Serafine’s eyes rolled over Abeo’s red T-shirt splattered with white hearts. The capped sleeves did nothing to veil the scars on Abeo’s arms. In fact, it seemed to Serafine that she had chosen the shirt to purposely place the scars on display. Serafine glanced cautiously around to see if anyone was staring, but nobody was.
“Well, I must say you look very well,” Serafine complimented brightly.
Abeo smiled, thanked her, and returned the compliment.
“So,” Serafine asked coquettishly, “are you still upset with me?”
“No.”
Serafine sighed with relief and rested her clasped hands on the table. “Good, so all is forgiven and we are done with this foolishness. So many months, Abeo. My goodness!”
Abeo stirred the straw in her drink.
“So you can come back home now, right?”
Home? Home was Ukemby. Home was there in Harlem. Serafine’s house had never felt like home. Abeo pursed her lips, pulled the straw from the cup, and set it down on the orange tray.
Serafine drummed the table impatiently with her fingernails. “Well?”
Abeo began timidly: “Remember that summer you came to Ukemby and brought me a Big Mac?”
Serafine was puzzled. “What?”
“You brought me a Big Mac. I thought it was the best gift ever.”
“Yes, yes, the burger. Didn’t we talk about this when you first arrived?”
“We had such a good time. Remember?”
“Yes, of course. But what does this have to do with—”
“That summer I took something from you.”
Serafine’s back straightened. “You took something? What did you take?”
“A ring with a blue stone. I thought it was so beautiful, so I took it. I thought that if I kept it, it would somehow bring you back to me sooner.” Abeo could laugh at the memory now. “And then, after they sent me to the shrine, I thought it was because of the ring. I thought I was being punished for stealing it.”
Serafine just stared at her.
“I know now that the ring had nothing to do with it. But it took me a long, long time to realize that . . . I can’t come back to live with you,” Abeo said, working her hand into the front pocket of her jeans. “I’m happy. I’m working. I’m with people who love me. And that’s not to say that you don’t love me . . . I know you do . . . in your own way.” She pulled an object from her pocket and set it down on the table. Serafine looked down at the silver and turquoise stone ring. “I made it myself. I tried to find the stone that was an exact match to the one you had. But that was as impossible as finding identical snowflakes.”
Serafine thought it funny that Abeo would use such an analogy. She reached for the ring. “It’s beautiful, but I’m not quite sure I understand.”
“I don’t know that I do either,” Abeo responded. “But maybe giving it to you will help us both to start over with each other.”
Serafine knew she was a mess. Self-centered and selfish—behavior born out of her feelings of having been discarded by her family. Well, she hadn’t wanted to go to America in the first place. And it didn’t matter that she would be staying with relatives—they were still strangers. And, really, what was she going to learn in an American school that she couldn’t learn in a school right there in Ukemby? Furthermore, Ismae was six years her senior, the firstborn girl, the eldest child—shouldn’t she have been the one to be sent abroad?
Serafine had told her parents that she felt as if they were trying to get rid of her because she was smart and outspoken and Ismae was good-looking and compliant, and when it came down to it, Ismae was more likely to attract a husband than she was.
And then, of course, there was the rape.
“R-rape?” Serafine had stammered when the therapist first used the word.
“Yes, rape. You were under the age of consent,” the therapist said.
Serafine had never thought of it as rape, because she hadn’t said no and he hadn’t forced her. “But it’s still considered rape?”
“Yes, in the eyes of the law.” She handed Serafine the box of Kleenex.
“I didn’t believe I could get pregnant the first time I had sex,” Serafine sniffed, dabbing at her eyes.
“Uh-huh, a popular and long-standing myth among teenagers,” the therapist offered with a smile.
Serafine had nodded, experiencing once again the shame and embarrassment that had flooded her the moment she realized she was with child.
“And when he refused to take responsibility, you felt . . .” The therapist trailed off, leaving Serafine to finish her thought.
“I-I-I felt discarded again.” Serafine plucked another tissue from the box and blew her nose.
Eight months after giving birth, Serafine’s parents poured salt into her wounds, when she arrived in Ukemby with Abeo and was told—not asked—that the baby would be given to Ismae and her husband to raise as their own.
“And what did you say to that?” asked the therapist.
“I had had a child without the benefit of a husband, and according to the Catholic Church, that made my child illegitimate. In addition, I had brought shame onto my family.” Serafine had laughed disgustedly. “What was I to say? My words meant little before I became pregnant and even less after Abeo was born. I was no longer the smart daughter, I was the whore.”
The therapist leaned back into the quilted chair and crossed her legs. “Did your parents call you that? Did they actually call you a whore?”
Serafine winced. “Words need not be uttered for one to feel the implications.”
And so, Serafine had returned to America with a heart shot full of holes. She finished her education, secured a good job, went looking for love, and for a while fell head over heels for cocaine. She lived with one man for a year, another for six months. Married and divorced and married again.
“The drinking started with my second husband,” Serafine said.
“Did you want to have another child?”
Serafine stared the therapist in the eye. “Yes, of course I did.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Because after Abeo, I was never able to conceive again.”
She wasn’t ready to share any of this with Abeo, but she hoped that when she did, it would help the healing of both of their battered and betrayed hearts.
* * *
In the time that Abeo had been gone, Serafine had quit drinking and was working on kicking nicotine as well. Her divorce had been finalized and the house was up for sale. She didn’t know where she would land, or in what place she would begin the next chapter of her long and complex life. Perhaps, she mused secretly as she marveled at her beautiful daughter, Harlem could become the same happy home for her that Abeo had made it for herself. Perhaps her daughter would agree to be a significant part of that happiness.
Perhaps.
Serafine slipped the ring onto her finger and held her hand up for Abeo to see. “What do you think?”
“It looks good on you.”
“It’s so beautiful,” Serafine murmured, then looked directly at Abeo. “I didn’t even kiss you hello!” she piped. Reaching across the table, she grabbed her daughter’s hands and brought them to her lips.
Abeo’s face lit up with pleasure and surprise. “Oh, Auntie Serafine,” she admonished, “people are looking.”
“Let them,” Serafine laughed. “I missed you very, very much.”
And there it was. The words Abeo had longed to hear. They rang out into the air, genuine and clear. “And I you,” she said.
“And I’m sorry,” Serafine continued after covering Abeo’s hands in more kisses. “I know I’ve said it before, and although I meant it then, I really truly mean it now. Can you ever forgive me?”
Abeo saw the water swimming in Serafine’s eyes and her own eyes began to tear. “Already done.”
“I’m trying to be a better person,” Serafine said. “I’m trying.”
Abeo leaned back in her chair and finger
ed her hair; her smile turned playful.
“What?” Serafine asked, dabbing the corners of her eyes with her fingers. “What’s that look about?”
“There was something else about that summer.”
“Uh-hmm?”
“You asked me if I had a boyfriend and I told you that I thought they were yucky,” Abeo chuckled. “You said one day that I would like them, that I would love them.”
Serafine leaned forward and folded her arms onto the table. “And?”
“And you were right.”
after
Harlem
Abeo brought the screwdriver down into Duma’s jugular. Eyes spinning, he stumbled forward, clawing at his neck.
Mohammed shuffled away, screaming for help. Abeo calmly lowered her hand and the screwdriver clanked to the ground.
The blood that pumped from the wound in Duma’s throat spiked the humid summer air with the scent of metal. His face was still laced with surprise when he collapsed at her feet.
“Abeo? Abeo!”
She turned around to see a cluster of faces watching her. Faces she was well familiar with: Juba, Nana, Kenya, Aymee, and her son Pra.
She gazed at them in disbelief until one by one they sprouted delicate antennae, colorful wings, and took flight, soaring through the blue sky, over the rainbow, beyond the sun, and out of sight.
“Abeo, wake up. Abeo!”
Her eyes slowly opened; Dayo’s concerned face hovered over her. He pressed his warm palm against her wet cheek.
“You were dreaming again.”
Abeo swallowed.
“Duma?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“Devil,” Abeo whispered.
Dayo drew her into a tight embrace.
“He’s dead,” she muttered into his chest. “I’m free.”
Dayo kissed the top of her head. “That is good. That is very good.”
* * *
It is 2009, and Abeo is thirty-three years, seven months, and twenty-four days old.
The End
However long the night, the dawn will break.
—African proverb
Gratitude
In 2007, I traveled to Ghana with the National Book Club Conference. On that trip I met and befriended several women, some of whom I’m still in touch with today. But it was a pair of friends, Imelda Price and Linda, who not only made me aware of the practice of ritual servitude in West Africa, but also encouraged me to write about it.
And for that and for them, I am grateful.
As always, I owe a debt of gratitude to my publisher Johnny Temple and his band of brilliant colleagues: Johanna Ingalls, Ibrahim Ahmad, Aaron Petrovich, and Susannah Lawrence.
To my family, friends, and readers, I send my undying love and deepest appreciation.
Light,
E-Book Extras
Excerpt: The Book of Harlan
Also by Bernice L. McFadden
About Bernice L. McFadden
Excerpt from The Book of Harlan
___________________
Chapter 1
No matter what you may have heard about Macon, Georgia—the majestic magnolias, gracious antebellum homes, the bright stars it produced that went on to dazzle the world—if you were Emma Robinson, bubbling with teenage angst and lucid dreaming about silver-winged sparrows gliding over a perfumed ocean, well then, Macon felt less like the promised land and more like a noose.
Emma, the lone girl, the last child behind three brothers, was born on June 19. Juneteenth—one of the most revered days on the Negro calendar. Triply blessed with a straight nose, milky-brown complexion, and soft hair that would never have to endure the smoldering teeth of a hot comb.
Emma Robinson lived with her family in a mint-green and white L-shaped Victorian cottage located in the highfalutin colored section of Macon known as Pleasant Hill—a district peopled with doctors, lawyers, ministers, and teachers. Not a maid or ditch digger amongst them.
In her home, she had many pets: a brown mutt called Peter, a calico named Samantha, and Adam and Eve, a pair of lovebirds that lived in a cage so ornate, it resembled a crown.
The Robinson family traveled the city in a shiny black buggy, pulled by not one but two horses.
Emma should have been christened Riley because that’s whose life she was living. Not only that, she was a natural-born pianist who took to the classics as easily as flame to paper. Emma could listen to a piece of music once and replicate it perfectly. She was so skilled that at the age of seven her minister father installed her as the lead organist in his church.
Reverend Tenant M. Robinson was a dark-skinned, rotund man whose spirited sermons at the Cotton Way Baptist Church attracted a large and dedicated following. On Sunday mornings, those parishioners who did not have the good sense to arrive early enough to claim a seat found themselves standing in the vestibule or shoulder to shoulder against a wall.
Emma’s mother, Louisa Robinson, was a beautiful, soft-spoken woman who had come to God late in life, but now walked in his light with grace and humility.
On the outside, Emma didn’t seem to want for anything, but let’s be clear—she was starving on the inside. Not the coal-burning-belly type of hunger of the destitute, but the agonizing longing of a free spirit, caged.
Emma’s best friend was Lucille Nelson, who’d been singing in the church choir for as long as Emma had been playing the organ. Their renditions of “Steal Away to Jesus,” “Amazing Grace,” and “Go Down Moses” rattled the wood-slated church and brought the congregation to their feet.
While they loved singing about the Lord, whenever the girls could escape their parents’ watchful eyes, they headed down to the juke joint on Ocmulgee River. There, hidden in the tall grass, they spied on those shaking, shimmying sinners who raised glasses of gut liquor to the very music Emma’s father vehemently railed against.
“The blues promotes the devil’s glee,” he growled from the pulpit, “encouraging infidelity and lawlessness!”
Sometimes, when Lucille was washing dishes and passing them off to her mother Minnie to dry, those sinful songs found there way onto her tongue.
Minnie would cock her head and ask, “Where’d you hear that from?”
And Lucille would just laugh, grab Minnie’s soapy hands, and dance her around the kitchen.
Chapter 2
In 1915, when the girls were still just teenagers, Lucille went out for and won a bit part in a local musical. On opening night, she walked onto the stage of the Douglass Theatre, barely whispered her one line—“I see a rainbow”—and then belted out a song that brought the house down.
Leonard Harper, the founder of the Leonard Harper Minstrel Stock Company, happened to be there that night. By the time Lucille joined the other actors onstage for a final bow, Harper had already located her parents. When the curtain fell, the ink on the contract he had them sign was still damp.
Weeks later, Harper whisked Lucille off on a seven-month tour of the American South. When she returned home to Macon, the old year was dead, and Lucille was a brand-new woman.
When Emma heard that Lucille was back in town, she immediately rushed over to see her, sweeping into the parlor like a gale. But Emma lost all her bluster when her eyes collided with Lucille’s rouged cheeks, shiny marcelled hair, and painted lips.
“Lu-Lucille?”
“Hey, Em.” Lucille strolled toward her with newly unshackled hips swaying like the screen door of a whorehouse.
“Lucille?” Emma muttered again as she took a cautious backward step.
Lucille wrapped her arms around Emma’s shoulders, smothering her in cinnamon-and-rose-scented perfume. “I missed you so much.”
“Me . . . me too,” Emma stammered in response, as she broke the embrace. “You look different.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Lucille shrugged. “How you been?”
Emma couldn’t stop staring. “Okay.”
“That’s good.” Lucille sauntered over to the piano, sat do
wn, and skipped her fingers over the black and white keys. “You still go down to the river on Saturday afternoons?”
“Nah. They closed that juke joint down.”
Lucille’s eyebrows arched. “Was that your daddy’s doing?”
Now it was Emma’s turn to shrug her shoulders.
“Oh, that’s awful,” Lucille huffed. “That place was the one good thing about this town.”
The statement stabbed at Emma’s heart. They were best friends so shouldn’t she be the one good thing about this town?
Lucille scratched her cheek. “So you just gonna stand there gawking at me?”
“Oh, please,” Emma smirked, “like you something to look at.” She plopped down onto the bench beside Lucille. With her ponytail and plain cotton frock, Emma felt dull and dreary next to the shiny new Lucille. “I swear,” she started out of nowhere, “if I have to listen to one more rag, I’m going to lose my mind.”
Lucille chuckled. “Ragtime ain’t so bad.”
“It is when that’s all there is.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Emma’s fingers joined Lucille’s, and together they tapped out a tune.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Emma said coolly. “Tell me all about it.”
Lucille happily shared about the hypnotic roll of the bus, the mystery of falling asleep under a moon in one town and waking to the sun in another, and the thrill of standing before an audience of strangers shouting her name, begging her to sing just one more song.
She told Emma about Bill Hegamin, the man who wouldn’t have given her the time of day had their paths converged in Macon. But luckily for her, their destinies collided in Jacksonville, Florida, when most of the old Lucille had flaked away along the highways and byways that crisscrossed the Southern states.
“Now,” she concluded with a blushing smile, “he say he wanna give me all the time of day and night.”
Emma nearly choked on the bile of jealousy rising in her throat.
Praise Song for the Butterflies Page 16
