Lost Souls Recovered, page 20
John knew about Mr. Ellis; he didn’t like the mission of the Alliance and aimed to stop its work. If the coloreds worked together, Ellis was concerned they’d try to undercut his prices.
“I just had a word with Mr. Ellis. Seems like he doesn’t like what the Alliance is doing.”
He spat out tobacco and looked at John and said, “Mr. Ellis all right,”
“Say, what’s your name?”
“Jimmy.”
“I’m John.”
“You from round here?” he asked John.
“I’ve been here for a few years. We have a hall meeting next Tuesday to discuss wheat prices. Why don’t you come?”
After their words dried up, Jimmy returned to moiling the soil, each hack as efficient and economical as the next.
“Jimmy,” John said, “next Tuesday. It’s on Decatur Street.”
Jimmy stopped hoeing. “You go to church?”
“No.”
“You seem like a good man. Reverend Owen looking for good men. You come to First Baptist on Sunday; it’s two miles from here. I’ll think about going to the hall meeting.”
k
Jimmy held open the door as the parishioners walked into First Baptist Church. He was dressed in a mottled white shirt with missing buttons, black trousers that were frayed at the hems, and boots with holes in the sides. John wore a black suit with a white shirt and blue tie. He saluted with his fedora at the door.
The church was a modest-sized, white clapboard building. The sides of the church were stippled with red poppies, and several cropped hedges stood near its front. A sign above the freshly lacquered oak door to the entrance of the building read COME UNTO ME.
Although it had room for over two hundred worshippers, it had begun to burst at the seams, thanks to people like Jimmy who were on the prowl for new recruits. Reverend A. J. Owen had developed a reputation as a fine orator. Once Jimmy brought in new members, Reverend Owen would try to keep them coming with his sermons, which were delivered with a spellbinding, rhythmic cadence.
“Morning, John,” Jimmy said. Glory be to God. Glad you could come.”
“I’m upholding my end of the bargain.”
“Go on in; we starting in five minutes.”
John took a seat in a rear pew.
Reverend Owen looked out at the nearly full church. He was a young minister, in his early thirties. He had red-boned skin, hazelnut-colored eyes, and short, black hair that had begun to recede slightly. He was persnickety about his attire. He wore a white shirt with a turnover collar and an ascot tie, a gray jacket, a matching waistcoat, contrasting blue trousers, and white spats adorned his polished, black, laced shoes.
Reverend Owen stood behind the altar and said: “Before we get started … Tilla, come up here and give the church announcements.”
John was in the rear and couldn’t see Tilla approach the altar.
Tilla had a lilting and confident voice, a voice that betrayed an above-average education. John moved over to the right slightly to get a better view, which was only from the chest up. She wore a blue bonnet. Shards of sunlight made her look angelic.
Two minutes later, Reverend Owen said, “Thank you, Tilla. You may return to your seat.”
John locked onto her as she went to her seat. He could see a quarter of the left side of her face after she sat in a pew full of people. He needed to find out more about her.
He missed a lot of the sermon. He kept stealing surreptitious glances at Tilla. On one occasion, she turned around slightly and caught John’s gaze. Embarrassed, he quickly averted his attention elsewhere.
He was relieved when church ended. He was certain to see her close up, he thought.
Jimmy walked in his direction. John stopped him. “Jimmy, who is this Tilla girl?”
“She the daughter of Pony and Fannie Hawkins.” Pointing, he added, “That be them there.”
“Does she have a man?”
“Word is she seeing Roscoe … She like them educated types. C’mon, let me introduce you to Reverend Owen.”
They stood in line with other parishioners waiting to greet their pastor.
Reverend Owen said, “Good to see you, Jimmy, God bless you.” He looked at John and said, “Is this young man with you?”
Jimmy nodded. “This here my new recruit.”
“What’s your name?”
“John Billingsly.”
Reverend Owen shook John’s hand. “John, you’ll need to come back. I should like to introduce you to everyone when you return.”
By the time John finished greeting Reverend Owen, Tilla had vanished.
24 — Summer, 1893
The drizzly fall evening didn’t stop the regulars and a few first-timers from lining up at the back of Riley’s shanty to receive their fill of the best-in-town moonshine. The shanty was a single-story puncheon frame constructed from local pine, bound on two sides by covered porches. The shanty unfolded into a thicket of brush and tall pine trees, as good a place as any to conduct moonshine business.
Riley, Jr., or Junior as he was called to distinguish father from son, had learned the business at his father’s knee, so when Riley’s health deteriorated, Junior made the whiskey, filled the orders, and took the money, and when he saw fit, extended credit to some of their whiskey-imbibing customers. Junior had grown into a powerfully built twenty-five year old. He had caramel-colored skin, cinnamon-colored eyes, and specks of premature gray hair that he kept short.
A flicker of light from a lantern sitting on a table on the back porch, coupled with the moonlight, helped Junior meet the demands of his customers, who were athirst for Riley’s brand of whiskey. Those in line brought their own bottles to be filled.
A tall man with a sallow, freckled face was next in line. Junior greeted him: “Mick, how you been?”
Mick was not only a drunk, he was a nosy drunk who had a knack for delivering news before it reached most people. “Question is, how you been? Heard the new sheriff’s shutting down all the stills.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I hear things,” Mick said.
Junior handed Mick his refilled bottle, looked into Mick’s grainy eyes, and said, “If you hear something a little more definite, let me know.”
Mick nodded and smiled, revealing a toothless mouth. He turned away and raised the bottle to his lips.
“Mick, you forgetting something?” Junior asked with a raised eyebrow.
“You know I’s good for it, Junior. I pays you when I can.”
Mick was one of the customers who had a line of credit, one that was well beyond his means to ever repay. But because of his friendship with Junior’s father and because he’d ring the alarm if he heard something about the new sheriff, he walked away with another free bottle of whiskey.
After filling his last bottle at two o’clock in the morning, Junior tidied up and went inside the house and stood in the kitchen doorway, where he saw his father still sitting in a rickety rocking chair with his dog. Sadie, a black-and-sandy-brown, mixed-breed bull terrier, was at his bare feet. The man’s feet and ankles were ravaged with arthritis, which anchored him to the rocking chair. His eyebrows, bushy as a mustache, were hopelessly tangled. A jagged and ugly scar that streaked up the left side of his face glowed in the light of the lantern. His long lids rolled up and down his drowsy eyes.
Before Riley’s vision began to fail, he amused himself by looking out his front window, counting the birds as they perched themselves on a tree limb in the front yard. He mustered a wee bit of excitement when blue jays cavorted in the tree, as though they were performing just for him. He expressed himself with a mixture of coughs and laughs when they started fussing loudly, reminding him of his arguments with his wife. When night fell, he often fell with it, sometimes well before. If he made it to his bedroom, Junior thanked God, for it seemed to be a miracle for Riley to break away from his mooring and walk just a few feet to bed.
Riley felt Junior’s presence in the doorway. “The law catching up, son.”
Junior shook his head. “What’re you saying, Pa?”
Riley coughed a few times. He caught his breath from the strain of coughing and then said, “I reckon it’s time to call it quits. My stuff’s the best, but it’ll kill you before too long. Don’t know why I didn’t stop a long time ago.”
Junior walked into the small living room and sat on an uneven bench next to his father. He grabbed his father’s left hand and felt bone. “Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you stop, Pa?”
“I knew that stuff made people sick, but the money was too good. The money helped your sisters build homes in Atlanta. But I done paid a price now. Look at me. Can’t see. Got a weak bladder. I’m a mess, son.” Riley was silent. His lids stopped moving. Just as Junior started to say something, Riley squeezed Junior’s hand. “Your mama’s been gone at least five years; you been here helping me with the business and taking care of your old man. No more. It’s time to let me be. You got a life to live.”
“But Pa … ”
“But nothing, Junior. You gotta find a wife and get busy having children.”
It sounded like a dying wish to Junior, and he didn’t want to hear any more about his father’s regrets. “Pa, let me help you to bed.”
Riley raised his left arm from the armrest, and Junior stood up and half-lifted his father from the wonky chair to help him to the bed. As he lay there, he told Junior to retrieve a corrugated can that was on the floor of his closet. “Open it.”
Junior moved it closer to the lantern to see what it held.
“Don’t know how much in there, but should be at least two thousand,” Riley said.
Now Junior was sure his pa thought the end was near.
Riley told Junior to use some of the money for his burial; the rest would be his. He paused, then added: “I want Reverend Owen to bury me. I’m probably the biggest sinner in all of Mount Hope, but I know he’ll bury me.”
Riley remembered some unfinished business that he hoped Junior would work on. Riley told Junior that he’d once promised Cousin Ann that he’d one day return to Richmond to see her.
Junior knew nothing about Ann. He knew that his father’s father was “some cracker” who’d worked for Chad Davis, the massa who’d sold Riley down the river. He knew that his mother died young. Beyond that, there was nothing.
His frail health had prevented him from traveling out of Mount Hope, much less traveling to Richmond. He told Junior that he’d probably never know the extent of his family, but perhaps Junior would find the answers someday. He’d be satisfied with that. And that would be his dying wish.
Before his health declined, Riley had been a sporadic member of First Baptist for several years. Junior offered to take him and be his eyes, but he begged off. He was content to bide his time by sitting in his favorite rocker, talking to his dog, and listening to the cantankerous blue jays.
25 — Summer, 1893
Texas had beckoned. He’d had to meet with members of the Colored Farmers’ Alliance there. He’d wanted to put it off, but he had no choice. Important speakers had gone, and he’d had to be there. Aside from making money from his farm crops, he also earned income from speaking fees. He’d been away for two weeks, two Sundays away from First Baptist.
The two weeks had dragged, but he had toughed it out. He couldn’t remember her look so much as her voice. It was a voice that could soothe an angry lion, a voice that could make walls crumble down.
Back in town, he sat in a rear pew again, anticipating the sight of the young woman with the mesmerizing voice, but as it turned out, there were no announcements that Sunday; Reverend Owen jumped right into his sermon. John looked where she had sat three Sundays ago; she wasn’t there. He then scanned the sanctuary for her but found no sign of her.
As best he could tell, she wasn’t in the sanctuary. As he could not purge his mind of thinking of her, and his mind was not on the sermon, he rose and tiptoed out of the building.
The air was warm and still outside, just like inside the church. All open space was splashed with sunlight. He spied a red oak tree and loped to it and sat down with his back resting against it. Soon, he lowered his head and nodded off with his black fedora covering his face.
“Excuse me, shouldn’t you be in there?” he heard a woman say.
“No, I’m fine,” he mumbled.
“You’re sure?” he heard another’s woman say. But he knew and felt that voice; it was the voice he’d waited three weeks to hear. He sprang up and adjusted his hat.
“I’m Fannie Hawkins and this is my daughter, Tilla.”
He willed himself to look at Fannie, otherwise he was afraid he’d stare rudely at Tilla.
“I’m John.”
“Are you a member?” Fannie asked.
“No.”
“Well, we gonna need to change that,” Fannie said. “C’mon, Tilla, let’s go. We’re late enough.”
Fannie and Tilla pivoted and hurried inside.
His eyes locked in on Tilla until she faded from view. Her body was as exquisite as her voice. If he returned to his seat, he wouldn’t listen to the sermon; he’d stare at Tilla. He decided to remain outside to work up the nerve to talk to Roscoe’s woman. He had not captured his quarry; far from it. Even so, he felt like he was flying through the ether toward the stars.
An hour later, Jimmy opened the door, and Reverend Owen took up a position just outside of it, ready to greet his flock.
The line moved slowly. John continued to collect his nerves and hoped they would stay in place.
Finally, Reverend Owen greeted Fannie by kissing her on the cheek. He did the same to Tilla.
As they walked away from the church, John ran in their direction, carrying his black fedora in his right hand.
“Excuse me,” John hollered, “Fannie Hawkins!”
Fannie and Tilla stopped. John continued to run to them. He looked at Fannie first. She wore a strawberry red-colored hat and a long, mauve-colored broomstick dress that was flattering to her trim body.
He turned his eyes to Tilla. He saw now that she was achingly beautiful and taller than he recalled. The light blue, bustled cotton dress hugged her slender frame. Her silky, auburn hair was piled behind her head in a waterfall of curls secured by hair sticks and ribbons. He breathed deeply, then looked into Tilla’s eyes and said, “I was wondering if I’d be permitted to talk to you.”
“Well,” Fannie said as she batted her eyes, “I’m a married woman, but thank you for the idea.”
John chuckled. “Not you, Mrs. Hawkins.”
Fannie extended her right hand. John raised it slightly and kissed the top of it.
Now that John’s nerves were in place, he took note of mother and daughter. It was easy to see where Tilla got her powerful good looks.
As John lowered Fannie’s hand, Fannie said, “A man with manners.”
“What do you want to talk about?” Tilla asked.
John’s nerves started moving again; he shivered as she talked.
Fannie stood at Tilla’s side.
“I’d like to see you?”
Tilla looked at Fannie. “Ma, do you mind if we talk?”
Fannie moved away to afford John and Tilla a bit of privacy.
“Well,” Tilla said, “I suppose we can talk.”
“How about Friday? Troublesome Creek has that wide bend near the blacksmith’s shop. Meet me at three o’clock?”
Tilla emitted a wide smile and turned to Fannie and said, “We can go now.”
Fannie was curious. “What’s he want?”
“I suppose to go out.”
Fannie stopped, causing Tilla to stop. She looked at Tilla, and said, “Now Tilla, I’m gonna give you a warning. You know you have Roscoe. Don’t be a fool.”
“Oh, Mother. I won’t be a fool. Me and Roscoe will be together.”
“Roscoe’s going to that fancy school … ”
“Tuskegee.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Word is John is doing work for the Colored Farmers’ Alliance. He’s a farmer.”
“How do you know so much?”
“Jimmy mentioned it.”
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Five days after his heart nearly stopped beating when he talked to Tilla at church, they met at Troublesome Creek. She knew she was making the right decision with Roscoe, but nothing was wrong with having a little male company before marriage. John had brought along perch, bread, and wine for a bit of plein air dining.
They sat on a grassy slope. Her posture was erect, John’s slightly less so. John looked straight ahead at the creek as he spoke: “Why did you come here?”
She ignored the question. “Eat your food.”
John took a bite of bread. “May I have an answer?”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“Yeah, I know, but why did you come?”
“You’re new around here. I thought I’d get to know you. I might add that you’re good looking.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah … ”
It weighed heavily on his mind, and he needed to say it: “I don’t have a college education, much less a high school one.…”
“You seem educated enough.”
“But not educated like Roscoe.”
“That’s an impolite thing to say. How do you know about Roscoe?”
“I hear things.”
“Look, it’s complicated. Feelings are complicated.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He leaned toward her, closed his eyes, and aimed to kiss her on her sienna-colored lips.
She leaned back and turned her head. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Is it because I’m a farmer?”
She curled her lip and shot him an angry look. “The food is gone, and I think I better leave.”
He immediately regretted acting like a masher and treating her like a minx. Even when she was angry, no austerity could diminish her lissome form and beauty. He grabbed her arm. “No, don’t leave. I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me. I’m more than a farmer.”
Tilla’s curled lip stretched into a smile.
He told her about his work with the Alliance and how he had worked to help colored farmers.
