The Bernice L. McFadden Collection, page 18
And if Sheriff Wiley had not forced Easter and her father to stare at the filthy soles of his boots, because it had not suited him to remove his feet from atop the wooden desk, and if Wiley had looked them straight in the eye like he would have his own kind instead of watching them from beneath the shade of the wide-brim hat he wore, and maybe if he’d believed John Sr. when he said, “I knows it was white boys cause we found tufts of blond and red hair clutched in Rlizbeth’s hands,” and Wiley had just gone out and found those boys and arrested them instead of suggesting that Rlizbeth had torn her own dress, bit her own breasts, and broke her own hymen all in order to cover up the somewhere or someone she had no place being or seeing—then maybe life for Easter would have been different.
But Wiley didn’t do the right thing, and Easter looked up at her father who sat next to her with his head bowed and she heard his timid voice say, “Yes suh, I suppose you could be right, but how do you explain the hair? The red and blond hair?”
Wiley said he couldn’t explain it and then dismissed them by tugging the brim of his hat down over his face and bid them a good day. If he hadn’t done that and Easter hadn’t seen the tears welling up in her father’s eyes, she wouldn’t have turned into the snarling howling thing and her father wouldn’t have caught her by the waist just as she leapt across the desk intent on tearing out Wiley’s throat.
If Jack Johnson hadn’t been quite so dark and hadn’t pumped his fists in the air like the champion he was then maybe …
If Rlizbeth had just put on one of the old, worn dresses she owned and kept her hair pulled back in a tight bun, Easter probably never would have written the word HATE on a piece of paper, crumpled it into a ball, dropped it in a hole in the ground, and covered it with dirt, and her mother wouldn’t have tried to go back to living as if that awful day hadn’t happened and those boys weren’t walking around as free as birds, and she never would have had the strain of pretending that everything was normal even though Rlizbeth had lost her voice and John Jr. had taken to staring down every white man in the town and John Sr. was intent on trying to make himself grow big again and thought that taking refuge in the arms of another woman would help him do that.
And if Zelda hadn’t found the love letters pressed into the pages of her husband’s Bible, letters written on fine onionskin paper that smelled of rose water, then John Jr. wouldn’t have caught her crying, wouldn’t have seen the letters scattered on the floor, and wouldn’t have hit his father so hard that it knocked the wind out of both men. If all of that hadn’t happened, then John Jr. wouldn’t have had to leave the house, the town, and the state, and Easter might have gone on loving and respecting her father. But it did and Zelda’s heart snapped under the strain, pain, and betrayal, and she died.
If there had not been a funeral, there would not have been a repast, so there would have been no need for Easter’s father to wait patiently for the last mourner to leave the house before he changed his clothes, mounted his horse, and galloped off into the night leaving the scent of his pipe tobacco hanging in the air. And if he hadn’t left, then he couldn’t have returned with the wide-eyed, milky-brown woman who smelled of rose water and wasn’t much older than Rlizbeth. He couldn’t have brought her into their home, told Easter and Rlizbeth her name—which was Truda—and then informed them that she was his new wife and their new mother.
If Jack Johnson had just thrown the fight and Rlizbeth had maybe walked down a different road and not have been so pretty, everything would have remained the same in their small home and Easter would not have known the aching sadness of a dead mother, gone brother, and mute and ruined sister. And if there were no ache and no sadness then Easter would not have taken the gown that her mother died in, laid it across the dining room table, and arranged the china, crystal, and the silverware with the scrolled handles on top of it as if it was a special holiday and the family was expecting dinner guests. And she would not have placed bunches of flowers at the neckline, hemline, and sleeves—but she did, and when Truda walked into the dining room the next morning she forgot to breathe.
And if Truda hadn’t forgotten to breathe, then maybe she wouldn’t have screamed, which of course brought John Sr. into the room to see what was the matter. After that he kicked in the door to Easter’s bedroom and found her sitting at the edge of the bed staring at her palms. He charged in and loomed over her like a great black hawk and hollered that he should have drowned her at birth. And if he hadn’t said those hurtful words, Easter would have stayed in Waycross, Georgia, married, had children, grown old, and died.
But on that summer day in 1910, Jack Johnson did beat James Jeffries and Rlizbeth did put on that yellow dress that made her look like an angel and nothing and nobody was ever the same again.
BOOK I
FLIGHT
CHAPTER 1
Sixty-three miles of road streamed out before her like a black snake. Easter walked until an old man with a golden beard wearing a top hat pulled back the reins of his horse and invited her to hop aboard his carriage.
“Where you headed?”
“Valdosta.”
The horse clumped along while the owls hooted and blinked their pumpkin-colored eyes and the darkness behind the trees rolled, writhed, and reached out to touch them.
Easter arrived in Valdosta just as dawn ruptured the night sky. She remembered the street called Cotton Way and the little stream and wooden footbridge. The footbridge was still there, but the stream had turned into a gulley, thick with mud. She remembered the house being white, but the years had streaked an unflattering gray across its once-bright, planked face.
“Who you?” the woman, who looked so much like her mother, peeked around the door and asked.
“Zelda’s girl.” Easter gripped tight the handle of her suitcase. Behind the house a cock heralded the new day. Thunder boomed a town away and the air began to whip.
The woman said, “Who?”
“Your sister, Zelda. You Mavis, right?” Easter’s voice was hopeful.
Mavis wrapped her arms around her chest. “My sister Zelda’s been dead for more than a year, so I hear.”
“Yes.”
Easter peered over Mavis’s shoulder into the dark shadows of the house.
“Lots of women named Zelda been dead for more than a year. How you know you got the right house? I ain’t never seen but one of her chirren and that was a boy.”
“That would be my brother, John Jr.”
Mavis dug a finger into her ear and scraped. “You do, I guess, got some of her features.”
The two women eyed each other. Mavis rested her hip against the jamb of the door. She looked down at the suitcase.
“You runnin’ from something?”
“Runnin’ toward something.”
Mavis nodded, “The law looking for you?”
Easter shook her head no.
Mavis’s eyes moved to Easter’s midsection. “You in trouble?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good, cause I can hardly feed the chirren I got.”
Easter followed her in and tried hard not to stare at the hump on her back.
They stepped straight from the porch into the kitchen. Stove, icebox, round table with five mismatched chairs. A rope had been strung between the walls and a sheet thrown over it, hiding the window and the bed with two sleeping children. At the back of the house was one large room, beyond that the outhouse.
“What she die from?”
Easter thought for a moment and then said, “A broken heart.”
Mavis made a face. “Sorry to hear ’bout that. Mens bring us womens nothing but heartache.” She shook her head and sighed heavily. “You gonna have to share a bed with my eldest girls,” she informed Easter as she moved to the icebox. “I s’pose you hungry?”
Mavis set the cheese on the table, walked over to the far wall, and retrieved a tin of crackers from the shelf. “I got five kids and no man, but we get by okay, better than most folks I guess. Everybody work, ’cept the babies of course, they two and four.”
Easter sat down at the table and watched Mavis light the stove.
“I’ll make you some tea. This all I got to offer you, wish I had more.”
Easter was grateful.
“Miss Olga needs a girl,” Mavis continued as she set the kettle on the stove and then pulled at the knot in the scarf she wore on her head. “She lives in town, big white house, black dog in the yard. Take a piece of meat, he’ll let you in with no problem if you feed him.”
Easter nodded.
“They call her the librarian on the account that she got like a million books.”
Easter loved books.
The next day Easter went down to Miss Olga’s house with a saved piece of bacon from her breakfast. The dog, Blackie, snarled and bared his teeth. Easter tossed the bacon over the fence and Blackie gobbled it up. His eyes went soupy and he wagged his tail and followed Easter to the back porch. A brittle, bald-headed man met her at the door. His one good eye rolled from the top of Easter’s head down to the rounded toe of her shoes and then up again. “They call me Slim.”
And slim he was. As straight and thin as a line. Easter told him that she was inquiring about the job and he pushed the screen door open and invited her in.
The kitchen was large and sunny. A woman stood over the sink, her hands immersed in dishwater; she looked at Easter and smiled.
“This here is Mary Turner,” Slim announced in a raspy voice before scurrying from the room.
Easter said, “How you?”
Mary Turner was young and stout with rosy cheeks. “I’m blessed, thank you. How about yourself?” she said as she reached for the pot that hung from a hook high above her head.
“I’m fine.” Easter pointed to Mary’s full-like-the-moon belly. “When you due?”
Mary announced that she had just four months to go.
Easter’s eyes glided over the brass pots and sparkling tile. Something good was bubbling on the stove and Easter’s stomach churned to taste it.
The door swung open and Slim called to her, “Missus say come on in.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “But make sure you keeps your feets on the floor. She don’t like people stepping on the carpet, it come all the way from India.”
Easter walked through the dining room and into the front parlor where bookshelves covered every inch of wall space and climbed all the way to the ceiling. Olga Fields was stretched out on a chaise lounge awash in morning sunlight the color of candle wax. In her hands she held sheet music, her thin lips moving soundlessly to the melody.
“Mornin’, ma’am.”
Olga’s eyes remained fixed on the stanza. “Who sent you here?”
“My aunt.”
“And who is your aunt?”
“Mavis Hawkins, ma’am.”
“Yes, I know her. She takes in my laundry. She seems to be a decent woman.”
Mrs. Olga raised her violet eyes and peered at Easter over the thin rims of her glasses. After a moment she summoned her closer with a wiggle of her index finger. Her mouth curled into a smile as she watched Easter carefully navigate the edge of the carpet.
“That’s good, you know how to follow instructions. Do you know how to cook?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ll be helping Mary prepare the meals among other things. Slim will advise you of your duties. I pay two dollars a week and the leftovers can be divided between yourself, Mary, and Slim.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Three weeks later Lawton Fields, Mrs. Olga’s husband of twenty years, returned from his trip abroad. He was tall and lanky with narrow blue eyes and a bulbous nose that protruded from the center of his face like a cauliflower. He was not an attractive man by any stretch of the word. Olga was no great beauty herself, but certainly appealing enough to have snagged a better-looking man than Lawton. The truth was that the two were a perfect match. Both were liberal thinkers and curious about the world. However, Olga’s phobia of great bodies of water only allowed her to experience the world through her beloved books.
Lawton had an adventurer’s heart and traveled often and for great lengths of time. When Easter first laid eyes on him, he was returning from a four-month expedition to South Africa, where he had retraced the footsteps of his hero, the great missionary and explorer Stanley Livingston.
The sight of Easter drew his breath away, as she held a striking resemblance to the women of the Khoisan tribe.
When she walked into the dining room, a plate of sausage balanced in her hand, he looked up into her face and his memory swept him back to South Africa. The hairs on his arms rose just as they had when his feet first stepped onto African soil. It was a magical place, that Africa.
“What’s your name?” he asked, looking deep into Easter’s eyes.
“Easter, suh.”
“Easter.” He repeated her name as if savoring something tasty. Olga’s brow arched and Lawton sunk his fork into the plump flesh of the sausage.
CHAPTER 2
Easter, Mavis, and the older children carried the scant pieces of furniture from the house and set them down in the front yard beneath the hot Georgia sun. The chintzes swarmed and the children screamed and pointed as the tiny black bugs made a beeline to their death.
Easter soaked rags in camphor oil, dropped them into cooking pots, and set them aflame, filling the house with smoke, killing the chintzes that remained hidden in the walls.
Outside the younger children played tag and hide-and-go-seek. Mavis sat in her rocking chair with her eyes closed and Easter laid herself down beneath the shade of the tupelo tree and read.
Over the past few months it had been her great pleasure to work for Mrs. Olga. The woman had recognized Easter’s intelligence early on and did not miss the longing that flashed in her young employee’s eyes whenever they swept across the hundreds of books that lined the shelves.
“Can you read?” she’d asked one day as Easter rubbed mineral oil into the wood moldings around the doorway.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Really? Who have you read?”
Easter rattled off an impressive list of writers and their works. Mrs. Olga was flabbergasted, she had never met a well-read Negro. “Well,” she said as she removed her glasses and rubbed the strain from her eyes, “you are more than welcome to borrow any book that strikes your fancy.”
Easter was delighted, and devoured four books in just as many days. She read deep into the night. She read until the flame of her candle burned down to wick.
The two women discussed, in depth, the books that Easter had read. Mrs. Olga was impressed with her insight and was happy to find that Easter’s aptitude stretched beyond the frivolity of the dime-store romances most of the women in her generation swooned over. Olga started to feel that she had found a kindred spirit in the young Negro maid.
The day began to slip away and the sun swelled until it was blood-orange and then began its descent. Mavis and Easter went into the house, raised the windows, and opened the doors. They swept the dead chintzes into a black pile in the middle of the floor and then scooped them up and sprinkled them into the flames that crackled and spit in the fireplace. They moved the furniture back into the house and Mavis made a dinner of boiled yams, snap peas, and stewed chicken feet. The children were fed and put to bed. Mavis and Easter were sitting at the table enjoying a slice of pecan pie when the sound of a shotgun blast ripped through the quiet. The children bolted out of their beds, Mavis’s fork clattered loudly to the floor, and Easter pressed her hand to her heart. A second shot sounded soon after the first and everyone dropped to the floor. They waited for a third shot, but none came, just the pounding of fleeing feet. They crowded under the table, trembling and clutching one another, until the flame in the oil lamp burned out and the house went as black as the deed that had been done.
The following day, clusters of people gathered along the road, on porches and out in front of the general store, and the story of what had taken place the previous night jumped from one mouth to the next. A white man named Hampton Smith had been shot dead as he sat taking his supper. The second bullet had struck his wife in the shoulder.
“That nigger done gone and lost his mind,” Mavis’s neighbor, a widower named Bishop Cantor, said as he eased himself down onto the porch step, removed his hat, and fitted it onto the broad cap of his knee.
Easter stood near the doorway, her hands clamped at her belly.
“Who?” Mavis asked.
Bishop dropped his eyes and mumbled something Mavis didn’t quite hear.
“What you say, Bishop?” she hissed, stooping down alongside him, her youngest child straddling her hip.
Bishop drummed his fingers on the rim of his hat. “They say Sidney Johnson was the one that done it.”
Mavis puckered her lips and shook her head pitifully. Her knees cracked when she rose.
Bishop saw the dark wetness on the material of her dress. “Boy needing changing,” he grunted before he placed his hat back onto his head and stood. “Sidney must be miles away by now, and done left a heap of trouble behind him. White folk gonna make sure somebody pay, don’t matter who, jus’ as long as it’s one of us niggers.”
Mavis nodded her head in agreement and reached over and pulled a rotten splinter of wood from the railing.
“It’s gonna be hell here,” Bishop declared. “White men with shotguns coming in by the wagonload since six this morning.” He pressed his palms into his lower back and stretched. “Mavis, make sure you keep your boys close to home, ya hear?”
And with that he was gone. Mavis blinked and saw the gray of his shirt disappear around the corner of the house.
