Remembered

by Yvonne Battle-Felton

  “Time to head to church,” Sable says. She’s got you in a different nightdress. It matches hers. “Took longer than a day for this place to get run down. Gonna take more than one to set it right again.”

  “I’ll just do one more room,” I say.

  She waves her hand around. I follow the movement with my eyes. All around floors and walls have been patched and scrubbed, rooms that had doors are flung open wide, aired out. There’s a window where there wasn’t one before. The men are already outside. The women finish packing up. They leave their supplies in the house for next weekend.

  “Everybody’s looking forward to meeting y’all,” Sable says. It’s almost gentle, one minute we in the house, the next we out. We walk to church together. Lillian strides ahead of us with a group of young girls. Buddy and Franklin walk behind us with the rest of the men. Sable and I are in a cluster of women. We march down the sidewalks of Grammercy like soldiers. I watch the women wave to old folks and ignore, like a herd, a girl digging through trash.

  “Why they ain’t say hello to that girl?” I ask.

  “Who?”

  I don’t say nothing. I know she knows who I’m talking about. I walk slow-footed.

  Without turning her head, Sable says, “She ain’t one of them.”

  “One of them what?”

  “One of us.”

  “They treat her like that cuz she don’t believe in their god?”

  “She don’t believe in nothing far as I can tell. She’s lost.”

  “How she gonna get found if y’all don’t help her?”

  “She can follow behind. We’re leading the way, ain’t we?”

  I look back, wave. The girl stares like she don’t see me. She turns away, goes back to rooting through garbage.

  “She’s gonna be a mama,” I say.

  “Yep.”

  Mama. I’m staring at that girl so hard I see her. Mama’s shaking her head, looking like she raised me better than this. She’s ashamed of me. Then she does it, she slips into Agnes. It’s so quick, I can’t breathe. She turns away, turns her back on me and I’m running. Before she’s gone I wrap my arms around her, hold her, I tell her I’m sorry and I love her. It’s a whisper, nothing more than a hot word pressed against my ear. “Remember,” she says but it sounds like I love you and it fills me and I’m holding and holding but she’s slipping away. Then Agnes is gone and that girl’s pushing me away, sharp nails and bony fingers.

  “I’ll be back,” I’m saying, but I don’t touch her no more. I catch up with Sable. I’m waiting on her to say something. She squeezes my hand. I look back. There’s Tempe, her arm around that girl’s shoulders. Tempe nods her head. That girl, that baby neither, won’t make it through the night.

  Chapter 21

  Music shakes the foundation of the stone church. It’s the same one we were at just yesterday but it seems bigger. The ceilings look higher. Thanks to the candles, I notice the windows are painted over in bright watercolors. The walls are bold red and rich gold. It isn’t like any church I could have imagined and none I seen since. If there’s one, there are hundreds of painted Jesuses. Jesus with milky white, bronze, or mahogany skin, staring down from brown, blue, or black eyes hang from the ceiling, the walls, the backs of pews. He’s everywhere.

  So is everyone else. Seems like all of Grammercy is packed inside them four walls. The children are sent to the corner for Children’s Service. There they are greeted by stern-faced teachers dressed in starched-white uniforms. Their fussing and chattering quickly settles into reciting psalms. A nurse comes to take you to the baby room where you won’t be “disturbed” but I know it’s so you don’t get to crying. The baby room is in another corner, hidden behind a thin wall of books that only half covers the nurse when she sits down to rock you. You ain’t but a month old. Don’t seem to care who holding you as long as they singing, talking, or feeding you.

  The men head over to another corner of the church so they can talk in private. We pretend not to hear them whisper about the Klan and lynchings. Every once in a while one tells of a new job opening or warns about somebody who won’t pay. The women mostly seem to talk about whose kid is doing what, what employer to watch out for, and where to get bargain stew meat. For a time, talk turns to good work, shoes, and hair. It gets crowded when the Leylands enter the room. The women, married and single, start fanning themselves like the room done gone hot. Mrs. Leyland greets me, only it’s Etta Mae tonight, Sister Etta Mae, she tells me. She’s telling me how pretty I look and kissing me on the cheek. I’m sure there’s a splotch of lipstick where the wet mark is but I leave it till I get home. With one eye on her husband, she talks with each woman a second before standing beside him. He introduces himself, the Reverend Justice Leyland, and kisses my hand. I don’t want to but I know I’m blushing.

  “And her husband, Buddy Freeman, is just over there, dear. You met him last night,” Etta Mae says. She’s got her hand on his shoulder and her head leaning toward him.

  With his arm wrapped around her waist and the way he’s watching the words tumble out her mouth, I see like everyone else, this is love. Ten minutes later and Reverend Leyland is transformed into the man standing in the middle of the room, sweat dripping down his forehead, veins popping from his neck as he clutches the Bible in front of him. “Brothers and sisters,” he says, “I say the Grace of God has let loose the chains and set our brothers and sisters free from bondage. Ain’t that right?”

  “Lord have mercy!” the crowd responds.

  “Now the Lord has fulfilled his part. Today, the heathens walk amongst us and the Mighty Lord has said to me, them heathens sinners, every last one of them!”

  “Amen!”

  Heathen? Sweat drips down my back. I’m looking toward the door wishing I was on the other side. Some fresh air will feel good right about now.

  “Ain’t their fault, oh no! The white man kept the Good Book from them!”

  “Bring ’em low!” the congregation responds on cue.

  “Kept it for himself! Kept our brothers and sisters in ignorance so they would go straight to …” He pauses, mops his forehead. “Now I’m just gonna say it, cuz we all know, brothers and sisters, they going straight to Hell!” he roars. Sweat drips down his face, his voice shakes. His body don’t move one inch. Only his eyes slide round the room. “God only knows what the white man had our brothers and sisters doing. Fornicating! Drinking! Lying! Working on the Sabbath! God seen it all!”

  From above his head, baby Jesus glares straight at me. Working on Sunday.

  “Why he let them keep us slaves?” a woman near me asks.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” the reverend responds.

  “Where was he when they sold my babies?” another woman asks.

  “Right there, keeping you safe,” the reverend says.

  A nurse swoops in. Shushes her, holds her while she cries. “Was he in the war?” someone asks.

  “Right there beside you on the battlefield,” the reverend says.

  “And when my mama died rather than stay a slave?” a man asks.

  “Right there, guiding her way to Him.” The reverend wipes his brow. He shifts his weight from foot to foot.

  “That ain’t God,” a familiar voice whispers. It sounds old, tired, hurt, sad, and so afraid I weep for it. It’s me. “All that stealing and selling folks and chaining them, that ain’t no parts of God.”

  “The heathen speaks the truth!” the reverend says. He launches into a sermon about forgiveness and sin. I’m edging closer to the door when the choir starts. Only thing keeping me from that door is their sweet voices. The words wash over every ache of my body. They heal every cut and stitch every wound. Too quick they finish.

  “We got a whole lot of new faces in the community,” the reverend says. He’s looking pleased with himself. “Ain’t none of you alone. Would all the newcom
ers please gather around me? We’re going to make a nice big circle with the newcomers up front and a ring around them.”

  It takes a while to get settled. The women make up one side, the men the other. The closer I edge toward the door, the more the circle draws me in. It closes in on me.

  “This’ll do,” he says. “Now we’re going to start at the outside and work our way in as we confess our sins. Brother Ezekiel, we’ll start with you.”

  Brother Ezekiel stole socks off a line, someone else let food go to waste, someone else used the Lord’s name in vain. The confessions go quick, like people can’t wait to get them out their mouths. Not working hard enough, sassing an elder; no matter what sins they confess, the circle says nothing. It’s nearly my turn. I imagine my confession. Which one do I say first? What will they think of me? It’s my turn. Words jumble around in my head. I take so long to answer that someone squeezes my elbow, someone else pats my back. I’m looking around for Tempe. She ain’t here.

  I open my mouth. “I’m not sure I believe,” I say.

  Silence. They gonna push me out like they did that girl. I don’t care. I don’t need none of them. As long as I got you, Buddy, and Franklin, I don’t need nothing else. Will Sable kick me out? She’ll have to. She’ll turn her back on me and walk away. Only, I’ll be the one walking. First thing in the morning we’ll set off, if she gives me till morning. Won’t give her the satisfaction of putting us out. We’ll set out tonight. Won’t have nowhere to sleep, but it’ll be alright. I been through worse. We’ll sleep outdoors. You’ll be in my arms, safe.

  The reverend nods, moves on to the next. My heart’s beating loud. Then there’s an organ playing and the choir’s singing. Etta Mae slips beside me. She’s smiling like she feels sorry for me, like she didn’t expect nothing less. I’m mad and I’m hurting and I don’t know why.

  “We got Bible classes twice a week,” she says. “I signed you up for both. You got reading on Monday nights and arithmetic on Tuesdays. There’s Celebration Committee, Sick and Shut-In Committee, Sewing and Darning Committee, Cooking Committee, Cleaning Committee, Worship Team, and the Mourning Group. I’m on the Education Team. All of us on the Welcome Committee. You can try them all out and see which you good at.”

  Over the years, the groups roll into one.

  A week or so later, Sable takes you in to sleep with her so Buddy and I can talk. We in the backyard laying in the grass pretending we in love. He’s holding my hand and stroking my face and telling me how beautiful I am. I’m telling him how strong he is and how handsome he looks all grown-up. I’m trying to get the words I love you to come out my mouth. He must be trying too, cuz he opens his mouth and instead of words, his tongue pops out. Then it’s in my mouth and I don’t mean to but I jump. We laugh and let loose our hands.

  “I would have loved you before the war,” he says.

  I’m looking up at the stars and practicing counting. One, two, three. The moon’s bright. Far across the city, train whistles blow. Gas lights burn in the houses across the backyard. “I seen people willing to kill people they love, just to keep us slaves,” he says. “I fought beside people in the same uniform who wouldn’t sit beside me and eat. I buried men who were like brothers. Men who would die for me. For you, too, without even knowing you. Make sure that boy knows that.”

  “Where you going?”

  “I can’t stay here,” he says. Your pa’s watching me watch the sky. I know he wants me to look at him. To tell him it’s alright, to go on. “I can’t sleep at night without waking up screaming.” I put my head on his chest and listen to the beat of his heart, the sound of his voice vibrating before it hits the night air. “In the day I see ghosts. I can’t hardly look at you without seeing Tempe beside you. I’m losing my mind.”

  I tell him about your mama. He don’t say nothing for a long time.

  “When it’s time, teach that boy where he come from. Ain’t no running from it. You ain’t no slave. But no sense running from what you was.” His hand’s in my hair. “I been fired from the factory cuz my hands start shaking every time I hold metal. I got me a job out on the ocean. A big old fishing rig. Get to travel for a bit, let the sea soothe my soul. The house next door is all fixed up for you and the baby. Soon as you ready, you move in. I done put down a deposit. I told Sable I’ll pay on the rest once a month. It’ll take a while but the place will be yours.”

  We sleep out in the yard side by side like brother and sister. In the morning, he kisses you on the head, me on the cheek, and sets off. It’s years before he makes his way back home.

  2:30 a.m.

  “Mama,” Edward whispers.

  It’s yesterday morning. We’re in my bedroom. My covers are scattered half on the bed, half off. I’m snoring loud enough to call hogs. And he’s sitting there, at the edge of my bed, calling my name.

  “Wake up,” I whisper. But I don’t. I’m lying there asleep like nothing else matters. Like it ain’t the last time I’m going to see my baby. “Wake up!” I shout.

  Listen, Tempe says, but she’s crying too.

  “I’m about to head out to work,” he whispers. His voice is gentle, soft. “I won’t be coming back.” His eyes are red. His cheeks are streaked with tears. “You’re going to hear a lot of stories after I’m gone. They’ll say I did it to help get rights for union workers. They will say I did it because I was scared not to do it. But they don’t know the truth.” He pulls the covers off the floor, tucks me in tight. “If I don’t do this, I’m a dead man. They’ll string me up from a tree and nothing will ever happen to them. Mama, they’ve decided how I’m going to live. I’m going to decide how I’m going to die. I’m going to stop them from crashing that car. I don’t know how. I just know I won’t be coming back home. I love you, Mama.” He kisses me on the forehead, backs away from the bed, closes the door behind him, and he’s gone.

  Chapter 22

  1867

  It’s been a year since we moved into the house next door. Franklin still lives across the street. I moved in a few weeks after Buddy’s first check arrived. Between his pay and what I make working shifts down the factory, doing odd domestic work and sweeping up hair at the salon, we do alright. Still, soon as she hears Christian’s coming back, Sable sends Lillian over too.

  When she gets word he’s coming, Sable sends for the Welcome Committee. The lawn is cut, the house scrubbed from floor to floor. Cracks filled, joints oiled. She gets a whole hog. The whole thing, even the head, is slow roasting in a pit for a full day before Christian even gets home. Women drop off cakes and pies. There’s fresh ice and gutted fish. Lillian and me scrub and bake right along with the rest of them. That’s how I notice she’s gonna have a baby. We sitting alone in Sable’s kitchen ripping out sharp fish bones and soft innards. I’m scooping ’em out and setting them on a newspaper next to their heads like Sable told us to.

  “You sure you feeling alright?” I ask for the third time.

  She’s bent over a pot spilling out breakfast she ain’t but just ate.

  “My cooking don’t agree with you?”

  She’s coughing up more and more. I run to get Sable. She takes Lillian to a friend’s. Someone fetches a doctor. Lillian don’t come back for a few hours. By the time she does, I got the heads wrapped in paper so she don’t have to look at them. She’s smiling and holding her belly.

  “I’m with child,” she says.

  That don’t explain the coughing but we all too happy to notice, and when she dies nine months later, we don’t remember her being sick at all.

  Sable’s just settled Lillian in the back room, propped her feet up and the window too. I’m sure she can hear us. “So you just gonna let her stay here till the baby come?” she asks.

  At least that’s what I think she says. With her mouth full of laundry pins I can’t be sure. The food is all cooked, the table’s just about set, when Sable notices a spot on the tableclot
h. Instead of putting something on top of it to cover it like Lillian had suggested, Sable strips down the table. She scrubs the tiny spot until it’s three times as wide but clean. We go out back, hanging it to dry in the sun. She saying she hope it don’t rain but I’m hoping it do. Not a lot, just enough to make her wish she hadn’t put up such a fuss about that little thumbprint of a spot. The crisp, white cloth flaps in the wind. Sometimes I pretend not to hear her.

  “Don’t think I set no time to how long she can stay,” I say. “What will the church say?”

  “I reckon they gonna ask how they can help and if they should have the committee make the baby some bonnets.”

  Sable sucks her teeth. I only go on special occasions: welcomes and funerals. What difference do it make what they say?

  “What about me? Don’t you care about what I think?”

  I don’t say nothing for a while. Out of the corner of my eye I watch Sable wringing a rag like it’s a little neck. You over a year old. You toddling round on unsteady legs trying to catch rolling apples.

  “Course I do,” I say. “I spend lots of time thinking ’bout what you want. I say, Spring, and I put my hand on my hip like this,” I show her. “Spring, now what you think Sable gonna say when you let Lillian stay with you in her condition? A woman in the family way with no family to speak of? And I say, Hush, gal, if Sable wants her out, she’ll put her out. This is her house, cuz it is, so it’s up to her who lives here or no. Don’t matter if you paying on the house month by month. If Sable wants to keep that whole house empty, it’ll stay empty. And if she gives a room to someone that’s been like a daughter to her, someone who now more than ever needs a place for her and her child, who am I to speak on it?”