Reconstructing Jackson

by Bush, Holly

Belle nodded and returned to her work. Reed watched her. She was more interesting by the minute. What he took for granted, she didn’t and was apparently determined to correct. He listened to the scratch of her pen, watched her face crinkle in occasional dismay and tilt her head in satisfaction. Belle blew on the paper and closed the book. “Making much progress?” he asked.

  “Some.”

  Chapter Nine

  Reed and Belle’s first week of marriage went by, falling into a noticeable routine. Belle cooked, cleaned, read and copied books while Reed mostly watched her. Early in the morning he would work in his office, but he knew he needed to get new clients soon. He hated the idea of leaving. They made love at night, and Reed marveled at how willingly Belle bestowed her body. He found soft spots that elicited sighs and passion. He found release and comfort each night in her arms. He admitted one night as Belle drifted off to sleep, naked in his arms, that he had, in fact, found peace. Reed pushed the hair from her eyes and watched her. Her eyes fluttered, and her mouth parted as she slept soundly. The cackle and hiss of the fire and the rhythmic rise and fall of Belle’s chest at his side propelled Reed to do what he had not done in years. He thanked God.

  The serenity of their first week had nearly come to a halt the night before. Belle had explored his mangled legs with her fingers. He lay still, cursing bitterly to himself. Reed stared at the ceiling and allowed Belle to see and touch what no one else had. It was her due, he supposed. He could hardly take what she willingly offered and not give the same in return. She had shown little embarrassment while he surveyed, touched and kissed every inch of her body. Could he not do the same? Belle reverently skimmed the mangled right leg. She softly touched the stump of his left. She looked up at him and a tear rolled down her face.

  “It must have hurt bad.”

  Reed nodded.

  Belle returned her ministrations to his left leg. “Can you bend it? Does it hurt to move?”

  Reed shook his head. Her lips were a grim line and her eyes sad and maybe cautious. Belle picked his leg up by the ankle and looked at him. Reed stared at the ceiling. Belle worked the leg, back and forth, bending his knee slowly. Reed was sure the muscles would scream the following day from activity they were unaccustomed to. Belle lay his leg down and massaged the muscles. Eventually she pulled the covers up, curled on her side, her face on his shoulder and went to sleep. He didn’t want to talk about his injuries. Had she known? Two questions were all she had asked. When he realized there would be no prodding, no pushing for information, no curses, no bitterness, the tension he held eased.

  When he awoke alone that morning in their bed, he listened to Belle’s singsong rituals. Calling to Millie, humming a tune while she made coffee, and the clang of the stove as she filled it with wood. Reed always used his right leg to maneuver himself into his chair, his last bastion of mobility. He dressed and dropped the leg to the floor leaning on the arm of the chair to swing into his seat. And he waited for pain. Oddly it did not come. Soreness, yes, but not pain. The good kind of sore, Reed associated with a hard physical day of work. The kind of ache that harkened back to days when he worked his body and was rewarded with a good night’s sleep after a hot bath. The fleeting shout of muscles that wound down with a good stretch and left a body stronger than before. That night, Belle lifted and bent his knee again.

  “Why do you do this?” Reed asked.

  Belle shrugged.

  Reed touched her chin with his hand. “Why?”

  Belle continued working his leg, but answered finally. “I asked Dr. Lowell about what he wanted to talk to you about.”

  Reed was angry. And curious. “And?”

  “He said to move your leg and it might make it stronger. To excer … to exercise it. Maybe it won’t hurt so much then.”

  Reed sat back and stared at Belle as she rhythmically moved his leg. So that’s what Jim Lowell wanted to suggest. Some relief for the pain. He had been too cowardly or embarrassed to ask. But Belle hadn’t.

  Reed broke the quiet as she moved his leg. “Push on the bottom of my foot.”

  Belle complied. “Like this?”

  “Yes. Push harder.” She did, and Reed pushed back against the resistance. He closed his eyes and stepped into the pain. His leg shook. He was sweating and dropped his leg on to the mattress. Belle kneaded his muscles until the pain subsided.

  * * *

  Belle watched Reed’s struggles. Against pain, against humiliation, against his own stubborn nature. She knew it cost him dearly. Belle was afraid the first time she touched his legs. She was curious, though, and anxious to repay him. He watched her read, helped with her writing, complimented her food and made her feel adored when he loved her. She would but close her eyes and see the look on his face when she climbed atop him. Reverence, wonder and want all played across his face when he came into her. There was a relinquishing of power she had never expected to see on a man’s face or to have felt so calm giving in to his will. Two opposing forces, yielding simultaneously. Her experience with men had precluded any notion of surrender. Weakness was a trait hidden from her father and brothers, for it only signaled a commencement to the kill.

  Belle lay down beside him and yawned. “Do we have enough money for me to get fabric for new curtains?”

  “I think I can manage a few yards of cloth.”

  Belle smiled. “I want to get them made and have Mary Ellen over to see them.”

  Reed chuckled and pulled her close. “Why don’t you ask them over for supper some night? We’re due to entertain, and they’ve treated us so far.”

  “What would I cook? I’ll have to clean the house up good. I don’t know.” She swallowed.

  Reed turned to her. “Listen, Belle. They’re family. It won’t matter. I’m sure they’re curious to how we’re getting along. You’ll be fine. Get your cloth, make your curtains and cook anything you’ve made so far,” Reed said.

  Reed fell asleep before Belle that night. She lay awake and planned. Belle bought cloth at the mercantile on the charge Reed had set up. She bought peaches for pie and scrubbed the house. She made gingham curtains for the kitchen and flowered ones for the sitting room. Reed dropped off the invitation she painstakingly wrote. Reed wheeled into the kitchen with packages on his lap, before their guests were to arrive.

  “I bought wine and chocolates. When are Mary Ellen and Henry coming?” He tossed his hat on the hook near the door.

  Belle wore one of her good dresses and fussed with her hair. It felt good to dress up. She found thin plates with painted roses in the back of one of the kitchen cupboards and washed them. “Any minute. Does the table look right to you? Fork on the left, right?”

  Reed looked at the table. “There are five place settings. Who else is coming?”

  Belle looked over her shoulder. “Mary Ellen, Henry and Beulah. Why?”

  “I assumed it was just Mary Ellen and Henry.”

  Belle turned. “You said family. That night in bed you said family, and how could I have family without Miss Beulah?”

  “I meant my family, damn it, Belle.”

  Belle’s face was white. She whispered. “Beulah’s family to me.”

  Reed plopped the bottle on the table. “I’m sorry, Belle. I’m unaccustomed to inviting Negroes to my home. It’s not done.”

  Belle turned, and her lip quivered. “This is my home, too.”

  Reed wheeled over to Belle and held her hand. “Let’s not talk anymore of this. I want to enjoy this evening, and I know you’ve worked hard. From the smells in here and how, well, nice everything looks, I know you’ll be a charming hostess.”

  Belle smiled tentatively, and they heard a knock at the door. She smoothed her dress and hair and tried not to run down the hall. Henry held the door while Beulah and Mary Ellen came in.

  “Belle, it looks wonderful in here,” Henry said.

  “I couldn’t have done it without these two,” Belle said to the women.

  “And something smells good,” Mary Ellen sai
d.

  Belle took their wraps and motioned them into the kitchen. She threw shawls on her bed and hurried into the kitchen. Henry was shaking Reed’s hand, and Mary Ellen kissed his cheek. He nodded to Beulah.

  “Would you like some wine, Mary Ellen? Henry?” Reed turned. “Miss Beulah, would you like a glass?”

  Belle let out a held breath.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Jackson. I don’t imbibe,” Beulah replied.

  Reed handed Mary Ellen and Henry a glass and poured one for himself. “Belle, would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Maybe I’ll try some with dinner. Everything’s ready if you want to sit down,” Belle said.

  Belle fluttered and fussed until everyone was served. Reed made a move for his silverware. Beulah’s words stopped his fork inches from his mouth.

  “How fortunate we are to hear grace said by a newlywed man in his new home. So much to be thankful for.”

  Belle held her breath while Reed stared at Beulah. He slowly bowed his head. “Dear Lord. Thank you for your many gifts. The food on this table, those around it, but most of all, for my wife, Belle. Amen.”

  “Married life certainly seems to agree with you both,” Henry said.

  Belle smiled shyly. “I couldn’t be happier.”

  “Pleasantly surprised, I’d say,” Reed added.

  “How is your writing, Belle?” Beulah asked.

  “Good. Reed has been helping me.”

  Beulah turned to him and raised a brow. “And your law practice, Mr. Jackson?”

  “I admit I’ve been loath to leave my bride, but I did tear myself away yesterday and have a new client. Maybe you know them Henry. The Cartlands?” Reed asked.

  Belle heard Henry reply as Beulah and Mary Ellen complimented her dinner. How different this seemed to her. No one was hurrying or drunk or complaining. She sipped her wine and enjoyed the warm feeling it gave her. Or was it the company and her neat little kitchen or her handsome husband sitting across the table from her that made her glow. She pointed out her new curtains, and both women agreed they were a good choice. Henry told a story about guests at the hotel, and even Beulah smiled. Mary Ellen and Beulah cleared the dinner dishes as Belle cut the pie.

  “I wonder who that could be,” Belle said to the knock on the front door.

  “Wouldn’t know,” Reed said.

  Belle opened the door. “Can I help you?”

  A tall handsome man near fifty answered in a drawl. “Is this the home of Reed Jackson?”

  Belle stared at the couple in the light from the hall. There was no mistaking the resemblance. These were Reed’s parents. “Yes, it is.”

  * * *

  Reed wheeled in to the hallway and was about to ask Belle who was there, but there was no need. Buford Jackson’s deep treble was all the answer he needed. “Father?”

  “Reed!” Lily Jackson cried and rushed past Belle. “Our train was delayed. We were to arrive this afternoon, but … Oh, Reed, it’s good to see you.” Lily touched her son’s face. His hand joined hers, and she pulled it to her lips.

  “Mother. I didn’t know … did you write?”

  “Not welcome in our son’s home?” Buford Jackson asked. He held out his hand to shake and Reed reached up. “This was the only way I could get your Mother to be quiet. Since the day she heard you were to be married, I have not had a moment’s peace.”

  Reed saw Belle standing in the open doorway. “Close the door, Belle. Come and meet my parents.” His mother and father turned quickly and Belle looked petrified. Overwhelmed. “My parents, Lily and Buford Jackson. My wife, Belle.”

  Lily Jackson approached Belle and picked up her hand. “Beautiful, Reed. Just beautiful.”

  “Don’t tell me Mother. Tell her,” Reed said.

  Lily laughed. “Of course, dear. Welcome to our family, Belle.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jackson,” she said.

  Lily leaned back and grinned. “Now, none of that Mrs. Jackson nonsense. Lily or Mother will do fine.”

  Belle nodded and smiled. “Lily, then.”

  “Nearly as pretty as the Southern belles back home, son,” Buford Jackson said and stepped forward. He crushed Belle with a hug.

  Reed smiled vaguely at his father’s veiled insult and reference to Southern women. Buford often extolled the elegance, beauty and charm of the women from below the Mason-Dixon yet had married a Boston girl some thirty years ago, himself.

  Lily turned around. “What a charming little house. Well, I declare. We’ve interrupted your company.”

  Reed turned, remembering his dinner party. Henry rushed forward to Lily, introducing himself and Mary Ellen. Reed would have heard Henry commenting on the likeness his sister Susan had to her Aunt Lily, but he was focused on the black woman standing behind her chair in his kitchen.

  “See, Lily. The boy’s doing fine. Has enough silver to get himself an inside colored girl. I told you he’d be fine,” Buford Jackson said as he tucked his thumbs under the lapel of his coat.

  The commotion and conversation ceased. Belle’s eyes were wide as were Mary Ellen and Henry’s.

  “I would like some tea,” Lily said. “All this traveling has worn me to a bone.” Lily plopped into a chair and began to unpin her hat.

  Belle rushed to the stove to heat water.

  “Come, sit down, Belle, so we can get to know each other. Let the girl get the tea,” Lily said.

  A pregnant pause, a tense quiet filled the room. Reed watched a smile grow in Beulah’s eyes. She was enjoying this. At least his embarrassment. Beulah went to the stove.

  “Let me, Belle. Relax and get to know your new family,” Beulah said.

  “But …” Belle said.

  Reed spoke up. “Mother, Father. This is Miss Beulah Freeman. She manages the Ames Hotel for Mary Ellen and Henry. She … she’s a guest here tonight.”

  Beulah turned gracefully to Reed’s parents. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson.”

  Buford Jackson stared at Beulah, then at Reed. “Am I to understand this nigra was eating dinner with you?”

  His mother uttered a little ‘oh’.

  “Miss Beulah dined with us this evening,” Reed said.

  Buford turned to Henry. “And she works at the hotel?”

  Henry nodded. “The manager. Couldn’t do without her.” He turned to Beulah. “The Jacksons will need some place to stay. Do you know if the Smith’s left today?”

  “Yes, they did, Mr. Ames. Room Three is available.”

  Reed was fully cognizant of the bizarre charade being played out in his kitchen. Henry assumed he would explain Beulah’s presence as he did for Reed when he first arrived. Reed could have never anticipated that his feigned nonchalance would be construed by Henry as acceptance. Mary Ellen waited for an ugly scene. Beulah stood straight and stiff as if his father’s words had shot a steel rod up her back. She seemed grimly amused as well. Belle was mortified. Her first dinner party, while not grand, had gone well. I would have rather had Belle’s pie than this dismal dessert, Reed thought. Mary Ellen maintained the presence of mind to charge ahead in a tense situation.

  “Aunt Lily,” Reed’s mother’s head snapped around to Mary Ellen. “Henry has told me often how close you and your brother were. I’m delighted we finally get to make your acquaintance.”

  “Ah,” Lily flustered. Beulah placed a rosetrimmed cup of tea in front of her. “Thank you, Beulah.”

  “You’re welcome, Lily,” Beulah said.

  Damn Beulah anyhow, Reed thought. She’ll call my mother by her Christian name to make her point just as she did to me when I first arrived. His mother, though, surprised him with her smile, like Mary Ellen leading the men through dangerous social waters, looking comfortable all the while.

  “Belle?” Lily said. “Why don’t we sit here and enjoy our tea. Let the men have their brandy in the parlor.”

  Henry smiled, seemingly unaware. “Capitol idea! Reed, lead the way.”

  Belle looked around her kitchen. Mary
Ellen, Beulah and she stood behind their chairs while Lily delicately sipped. Her mother-in-law cleared her throat. Was this a clue to what she should do next? “Go ahead and sit down, Mary Ellen, Beulah. I’ll serve the pie.” Silence hung deep and thick while Belle served. A loud curse from Buford emanated to the woman and rattled the glassware on the counter. Lily smiled sweetly and batted her eyelashes. Belle watched the woman take a deep breath and look up to Beulah.

  “I’m terribly sorry we’ve insulted you, Beulah. A lifetime of traditions has blinded us occasionally to new ways of thinking. Buford and I are clearly out of our element,” Lily said softly.

  Belle and Mary Ellen simultaneously let out a held breath. Beulah’s eyes bored into Lily’s, and Belle wondered what the proud woman’s response would be.

  “A mistake easily made,” Beulah said. “Considering your heritage.” Lily’s head tilted sharply and Beulah continued. “I’m sure there was no insult intended. Apology accepted.”

  So this was how women solved problems with words and not guns, Belle thought. This small give and take of careful vocabulary and position heralded a truce. Too bad woman weren’t in charge before the Great War. Reed would still have his legs. Maybe some explanation was due, though. “Beulah taught me to read, Lily.”

  “So you two have known each other all of your lives?” Lily asked.

  “No. We met last spring,” Belle replied. She did not miss the woman’s look of confusion.

  “When you said she taught you to read, I assumed that …”

  Belle swallowed. “I learned to read this summer. Beulah and her brother were very kind to me.” Beulah laid a hand on Belle’s.

  “And what a fine, quick student she is,” Beulah said.

  Lily raised her brows. “I’ve never met a Negro who reads.”

  “But aren’t we fortunate,” Mary Ellen hurried to say. “Beulah does read and taught Belle, and she, in turn, will be able to teach your grandchildren.”

  Lily turned to Mary Ellen, in thought. She looked to Beulah, then Belle. She nodded calmly. “Yes, we are very fortunate.” She graced the woman at the table with a knowing smile. “This clearly is not afternoon tea conversation. Perhaps, Belle, now would be the time to tell me how you and Reed met.”