Stealing home, p.18
Stealing Home, page 18
She says, That don't answer my question Morris Bennett. Where did you go you got to slither out of the Lord's house to get there?
I don't know if Darnell didn't tell her where he was goin or if she just wants to hear it from me. So I tell her everything. From the first time I met Mr. Duke until Sheriff Voyant was draggin Darnell off the field. Mama's eyes are gettin bigger and bigger the whole time I'm talkin, like I'm the one who just slapped her. And by the time I'm done talkin she got her eyes rolled up high and she's sayin, Lord, Lord, why You give me this fool for a child?
Now it's my turn to get angry and I tell her I ain't no fool. Mr. Duke says I could make it a job playin baseball just like him.
Mama laughs right out loud at that. She says, How many Negroes you figure they have playin that game?
Her laugh makes me smile because I know the answer to that. And this wasn't ever even a thought in my head until Mr. Duke put it there and it won't last long after he goes. I tell Mama she don't have to worry. That I ain't plannin on goin anywhere soon.
She says, What about that money I got stashed away?
I tell her right now I don't have enough to take me nowhere.
But that ain't true. I could buy me a ticket tonight and be in California by the end of the week. Nearly every day I tell myself I ought to go. And if I ever asked myself why I don't I got the answer right here with this woman who's openin her arms to me and callin me Baby.
Holdin me close and tellin me she'll kill me dead if I scare her like that again.
I tell her we're playin baseball again tomorrow afternoon. That she can come watch if she wants. She says she might but I know she won't. And I tell her that I'll go to a church on Sunday mornin—won't be ours but it'll be somethin. But I know I won't do that neither.
Instead I wake up this mornin and she's still sleepin. She does that her mornins off and I usually do too. But today I have a restless spirit. I don't want to wake her but I have to go. So I walk up to her real quiet and sit on the edge of her bed. When she sleeps like this, seems like all the hardness goes away. Her face is almost beautiful—like what I know her heart is deep down. Like if she could spend her whole days sleepin my daddy might not have gone away.
I lean in close and whisper, Mama?
She stirs a bit and when she opens her eyes her whole face turns into this smile. And for a minute I'm a child again and she's about to tell me that I bring the sun into her sky.
I tell her, I'm goin to try to make up what I did to God and go to the Second Baptist Church just down the road from our own.
She says, That's fine—just keep your heart open and your ears closed because them Baptists don't have it all just right. Then she rolls over and goes back to sleep.
But I don't go to the Second Baptist Church. Don't know why exactly. Maybe I'm just tired. Wantin a little peace. Instead I'm sittin here in the park—never seen it so empty before. Guess everybody in town is in their church or in their bed. Nothin much to be doin outside of those. I can hear them singin from the churches all around me. Seems they sing so slow like their spirits are all tied up in some fancy wrap. Can't imagine their women cryin or their men on the floor eyes up to Jesus. Maybe in their church they like to sit real still so the Holy Spirit will know how to find them. Kind of settle in the gaps and fill up the room. Not like our church where we keep Him hoppin.
But then even this quiet settles down into a quiet I don't know I've ever heard. Round my house even dead of night you hear people talkin. Hear them fightin when the man comes home late or hear them lovin each other in the dark. This is white quiet. I don't know if we could ever sound like this on my side of the railroad tracks.
Must be the preacher's time. All that talk about Jesus and His life and His love—can't be too different from church to church. I ain't never had a Bible of my own but I heard enough of it to know what it says and the same Lord that loves me loves them just the same.
It's like what Mr. Duke taught me about pitchin baseball. Every man—short, fat, tall, or slim—has the same strike zone. That same invisible box between his knees and his heart. Some churches just swing a little higher than others.
I wonder what kind of noise they'd make if I took it upon myself to just wander right in. How loud would those heads be turnin around? If that would rattle them out of what they know to do. If it would throw them off their worship game.
But I don't because right now I'm in the sweet spot. Like I'm square in the middle of a perfect throw. God's lookin down and seein me—one black boy in the middle of a green, green park surrounded by lily-white noise.
This mornin this is my church.
ELLIE JANE
She kept her eyes fixed on Reverend Porter. Ash-colored hair rose in thin, independent tufts from his spot-mottled scalp. His liquid blue eyes were magnified threefold behind his thick glasses. Today he wore the green suit, one of four he kept in predictable rotation. If a month had a fifth Sunday, Reverend Porter came to church in church sleeves and pin-striped pants, handing his church over to a traveling evangelist.
His soft, high-pitched voice seemed incapable of convincing even the darkest heart that there was a smudge of sin in it. Since he first took the pulpit nearly ten years ago, Ellie Jane had sat under sermon after sermon, nodding her head sagely as it went from pigtails to plumes, sanctimoniously agreeing with each biblical truth.
Well, that was certainly not the case this morning.
“Fourth chapter of Philippians,” Reverend Porter directed. “Brother Merrick, will you read for us?”
Deacon Stanley Merrick sat three rows directly behind the Voy-ant pew. Any other Sunday, she would have turned in her seat to give him an encouraging nod, but this morning that was impossible. If she turned to her left, she risked looking at Duke Dennison; if she turned to her right, she risked moving her body and touching him. As it was, he now sat a respectable four inches away from her as she pressed herself up against the length of her father's strong arm, and if she ever did give in to the temptation to send Duke a sideways glance, she would see only the brim of her hat and a cascade of feathers.
Not that she was tempted. Not in the least.
Deacon Merrick's deep, rich voice intoned behind her.
“‘Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.’”
And hadn't she always?
“‘And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.’”
Unfortunately, today her heart and mind couldn't be further away. This morning she'd given no thought to the idea of entering the house of the Lord. She wore extra padding beneath her bustle to hide her figure and a high-collared dress, even though the blue lace trim irritated the bottom of her chin. She chose a hat to cover her head, not because she was entering into His holy presence, but because between its brim and the feather both her eyes and the world around her were well hidden. In fact, the last time her heart and mind were fully kept on Jesus Christ, well, there were only two people living in her house.
“‘Finally, bretheren, whatsoever things are true—’”
Like the fact that she'd stood, in a near state of undress, crushed in the arms of a would-be ardent lover?
“‘—whatsoever things are honest—’”
She'd told him, flat out, that she didn't love him. She just wanted to know—needed to know how it felt…
“‘—whatsoever things are just—’”
But to allow herself to be taken so freely? To give over her body to one man when her head swam with the images of another?
“‘—whatsoever things are pure—’”
Hardly.
“‘—whatsoever things are lovely—’”
Undeniably, Duke's arms were strong. His lips soft. His fingers, warm on her skin. Lost in her hair. Stroking the base of her throat. He told her she was beautiful. He thought she was wonderful. Was he sitting beside her now, thinking those same things?
“‘—whatsoever things are of good report—’”
And if he was, what must he think of her? What a lot of good it would do after last night, trying to point him toward any kind of moral existence when all it took to topple her off her prim tower was a simple—albeit deep—kiss on a balcony. Not even a balcony but a bedroom. His bedroom. Steps away from his bed.
“‘—if there be any virtue —’”
If there be, indeed. Two Sundays ago there was virtue. Last Sunday there was virtue, even if the situation was primed for corruption. But this Sunday, oh, how it festered in question.
“‘—and if there be any praise—’”
To see Ned this morning, having left him with what seemed to be unspoken promises. What must he think? Not only had she betrayed their budding trust, but to have done so in such a sordid fashion. To have transferred such improper, lust-driven satisfaction to his faithful, sweet self…
“‘—think on these things.’”
As if she could think of anything else.
By the time Deacon Merrick sat down after reading the passage, the scriptures weighed upon her like one hot brick after another dropped on the base of her neck. She concentrated on Reverend Porter knowing that, any moment, he would fly down from behind the pulpit, haul her to her feet, and drag her to the front of the congregation. Here is a woman about whom there is nothing honest or pure or lovely. She has no virtue. She deserves no praise.
Not that Reverend Porter had ever flown out from behind his pulpit. In fact, he never even stepped out from behind it until the congregation was nearly all filed out after the service. No, he simply droned on and on in his soft, high voice about how wonderful it is to think only of wonderful things while Ellie Jane sat motionless under his mild-mannered attack.
Next to her, Duke sat perfectly still too. And what thoughts were swimming through his head? Her lips, soft and yielding? Her body sliding up against his, bringing herself closer? Her hands locked behind his neck…?
She shook her head, as one suddenly roused from a dream. The motion brought the long blue plume on her hat to brush against her nose, tickling. The strength and volume of the ensuing sneeze brought Reverend Porter to a shuddering halt, as he clutched the side of his podium with one hand and brought the other up to readjust the glasses on the end of his roundish nose.
Ellie Jane sent up an apologetic smile and gingerly moved the feather out of her face.
The reverend cleared his throat and returned to his sermon, repeating the previous thought.
Seconds later, she felt his breath on her cheek.
“God bless you.”
“Thank you.” She refused to turn toward him.
He lingered for two, three more heartbeats before returning to his place while Ellie Jane tried to keep her mind on whatsoever things that were not Duke Dennison.
Why couldn't this be a sermon on the evils of drink? Mayor Birdiff's reelection was due; certainly it was time to promote his temperance platform from the pulpit. How much more pleasant this would be if Duke were the one sitting here with the great glow of illumination on his sin? If he'd been here for last week's sermon— well, she couldn't exactly recall last week's sermon—but certainly something would have wormed its way through his hardened heart. When she first invited him to go to church, she envisioned some deep truth to penetrate clear to his soul, sending him staggering up the aisle to fall at the altar, claiming Jesus as his Savior. Renouncing his drink. Renouncing his women. Renouncing even the cigars that lent a pungent sweetness to his mouth…
Ellie Jane shook her head again. The plume dislodged again. Not willing to risk another sneeze, she took in a sharp breath and held it, exhaling only after the impulse passed, with a hard and pointed puff that blew it back off her face.
It was going to be a long morning.
When the congregation finally stood for the benediction, Ellie Jane allowed herself to breathe. As the sanctuary filled with the sound of shuffling feet and conversation, she stood in her pew, tapping her little foot, wondering if everybody had always taken so much time and care in exiting a building. She soon discovered the reason for the delay, as member after member—men, women, and children alike—were making their way up the aisle, their eyes fixed on Duke Dennison, their hands already extended for an introduction and embrace.
At the head of the pack was Mrs. Lewiston, wearing the same Sunday bonnet she'd worn since Ellie Jane could remember. Her small, shaking hand was encased in a white lace glove, and she left more than one little boy reeling in the wake of her plump passage through the pews.
“Now, Ellie Jane,” she said in her weak, watery voice, “aren't you going to introduce us all to your young man here?”
“He's hardly my young man, Mrs. Lewiston.” She forced a smile. “As you can see, I think the entire town plans to lay claim to him.”
“But what an honor that anybody would consider me so.” Duke reached out and took Mrs. Lewiston's gloved hand and—right there in the middle of church—brought it to his lips. Still bent low, he looked up at the older woman and lifted one eyebrow. “That is, of course, unless you have an opening for yourself.”
“Oh, you scoundrel,” she said before sending Ellie Jane a wink. “You'd better keep your eye on this one.”
She was still giggling when Mr. Lewiston, standing at the open church door, summoned her with a none-too-gentle bark of her name. Left with the stunned faces of the small crowd gathered around them, Ellie Jane turned to Duke and spoke low and close. “You would do well to remember where you are. This is the house of the Lord.”
Then she wedged her way behind her father who was engaged in an animated conversation with the mayor's secretary and excused herself time and again as she clambered over skirts and shoes and children to make her desperate way out.
She burst through to the newly noon daylight and grasped the railing along the steps leading up to the door. People trickled past as she took large, gulping breaths. A few paused to look over their shoulders and offer a smile or “Good morning,” and she managed to get herself together enough to return their greetings in kind. She even managed to make some polite conversation about the excitement of the game last night and her predictions for this afternoon. It wasn't until she heard a distinctive voice behind her calling her name that she wished she'd just kept running.
“Ellie Jane?”
How, in just two days, had the voice of Ned Clovis become so familiar? And how could the mere fact that he was calling to her bring about the same unsettling combination of thrill and fear as those few moments in Duke's arms? Her breath caught at the thought of it; she couldn't bring herself to turn around. She sensed him moving behind her, around her, and coming face-to-face with her as he stood on the other side of the railing.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“You seem upset.”
She shook her head.
“Let's walk.” Ned offered his arm and she took it, allowing him to lead her down the remaining stairs. Once she stepped onto the ground, neither seemed to know just what to do until Ellie Jane noticed a sidelong glance from Mrs. Lewiston. She released her grip and held her Bible in a double-fisted clutch.
“What are you bringing to the picnic?” Ned accentuated his words with hands.
She stared off to the side at the crowd behind him, feeling the words crowd against her lips but terrified to open her mouth. If she did, she didn't know if she would blurt out “pickles and cheese” or a full confession of her amorous activities with Duke Dennison. So she kept her mouth closed tight and willed Ned to go away.
Instead, he came into her field of vision, grasping her shoulders and stooping until he was looking up at her, close enough that the feather in her bonnet grazed his face.
“Ellie Jane? What's wrong?”
When she didn't answer, he dropped his grip and, with silent agreement, they walked out of the churchyard and turned left, not speaking, not touching. Ellie Jane had never walked home from church with a man—had never walked anywhere unchaperoned with anyone. Part of her hoped everybody would take notice and finally release their grudge; the rest of her wanted to run into the nearest hole, away from prying eyes.
After they had taken just a few steps together, Ned touched her shoulder and said, “Wait here,” before he walked across the street and into the park toward a bench where young Morris Bennett was sitting, one lanky leg crossed over the other, staring up into the trees.
Feeling uncomfortably alone, Ellie Jane followed.
The poor boy looked awful. The left side of his face was swollen and bruised, and the shadows beneath his eyes gave him an air of fatigue far beyond his years.
“What happened?” Ned pointed to his own eye.
Morris answered with one word. “Mama.”
Ellie Jane felt a tugging in her heart. She'd never been one to have a strong maternal drive. In fact, her experience with children was limited to the few who habitually annoyed her during church services. Then again, she'd never thought of Morris as a child; in fact, until recently, she'd never thought anything much about him at all. But she did recognize that look of shame—the embarrassment of having been rejected by those who should embrace you—and she found herself reaching out to touch the boy's face.
“Does it hurt?”
He didn't flinch. “Not anymore.”
“Well, you should put a piece of meat on it. If you'd done so last night it wouldn't be as swollen as it is.”
Morris smiled. “Don't got meat at our house.”
Ellie Jane took her hand away. “Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe I could—”
Ned caught her hand in midair. “I think it looks fine.” Then, to Morris, “Would you like to join us for lunch?”
“Oh, I don' know 'bout that…” Morris's eyes trailed off to the groups of Picksville Congregational parishioners setting bowls and baskets of food on long wooden tables.
“Go to my house.” Ned gestured in the general direction of the feed store. “I have a basket of bread in the upstairs kitchen. Bring it here and wait for me.”
