The candles are burning, p.1
The Candles Are Burning, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2022 by Veronica Henry
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662509445 (digital)
Cover design by Will Staehle
Cover image: © ACTIVE MUSEUM / ACTIVE ART / Alamy Stock Photo
October 1958
Maggie had a good husband who in recent months had become bedeviled by a series of bad decisions. A loan given in faith, yet to be repaid. The ground-floor investment turned sham. A used Packard ragtop that a week after purchase had coughed out a blast of smelly fumes before shuddering to a stop three blocks from home.
Between the two of them, she was the more levelheaded. And unlike other couples, when they were alone, her Francis pressed her to speak her mind. She had cautioned against each of these calls. But in a manner born of the streak of successes that had bought them their home and the ability to dine out every now and again, he had chosen to ignore her sensible counsel.
So when, before he left for work that morning, her husband beseeched her to meet him for a night out, dinner at the new country-cooking place, Maggie felt the unwanted, increasingly frequent stirrings of another bad decision close at hand. In his way, tacit, never loud or boastful, her Francis had underscored the importance of her hearing what he had to propose next.
The restaurant was a mellow affair sandwiched between a bank and a jeweler’s on Montgomery Street. Brick paved and high noon busy, the stretch of road ran alongside Franklin Square in what was becoming the seat of Savannah’s burgeoning Negro renaissance.
Restaurant was a generous term if Maggie was a truthful woman, and she was. If she and Francis stood and stretched their arms out on either side, their fingers could touch the exposed brick walls. The room would have been better served by a longish picnic table than the handful of tables crammed atop one another.
The small chandelier and white tapers added to what Maggie’s mother would have called ambience. Maggie gazed at her husband’s face and, even after all these years, felt that flush of warmth. From the first time he had shown up at her parents’ home, hat in hand pressed to his chest, flowers in the other, her mother had foreseen them being together. Their short courtship and backyard wedding. Their little girl, Annie Mae. Their love.
But Maggie hadn’t been gifted with the sight.
The candle cut off thoughts of her mother. The flame writhed, doing a fine impression of that new dance, the jitterbug offshoot—the bop. She blinked, and just like that, it was a regular old candle again. Her imagination had probably gotten the best of her.
They were huddled at a table in the corner, nearest the kitchen. She glanced over her husband’s shoulder through the cutout in the back wall, watching the cook slide overflowing plates onto the countertop to the outstretched hands of the lone waitress.
They prattled on about pedestrian things: a roof repair, their daughter’s recent growth spurt, a story in the Savannah Tribune about Congressman Powell’s tax troubles. Maggie knew it for what it was, a sort of tilling of the dirt before planting the seed.
By and by, Francis set his fork down, wiped his mouth, and then reached across the table to grasp her hand. He ran a thumb across her knuckles, then interlaced their fingers. “There’s no place in the South for us anymore.”
And there it was.
Maggie knew what he meant by us. He’d broached the subject a time or two before. He was of a mind that there was a yellow brick road paved with riches for Negroes who hightailed it north. Her gaze immediately skimmed the tables nearest them. No doubt the other patrons had heard him. Sure enough, a few were bold enough to stare, reproach written all over their faces. The town was divided into those who thought leaving was inevitable and those like her, who were flat-out insulted by the notion. If Francis noticed, he didn’t say anything. She lowered her eyes and gently pulled her hand away.
“Brooklyn is a boomtown.” He charged ahead, animated as a stalk of wheat caught up in a good headwind. “Ten, Margaret. Over the last few months, the firm has lost ten paying customers to Brooklyn alone. Don’t even get me started on everybody else leaving.”
“Francis, you don’t have a job yet,” Maggie said, with subtle insistence. She paused, then, “For that matter, I don’t either. We can’t just up and go.” Aside from cleaning and nursemaiding, work for women was scarce as a blizzard in Savannah, but Maggie was as dogged as she was organized. A shy drill sergeant in heels, her father had joked. Earning that high school diploma had been no small matter; it had helped her land a good position at the church—even if it was part time.
Her husband had made a name for himself keeping the books of all the Negro businesses up and down Main Street. Enough to buy what was, to her eyes, a picture-perfect little home in Cuyler-Brownsville. And he wanted to leave it all behind.
Francis had that pinched look on his face. The one that had precipitated many an argument. She steeled herself. “My brother’s been gone, what, six months? He’s got a job at the shipyard, an apartment, and a brand-new car.” Francis picked up his napkin and threw it down on his empty plate. “You just don’t believe in me.”
Maggie knew Gerard, all right. Had come to love him as if he were her own kin. And Annie Mae adored him. He was a decent enough soul, albeit a little dim. He was also prone to embellishment. But Francis had always been as blind to his brother’s shortcomings as he was to his own. If Gerard had half of what he claimed, she would be shocked.
“Maybe if we saved up a little more?” Maggie offered, trying to meet him halfway. “In a year’s time, we’ll have enough to hold us over if it takes longer to find work.”
Francis leaned back and snapped his shirt down. “Think about Annie Mae. The better education she’ll get. No, I’m done waiting.”
Maggie didn’t like Francis’s tone one bit, the finality of it. And her expression must have told him so because he softened.
“Forget those people,” he said, flicking his head over at the woman who was still giving them the evil eye, and taking Maggie’s hand again. “They’re part of the reason we’re leaving. I’m just asking you to trust me. Let’s give it some time. If it don’t work out, Savannah will still be sitting right here on this river if we want to come back.”
This was their decision, not his alone. Maggie swelled with an overwhelming urge to tell him just that. But she didn’t. Francis held her gaze, imploring her. How this man scavenged all this optimism in the face of his recent losses was a riddle with no solution. And in that instant, the image that was their lives began to rearrange itself. She and Annie Mae would follow Francis wherever he took them. As long as they were together, they would manage. If things went south, she’d find a way to fix them. And the negative phrasing about the South wasn’t lost on her. Even if they chose to leave, she wouldn’t allow herself to disparage her home that way again.
“Y’all want anything else?” The waitress, clad head to toe in black, had been watching from the corner like a chaperone. She had somehow peeled herself away and approached without Maggie noticing. At that moment, the candle flared. The flame shot up well over their heads. The remaining stub burned down to a nub, only the blackened wick sticking out of the holder. Maggie gasped, eyes widening. Both the waitress and Francis looked at her like she was crazy. Hadn’t they seen it?
“What is it?” Francis asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Maggie waved him off. She moved the extinguished candle aside with an unsteady hand.
Francis watched her a moment more before turning back to the waitress and speaking for them. He gestured at Maggie’s plate. “See that good food left there on that plate?” He took his fork, jabbed at a slice of ham, and shoved it into his mouth. He didn’t finish chewing before he spoke. “That means my lovely wife has saved some room for a slice of your apple—”
Francis fell into a fit of coughing. Maggie chuckled. She had always chastised him for talking with his mouth full. The waitress reached over and gave him a solid slap on the back.
The coughing ended, replaced by an ugly silence. It was like his throat was stoppered. Maggie’s laughter broke off, and she shot out of her chair. Francis was gagging, hands clutched at his throat.
“Help me!” Maggie screamed, pounding on his back.
Others rushed forward. Francis tumbled out of his chair, upending the table and everything on it. Strong arms pulled Maggie away as two other patrons moved in.
Brown skin, tinged a ghastly blue. An increasingly vacant look in his eyes set Maggie to wailing. She tore away from whoever was holding her and raced to her husband’s side. “For heaven’s sake, don’t just stand there. Call the rescue wagon!”
Francis’s eyes bulged. His mouth moved, but no words escaped. Maggie rolled him over on his side. She shoved her fingers in his mouth, cleared out the bits and pieces of ham, and then groped deeper, trying to force him to throw up.
“Let it out!” she cried. But his body had gone limp. That sparkle in his eye snuffed out. Tears streamed down Maggie’s face. Where was the doctor? Why couldn’t anyone help him? She let fly a string of curses and prayers.
The door burst open, but instead of the rescue attendants, Jackson Stone barreled in.
The funeral director sank to a knee and laid a hand on Francis’s chest. Fingers to neck and ear to his mouth. His lips thinned when he looked up. He shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Maggie.”
The world splintered and fell away. All of existence swallowed whole by Maggie’s relentless screams. She was hunched over her husband, rocking his lifeless body, when something inside her snapped. It was as if starting at the top of her head, an unseen hand began to pull back her skin, peeling her like an orange. When she lay open and exposed, a great tug drew her up and away like a wall had sprung up to shield her soul from the boundless grief.
She thrashed and kicked, airy limbs fighting to go back. Below, customers milled around wide eyed, and the woman who’d glared at them stood there, hands clasped, lips forming a prayer. Maggie’s beloved husband sprawled on the floor. A rescue attendant who’d finally arrived feverishly pumped at his chest.
If her husband was dead, why was she the one floating above it all?
And then Maggie felt him. A version of her Francis, delicate and stocking sheer, hovering right beside her. He touched two fingers to his lips and laid them on hers. Wearing a placid expression, he floated up, up, pieces of him dissolving. When Maggie tried to follow, he stopped and shook his head.
Go back. His voice was a somber blues note in her head. I’ll be waiting.
Maggie fought to ascend, but as if tethered by a rubber band, she snapped back into herself, and all of the anguish crashed in.
Too soon, the room was cleared, Francis taken away. The candle, the one she was sure had burned down, stood at full height, lit once again. When it blazed and bowed, and a finger of flame crept toward her, she didn’t even flinch.
Pride. As Jackson descended the steps to the mortuary, his mortuary, pride straightened his back and lifted his dimpled chin. His was born of not arrogance but a staunch sense of accomplishment. He had overcome every hurdle the city had thrown at him.
He flicked on the light and whispered a prayer for the body resting on his stainless steel table. Then added another for the family. He slipped on his rubber gloves and began loading the embalming equipment onto a cart.
“You know what they say about all work . . .”
Jackson yelped. Goose bumps marched up and down his arms. The aspirator slipped from his hands and landed on the cart with a clang. He hated that voice. It was toneless. Hollow as a corpse. “What do you want?”
“Why do you hold such scorn for me when I alone have elevated you from the gutter?”
Jackson refused to give his tormentor the satisfaction of any further reaction. He piled everything onto his cart and rolled it over to the body. “That’s the difference between us, among other things. I’ve got no problem acknowledging your help. But you”—he stopped and pointed—“you don’t give me any credit. I’m the one down here doing the work.”
“You think me selfish?”
“I think you don’t know any better. How could you?”
“We are much alike, are we not? Driven. Dedicated to our work. We ease people’s suffering.”
Jackson considered this while he washed the body and then positioned the hands, crossing them over the abdomen. Next, he closed the eyes and mouth.
The truth was, people usually wanted to spend as little time as possible with him. Few viewed him as a suitable social invite. The only somebody aside from the bookkeeper’s wife who spared him more than a spattering of words was brooding on the other side of the table.
“When I hear words that make sense, I don’t argue them,” he said.
There was a ruffling of robes and a whistle—sounds Jackson had come to associate with contentment in his guest.
“The candles are burning,” his associate began. “Ever burning. Some are just starting; others are nearing their end. I have come to gift you with news of another ending.”
Despite himself, warmth radiated throughout Jackson’s body. This would be the third in a month. His coffers, overflowing. He would approach the family under the guise of presales. Only they wouldn’t have a clue how soon they’d be calling on him.
The conspirators spoke of the necessary details. When the matter was closed, his associate lingered. Like a struck match, conversation flickered. Mindless, run-of-the-mill things. It didn’t particularly bother Jackson. For both of them, solitude was like a moat, keeping everyone else at bay. Hours later, Jackson was glad to be finally left to finish his work.
When the body was preserved, Jackson laid a hand on the sewn-up chest cavity, and the transformation began. Rich brown coloring returned. Balding receded. Lines and wrinkles gentled like a pebble’s rough edges smoothed by a river current. He always makes them look so alive, his customers would proclaim. Jackson Stone didn’t know why he had been granted the gift of glamour, but with his associate’s help, he had grown a business, and he relished it like the accomplished man he always knew he would be.
Savannah was a city built on top of its dead. Diners, gas stations, even schools squatted on blacktop and concrete that buried days gone by. But Margaret had a feeling that if the city’s residents had anything to do with it, the cemetery and church where her Francis was interred would hopefully be protected from the big-time developers intent on competing with the other port city, Charleston.
An eternity of yesterdays, amounting to three months and six days ago, Francis had died. Had Maggie been given a choice, she would have opted for the older restaurant that day, the one with the dusty fan propped up in the corner that neither cooled nor stopped you from leaving with layers of kitchen scents clinging to your clothes. But her husband had been excited to try the new spot. It was the last in what had been a string of bad calls.
This one, she couldn’t clean up.
Back for the funeral, Francis’s brother had arrived at the bus station with one bag and what looked like the weight of the world teetering on his sagging shoulders. And he hadn’t left. Maggie had heard through the grapevine that much of what she’d suspected was true. Gerard had filled Francis’s head with a pipe dream. That brand-new car? A secondhand bicycle. The fancy apartment was an outhouse-size room with shared facilities at the YMCA, and a merry-go-round of low-paying odd jobs barely covered it.
“It’s your fault,” Maggie had barked, slapping Gerard’s face when he showed up at her door. “He took me to that restaurant because you filled his head with foolishness.”
She regretted hitting him and apologized directly. To his credit, Gerard had not struck her. Hadn’t even raised his voice. He’d merely lowered his tear-filled eyes, shuffled past her, and said, “That screen door is about to fall off the hinges—you got a screwdriver in here somewhere?”
But if truthfulness wasn’t his thing, children were. He doted on his niece, Annie Mae. And in him, she retained a piece of her father. For that, Maggie was grateful. The only people who were truly dead were those who had been forgotten.
Within a month of his arrival, though, their lives had been upended. The home she loved and everything in it, wrenched away by the bank. Gerard was renting a room in a boardinghouse. Both sets of parents were long gone and the remnants of their families scattered north and west like shed leaves. Maggie took her daughter and piled their meager belongings into the Packard, which Gerard had fixed. Afraid to go anywhere else and too proud to ask, she parked at the church and spent one terrifying night keeping watch as her baby girl slept wrapped up in a blanket with her one-eyed Smokey Bear teddy bear in the back seat.
Maggie had nodded off, forehead against the steering wheel, when the sound of Pastor Dunbar’s ring tapping against the window woke her.
She stepped out of the car and closed the door softly. She smoothed her hair and the pencil skirt that felt like a tomb. She had been thinking about this all night: “Is that shack still empty?”
The pastor’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He knew Maggie well enough not to offer her money and appeared to be in the struggle of his life to find the right words to say. He looked down the hillside toward the weather-beaten hovel that sat halfway between the church and the cemetery, then back to Maggie. “Well, yes. But that’s no place—”
