Seventy pounds is a lot of weight. I had picked that much cotton before, and I could never lift the sack. I shivered as I imagined someone binding an object that heavy around my neck, then throwing my body into the river. What if that had been Hallelujah? Or Fred Lee? It didn’t matter who he was, really, because he still belonged to somebody. Somebody who loved him.
By the time my mind drifted from the Tallahatchie River and found its way back to Greater Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church, the congregation had completed their moaning of “Jesus Keep Me Near the Cross,” and the seven-member choir had begun to sing another song about Calvary.
“Calvary,
Calvary, Calvary, Lord!
Surely He died on Calvary.
Don’t you hear Him callin’ His Father?”
About midway through the song, Miss Doll changed the lyrics. “Can’t you hear him callin’ his mother? Can’t you hear him callin’ his mother?” she sang again and again.
Several women removed handkerchiefs from their purses and began dabbing their eyes. Ma Pearl’s eyes bulged as though she might cry as well.
“Scorned and beaten, despised of men,” Deacon Edwards, the thinnest man I had ever seen in my thirteen years, cried over the singing. His words blended into the singing as though they were part of the lyrics. “A dog got a better chance at living than a Negro in Mississippi,” he said.
The choir continued to moan “Calvary,” as several “amens” were murmured among the members.
Miss Doll’s voice got louder. “Can’t you hear him callin’ his mother? Can’t you hear him callin’ his mother? Surely, oh surely, he died in Mississippi.”
Miss Doll could no longer contain her tears, and they came spilling from her eyes. Women began to shout and holler, and the ushers sprang into action. The air around me was thick, and I thought I would suffocate. I had been going to church all my life, and I had never felt “the Spirit” until that moment. I don’t know what came over me, but my body began to tremble and tears gushed from my eyes as well.
Ma Pearl gave me a handkerchief, and I buried my face in it. Even though many others were crying, I somehow felt embarrassed to allow them to see my emotions so openly displayed.
“Jesus, forgive me of my sins, seen and unseen,” came a shout from the back. The voice belonged to Aunt Ruthie.
I peered back, but Ma Pearl’s head turned so fast, I was sure she would snap her neck. Aunt Ruthie, according to her, was what the Apostle Paul called himself: the chief of sinners. The only sin I knew Aunt Ruthie committed was marrying that old slue-footed Slow John, which was both a sin and a shame.
Aunt Ruthie stood, her arms splayed as though hanging on a cross. Her face turned heavenward, tears flowing, she cried out for mercy. Her children, all holding on to her, cried too.
By the time the choir and Deacon Edwards finished, the only dry eyes in the little church belonged to Ma Pearl. And even hers were a little moist.
My body rocked with emotion. Emotion I had never felt before. I remembered how I felt at my first funeral. How I cried because children—grown children—cried for their mother. And I remembered how I felt at Levi’s funeral. But something was different this time. This wasn’t a funeral, yet I felt as though it were. Somehow I felt that something worse had happened than what happened to Levi. This boy, Emmett, they say his name was, had only been visiting. He wasn’t like the rest of us—born in Mississippi, stuck in Mississippi, just waiting for our chance to get out of Mississippi. He’d come here to visit, to spend time with relatives, enjoying good food and laughter, the way I had wanted Aunt Belle to. Instead he made one mistake, and he was sent back home in a pine box.
Sometimes I wished God would give Gabriel a big eraser and say, Gabe, I made a mistake. I should have made everybody one color. So take this eraser, go down to earth, and erase the color. Make everybody colorless so they can all feel special.
As tears streamed down my face and as Deacon Edwards moaned and sang, “‘I love the Lawd. He heard my cry. I-I-I-I l-o-o-o-ve d-e-e-e Law-awd. He-e-e-e hear-r-r-r-d my-y-y-y cry. And pitied every groan,’” I realized I was crying not for Levi Jackson nor for Emmett Till, but for myself, Rose Lee Carter. Because I was a Negro. A person of color. A person who could be killed simply because my skin had a color. And that color happened to be a dark shade of brown.
But really the shade of brown didn’t matter one bit. A Negro didn’t have be brown to be hated. He needed only to be labeled “Negro” by the blood running through his veins. The skin on the upper side of his hand could have been as light as the skin on his palms, like Queen’s, but because he was a Negro, he was despised and hated.
By the time the last shout had died to a whimper, Reverend Jenkins stood in the pulpit, armed with his Bible and, strangely, a newspaper. “For those of you blessed enough to own a Bible,” he said, “turn, if you will, to the book of Saint Matthew, the chapter being twenty-eight, and we shall commence reading at verse twelve.”
A few pages ruffled, as only a handful of people owned Bibles or, at best, could read them.
Reverend Jenkins read aloud while those of us who could, read silently:
“AND WHEN THEY WERE ASSEMBLED WITH THE ELDERS, AND HAD TAKEN COUNSEL, THEY GAVE LARGE MONEY UNTO THE SOLDIERS,
SAYING, ‘SAY YE, HIS DISCIPLES CAME BY NIGHT, AND STOLE HIM AWAY WHILE WE SLEPT.’”
“Now, we know from the Bible,” Reverend Jenkins said as he stepped from behind the podium and began pacing, “Jesus was raaaaised from the dead.”
A few “amens” came from the deacons.
“But look at this, folks,” said Reverend Jenkins. “When word of the Resurrection reached the ears of the chief priests, what did they do?”
“Preach, Preacher!” yelled Deacon Edwards, who obviously didn’t know the answer.
Reverend Jenkins strode back to the podium. “They asseeembled with the elders and took counselllllll.” He looked over at the deacons sitting crisply in the front row, smiled, and said, “In other words, they met with the deacons and came up with a plan.”
Reverend Jenkins paced again. “Can you imagine them,” he asked, “huddled around a table, whispering, ‘Where is he? What happened to him? How could he get out? His disciples must have taken him.’ Another shook his head and said, ‘We had soldiers guarding that tomb. That’s impossible.’ They straightened their robes and said, ‘But we can’t let this get back to Pilate. We’ll look like fools. He’ll know we killed an innocent man.’”
“So what did they do?” Reverend Jenkins asked, heading back to the podium.
There was a moment of silence. No “amens.” No “Preach, Preacher!” Just … silence.
Reverend Jenkins slammed his Bible so hard on the podium that dust fell from the ceiling. “They lied!” he said. “They paid off the soldiers to say the disciples came and stole the body while they slept. Now what kind of cockamamie story is that? Roman soldiers guarding the tomb? And all asleep at the same time? Pilate would have had them all killed for sleeping on the job.”
A few chuckles arose from the congregation; otherwise, the whole room was stiffly still and silent. The only noises were Reverend Jenkins and the whirring hum of box fans. It was the first time I had ever seen everybody awake during a sermon.
Reverend Jenkins removed his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and placed them back on his face. He stared at the congregation for a moment, then placed the newspaper on the podium and spread it open. Whispers vibrated throughout the congregation.
“Suffer me a moment, if you will, as I read portions of this article from this morning’s edition of the Memphis Commercial Appeal,” Reverend Jenkins said.
Ma Pearl grunted.
Reverend Jenkins held the paper up to display the headline. “Charleston Sheriff Says Body in River Wasn’t Young Till,” he read. He placed the paper back on the podium. “I had written and rehearsed an entirely different sermon for today. But when I got this paper this morning, special delivery from a close
friend, I knew I had to address this issue.”
An even quieter hush fell over the congregation as Reverend Jenkins read from the paper:
“Sheriff H. C. Strider said yesterday he doesn’t believe the body pulled from the Tallahatchie River in Mississippi was that of a Negro Boy who was whisked from his uncle’s home accused of whistling at a white woman.
“‘The body we took from the river looked more like that of a grown man instead of a young boy,’ the Tallahatchie County Sheriff said in Charleston, Miss.”
Reverend Jenkins stopped reading and stared at the congregation. “Y’all know of any Negro men missing in Mississippi?”
Heads shook, and voices murmured, “No, sir.”
Reverend Jenkins grimaced and continued reading.
“Sheriff Strider said the victim looked at least eighteen years old and probably had been in the water four or five days.”
Reverend Jenkins chuckled and said, “Four or five days, huh? I ask you again, y’all heard of any Negroes gone missing in the last few days other than the Chicago boy, Emmett Till?”
Murmurs filled the church.
Reverend Jenkins quieted the crowd with the wave of his hand, then continued reading.
“He said there was a large silver ring on the boy’s middle finger of his right hand.
“‘Mose said he couldn’t identify the ring and would have to talk to his boys to see if they could identify it,’ Sheriff Strider said. He was speaking of Mose Wright, Till’s uncle with whom he had been staying.
“Sheriff Strider said he believes Till is still alive.”
“Till is still alive. Now, what kind of nonsense is that?” Reverend Jenkins asked. “Sheriff Strider is a big fat liar. And I do mean FAT!” He threw the paper toward a fan in the pulpit. Pages flew in all directions.
He pushed back his suit coat and stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. He paced back and forth in front of the pulpit.
After a moment he stopped pacing. As his right hand came out of his pocket, he held it palm up and stared at it. “On the one hand,” he said, “we have a man everybody knows to be dead, and the powers that be concoct a story to say that his disciples stole him.”
Then the left hand. “And on the other hand, we have a body that’s been packed in a pine box, placed on a train, and shipped back to Chicago, and the powers that be say it’s the wrong body. If it was the wrong body, then why did they try to make Preacher Wright bury it the same day they found it floating in the river?”
As his hands swiftly went back into his pockets, Reverend Jenkins paced the floor. “You know what identified him?”
After no response from the congregation, Reverend Jenkins held up his hand. “His ring. His father’s ring. A signet ring. They stripped him of his clothes,” he said, pacing and waving his hands. “They took off his shoes.” He pointed at his feet. “But they didn’t think to take the ring off his finger. Had it not been for the ring,” he said, smiling, holding up his hand again, “Sheriff Strider might’ve been able to convince the people of a lie.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 4
MA PEARL WAVED A DRUMSTICK AT ME. “You know revival next week, don’cha?”
I broke off a piece of cornbread, pinched up a few fingers of collard greens, and mashed them together. I stuffed them into my mouth. “Didn’t we have revival already? In June?” I muttered, my mouth full.
“Having it again. A special one. Too many y’all young folks ain’t saved.”
Plenty of grown folks ain’t saved either. “Oh,” I answered, lowering my eyes, diverting my attention to a crack in the floor. I was trapped. Nobody was in the house except the two of us. And I had no excuse to get away from sitting in the kitchen eating Sunday dinner with Ma Pearl.
Uncle Ollie had come by the house shortly after church was out. His voice was panicked as he told Papa that his boar had somehow escaped the hog pen and was on the loose. That hog was as huge as a whale, meaner than Ma Pearl, and considered dangerous outside the pen. So Uncle Ollie, Papa, and Fred Lee had gone out to search for it, leaving the dinner company to consist of Ma Pearl and me. And the last thing I wanted to talk about was revival and the mourners’ bench.
“It’s time,” Ma Pearl said. “Past time. You thirteen. Should’ve been down in the water befo’ you was twelve. Ain’t nothing certain. You see that boy dead at fo’teen. That could be you.”
My skin prickled. Every summer, including this one, I’d ignored Ma Pearl when she spoke of revival and going to the mourners’ bench. She had begun hounding me to “get religion” shortly after Mama left us and married Mr. Pete. I was only seven at the time, but Hallelujah, who was only eight, had gotten religion two years prior, when he was six. So on the day I turned twelve, even Reverend Jenkins had begun warning me about my “soul’s salvation” as he handed me that glossy black Bible with the words “King James” engraved in gold.
Revival was a weeklong ordeal, where “sinners” were assigned a special pew up front. Monday night through Friday night, they sat on that bench, gloom covering their faces as they waited for “a sign from de Lawd.” Saved church members took turns praying for them at the altar. And during each prayer, the “mourners” (biblically known as sinners) were required to kneel before the mourners’ bench and pray along. Once a mourner received a sign from the Lord, he or she “crossed over” and became a candidate for baptism.
I didn’t want to go through all that trouble, sitting on a special pew at the front of the church while folks prayed over me like maniacs, spraying their spit all over the place. Nor did I want to spend the whole week, while home, praying “without ceasing,” stopping only to eat. The “mourners” even had to keep a pious face while working in the field (which wasn’t hard to do, considering the circumstances). They weren’t even allowed to talk to anyone until after they received their sign and crossed over. All their time was spent “mourning” for their sins.
But Ma Pearl was right about one thing. I had felt as if I had all the time in the world—until the Chicago boy was killed. With the way colored folks were being murdered in Mississippi, I knew I needed to give a little thought to my soul.
“What about Fred Lee?” I asked. “And Queen?”
Ma Pearl took a bite out of a chicken thigh, as she had already stripped the drumstick down to the marrow. Breaking her own rule, she spoke with her mouth full. “They goin’ too,” she said. “All o’ you shoulda been to the moanin’ bench long time ago,” she said. “Don’t know why I let y’all lay up in my house loaded down with sin nohow. I shoulda sent all o’ you to the bench back in June.”
She paused, wiping grease from her mouth with a dishrag. “Twelve, thirteen, and fifteen,” she said. “All y’all too dirn old to be running round here without religion.”
I scooped candied yams onto my fork, but didn’t eat them. I thought about how Queen had been to the mourners’ bench three times already and had never crossed over, regardless of how many times Ma Pearl knelt right down beside her at that bench and prayed over her until her voice gave out. What if I, like Queen, never received my sign? What if I humiliated Ma Pearl year after year by going to the bench until I was nearly grown, and I never got religion? I was about to make a case for myself, but Ma Pearl started up again.
“Shoulda never let that boy start preaching,” she said, referring to Reverend Jenkins. “He ruin’n y’all with all this nonsense ’bout being saved by grace. No wonder y’all cain’t git a sign. The preacher ain’t taught you how to ast for one.”
Reverend Jenkins used to preach at an African Methodist Episcopal, or AME, church before he started preaching at Greater Mount Zion. He didn’t believe in the mourners’ bench, but he suffered through it for the old folks’ sake. Reverend E. D. Blake used to be our preacher. Every Sunday it was fire and brimstone, until Papa and some of the other deacons found out about Reverend Blake’s questionable behavior outside of church. He left Greater Mount Zion and began preaching at Little Ebenez
er soon after. Reverend Jenkins started filling in after that. He was well received by Papa and the other deacons, and he stayed permanently. But Ma Pearl favored Reverend Blake and his preaching, regardless of how folks claimed he behaved when he wasn’t wearing his preacher’s robe.
From the kitchen we heard the front door open. “Yoo-hoo! Housekeeping!”
I wanted to get up, leave my tasty food, and run. Aunt Clara Jean was here. And from the rumble of feet, it was obvious she’d brought those rowdy chaps of hers, too.
“Back here!” Ma Pearl called from the kitchen.
“Lawd, Jesus, something smell good back here,” Aunt Clara Jean said as she lumbered toward the kitchen. Like Ma Pearl, she was big, boisterous, and brusque. A perfect mismatch for tiny, sweet Uncle Ollie.
“Mama, what you cook?” she asked as she pulled out a chair without an invitation. “Junior, y’all go on outside ’n play hide-the-switch or something,” she said, shooing her little ones away. “Queen, you go on in there and lay down.”
“What’s wrong with Queen?” Ma Pearl asked.
“Sick,” Aunt Clara Jean answered. “Done thowed up everything she ett today.”
“She ain’t got the summer flu, is she?” Ma Pearl asked.
Aunt Clara Jean reached across me and grabbed a chicken wing from the pan in the middle of the table. “She ain’t got no fever or nothing like that. Jest said she wadn’t feeling good, then started running to the bathroom to thow up.”
Queen entered the kitchen. She looked whiter than any one of the Robinsons. Pale skin. Droopy eyes. And dry lips.
Ma Pearl beckoned to her. She placed the back of her hand on Queen’s forehead. “She ain’t warm,” she said to Aunt Clara Jean. “What else ailing you?” she asked Queen.
“Just a little headache,” Queen said, placing her hand on her forehead.
“Git you a glass o’ that tea and go back there and git’n the bed,” Ma Pearl said.
Queen nodded, got a glass from the safe, and poured herself some tea.
After she left the kitchen, Aunt Clara Jean leaned toward Ma Pearl and, with her forehead creased, whispered, “You reckon Queen might be ’specting?”
Midnight Without a Moon Page 13
