When Papa shook his head and said, “You know the answer to that question is no,” my heart took a dive.
But then he said, “But I won’t hold you back.”
“You won’t?” I said, my voice cracking.
Papa’s expression brightened. “Not no mo’,” he said, shaking his head. “Not no mo’.”
Chapter Thirty
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25
“‘LET NOT YOUR HEART BE TROUBLED: YE BELIEVE IN God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.’”
For nearly all my life, for as long as I could remember, I had heard those words from John, chapter fourteen, recited by a deacon every Sunday morning that I attended church. But for some reason, hearing them from Papa that morning as I sat on a hard wooden pew in Greater Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church on the last Sunday in September, right after having watched my own people go through so much change in such a short time, the words had more meaning than usual.
“Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me.” Jesus spoke those words. I knew that because the words were in red in my Bible. I believed in God even though he didn’t answer my prayer and make me pretty like Queen and Sugar. As I grew older, I realized what a silly prayer it was anyway. God didn’t care what I looked like. He didn’t care what any of us looked like. According to Reverend Jenkins, John the Baptist looked like a wild man, but God used him anyway. It didn’t matter how dark my skin was or how nappy my hair, I was still somebody. I was named after a saint. My name meant “courage.” And in one language, my name even meant “dew.” And dew is refreshing.
“In my Father’s house are many mansions …” Papa always said he never needed a mansion on earth because he had one waiting for him in heaven. It was hard for me to picture heaven, or even to believe in it, honestly. When I thought of all the people who had died on earth and all the ones still left to die, the idea of a place in the sky that could house all of us simply made me dizzy and confused. And mansions? Were they real mansions, or did that idea of a mansion represent something else? I didn’t know. I couldn’t know, which is why it’s called faith, as Papa always said.
But one thing I did know as I sat and absorbed those words that Jesus spoke: if there was a heaven, Papa would surely be there. But because I had not “put my trust in Jesus,” as Ma Pearl frequently pointed out, I would not. I was destined for hell.
A lump rose in my throat. And before I could retrieve my handkerchief from my dress pocket, tears flowed. As much as I tried to fight them, I couldn’t hold back the tears. According to the Bible, Jesus said he was preparing a place for his people so that where he is, there they would be also. People like Papa and Reverend Jenkins believed this. Who was I to deny it simply because I had something to prove to Ma Pearl? I was doing what Papa called cutting off my nose to spite my face, the same thing whites in Tallahatchie County, Mississippi, had done when they set two killers free.
Without my permission, my legs straightened to a standing position and began walking to the front of the church. They were so wobbly I thought I would crumble to the floor any minute. But I didn’t. I made it to the front. The look on Papa’s face as he stood before the altar podium told me I had made a huge mistake. It was against protocol for anyone to come before the church unless specifically called to the altar. But he didn’t chastise me.
When the church completed singing “Pass Me Not,” everyone sat except me. I stood there trembling, nervous sweat dripping from my armpits and down my sides. When Papa took his seat among the deacons on the side pews facing the altar, Reverend Jenkins came from the pulpit and stood beside me. He placed his arm around my shoulders and whispered, “What is it, Rose?”
“I want to be baptized,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I want to be saved.”
“Have you asked Jesus to be your Lord and Savior?”
“Yes, sir,” I choked out. “But I didn’t get a sign.”
My body couldn’t stop shaking. I knew Reverend Jenkins was progressive in his thinking, but I didn’t know whether he would accept my confession and allow me to be baptized with the others on the following Sunday, as I hadn’t crossed over during revival.
Gently, with his arm still around my shoulders, Reverend Jenkins turned my body to face the congregation. “Our sister Rose,” he announced to the congregation, “has confessed her hope in Christ and would like to become a candidate for baptism. Is there a motion?”
When no one spoke, I glanced up. My gaze met Ma Pearl’s. Hers was so fierce I thought I would faint. What if I had made a fool of myself? What if no one moved that I become a candidate for baptism, because I hadn’t gotten religion during revival like everyone else? I stared down at the floor, too ashamed to face the church. Then, as if in a dream, I heard Papa’s voice from the deacon’s bench. “I move that Rose Lee Carter become a candidate for baptism.”
A moment passed before another deacon said, “I second the motion.” My mind was so foggy that I didn’t recognize the voice, but a sense of relief washed over me.
“It has been moved that our sister Rose Lee Carter become a candidate for baptism on next Sunday, October second,” said Reverend Jenkins, his right hand raised high in the air. “All in favor, say aye.”
A hearty “aye” rose from the congregation.
“All opposed, say nay,” said Reverend Jenkins.
My heart beat faster with the silence, but no one opposed my baptism.
“It has been motioned and approved by a unanimous vote of yes from the saints that our sister Rose become a candidate for baptism,” Reverend Jenkins said. When he smiled and hugged me right in front of all those people, my body melted into sobs.
I stumbled almost blindly back to my seat, feeling free and happy. Surprisingly, Ma Pearl gave me a gentle pat on the knee. Her approval. It didn’t bother me one bit that she felt she had something to do with my conversion. I would no longer cut off my nose to spite my face. I would allow her to be proud of what she thought she had accomplished.
I smiled as the church sang, “‘None but the righteous, none but the righteous, none but the righteous shall see God, shall see God. Take me to the water to be baptized. I know I got religion. Yes, I do.’”
I, Rose Lee Carter, was a candidate for baptism. And when I died, wherever or whatever heaven was, I would be there with Papa and a man named Jesus, who was so important that his words were printed in red in my Bible.
“‘Come, we that love the Lord,’” the choir sang out, “‘and let our joys be known; join in a song with sweet accord, join in a song with sweet accord and thus surround the throne, and thus surround the throne. We’re marching to Zion, beautiful, beautiful Zion; we’re marching upward to Zion, the beautiful city of God.’”
Though the choir sang, my mind wandered back to the Scripture Papa had read: “I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”
I knew the Scripture was about Jesus going to heaven to prepare a place for his disciples, but I couldn’t help but think of Aunt Belle and Monty, who were on their way to Saint Louis—to prepare a place for me. And they would come again in November, and not just receive me, but relieve me from the misery of Mississippi. I couldn’t contain my smile. Not only had I “gotten religion” on my own terms as opposed to Ma Pearl’s, but I had also finally gotten my chance to fly away, as so many others had done before me.
Chapter Thirty-One
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
A SCREAM JOLTED ME FROM SLEEP. Moonlight gleamed through the thinly curtained window. The sunlight of Monday morning had not yet arrived. So why was Ma Pearl in our room? And why was she standing next to Queen’s bed, yelling for her to get up?
“You ain’t ’sleep!” she said.
“No sense pretending you is. Wadn’t two minutes ago that I just saw you crawl in here.”
When a second scream filled the bedroom, my eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness and spotted the black strap of terror. In a perfect arch, it swung and landed whap against Queen’s curled-up body. And then whap … whap … whap … , it lashed Queen, as if it had a mind of its own.
Queen’s hands moved in every direction in an attempt to block it. “Ma Pearl, please!” she screamed. “Please, stop!”
“I’m go’n kill you!” Ma Pearl yelled. “I’m go’n kill you!”
I sat straight up in my bed, stunned, only half believing it had taken the changing of the season and nearly a month of watching Queen run outside and vomit every morning for Ma Pearl to realize there was a baby inside her and not a summer flu.
When Queen noticed me sitting up, she cried, “Help me! Make her stop!”
“Cain’t nobody help you but Jesus,” Ma Pearl said, pointing toward heaven with one hand while wielding that strap with the other. Her arm rose so high with the strap that it seemed to touch the ceiling. She brought it down with a WHAP against Queen’s back. “I told y’all I didn’t want to bring up no mo’ babies in my house.”
When Ma Pearl paused for a moment to catch her breath, Queen uncoiled her body and—still on her bed—fell on her knees. With her hands clasped in a prayer position, she begged Ma Pearl for mercy.
“I ain’t the one to forgive you,” Ma Pearl said. “That’s God’s bizness. My bizness is to beat the devil outta you for bringing mo’ shame in my house. Sneaking outta here at night like a common tramp.”
Dazed by the drama, I hadn’t noticed that Queen was fully dressed in a yellow pantsuit.
“Ma Pearl, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said, her head bowed, her body rocking back and forth.
“You ain’t sorry,” Ma Pearl said, her teeth clenched. “You in trouble. And cain’t nobody undo that.”
Before Queen could get her hands up to shield her face, the black strap of terror slashed across it. Queen’s cry was so loud, it’s a wonder it didn’t wake the Robinsons up the road.
But it did wake Papa. He came rushing into the room, struggling to pull his britches over his underwear.
“What?” was all he said as his eyes adjusted to the moonlit room.
Ma Pearl turned swiftly toward him. “This gal done gone out and got herself in trouble.”
“Queen?” Papa said. His countenance fell as he stared at the sobbing figure on the bed.
Queen lay on her side, her knees pulled up to her chest, her head shielded by her arms, her body worn from Ma Pearl’s lashes. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said, whimpering.
“Queen?” Papa said again, as if he somehow expected to get a different answer. “You, Queen?” he said softly.
“Yes, Queen!” Ma Pearl said. She coiled the strap around her thick hand as she stormed toward the doorway. “Ast her who the daddy is.”
Papa looked at Queen, then back at Ma Pearl.
“Go on,” Ma Pearl said, “ast her.”
Papa turned to Queen. “Queen?” he said again. This time his tone was one of inquiry rather than shock.
Queen answered him with heavier sobs.
Ma Pearl folded her arms across her chest. “She was sick too long. I watched her every day. And nothing,” she said, scowling. “So I knowed she was leaving at night.”
Queen’s sobs grew louder.
“Caught her tonight,” Ma Pearl said. “Gittin’ thowed outta that ol’ peckerwood’s truck. Jest thowed her out like she was a piece a trash.”
“Queen,” Papa said, sighing.
Ma Pearl snorted. “Dirn fool like her mama. White man ain’t go’n never own up to no colored baby.” She stormed out of the room, the sheet serving as a curtain between the two rooms swaying behind her.
“Go on back to sleep,” she said when Fred Lee’s bed creaked. “Ain’t nothing wrong, ’cept Queen done got herself in trouble.”
At that, Queen whimpered. And it took only a second for the whimpering to turn into broken sobs.
Queen uncurled her body and reached up. She begged for Papa’s embrace. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she uttered.
Papa dropped his head. With his shoulders slumped, he turned and left the room.
As Queen curled herself into a ball and wept even louder, I got up and lit the kerosene lamp that sat on the wooden crate that served as a night table between our beds.
At first I didn’t speak. Instead, I, the newly saved sinner, knelt beside my bed and offered up a prayer for her, begging God not to allow Ma Pearl to beat her so viciously again. Then I went over to her bed and rubbed her back.
Queen winced.
I could feel the bruises beneath the soft fabric. Dark red seeped through yellow.
“We need to get these clothes off you.”
“Okay …” Queen whimpered.
But when I began to help her out of her clothes, she wailed. “I just wanna die! Jesus, just let me die!” She curled back into her ball, cringing at every touch.
Tears sprang to my eyes. “It’s gonna be all right, Queen,” I whispered, my voice choking. I stared at what was once beautiful, almost sand-colored skin. It was now bruised, bloody, and purple.
Staring at Queen’s body brought back a memory I didn’t know I had. It was a memory of a time before Fred Lee was born—a memory of a night Ma Pearl stormed into that very room Queen and I shared.
Mama and I cuddled in one bed, and Aunt Clara Jean and two-year-old Queen cuddled in the other. The memory was a fog, but I remembered Mama crying and Aunt Clara Jean soothing her with, “Sister, it’s go’n be all right.”
Tears sprang to my eyes when I thought of Mama possibly getting that kind of beating twice. The memory and the sight of Queen’s back made me vow I’d never allow myself to get into that kind of trouble with Ma Pearl.
After helping Queen get out of her blood-soaked clothes, I went to the back room and got the basin of water for morning washing, along with a towel. When I returned, Queen was sitting up, the sheets loosely wrapped around her.
“It hurt so bad,” she said when I sat beside her.
“I know,” I whispered.
“If you hadna woke up,” she said, choking back a sob, “she mighta killed me.”
“She wouldn’t have killed you,” I said softly. “She didn’t kill Mama. And she didn’t kill Aunt Clara Jean.”
“I wish she had. I wish she had killed us both before I was even brought to this miserable world.”
“Don’t talk like that, Queen. You won’t have to stay here forever,” I said. “One day you can leave like everyone else. Like me,” I added, feeling renewed joy at the thought of going to Saint Louis in November.
“How can I leave?” Queen asked. “Who go’n take me to live with them? I’ll have a child attached to my hip.” She said that in a tone indicating that the problem was someone else’s fault and not her own.
“Mama and Aunt Clara Jean both had babies before they were married,” I said. “But they still got husbands. They still left.”
“But they didn’t get to choose,” Queen said bitterly. “What woman would want to spend her life looking at something as big and ugly as Mr. Pete?”
I carefully wiped blood from her shoulder, but said nothing as I considered how small Uncle Ollie seemed compared with the mammoth-size Aunt Clara Jean.
Queen’s countenance fell. “He lied to me,” she said.
“Who?” I asked.
“Jim,” Queen answered.
“Jim who?”
“Robinson.”
My eyebrows came together. “Jimmy Robinson?”
Queen nodded.
“What did Jimmy Robinson lie to you about?”
“He said he loved me.”
I stopped wiping blood from her delicate skin. I was so confused it seemed cobwebs had cluttered my head. “Why would Jimmy Robinson say he loved you?”
As if the same cobwebs had magicall
y appeared in her head, Queen stared at me blankly. After a moment she flinched. “You thought I was with Ricky Turner?”
I was too confused to answer.
Even in pain, Queen managed a conceited stare. “I got more class than that.”
“But Jimmy’s only fourteen. The same age as Hallelujah.”
Queen stared at me, as if the mention of Hallelujah’s name disgusted her. “Jim’s more man than that boy will ever be,” she said, her nose in the air.
Blood rushed to my head and seemed to pound in my ears.
I didn’t know why, but somehow knowing that Queen had gotten in trouble with Jimmy Robinson instead of Ricky Turner appeared frightening. What if Mr. Robinson found out? What would happen to Ma Pearl and Papa? Where would they go if Mr. Robinson ran them off his place because of Queen? Regardless of how good a farmer Papa was, I doubted he wanted to work for anyone other than Mr. Robinson.
My teeth clenched. “How could you do this to them?”
“What?” she said, staring at me as if I had asked her where babies came from in the first place.
“How could you do this to Ma Pearl and Papa?”
Queen rolled her eyes. “I didn’t do anything to them. They did this to me.” She shifted her weight and moaned in pain. “They lock us up in this house and won’t let us go nowhere but church and school.”
“That’s no reason for you to do what you did,” I said.
She rolled her eyes again and said, “When else was I supposed to leave this damn house and have some fun?”
“But with Jimmy Robinson?”
Queen’s haughty stare returned. “Why not?” she asked, her tone icy.
“Because he’s white, and you’re colored.”
“I’m as good as any white girl he coulda had,” she said, sniffing.
“He told you that?”
“He loves me,” Queen said. “I know he do.”
I pointed at her stomach. “What’d he say about that?”
As Queen stared at her stomach, tears suddenly flooded her eyes. “He loves me,” she insisted, her voice cracking.
I sighed. “But he threw you out of the truck?”
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