the shadows. “Who’s there?”
Reed was silent, wondering how he would extricate himself from the mess he was in. He heard the cock of a rifle. Sweet Jesus. “I’m over here,” Reed said.
“What’s the password?”
“I mean no harm. I don’t know the password.” Candlelight filled the doorway lighting Beulah’s face.
“Mr. Jackson! What are you doing here?”
Before Reed could reply he heard the man standing by Beulah ask, “You know this man?”
“He’s from the hotel,” Beulah said.
“A friend?”
Beulah hesitated. “Not an enemy.”
Reed watched Beulah’s anger grow as she realized he had followed her. And a broad smile lit the man’s face.
“Then let me help you, sir,” the tall black man said as he lit a lantern and knelt beside Reed’s chair. “A friend of Sister Beulah’s is a friend of mine.” He wheeled Reed over the threshold and announced to the group there, “Brother Jackson, come to be healed. Say hallelujah.”
Reed was a spectacle to this crowd, he knew. He nodded hesitantly, and some met his eyes. Many turned away meekly, looking at the floor. The tall black man was indeed Beulah’s brother. The resemblance in build and carriage was remarkable.
“Brother Freeman,” the man said and held out a huge black hand. Some rumblings from black men who stood along the rough walls brought the preachers head around.
“I hear Georgia in his voice, Brother Freeman,” a man said.
Beulah’s brother turned. “We stand here before God. He sees not the color of our skin but the evil in our souls. Who here has no sin?”
The room was silent. It was then Reed noticed as candles began to light, one white face in the sea of Negroes. She sat smiling at him. And she was beautiful. Her tattered clothes belied her station but not her face. No, Reed thought, I have yet to see a woman whose dignity shown so brilliantly. She smiled at those seated beside her and held a ragged book in her arms as if it were a treasure. The woman’s face focused on Brother Freeman as he began his sermon.
Reed felt many eyes upon him, but no more intense than Beulah’s. He ignored her. Reed did not turn his head, but his eyes wandered to the young white woman time and again. A dark shawl covered her hair, allowing only wisps of black hair to escape. Reed’s side view afforded him a clear picture as the woman sat enraptured. Her profile was perfect. But more than that her beatitude was calming and compelling.
The brevity of the sermon surprised Reed. A round of hallelujahs and amens filled the room. He assumed the service was over. Then the congregation milled around and pulled wooden crates of books from under the rough benches. Beulah approached him.
“I don’t trust you, but my brother will not be swayed. If you remain here, what you see and perhaps repeat will hang the very man who brought you into his home.”
Reed knew of what she spoke. The war may be over on the battlefields but not in the minds and hearts of many confederates. He may be one of them. “I’ll say nothing.” Beulah’s eyes bored into his, evaluating. “I p
romise.”
Reed could see she was not satisfied, but her brother’s calls led her away from him and to the front of the room. Beulah held a slate and wrote a large ‘A’. All those in the room mimicked her hand motions in the air and repeated the letter aloud. It all became clear to Reed. Beulah and her brother teach these Negroes to read. No wonder the woman was skeptical of his trust. After ‘Z’ Beulah handed a young black woman a book, and she read aloud hesitantly and with much trouble.
Brother Freeman praised God when the young woman finished reading. He looked around the room and said, “Miss Belle. Will you read next?” She stood and accepted the book from Brother Freeman.
Reed sat mesmerized staring at this beautiful, delicate woman. Her voice was as melodious and clear as her name implied. Belle. She was obviously thrilled to be reading. Reed looked at her hands holding the book, red-rough and work worn, but gentle as she touched the head of a child standing next to her. I have met many a lovely woman, he thought. But it was not her beauty, he realized, that pulled him, but rather her essence and her joy. His observation ended when he heard a shout from outside.
“Belle!”
Reed watched the Negroes hurriedly hide their books and Brother Freeman open a bible. But the woman, Belle, sat ghost white and still in her seat. A white man kicked open the door and entered.
“Services are near finished, but you are welcome to sit down,” Brother Freeman said.
“Shut up, nigger,” the man shouted.
Reed smelled fear in the close, tense room and looked from face to face, seeing barely concealed anger and panic. Brother Freeman’s eyes pointedly met the men’s faces that were not cowed. Reed watched the man push aside women and children on to the floor until he stood beside Belle. Reed smelled liquor and body odor as he passed.
The crack of the man’s hand to Belle’s face threw her off the rough bench. She looked up at him defiantly as blood trickled down her chin. He kicked her in the side.
