These Bones

by Kayla Chenault

  This has been the word of the Lord.

  My flock, many’ll tell you that this is an epoch of progress, of automobiles and aeroplanes, of full bellies and radios. I mean, MY voice, this voice, this instrument of God, can be heard anywhere in the county. Outside of Napoleonville, there are those who can hear me. They’ll tell you.

  But, there ain’t been a righteous generation in a long, long time. We all know what sort of vice can come from drunkenness. First it’s a glass with your friends, then a couple of glasses to keep you warm at night, soon you’re kicking up a rumpus, soon after impoverished of body, spirit, and wallet, then those friends you were chummy with desert you, soon you take to crime to keep up that fast lifestyle, soon you’re in the grave, yessir, my flock, leaving behind your women and children defenseless in the cold air. All ’cause you are of this wicked and depraved age and not the kingdom of God.

  I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you all, walking down Mercer Street like it in’t the mouth of Hell, like the whores of Babylon, those daughters of Ham, aren’t enticing you with their songs of vice and delight. They call it Mercy City down there, my flock. I know it, I know it well.

  That’s an irony, for there is no mercy for those who fraternize with prostitution, drunkenness, and miscegenation. Yes, wives, your husbands go down to the Bramble Patch and sleep with the Negresses with their own money, the money reserved for their families, listening to that hot music. Not even music. That noise that is banged out on the piano and blasted out of coronets near every night.

  You are part of this weak and idle generation, men and women who fall into sin by falling into unlawful practices. I’ve seen you in your hushed, dark minds crying “Hosanna! Save us,” crying for help as you guzzle whiskey off the bare breasts of Ham’s daughters, as you lick up froth across her collarbone and suckle dregs from her nipples. I hate to be indelicate for the ewes of my flock, but the rams of my flock know what they have done. What of our Negro brothers and sisters, you may ask? Well, we surely can’t expect them to be as moral as we are, my flock. We just can’t. My wife, Eugenia—stand up, Eugenia darling. Isn’t she just God’s gift? Eugenia, here, took the time to do a survey of the townsfolk and their history. Perhaps you’ve seen it on display at the library. What was it you found out about the Bramble Patch, there, honey? What’s that? You’re gonna have to speak up for my flock to hear you. That’s right, the Negroes basically stole that land there from the Missus’s family years back. Thank you. Sit down, honey. You all know that they are just not able to maintain that same level of morality as us whites, now. We expect nothing more from the Negro; they don’t have the intellectual capacity to comprehend and maintain the standards of conduct set forth for us in the Bible. Why, how many of the Negroes in the Bramble Patch do you think have read the Bible? How many of them do you think can even read?

  But you? You wicked souls condemned to fiery pits but saved by the blood of Christ? You have read the scriptures for yourselves and have tested and approved the will of the Father. And now you sicken Him with your drinking and fraternizing. Jesus called the white man to this continent to create a beautiful covenant with Him, to carve out a nation for His glory and honor. And you now crawl into those dens of iniquity like cockroaches. And that’s what the Lord sees when he sees you: cockroaches in the brothels.

  You see, Moses, when he was speaking with God, was told that something was mighty wrong, and when he went down the mountain, he saw the people were worshipping a golden calf without any regard for their own salvation. I said without a single regard for their salvation. See, they were, like us, part of a depraved epoch. Some of them didn’t know any better. They had been in Africa, amongst a morally inferior people, worshipping golden idols with orgies and songs like you do today, only your idols are booze and the daughters of Ham. Amen? Amen. But who are you in the story? Who represents you, my brothers and sisters? Why, it is Aaron, Aaron the brother of Moses, who had stood as witness and who was called the highest priest. He is you and you are he. Because Aaron knew better. He knew better than to cast the gold into a false god, because he had seen a true one. Yes, knew Him personally. Like I know my wife, Eugenia. Like I know that she uses rose water for perfume. Like I know the secret ingredient in her maple sugar pies. Now, ladies, I’m a husband of honor, so I swore I wouldn’t tell. But I do know the secret. Aaron knew God like I know my wife’s ironing schedule. I know my wife, because I’ve seen my wife at work. If I chose to ignore all I know about that beautiful woman you see in front of you, because of people who don’t know her, then I have failed. I have failed her. I would not be a good shepherd to my home if I let other people sway me into unrighteousness towards my wife.

  See, that’s what being a scofflaw is, flock. It is knowing what is the right way of living and turning your back on all of that. For what? For a few minutes of pleasure? Cause the Israelites sure made a big fuss about how great Aaron was when he gave them the calf, right? I bet Aaron felt pretty good about himself when they were chanting his name and calling him good. And I bet you feel good, too. You’re drinking with gusto. You’re dancing your worries away. You’re enjoying a woman. It all feels so good.

  Depart from that wickedness. Depart and do not tarry. Depart and do not look back. Depart and do not return, lest you be forsaken by the one we call Savior. Those sons and daughters of Ham cannot resist the devil. But we can. By God’s grace, we can.

  And now, Sister Paula will lead our choir in “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” Thank you all.

  Maid and Cook: A Dialogue

  1927

  “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “Who’s gonna get you in trouble? They don’t see us.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “They think we’re dumb, deaf, and blind. That you just cook and I just clean and Ernest just buttles, or we are just dust gathering in the corner, waiting to be swept away. They don’t see me with a trail of firefly light leaping from my footsteps as I walk down the road. How the sun turns my skin into gold. How the moon turns my skin into lapis.”

  “But still—”

  “They don’t hear my words wrapped in ermine and your songs stirred into a pot of greens. They don’t know we hear them, either. And they don’t know we talk about them behind their back. Cause they don’t listen. Now tell me what happened.”

  “It was Wednesday, I think? When I went with the Missus to the church board meeting? I went up to go to the ladies’. I saw Samuel Kincaid walk in late and say: ‘It’s time, Daddy! Time for me to take over the church.’”

  “Wait! He didn’t see you?”

  “You sound angry.”

  “We are nothing to them.”

  “That’s not entirely true.”

  “Maybe a hammer or a wash basin.”

  “More like a mule.”

  “Maybe a pair of hands. But nothing more than that.”

  “Point is Samuel Kincaid wants the church.”

  “It sours a soul.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You see where his hands go on the Lyons girl?”

  “On her dress?”

  “On her ass.”

  “No worse than his father. Seen him buy a night or two on Mercy Street.”

  “Samuel’s different. I seen him—”

  “Hush, Missus is coming.… Afternoon, ma’am. I’m just helping her finish up the dishes.… Supper tonight? Well, I know how much we like a special Friday supper, so I prepared the chicken for roasting.… No ma’am, I… Are Mr. and Mrs. Chalmers bringing their boys, too?... I’ll pick up the lamb soon as we’re done with dishes. Thank you, ma’am.”

  “...”

  “...”

  “...”

  “I hate to say it—”

  “Say it anyway.”

  “That bitch! I am halfway through brining the chicken and she turn around and say, ‘No, we’re havi
ng the Chalmers over, so rack o’ lamb.’”

  “Shit. It’s not even Easter or something fancy.”

  “You wanna know what the worst part is?”

  “What?”

  “She’s gonna say the chicken’s over-seasoned tomorrow.”

  “Sours a soul, honey! Air in this house is stale as a coffin. Hotter than one, too.”

  “You’re right, though. They don’t see us, do they?”

  “Crows line the gables, the Missus’s pillow made a death crown last night, shadows ooze down the wallpaper, and they don’t see it. How they gonna see us?”

  “What you mean by that?”

  “I mean the wind is changing to things of sorrow. And they won’t know it if it bit them.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, how come I saw the white Reverend at the grave of Jessup doing ‘business’? They don’t see us, so they don’t care if we see them.”

  “...”

  “...”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You want me to be lying.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “What I got to lie about? They’re the ones with secrets. They’re the ones who have things to hide.”

  “Don’t—”

  “We always stood in the sun and let the light kiss our skin with bronze and cocoa. Let our hair mop up the heat. Made the world turn when we swayed our hips. We don’t need shadows. We don’t need secrets.”

  “I know it’s not right to hate, but I hate that man.”

  “Not as bad as his son.”

  “What his son do?”

  “He got the witchy Lyons girl pregnant.”

  “I can’t—that poor girl. She don’t know up from down.”

  “But that ain’t the worst of it, honey.”

  “No?”

  “He takes her to one of them doctors to get it out. It works, but she got sick. Now she can’t have babies.”

  “Miracle she lived.”

  “Mmm.”

  “What Ma Lyons say about it?”

  “What you mean? He’s the Reverend’s son. And sounds to me, he’ll be running them white folks someday.”

  “God!”

  “Not like you to cuss the Lord.”

  “They don’t see us, do they?”

  “No. But I see you. You are phosphorescence against tide. The stunning heart of gold and black incased in a shroud of wonder. So we’ll take care of own, now. Don’t let them devour your light. That’s what they want.”

  “…”

  “…”

  “Sours a soul, though, don’t it?”

  “Bit by bit, it does.”

  Antediluvian

  Marion Chapman is watching his son and Snow-baby and a couple of Dinah’s kids play hopscotch in the dirt. This summer’s hotter than usual in his estimation. He thinks it’s ’cause Napoleonville is mostly paved roads now, even Freedom Road and Mercer and a couple of streets here in the Bramble Patch. Snow-baby’s probably going to turn red in the sun. She looks white, and he knows folks are suspicious. But he’s good friends with her papa and momma and knows she’s genuine. His son isn’t, really, but he loves him despite.

  “Marion,” says David, from the pickle barrel. “There’s a nigra down in Henwen that says he bought one of those radios from the Sears.”

  “And?”

  “He said he put it in his barber shop so that the men can come in and listen to stuff over the wireless.”

  “And?”

  “I’m just saying. It’s been a few years since they been on the market. A used one wouldn’t be too expensive. Nigra’s getting them from Sears new even.”

  “You know what’s on that radio? White reverends. That jazz music. Bad news. We got all that here. Hell, the Reverend here in Napoleonville’s on the radio anyway. I can get his shit for free.”

  Mr. Chapman looks at David and can recognize his own wrinkles and graying hair. David was a boy not so long ago, following his mother and father back and forth from the church to the funeral home. David smells of death, but Marion finds that comforting. His wife, so young, smells too much like spring. It disconcerts him.

  “Yeah, but you know what, they got Tommy Teller on the wireless now. He’s got some songs that get played.”

  Tommy Teller has always been a bit of a troublemaker. And even though he’s now kin by marriage, he still irks Marion. What talent he has is almost certainly not as prominent as his vices.

  The door opens and the Barghest walks in. His teeth are big. It’s odd, because Marion had never noticed it until a few years ago, but now every time he sees him he thinks, “My, what big teeth he has.” The Barghest is all smiles and pressed arrow collars. He has a lapel pin, by God, a lapel pin. He looks at David and offers his condolences for the loss of Silas, his father. David only winces. The Barghest grabs a box of cigars and a pickle to purchase. Behind his glasses, his pupils grow large and curious. “You gentlemen look glum. Perhaps a night at my establishment would help lift your spirits. The girly show would be on the house. Anything extra would be…extra.” The Barghest presses his hand to his lapel pin and fidgets with it a fair bit. His teeth shine big.

  “I’m a faithful man,” says Marion, looking down at the ring over his swollen knuckle. These short years have been kind to him. Marion’s been married twice now. His first wife died of a long illness very early in their marriage. And his second was because of a promise he’d made to himself. He almost was married another time, when his sister’s friend was in trouble and the daddy left her. He almost married her but he was still grieving his first wife. The girl ended up trying to drown herself and was in that scary hospital in the city for life. The one where Danuel’s son ended up. The baby didn’t make it. Marion knew he would one day be called to help another little girl in trouble.

  He loved the wife of his youth and loves the wife of his latter days wholly but in different wholes. He watches his son play hopscotch in the August sun.

  “I know what kind of monster you are,” says David.

  The Barghest laughs so coldly that Marion adds, “It sours a soul.” He places a five on the counter.

  “Well, Mr. Chapman, there’s the problem. I ain’t got a soul to sour. Keep the extra moneys. I got plenty.”

  Before he leaves, he looks at the ceiling above, creaking where Marion’s wife is upstairs nursing their new baby. He licks his lips. “Don’t let her come my way, Mr. Chapman. You may be faithful. But I don’t know about her.”

  When he’s gone David says: “Can’t stand the Barghest. Don’t understand why everyone still goes to him. Belladonna’s place is still open. You can’t compete with that sort of show. Even if you had a radio.”

  “Hush up, man!”

  They laugh.

  Untitled

  Nell is gathering bundles of sticks along the woods that skirt her house. Her husband, August, at work and her children at Miss Matilda’s school, she enters into the meditation of homemaking, a trance she places herself in daily. She peels back the layers of her mind and removes herself from herself. She learned the practice from Tata Duende, who used to travel with the circus, and he got it from a mesmerizer, who he said was a Turk of some kind. She chants and takes a little coughing powder. All the roars and whispers of the world cease. Nell is pure. Nell reaches into the sleepiness of the moment and can see herself from above, gathering the sticks.

  She tugs her gaze away from her own eyes, seeing them not as brown dots in the mirror but as clear glass orbs through which she can see further into her body. She has been practicing this trance for months now, practicing piercing her vein with this miasma, practicing melting into her mind unseen, as Tata Duende says. The metathought almost brings her back to awake, but then she allows the waves of listless energy to creep their way up to the final zenith, monstrous wave
s cresting on an oxbow lake. There is the soul-locked mindset: she sees the sticks her body gathers, sees her own face, and sees the entire Bramble Patch at once and yet not completely.

  Her name, being called from a little down the lane, awakes her and draws her body back into her mind like the projector sucking the film back into itself.

  “Nell…” It is a lingering singsong on the horizon, but a sweet one that leaves her without fear. She opens her eyes truly for the first time in so long, and the woods are umber with late autumn. Her mind is settled into the smallest pockets she can manage. And all through the woods before her, she smells traces of smoke and rain. She is one thing and another at this time and all others.

  “Nell!” It’s her husband. Running up to the house. Smiling. Paper in his hands.

  “Jesus, August! You scare me a bit too well.”

  Her mind is still meditating in pulses of light, almost all sharp again, though. Her husband’s gap, where his incisor is missing, threatens to suck her in as he barrels into her with a kiss. “Nell, guess what I got in my hand?” He shakes the paper in front of her unfocused eyes.