"That bell given to us by a gentleman from New Orleans." Mrs. Owens spoke with the clanging of the church bell.
Celeste wanted to bolt from the car and find a spot in the forest, lie down on a bed of pine needles and see sky slivers and sun dots, only what the thick green branches allowed. Instead, she and Mrs. Owens carried the bread pudding and the pot of collards to the shady side of the whitewashed building, where tables of all sorts had been set up to hold the food, shaded by rain umbrellas propped up by food containers, rocks, bricks. A small group of women hovered around the tables with fans-homemade of giant plant leaves attached to spindles of thin wood. There was one small electric fan with its cord running into a church window. Celeste wished she could stay outside with them, be a food fanner. Anything but sitting in the hot church at close quarters with well over a hundred other sweating people. But she dutifully followed Mrs. Owens inside.
Reverend Singleton nodded to the two women as they took seats mid way back on the left side, the last two openings on the smooth wood pews, as close to the open windows as they could get. The shades on the tall thin windows were pulled halfway down to block the sun, the windows open in hopes of a breeze. The church was a perpetual work in progress-though the floor was carpeted on the center aisle and in the entire pulpit area, the side aisles were bare wood. The Tuckers had gone on toward the front and seated themselves on the opposite side. Mr. Tucker probably wanted to get his children as far away from her as he could, afraid her northern ways might rub off on them. Probably afraid they'd end up running from him yelling "free at last" at the tops of their lungs.
The churchgoers took up their balsa wood-handled cardboard fans advertising the Morris Family Mortuary in Hattiesburg just as soon as they were seated. There was enough fanning going on in the church to create a windstorm, but nothing cool came of it. Celeste moved hers with a sultry motion, as she'd learned in Detroit churches that any fast fanning would only make you hotter. Before one complete pass of her hand, her entire body broke out in a second wave of sweat. Her cotton dress would soon be soaked. It was already sticking to her skin.
The small choir sang and swayed through "Rock of Ages" and "Old Rugged Cross" with Mrs. Singleton leading on the organ, her hair wound up into a mound on the top of her head, her small body laying into her instrument. Reverend Singleton respected women who made music, Celeste thought.
With his eyes focused on his flock and his mustache glistening, Reverend Singleton launched into the sermon of "people get ready, there's a train a'coming." Celeste had heard similar messages at the nightly orientation meetings in Jackson. Exhilarating calls to action, cheerleading lifts meant to rouse the doubtful, fire people up for the task at hand and maybe the beatings and arrests they might suffer in the process. The sermons stoked the burn and led the way, and the way was nonviolence. The road was steep and hard, but no other road offered redemption to the oppressed and epiphany to the oppressors. The old way reiterated bad treatment, deception, and deprivation.
Reverend Singleton paced, stomped his feet, his electric-blue preacher's robe open down the front, flying behind and around him like a celestial cape. His dress shirt collar absorbed perspiration that dripped down his face and sprayed off in all directions when he made quick turns. He kept a handkerchief at the ready to keep his eyes clear of the pour. Reverend Singleton yoked a kind of rural earthy drama to his well-honed intellect. He appealed to the people's hearts and souls and pricked at their brains. And it all had rhythm. He wanted the Negro people of his town to get on board, to stop standing around studying the dirt. His congregation called back to him, urging him on, clapping, speaking to God directly on their own behalf. Celeste thought he was too good at the big sermon to stay long in this town. He was right up there with the best she'd ever heard, not far from the range of Martin Luther King Jr. himself.
There was urgency in the calls to action. She heard a cleaving in the voices and stood up with her hands thrown into the air as she had never done in Momma Bessie's church at home; she'd never felt so bound to a moment in church as she did to this one. This was her moment, and she threw herself into it with energy. Wilamena would've had a heart attack seeing her standing there waving her hands to the heavens. The music so profound it brought tears to her eyes. Mrs. Singleton was to the music what Reverend Singleton was to the word. It all cut to the heart of the matter. He bound the old lessons to a new message and his listeners followed. Celeste was swaying with the Negro citizens of Pineyville, felt she was becoming one of them.
"Sister Celeste Tyree." She heard her name called from the pulpit. Reverend Singleton beckoned her forward.
He hadn't warned her. Maybe he hadn't decided to bring her up before he saw her standing, her arms reaching to Heaven. With her sweat-soaked dress clinging to her body and the straps of her bra slipping off her sweaty shoulders, she walked toward the pulpit, focusing on Reverend Singleton's beaming face, then on the color painting of Jesus on the wall behind him. Mrs. Singleton played chords to cover her walk. Celeste hadn't been in the pulpit of a church since she was baptized.
Across the center aisle, Sissy leaned forward, her mouth open, caught in surprise. Mr. Tucker's eyes were locked in a straight-ahead stare. Mrs. Tucker's chin lifted, haughty and disapproving. Darby and Henry looked confused. The white railing across the pulpit area had entrances on each side and one in the middle. It seemed to not be getting any closer. People coughed and shifted in their seats. The sounds rebounded in Celeste's ears, made her feel as if something in her life was about to change forever. She was walking down the aisle alone. Finally, she stepped up into the pulpit area. Reverend Singleton received her with a two-handed handshake and guided her to the podium to face the congregation as Mrs. Singleton played a chord of presentation. Her mouth went completely dry.
It all looked different from up here. She'd held freedom school in the church for a few days now, but this was an entirely new experience. During freedom school she stayed down front, never so much as referring to the pulpit area. In her mind it was off-limits. It was Reverend Singleton's domain. The choir and Mrs. Singleton seemed squeezed in behind the preaching area. No stained-glass windows, no vaulted ceilings, and only a few rows of polished hardwood pews. She cleared her throat softly and clutched the podium with both hands. The body of the church came into clear focus. A sea of sweatglossed country Negro people stared up at her.
"Thank you, Reverend Singleton, for inviting the movement into your church." Her voice sounded puny and distant, disconnected from who she thought she was. She'd practiced selling the idea of voter registration in front of small groups during orientation, but that was nothing like this. She pushed her voice out. "And thank you, Mrs. Owens, for allowing me to come into your home to do this work."
The words lay like rocks. She regretted saying Mrs. Owens'name, for though she figured by now most everyone knew where she was living, she didn't want to call unnecessary attention to it. She didn't yet know who was with them and who wasn't. She had no idea how far anyone might go against them.
"I hope you will visit the freedom school." Celeste paused to clear a nervous tickle from her throat. "We meet here every morning from nine o'clock until noon. Voter registration classes are held here, too." She didn't want to hem and haw, tried to keep the flow of her sentences even and clear, but the endings kept diving down into near inaudibility. "In the evenings as close to 6:3o as we can get. We want to present the lists of new registered voters at the Democratic Convention in August." Her fingers dug into the sides of the podium.
Celeste prayed Reverend Singleton would rescue her. He stood, chest out, nodding his head in agreement. "Does anyone have any questions?" Her clipped speech and college girl manner weren't translating well. All was quiet but for the hand fans waving through the heavy air, small coughs and grunts. Everyone sat there staring up at her like she was a ghost-or worse, a Negro ghost who didn't look quite Negro enough to be accepted into the ranks. She had a lot of work to do. Reverend Singleton stepped clo
ser.
"We got a distance to travel 'fore we get to the eating." He'd dropped his voice an octave and grinned. "If that's what's on your mind."
It was nearly noon and just about time for the daily rain. The food was on tables under the eaves of the church with umbrellas placed strategically to protect it. Celeste knew she'd have to eat or risk offending the women of the church who, just like Mrs. Owens, had spent the early morning frying, baking, and boiling all that hot food.
A wiry, light-skinned woman stood up in the back. "Sister Mobley," Reverend Singleton introduced her. He called the people Sister this and Brother that, corralled them in his own brotherhood, hoped it would steel them against some of the fear and deprivation in their lives. At least they belonged to each other. Celeste remembered that kind of calling at Momma Bessie's church in Detroit. She was Sister Tyree.
"I don't wanna cause no trouble. My chirren wants to come to learn with you, but I'm afraid for 'em." The whooshing fans nearly drowned her out. Three children sat close to her, a boy and two tiny girls. Sister Mobley sat down and fanned.
Reverend Singleton gave Celeste a prodding nod.
"So far, we've been okay." She shied away from revealing that nearly a week into her project only two children had come to freedom school, and no adults at all had shown up for voter registration classes. She searched for the faces of her two students, Labyrinth and Georgie. Hard to miss Labyrinth's head of blond curls and brown skin, Georgie there beside her with his eyes glowing like a cat's in the dark. And beside them, the woman who had to be their mother, Dolly Johnson, young and strong looking, sitting up straight and tall, the woman who sent her children to freedom school first. She wanted to wave to Labyrinth and Georgie, their eyes piercing, searching for recognition. J.. D. 's child would have been a Labyrinth. Shuck would've laid down and died. She thought that, too. The children smiled at her as if they recognized something in her face, something of themselves in her. She held onto the podium so tightly her hands seemed to be leaving impressions there.
Again, Reverend Singleton moved closer to her, and she inched more to the side, releasing the podium, giving him room to stand with her, realizing that he was her ticket to acceptance.
"Amen." Came a voice from the other side of the church. Celeste didn't know if that "amen" was the signal that they didn't want to hear anymore from her or a validation. An "amen" could be a period as much as anything else.
Sister Mobley waved her hand, popped up again quickly. "I'm sho glad you come here to Pineyville."
"Thank you, Sister Mobley." Celeste nodded to the frail woman. "And please do send your children to the freedom school. We're moving along in our work."
A white-haired man sitting by the window spoke up, fanning himself. "If we come in here fa dat registering, de white man gon tell us not to come to work no mo."
"Sho will." A youngish voice from the back.
That was followed by a few grunts and uh-huhs. Mrs. Owens's brooch flashed in the sunlight. Celeste followed the flash to find her face, serious and set with satisfaction. It made her feel she was doing okay up there in the pulpit.
Reverend Singleton spoke. "Now Jesus is in here, moving around from one to the other and when he stopped by me, he told me to tell you that sometimes you got to walk through the darkness to get to the light." Reverend Singleton walked to the center of the pulpit area. Every face turned to follow his movement. He hadn't warmed up to this thought, just dove in at full emotional pitch, grabbing the attention of the church, waking those who'd started to drowse with Celeste talking to them. "I said, you got to walk through the darkness to get to the light." He cut through the heat and lethargy like a lightning strike. "Think about that, now." He came back to her.
"Go 'head now, Sister Celeste." He spoke under his breath. "You got to break it down." Mrs. Singleton hit a minor chord on the organ, sending goose bumps up her spine, then slowly and softly started playing "How I Got Over." Celeste needed all the help she could get.
"The people in Jackson want to end this summer with voter registration for all the Negro people in Mississippi." The thumping music got into her. She reared back a bit and took a good deep breath. "If we do that, it will make a great difference in your lives-these roads will get paved, the schools will be improved, these children will be able to go into the library and read the books or take them home." Mrs. Singleton wailed on that organ and Celeste rode the rhythm like a ship on a wild sea, hanging on. "There's churches being bombed, people being shot at, so this registering to vote is causing a lot of trouble for everyone. That's how important it must be."
"Yes, it is, Lord."
"Amen."
"Speak on, chile."
They expected her to stir them as Reverend Singleton did. They wanted to lift her up, but she had to help them.
"Don't feel mad at yourself if you can't do it." She pushed the queasiness down in her stomach and went on, feeling a kind of power. She still clutched the podium, and her voice streamed on without breaks. "This summer is the beginning. Your children can grow up feeling the vote is their right." She nearly bit the "t" off the word "right." "We're learning that today is not tomorrow." She was running out of things to say while rivers of sweat ran down her neck.
Sissy inched forward in her seat. The only thing keeping Mr. Tucker from snatching her backwards was the fact that he couldn't reach her through the barricade of her brothers and mother.
"And it ain't yesterday neither." A heavyset man stood up fanning himself with his hat then sat down. Everyone was within the rhythm code of the song. It was call and response, like a symphony.
"Thank you, sir." Celeste reached for the red farmer's bandana she'd picked up in Jackson. It wasn't the thing for Sunday church, but it was in her pocket, and it was all she had. She balled the bandana into her fist and wiped her perspiring neck, not wanting to bring the red up near her face while she was in the pulpit. Negro people put great significance in symbolism, and red was the sign of the devil. For a brief moment, she didn't recognize her own hand it was so dark. Reverend Singleton moved in again while the small choir joined the organist humming the song. She was grateful he looked as if he was about to take the reins.
"Yes, Jesus. I know we been walking through fire for a long, long time. I know you praying the hard times coming to a end." Reverend Singleton was going to finish it, put the parable to it, give the people an image to carry them to the next point. "The hard times not going nowhere lessen you help 'em along. I can't pray you into registering, I can't shout you into it. You got to think about all these young people come down here, like Sister Celeste, Negro and white young people from all over this country down here to help us do this, now, make something different happen here."
Celeste stepped back from the podium, allowing Reverend Singleton all the space he needed, feeling like his protegee. She had raised the stakes, broken through the barrier, and felt redeemed. Whatever happened from this point forward, she now had become a part of them.
"You know, me and my wife, Etta, was ridin' through Alabama back in April. We took a different road going to Montgomery and passed a sign said, `Kill a Nigger Creek, Alabama.' Now, that's the God's honest truth. Aplace called `Kill a Nigger Creek, Alabama,' and it was right there on the road sign. You voting, that kind of thing won't be there. Whole lotta other things won't be here either. It's not free. Somebody's gon' die. Somebody's already died. A whole lotta somebodies already died."
The responses were flying around the church. There was "Sweet Jesus," "Lord, have mercy," "They done died," and "Save us, Lord," and little rapid claps of hands.
Celeste moved farther away as Reverend Singleton flailed his arms, the blue robe flapping. She picked up the rhythm of the choir's sway, feeling as if she belonged right there with them, seeing the faces of Schwerner, Chaney, and Goodman in her mind, wondering if Leroy Boyd James's people still lived near Pineyville or had they run away from the horrid memory of how he died. All the things she'd learned in orientation, the memories of
Emmett Till and Medgar Evers, all of it came to a peak of clarity there in the pulpit of the St. James A.M.E. Church. She believed that she could change the world, and she believed these people would be with her every step of the way. Tears ran down her face, mingling with the sweat.
"You know it, and I know it." Reverend Singleton wrapped the church body in his hands, his face shining with passion. Mrs. Singleton seemed to know his every inflection before he hit it and masterfully accompanied him on her organ. The small choir hummed under him. Celeste felt like she might swoon, she needed something to hold onto. The responses from the church rang out, some sweet and calm, others filled with resonance and even anger.
"I tell you, the life everlasting is a sweeter life anyway, and you can make this life a whole lot sweeter, too. But, you got to stand up for it. Say, `Life, you're mine, for as long as I'm here, you're mine, and I'm gonna live you better than my ma and pa did, better than those sharecroppers, better than those slaves, better than I been doing!"
By the time he got to the end of his sermonette, everyone was full of will and desire. He could've led the churchgoers right out the door and down to the courthouse to register to vote. But it would have been for naught on a Sunday morning. Lord, Celeste prayed, help me to do this with thesepeopleI see in front of me. Shuck would chuckle at her calling on the Lord. He'd say the Lord helps those who help themselves. Then he'd say God bless the child who's got his own. He said that all the time. She wanted to shout it out to the congregation, get them in the habit of thinking precisely that.
Celeste returned to her seat while the church hummed through another verse of "How I Got Over," Mrs. Singleton laying on the downbeats until the organ sounded like an entire combo. The people shifted, fanned a bit faster, and took quick looks to Celeste and Mrs. Owens.
Freshwater Road Page 15
