by Kay Moser
Lee had arrived at the bank. Yes, that’s it. No matter what a man does, no matter how great his virtues, God just steps back. He abandons him. At that thought, fear struck Lee, almost paralyzing him. If he truly believed what he was thinking, he would be forced to create his own life and do it on his own. He staggered to a town bench and slumped onto it.
The bully that had taunted him in the days since Richard’s death—fear—had finally showed its face. Richard died. You will too. Richard died. You will too. No matter how many times he had told a griever, “It’s okay. Time will heal,” it was not true, and he had known it. Death’s sting never ceased; one just learned to bury it in his memory until the next death occurred, and that death could well be his own.
“It’s not all right!” Lee exploded, hurling his words at the darkened store fronts. “Time won’t heal. Time will eventually destroy. Time leads to death, and I don’t know when. And I cannot wait!”
There … there it was. The only way to fight the bully was action. What a fool he had been! What a fool to think that he had escaped war because he had been born after the fighting between the states had ceased. He had not escaped war; he had his own war to fight. He had to grapple with recalcitrant people, with circumstances, with time. He could persuade the people, even Sarah. Most importantly, Sarah. He could manipulate circumstances, and he would. He could exploit time, squeeze every second from its stingy hands, outwork it, outrun it … for a while. Time would win in the end; he knew that. But not before I have filled every second to the bursting point!
Lee rose, turned, and saw his reflection in the bank window. Fire burned in his eyes. Behind him, the street, the buildings, fell into shadow that deepened and darkened into nothing. He jabbed his finger at the blackest shadow. “Let the fight begin!”
CHAPTER 12
The instant the first light came through Sarah’s bedroom window, she untangled her legs from the damp sheets and placed her bare feet on the warm floor. Exhausted by the long, sleepless hours she had endured and the grief that frequently reduced her to tears, she could lie in the humid room no longer. I must have fresh air even if everyone else is still sleeping.
She stripped off her clinging gown, clothed herself in her wrapper, and on bare feet slipped out of her room, down the stairs. She avoided the screened, side verandah in case Victoria slept there. So often of late, Victoria became ill at night and slipped out of her hot room to take refuge on the cooler porch.
Sarah sat in the shadows of the front verandah, careful not to be seen from the street, and watched the birth of the new day. It seemed obscene to her that the sun dared show its face after the human misery of the day before. Rather than enjoying the rebirth that dawn usually brought to her, she felt overwhelmed by the thought of another day to struggle through. She worked to discipline her mind, to sort out what the tasks of the days would be, but her conscience stood in the way of rational thinking. Her conscience and her anxiety about her own future.
The influence of Victoria’s encouragement after the funeral, her insistence that Sarah proceed with her plans to leave town, faded away. Watching Christine suffer through the endless, painful demands of the funeral day as well as another night of Victoria’s sickness settled the matter for Sarah. She simply could not abandon those she loved when they were in such distress.
Then there was Sarah’s struggle with the town’s rejection. She was surprised to discover how hurt she felt. She should be angry, determined, ready to fight, to force them to give her their stamp of approval. Instead, discouragement swamped her. I have lied to myself. I can’t work my way up … I won’t be allowed to.
Shame washed through her, shame she did not understand, and she found herself begging God for answers. Why? Tell me why! Why do they still reject me? What have I failed to do to earn their acceptance?
Sarah sank into the weariness of depression.
The light increased in the garden, the colors of the flowers began to glow, and the birds sang and swooped gracefully around the fountain. But Sarah’s mind remained dark; her heart remained deadened. There are all kinds of death, so many ways to kill a person. God decides when the body dies, of course. But hateful people can kill the spirit.
“Miz Sarah?”
Sarah raised her head and found Frances leaning toward her.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
Sarah shook her head. How can I tell this woman, this colored woman who has suffered degradation I can’t begin to understand, that I am discouraged?
Frances stood a minute longer, peering down at her, waiting for her to speak, and then she did something Sarah had never seen her do. She sat down next to a white woman. She sat tall and proud.
“Don’t you let them get you down, girl.” Frances’ voice was commanding. “Don’t you let them shame you into quittin’!”
Sarah burst into tears and threw herself into Frances’ arms.
Frances enclosed her in an embrace, but she kept her spine straight, her chin up. “They don’t get to decide who you be. God decides that. Your family don’t decide, and this town don’t decide. Even Miz Victoria and Miz Christine don’t decide. God decides. And I’s here to tell you, He already decided a long time ago. Before you was born, He decided. You’s God’s child, nobody else own you. You belong to Him. Ain’t nobody else can tell you who you is.”
Frances waited for Sarah to grow quiet, and when she did, Frances pushed Sarah upright.
“Listen, Miz Sarah. Listen to the birds. Hear that robin over there, how he make the same sound over and over? It be an ugly sound, a hard sound. It sound to me like he sayin’ ‘bad, bad, bad, bad.’ You hear him?”
Sarah nodded.
“Listen to that ugly call of his. He do that starting long ’fore dawn ’cause he trying to force his young to hear him and follow him. And they will! They gonna follow him no matter how old they gets ’cause he trained them to it. You see what I’s sayin’?”
“Yes, just like people, just like family. Trying to force you to hear only their voices, to follow only their way.”
“That be it. That be it for sure. And that robin can’t hardly fly. He so heavy he just make it to the lowest limb. You ever notice that? Other birds, they soars up to the sky, but that robin can’t hardly fly.”
“That’s true.”
“But now …” Frances gave Sarah a little shake. “Listen again, listen new this time. Hear that other bird? What he sayin’ to you?”
Sarah tilted her head, closed her eyes, and struggled to hear. “‘You are good ... you are good … you are good.’”
“That be just what he sayin’! Ain’t he finer than that ole robin? He got three notes to sing! He don’t got to chirp the same ugly sound over and over. He can make a song that lift your heart, that lift you to where you belong.”
Sarah felt her spirits rising, her mind clearing. “And some birds can sing more than three notes ...”
“And they does! They don’t let no robin make them sing one ugly sound, and they don’t follow no robin ’round neither. They flies higher, oh lots higher, than he does. Now what you gotta do?”
Sarah felt a broad smile lifting her face. “I must choose which bird I listen to.”
“That’s right, honey. And you been doin’ a good job of it until now. You been listenin’ to your mama more than your pa. And you been listenin’ to Miz Victoria and Miz Christine.”
Sarah nodded.
Frances stood and peered down at her. “You just gotta choose to listen to the right voices, honey. They’s always gonna be people that try to pull you down to where they’s at, but they ain’t where God want ’em to be. And they sure ain’t where God want you to be!”
Sarah jumped up and hugged her. “Oh, thank you, Frances! How did you get to be so wise?”
“The same way you’s gettin’ there, honey. All the folk that try to tell me I’s the color of my skin and nothing more—they’s the very ones that help me get to see myself like the Lord see me.”
Sara
h sighed loudly, closed her eyes, and nodded. “It’s the struggle, isn’t it? It’s the struggle that teaches us.”
“And you ain’t got no struggle without the ugly-acting folk.”
“I just hope I can remember … I must remember.”
“You will. You gonna keep struggling, but you’s gonna choose to listen to the right bird, and you’s gonna soar higher than most folk. They ain’t gonna like you for it, but you’s gonna fly high anyway. And what’s more, you’s gonna teach young folk to do the same.”
“Thank you, Frances. I hope I can fly as high as you do.”
Frances chuckled. “I can’t promise you that, Miz Sarah. After all, you didn’t start as low down as I did. You was born with white skin.”
Sarah’s hands flew to her face. “Oh, Frances, what a spoiled brat I am!”
“No, you ain’t, honey. We all thinks we got the worst of it, but they’s always somebody worse off. Now, I gotta get to work, or there ain’t gonna be no breakfast.”
Frances bustled off.
Sarah sat down and listened to the various bird calls in the garden, finding several she wanted to focus on. Thank you, Lord, for Frances. Thank you for You.
***
After a soothing bath, Sarah joined Hayden, who sat alone at the breakfast table. While they ate in silence, Josie brought in the morning mail. Hayden sorted the stack and handed Sarah an envelope. It was from the Riverford School Board.
He watched her as she stared at the return address. “Open it, Sarah,” he encouraged, passing her the letter opener. “You can’t deal with whatever it says until you open it.”
She slid the blade under the flap of the envelope and reached in for the sheet of paper. When she unfolded it, she skimmed it and thrust it down on the tablecloth.
Hayden’s face tightened. “What does it say?”
“They have given the high school position in classics to a man from Fort Worth, but they have offered me a position teaching the younger girls’ English classes.”
“Ridiculous! They have made a stupid decision, of course, but I hope you will choose to see this year as a way to gain experience before you move up. I would hate to see you leave Riverford.”
Sarah smiled as she shook her head vigorously. “I have no intention of being run out of town by mean-spirited people or short-sighted school board members. There are a lot of young girls here I can teach to listen to the right bird.”
Hayden looked puzzled.
“Frances has been teaching me some things.”
“Well, I highly recommend that you listen to her. I’ve never known her to be wrong.”
CHAPTER 13
“Get down,” Ceci ordered her little sister, Juli, as she jerked her behind Mrs. Bellows’ prized gardenia bushes. “Mrs. Bellows is on her porch.”
“Oh no,” Juli moaned. “What if she stops us like she did yesterday?”
Ceci pried apart the branches and peered through. “She’s looking this way.”
The girls held their breath.
“She saw us! Come on.” Ceci snatched Juli’s hand and dragged her up. “Run!”
The two girls dashed down the sidewalk, through the Hodges’ gate, up the long walk past the fountain, and finally scrambled up the wide stairs to the verandah.
“We made it,” Ceci crowed between pants of breath, but it was a short-lived victory.
“Mrs. Bellows is coming down her walk,” Juli cried.
“Quick.” Ceci snatched her sister’s arm and threw herself against the Hodges’ front door. The girls bounded, unannounced, into the wide main hall and skidded to a halt at Mrs. Hodges’ feet.
“Goodness,” the lady exclaimed. “What’s this all about?”
“Lord, have mercy!” Frances cried as she struggled not to drop the heavy tea tray she carried.
“We came to pay a call on you,” Ceci breathlessly announced as she jumped up, straightened her bonnet, and curtsied.
“Don’t let her get us!” Juli shouted, completely reversing the decorum her big sister was attempting to convey.
Speechless, Mrs. Hodges stared down at them—the prim, proper, though definitely askew, six-year-old Ceci and the panicked, four-year-old Juli.
“We have to talk to you.” Juli threw herself into Mrs. Hodges’ skirt. “Mommy’s going to die like Father did!” Her tiny body shook as a storm of sobs overtook her.
Mrs. Hodges leaned over and wrapped her arms around the thin, shaking shoulders. “What in the name of heaven is going on, Ceci?” she asked the older girl.
Before the child could answer, the knocker banged against the wooden door, its commanding sound echoing through the hall, and Ceci abandoned her attempt at decorum and joined her sister in Mrs. Hodges’ skirt.
“Don’t let her get us!” Ceci echoed her younger sister’s plea. “We have to talk to you.”
An insistent, more thunderous rap bounced off the walls. “For heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Hodges declared. “Frances, give me the tray and answer the door. Girls, go into my studio on the side porch and wait for me.”
“She’s going to drag us home,” Juli sobbed, “and Mommy will die.”
“No one is going to drag you anywhere.”
“She did yesterday,” Juli wailed.
“Yesterday?”
Both girls removed their faces from Victoria’s skirt and nodded vigorously.
The door knocker banged with greater insistence, this time in a duet with Mrs. Bellows’ staccato demand. “Open this door! Open this door at once!”
Mrs. Hodges glared at the door. “Go into my studio, girls, and wait for me there.”
“Don’t let her take us away,” Juli sobbed.
Mrs. Hodges leaned over and stroked her head. “You have nothing to worry about, Juli.” She turned to Ceci. “Take your little sister into my studio. I will handle Mrs. Bellows.”
Ceci took Juli’s hand and pulled her out of the hall.
Victoria turned to Frances. “We are not going to receive Mrs. Bellows today. Do you understand, Frances? I am not receiving company. Now give me the tray, wait until I’ve left, and answer the door.”
Frances handed the tray to her mistress. “You know she ain’t gonna listen to nothing I say.”
“Tell her I am painting and cannot be disturbed.”
“That ain’t gonna stop her, especially if she’s—” Francis wrung her hands. “I mean … well, it’s way after noon and she … she may not be herself.”
“Even more reason to keep her away from the girls.” Victoria’s blue eyes blazed. “Why the woman won’t take action to help herself with her drinking problem is beyond—never mind that now. The girls are the important thing.” She turned toward the studio. “Do your best, Francis.”
When Mrs. Hodges entered her studio, she found Ceci and Juli huddled together on her French divan, each clutching an oversized, chintz-covered pillow.
“Is she gone?” Juli’s tear-drenched face peeked over the edge of her pillow.
“She will be soon.” Mrs. Hodges sat between them, wrapped an arm around each one, and pulled them close. “Now, let’s talk. Why did you say your mother is going to die? You don’t really think that’s true, do you?”
Both girls nodded.
“But why?” The children tucked their heads beneath her chin and clung to her.
“Josie said so,” Ceci answered. “She said, ‘if this town don’t leave Miz Christine alone, they’s gonna kill her.’”
Juli sobbed. “‘Might as well go dig that sweet lady’s grave.’ That’s what Josie said.”
Ceci detached herself from Victoria, sat back, and turned anxious eyes on her. “They won’t even let her play the piano, Mrs. Hodges, and Mother can’t live without her music. You know it’s true.”
Victoria looked across the room at her easel, and her artistic soul winced. Yes, it’s true. The piano is Christine’s very breath.
“I don’t care what she’s doing. I’m going to talk to her.” Mrs. Bellows’ voice crashed in
to Victoria’s thoughts, and Ceci dove back into the security of Victoria’s arms as Mrs. Bellows wobbled into the room with Frances close behind her.
“I couldn’t stop her, Miz Victoria. She ain’t in no fit state to be in public. She been—”
“So this is where you throw away your life.” Mrs. Bellows swept her arm forward in an awkward arc. “A den of iniquity if I ever saw one. You are an absolute disgrace to womanhood.”
Victoria’s temper blazed so hot she had to blow the air from her lungs and inhale deeply before she dared speak. “Frances, take the girls into the library.”
Mrs. Bellows plopped her fists on her ample hips. “The girls are going with me. I’m taking them out of this den of iniquity.” Mrs. Bellows stumbled toward the easel and dragged her pudgy fingers down a charcoal drawing, smearing drunken paths from sky to ground through the landscape. “What’s this?”
“It was a sketch for my next painting.”
Mrs. Bellows held up her blackened fingers. “Looks like dirt to me!”
“C’est tout dans les yeux du spectateur.”
“Don’t you dare speak to me in that filthy foreign tongue! Always putting on airs, aren’t you? You think just because you lived in Europe you don’t have to abide by society’s rules. You don’t have to kowtow to a man who treats you like dirt—”
“That’s enough, Edith.”
Mrs. Bellows sobbed. “Always knowing he’s got some fancy woman in Fort Worth—”
Victoria jumped up, grabbed Mrs. Bellows’ shoulders, and shook her. “Stop it, Edith! The girls are here.”
Edith jerked herself away. “Not for long. I’m taking them home to their sainted mother. Christine is a real lady. Poor thing.” Edith’s voice rose. “She’ll grieve herself into the grave. You mark my word; you’ll never see her wear anything but widow’s weeds again. We’ll be putting her in the ground before the summer is over, and I just wish I could go with her. The way he treats me—you have no idea what it’s like—you sit over here in your fancy clothes with Hayden Hodges loving you—you don’t know what it’s like—”
