The spinster sisters seemed oblivious to the dramatic differences between yesterday and today, which Ella found incredible. To her it was obvious that nothing smelled or tasted or sounded or looked or felt or was the same as it had been only hours ago.

  She swore she could feel her blood coursing through her veins as though dams that had been holding it back all her life had been opened, unlocked by Mr. Rainwater’s touch. All five senses were heightened. Her nerve endings were sensitized. Her body tingled and ached deliciously, in a way it never had before.

  Were these overpowering physical sensations what the preachers called lust? If so, she now realized why they were warned against from pulpits around the world. They were more powerful than the sweetest narcotic, more intoxicating than the strongest liquor. She now understood how easily and happily one would relinquish control to them until they governed one’s whole being.

  Little had she known, or ever even imagined, that what men and women did together could be so breathtakingly sweet, so beautiful to body, mind, and soul.

  She finished her chores as quickly as possible so she could spend time with him and Solly. After lunch, he invented an errand for himself and invited her and Solly to go along. It was a contrivance to get the three of them out of the house and alone, leaving the Dunnes with a plausible explanation for their absence.

  They drove into the countryside and found a shady, pleasant spot in a grove of pecan trees that grew alongside a creek. There they spread a quilt. For a time, Mr. Rainwater engaged Solly in card games that he made up as he went along, and they marveled at the progress he’d made.

  “He’s grasping concepts, Ella,” he said excitedly when Solly responded successfully to a challenge. “I’m sure of it.”

  “So am I.”

  She was equally sure that Solly wouldn’t have come this far if not for Mr. Rainwater, and that made her feel both ashamed for her failure and grateful for his kind interference. She was no longer jealous of it, only immensely thankful.

  They could not, however, coax Solly to wade into the creek with them. He got visibly upset when they tried to remove his shoes, so they returned to the quilt and gave him the deck of cards. He played with them while Mr. Rainwater laid his head in Ella’s lap and read aloud to her from the Hemingway novel.

  At one point, he stopped, tilted his head back, and, seeing the tears in her eyes, said, “This isn’t even the sad part.”

  “I’m not crying over the story, or because I’m sad.” She looked at Solly as he stared up into the branches of the tree, seemingly fixated on the patterns the leaves formed against the sky. Those same patterns were reflected in Mr. Rainwater’s eyes when she returned her gaze to him. “I don’t remember a single moment of my life when I’ve been this happy or content. And it’s because of you.”

  He sat up and placed his arms around her. They kissed, chastely. But for the remainder of the time, they sat with their arms wrapped around each other, basking in the hazy heat of the afternoon and in the love they’d found when they least expected it.

  Ella had to rush to get dinner on the table by six-thirty and guiltily used Margaret’s absence as an excuse for it being a cold supper of sliced ham and various salads. The Dunnes didn’t seem to mind, probably because Mr. Rainwater paid them extra attention and drew them into a conversation about the differences between schoolchildren today and the students they had taught decades earlier. Was there indeed evidence of moral decay among America’s youth? The discussion that followed distracted them from not having a hot meal.

  As Ella was finishing up the dishes, Jimmy came to the back door with a message. “Brother Calvin’s funeral is tomorrow at five o’clock.”

  “Why so late in the day?”

  “So they can have dinner on the grounds after.”

  It was a term used for picnics usually held after Sunday services when people tended to the graves of loved ones in the adjacent cemetery. Food was brought and shared in the churchyard.

  “The funeral is at the church?”

  “Seemed fittin’.”

  Ella supposed it did, although she didn’t know how anyone could enter that sanctuary without thinking of the young minister’s body hanging from the beam. Maybe the funeral was an attempt to purify it, rid it of that stigma. “How is your mother?”

  “She’s heartbroke.”

  “All of us are.”

  “Meanin’ no disrespect, Miss Ella. But not all.”

  Later, she recounted the conversation to Mr. Rainwater. “I’m worried about Jimmy and other young men. I hope they won’t try and get revenge.”

  “I hope they won’t, either, because that would only create more trouble, probably bloodshed. But since they’ve been denied justice, one could hardly blame them if they wanted vengeance.”

  Ella’s concerns were justified later that evening.

  She and Mr. Rainwater were sitting apart in the parlor, waiting in an agony of anticipation for the Dunne sisters to retire, when he set aside the magazine he was reading and went to the front window. “Something’s burning.”

  Ella put down her mending and joined him at the window. The flames could be seen against the night sky. “Something near the highway.”

  Just then the telephone rang. As Ella walked toward the back of the staircase to answer it, Miss Pearl appeared in the arched opening of the informal parlor. “Mrs. Barron, we smell smoke.”

  “Something in town is on fire.”

  “Oh, dear,” whimpered Miss Violet, who joined her sister, holding her hand of cards in her age-spotted grip.

  Ella answered the phone. It was Ollie Thompson, and she held her breath, fearing that he would ask to speak to Mr. Rainwater and summon him to the scene of another crisis. But he was only calling to pass along information. She thanked him and hung up. After replacing the telephone, she turned to find her three boarders in the hallway, waiting to hear the news.

  “That was Ollie. He knew we had probably smelled the smoke. He called to tell us that the fire is at Packy Simpson’s auto garage.”

  “Oh, what a shame,” Miss Pearl said. “He’s such a nice nigra. Always tips his hat to us, doesn’t he, Sister?”

  Ignoring them, Ella looked at Mr. Rainwater, who asked, “How did it start?”

  “The sheriff accused him of leaving a cigarette burning in an ashtray when he closed up shop. Mr. Simpson dips snuff. He doesn’t smoke.” She let that sink in, then said, “His business is a total loss, but he’s glad the fire didn’t spread to his house. The two buildings are separated by only twenty yards.”

  The sisters drifted back into the informal parlor to finish their gin game. Ella motioned Mr. Rainwater back into the front room. Solly was where she’d left him, sitting on the rug stacking spools. “Mr. Simpson is a deacon at Brother Calvin’s church,” she said in a voice that the spinsters couldn’t overhear. “He’s a pallbearer for the funeral tomorrow.”

  Mr. Rainwater looked at her for several moments, then asked, “Where was Ollie calling from?”

  “The drugstore. People had congregated there to watch the fire. He knew we’d want to know.”

  He turned and headed toward the front door. Ella rushed after him. “You’re going?”

  “I want to talk to whoever’s still at the drugstore, see what I can learn. It can’t be a coincidence that a Negro’s business burns down the night after another was lynched.”

  She agreed, of course, but her heart constricted with anxiety. “Please don’t go.”

  “I won’t be long.” He put on his hat.

  “You’re favoring your side.”

  “What?”

  “All afternoon, I’ve noticed, but I didn’t want to make you angry by asking about it. It’s hurting you, isn’t it?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Let me call Dr. Kincaid.”

  He smiled at her frantic attempt to keep him there. “I won’t be long.”

  As he stepped through the door, she grabbed his arm. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I promise.” He glanced behind her to see that the coast was clear, then whispered, “I’ll see you later.”

  EIGHTEEN

  It was later—much later—when she heard his car. By that time she had put Solly down for the night, finished her mending and preparations for tomorrow’s meals, and whipped herself into a full-blown panic, which he dispelled the instant she unlocked the screened door to let him in.

  “I’m all right. When the drugstore closed, some of us hung around, making ourselves visible in the hope there wouldn’t be any more incidents tonight. There weren’t.”

  “Thank heaven for that.”

  “Yes, but the general consensus is that the fire was set as a warning to anyone in the Negro community who might be plotting revenge for Brother Calvin. As you might guess, Mr. Simpson had been rather outspoken about the lynching. There was a prayer meeting held at noon today. He prayed that God’s wrath would rain down on those guilty of his pastor’s murder. Which, by the way, Sheriff Anderson ruled a suicide.”

  “That’s ludicrous.”

  “Everyone knows better. That’s why tension is so high.”

  While Ella was worried about the volatile situation, she was selfishly relieved to have Mr. Rainwater back safe and sound. She wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him so, but a wavering voice came from the top of the stairs.

  “Is everything all right in town, Mrs. Barron?”

  She turned to see not one, but both, of the Dunne sisters peering at them over the banister. “Yes. Fine,” she said, struggling to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She’d been hoping that Mr. Rainwater could come directly to her room upon his return. Now, that was impossible. She was being cheated of time with him, and she wanted to rant over it. Instead, she said calmly, “Mr. Rainwater has just come back.”

  He headed for the staircase. “Ladies, I’m pleased to report that the fire is out and that it was contained to one structure. It’s a sad loss for Mr. Simpson, but at least there were no casualties.”

  The sisters murmured their agreement.

  He was halfway up the staircase before he glanced down at Ella. “I apologize for making you wait up to let me in, Mrs. Barron.”

  “I would have been up anyway, Mr. Rainwater. Good night.”

  It was the longest hour of Ella’s life, because each minute that passed was one that she didn’t have with him. She despaired that, once he reached his room, he’d been overcome with fatigue and fallen asleep. The thought of having to forfeit a night with him almost brought her to tears.

  She didn’t recognize this hysteria in herself. Twenty-four hours ago, she had been a circumspect lady, conscientious of each stray curl that escaped her bun, worried over the impropriety of accepting his gift of a book, uneasy with his using her given name, fretful over being seen riding with him in his car. Now she was afraid that he wouldn’t share her bed again.

  When he knocked, she practically flew across the room. She opened the door; he slipped in. “Did they hear you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She was seized by a sudden shyness, barely breathing, trying to make out his shape in the darkness. But then he reached for her and pulled her to him. When their lips met, her timidity dissolved.

  Their desire for each other was such that they didn’t even undress, which made the fevered coupling seem even more illicit than it had last night, when they’d slowly, almost reverently, helped each other remove their clothing before lying down together. Somehow, disrobing had seemed more decorous than now, when their groping and grappling through their clothes produced moans of pleasure mixed with frustration.

  Only afterward did they undress. But their nakedness stirred their passions again, and their hands couldn’t remain still. When kisses left them breathless, his mouth moved to her breasts. She enfolded his head in her arms and held him fast, wishing that her breasts had milk so that she could nurture him, sustain him, heal him.

  The grief overcame her suddenly and cruelly. She began to sob. “Don’t leave me.”

  He raised his head and touched her cheeks, feeling tears.

  Her hands clutched at him. “You can’t. You can’t leave me.”

  “Ssh, Ella.”

  “Oh, dear God, please.” She hugged him tightly, a bit mad in her desperation to hold on to him absolutely and forever. “I can’t bear it if you leave me. Say you won’t. Swear you won’t.”

  “Ssh. Ssh.” He held her against him, rocking her in his arms like a child, rubbing his lips against her hair. “Don’t ask me for the one thing I can’t give you, Ella. If I could, I would. But the one thing I can’t give you is time.”

  He continued to hold her until she quieted. When he eventually pulled back so he could look at her, he brushed strands of hair off her face and ran his thumbs across her cheeks. “This is the first time, as well as the last time, I’ve loved. And it’s perfect, Ella. Perfect.”

  Her heart was full to bursting, so full she couldn’t speak, but he understood what she felt without her having to say a word.

  He understood everything.

  In the morning, she was ashamed of that outburst. She had asked the impossible of him, and knew that it broke his heart as much as it did hers that he couldn’t grant her fervent wish. But dwelling on her emotional breakdown, and chastising herself for it, would have been an even greater waste of their time together. So she pushed it from her mind and thought instead of the miracle of making love with him and to him. Loving him was the dearest of gifts.

  Following breakfast, he offered to assist her with the cleanup, and she accepted. Not because she needed the help in Margaret’s absence but so they could share a room. He kept an eye on Solly while she did general housekeeping. A few days ago, it would have been vastly important to her that a tabletop was polished just so, or that each corner was thoroughly swept.

  But her priorities had changed. She did only what was necessary to keep the house tidy and nothing more, not wanting to spend her time scrubbing when she could be looking at Mr. Rainwater instead. That was really all she wanted to do: look at him and record for memory his smile, the disobedient lock of hair, the various inflections of his voice, each eyelash, and every line in the palms of his hands.

  After lunch, she fried two chickens, made potato salad, and baked a cake to contribute to the meal following Brother Calvin’s funeral service. Mr. Rainwater stayed in the kitchen with her while she worked, helping with the chopping and slicing. Solly played at the table.

  Ella pretended … Well, she pretended lots of things.

  When the picnic food was ready, Mr. Rainwater went to his room to change clothes. Ella dressed herself and Solly in their Sunday best.

  “Well, don’t you look nice, Solly,” Miss Pearl exclaimed when Ella walked hand in hand with him into the parlor where the sisters were listening to a concert on the radio.

  Again, Ella marveled that they detected nothing out of the ordinary. How could that be, when everything was so radically different? The changes that loving Mr. Rainwater had wrought were so vital, she couldn’t believe they were undetectable. Even when they were apart, she felt his body against hers, as though it had left an indelible imprint on her. She wondered how it could possibly be invisible.

  “The table is set, and a platter of fried chicken is on the kitchen table,” she told the two sisters. “Potato salad, cucumber salad, and tea are in the icebox. If I’ve forgotten something, please help yourselves. Leave your dishes. I’ll clean up when we get back.”

  “I still question if it’s … appropriate for you to attend this funeral, Mrs. Barron.” Miss Violet’s expression was one of a reproving schoolteacher. Her lips were pursed so tightly, Ella wondered how she was able to enunciate.

  “Sister’s right, Mrs. Barron. It might not be safe,” Miss Pearl added, for some reason whispering.

  “We’ll be perfectly safe.”

  Miss Violet released a long sigh. “Well, if you’re determined to go …”

  “I am.”

  “Then I’m glad Mr. Rainwater will be by your side.”

  “I’m glad of that, too,” Ella said.

  He appeared then, carrying the picnic hamper and a cake box. Ella took the box from him. “You ladies enjoy your evening,” he said, tipping his hat. Then he escorted Ella and Solly out the front door and to his car.

  They were early, but the church was already packed when they arrived. Cars and mule-drawn wagons were lined up along the street for blocks in both directions. Every pew in the sanctuary was filled. Standing room also proved inadequate, so there was a spillover crowd standing in the churchyard, looking in through the windows.

  Many of the people Ella recognized from shantytown had chosen to remain outside. Some whites, too, apparently shared the Dunne sisters’ reservations about attending. They were there, but they stayed clumped together and segregated for the most part. Her heart warmed to see Lola and Ollie Thompson and Mr. and Mrs. Pritchett among those who went inside.

  Because of the circumstances of the preacher’s death, Ella had thought there would be law enforcement officers nearby to guard against a disturbance rising from any quarter, but she saw no one in uniform.

  Mr. Rainwater found the absence of lawmen unusual, too, and remarked on it. “Since the sheriff is in cahoots with the criminals, I had hoped he would keep his distance. But I’m surprised that he did. I would have thought he and his deputies would be camped nearby, if for no other reason than to intimidate. Or even to gloat.”

  Jimmy appeared in the open doorway of the sanctuary and waved them inside, where Margaret had saved them seats. Ella feared that Solly might panic when he was jammed in between her and Mr. Rainwater, but when he began flapping his hands at his ears and showing the initial signs of a fit, Mr. Rainwater took several nickels from his pants pocket and scattered them upon the worn cover of a hymnal. Solly focused on them immediately and began rearranging the coins to his liking.

  Ella smiled across the top of her son’s head at Mr. Rainwater. He smiled back.

  Ella had attended the funeral service for Margaret’s husband, so she wasn’t surprised by the vocal outpourings of grief. Brother Calvin’s young widow was inconsolable. The choir sang long and loud. It seemed that everyone who had ever known the preacher had been invited to give a eulogy, and after the scheduled speakers had had their time at the pulpit, anyone who felt led to speak was invited to do so, and many did. The visiting preacher’s homily escalated into a lengthy sermon.

 

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