LIGHT BREAD
by
Cordell Adams
Smashwords Edition
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Published on Smashwords by:
Sweet Tater Pie Publishing
3600
Gaston Ave, LB 64
Dallas, TX 75246
Light Bread
Copyright 2007 by Cordell Adams
Library of Congress Card Catalog Number: 2008904097
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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“Light Bread, a first novel by Cordell Adams, weaves a lovely story around the tumultuous 1960s in his creation of Veola Cook—a brave, Black earth mother of wisdom, warmth and wit. But Veola has the strength of goodness and godliness to offer love and comfort to those in need, regardless of the danger she faces, regardless of the unrest in America...and regardless of the color of the many who depend on her.”
—Billie Letts, author of
Where the Heart Is (an Oprah
Book Club selection),
and Made in the USA
“We all know her. That go-to person for all our troubles. And in his debut novel, Light Bread, Cordell Adams gives readers that person in the form of Veola Cook, who just about everyone in Parkerville, Texas, comes to count on when they need a little homespun wisdom and propping up. Adams has created a warm, caring, colorful and insightful character who will be a delight for readers. A woman with the wisdom to avoid trouble and the insight to handle it, if it rears its ugly head.”
—Robert Greer, author of
seven novels in the CJ Floyd mystery
series
(the latest two, The Mongoose Deception and
Blackbird, Farewell),
two medical thrillers, and a short
story collection.
“Cordell Adams’ wonderful debut novel, Light Bread, took me back to my youth in East Texas. He describes the times, the people and their circumstances with stunning accuracy. Ms. Veola is a true character and I found myself cheering for her through her tribulations to the satisfying ending.”
—Evelyn Palfrey, author of
The Price of Passion
“A good book happens when a good story is told or when a story is told well. Cordell Adams’ Light Bread does both. I went back to my own childhood and opened the door to characters who were coming in anyway. The breath and wisdom of Light Bread leaves you wanting more.”
—Bertice Berry, author of
Redemption Song,
When Love
Calls, You Better Answer, and
The Ties that Bind, A Memoir
of Race Memory and Redemption
“Engaging and engrossing…filled with heartfelt characters and achingly realistic portrayals of a time passed but not forgotten. Miss Veola, Miss Loretta, and Fayetta Dewberry reminded me of women that I have known, loved, and celebrated. Light Bread will make you laugh out loud and praise your ancestors. Hallelujah.”
—Gabrielle Pina, author of
Bliss, Chasing Sophea, and
Children of Grace
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18
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For Leola Cox
LIGHT BREAD
Cordell Adams with the inspiration behind this novel, his grandmother, Leola Cox.
(photo dated c. 1965-1966)
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For this project, my debts are substantial, and I must pass out these light-bread sandwiches of appreciation.
Thanks to my sister Claudette and brother Rickey for making sure I treated the spirit of our beloved grandmother, Leola Cox, with tenderness.
To Uncle Sang, my only surviving maternal uncle, for showing me support as I fictionalized the mother he so desperately loved.
To my first cousins for not expecting this to be their story, but for knowing I just wanted to share our “Mama” with others.
To nephews, nieces, and the rest of my family, knowing they will continue to love our ancestors who continue to watch over us from above.
To my writing consultant and coach, Pamela Renner, who labored over this manuscript so lovingly, I’d attempt to describe my gratitude in words, but then she’d have to edit them, and she’s worked too hard already.
To Galen Hays, Pam’s husband, for understanding all the early and late phone calls and for feeding me throughout all the writing sessions.
To Emma Rodgers for her guidance and introduction to those I needed to know in the writing business.
To the entire Letts family, especially the matriarch Billie who inspired and guided me.
To my book club, Michael Allison, Mike Anglin, Mike Birrer, Dean Carter, Bill Kolb, Red Starks, and Kay Wilkinson for their helpful suggestions and pushes from behind.
To Parker Shade for his architectural expertise with the map legend.
To my readers Xenobia Brown, Graham Cauthorn, Floyd Cotham, Yolanda Crear, Kim Fennell, Carol Fletcher, George Harris, Lois Lilly, Tim and Robin Newberg, Dr. Nancy Parks, Constance Riles, Ken Row, Bernestine Singley, Gene Schulle, and Nona Walker who constantly propelled me to have this dream completed.
To Elaine Hightower for all the prints and reprints.
To my office personnel, Lori Salazar and Danny Chavez, for taking control of my schedule, and to my patients for making sure I know my purpose in life.
To Baylor Surgicare and its affiliates for unending trust.
To my first-grade classmates who are still in my life and the class of 1979 for votes of confidence after all these years.
To Opal Jones, one of my grandmother’s dearest, for keeping our parents’ home a welcomed place.
To godparents OM and OD (other mother and daddy, Dr. Mary Bone and J. Robert Adamson) for continuous guidance away from home.
To Ron and Matrice Kirk, extended family, who can’t get rid of me.
To North Bolton Street Christian Church, Brentwood Baptist Church, and St. Luke “Community” United Methodist Church for making sure I knew and continue to know WHOSE I am.
To my neighborhood and lifelong friends in Jacksonville, Tyler, Dallas, Houston, DC, Atlanta, Los Angeles, Long Beach, New Orleans, and NYC…..for just being in my life.
To Gene Danser for his patience in knowing that my countless hours in front of the computer did not go in vain. And finally, to my mother and father, Claude and Cordelia, my angels who guide me from on high. Oh, how I love and miss you.
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* * * * *
Easter, 1967
Parkerville, Texas
Veola Cook kept her basics on her nightstand— her cat-eyed bifocals, a framed picture of her three children, another of her seven grandchildren, a sharpened pencil (her favorite writing instrument), a nineteen-cent Bic as back up, and on top of the electric radio lay her worn-out Bible. She seldom turned on the lamp since she preferred reading under the light attached with iron prongs to her wooden bed frame. Her wind-up alarm clock got little use. She often awakened naturally before dawn, but this Easter Sunday she was startled awake by a tapping noise coming from the front of her house. She opened an eye; the other remained buried in her pillow. The tap, tap, tap remained soft, rapid.
Next, she heard: Bam! Clank-a-lank! Whop!
The knock sounded as if it were right outside her bedroom window, but the clank-a-lank, like a pan hitting the kitchen floor, seemingly originated out front. Now, she had to investigate.
Rolling over, she noticed a beam of light shining from the next room, her dining area. By stretching to the corner of the bed, she realized the light came from her neighbor Loretta’s window.
The day was to be filled with the Holy Spirit, but she wondered whether or not the devil had anything to do with the disruption.
What in the world was going on at Loretta Mayfield’s?
Veola became concerned for her friend, so she retrieved her eyeglasses and caught sight of the hour—4:31 a.m. Good God A’mighty, it truly was early, even for her.
She whirled herself into a sitting position, slid into her pink slippers, and donned the matching housecoat from the foot of her heavily covered bed.
Tip-toeing through the dark dining room, she peeked through the blind facing Loretta’s lighted house. She saw nothing unusual—no human shadows or broken glass. Next, she moved quietly to the living room windows, but all appeared normal. She had no intention of opening the front or back doors, even though her screen doors were locked. If someone was out there, the invitation to come in need not be extended.
That tap, tap, tap? Was she asleep when she heard it? Was she dreaming?
On her way back to bed, Veola thought she heard a loud rattling toward the back of her house. She turned off the reading lamp then made her way to the kitchen window and peeked through the blind.
Nothing caught her attention, so she squinted to sharpen her vision. She saw three dogs pacing back and forth, but not barking, tied to their chains in their backyards.
She was certain that tapping noise had begun at Loretta’s house. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she dialed her neighbor. “Loretta, did I wake you?”
“Naw.”
Veola heard huffing and puffing through the receiver. “Well, your light was on, and—”
“I can have my own light on in my own house any time I want to, can’t I?” Loretta shouted.
“Why sho’ you can, but I heard this noise. Sounded like it came from your—”
“Won’t you,” Loretta paused between each word, “get out of my business?”
“Baby, I was just concerned about you,” Veola said calmly. Never had anyone twenty years her junior talked to her this way and gotten
away with it.
“Don’t waste your time ’cause I’m fine. I can take care of myself. Now, I gots to go.”
“I’m sorry I disturbed—”
“What if I was asleep?”
“Like I said, I heard something.”
“You ’bout the nosiest woman I know. Seem like every time something happened to folk, you are all up in their damn business. You just can’t stay out of folks’ lives, can you? I’m through talking to you.”
“I’m gon’ keep the day holy, Loretta, since it is the Lord’s day.”
At the mention of the word Lord, Loretta hung up.
“Well, ain’t that something, you ungrateful little—” Veola slammed her receiver. Here she was being neighborly by checking on Loretta, and the woman had cussed her out. In twenty years living beside Loretta, she had never been so mean and disrespectful. Why just last week, Veola lent her a cup of flour. Now she wanted it back.
Irritated and hurt, she wanted to go next door, grab Loretta by her nappy hair, and drag her until she got some sense, but that wouldn’t be very Christian-like. So she redirected her thoughts. She had a list of chores to complete and stewing over Loretta’s rudeness was unproductive.
“Hallelujah, Lord, hallelujah, hallelujah,” she cried out, lifting her hands in the air with balled fists, expressing her gratitude to her Maker as she did each morning.
“Thank you, Lord, for your glorious day. I don’t know where I would be without you—especially right now.” Usually, her morning message of thanks was stated in a soft, composed, and reflective tone of voice, but today she shouted. She knew Jesus was listening, and that’s all that mattered.
She grabbed her Bible from the nightstand. As a black woman Southern born and Southern bred in 1905 in a tiny community called Beaver Flat, in rural East Texas outside of Tyler, her Bible had been her mainstay throughout her most perilous and most triumphant of times.
The outside disturbances still concerned her. Clutching the good book, she stepped over to the bedroom window again.
She flipped to one of her favorite passages and read out loud Joshua 1: 9. “Have I not commandeth thee? Be strong and of good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.” She placed her Bible back on the radio.
Past the trees and the dogs between her house and her nearest neighbor opposite Loretta, the rumbling seemed to come from somewhere close to the street. What was it? People talking. Yeah, that’s it. Were they moving something? Not able to tell, her eyes squinted as if that would improve her hearing. Abruptly, the talking stopped. The clock read 4:45 a.m. Lord, she had no time to waste. Whoever it was appeared to be gone now.
But for reassurance, she called Cuddin’ Jessie since the people she’d heard talking seemed near Jessie’s house. “You up?”
“Yeah, I’m up, but I ain’t moved much,” answered her cousin.
“Girl, did you hear something this morning?”
“Yeah, I was trying to see what it was, but I didn’t see nothing.”
“At first I thought I heard something coming from Loretta’s. Her light was on way ’fo I had planned to even move, and that’s a whole ’nother matter we’ll talk about later. But then, I heard something coming from your way, over near Melda’s house. Chile, I don’t know where it was.”
“I ain’t gon’ lie and say it woke me up, ’cause I was already stirring,” Jessie said.
“What was it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see nothing from my windows.”
“Me neither, but it shole sounded like people talking. Then it sounded like a car door slamming.”
“Yeah, and once I started looking for it, I didn’t hear it no more. Probably dogs turning over trash cans. We got too much to do to worry about that now.”
“You’re right. We must get rid of fear and anxiety from our minds. I’m gon’ let that alone, so I’ll see you later.”
“See you in a bit.”
Veola had a lot to do before sunrise service at six o’clock, and this did not include preparing breakfast. Breakfast was going to be at church this morning; it was the assigned job for the men folk. Veola hoped that Deacon Ruben Earl Mosley would wash his hands before he scrambled eggs or buttered toast.
She headed to the kitchen, passing the dozen eggs she’d dyed the day before for the Easter egg hunt. They had to be packed in her box along with her fresh sweet potato pie and chocolate cake. She had retrieved an old cardboard box with handles from the corner store, Shawty’s (the sign read Shorty’s), located caddy-cornered across the street from the church.
Now, she had two dishes to make—her well-known fresh green beans with new potatoes and some hot-water cornbread. She’d resigned herself to buying her fresh snap beans and potatoes, as her garden had yet to be planted. The night before she’d snapped the beans and measured out the dry ingredients for the cornbread. In fifteen minutes, her front two burners glowed under these Southern delicacies.
Veola had forgotten to ask Jessie what she was making for dinner. Her mind was centered on those noises.
Eva Mae Walker, a dear friend for forty years, always brought the same potato salad, but the ingredients weren’t quite right. According to Veola, “Eva Mae must have got too much salt in her blood” because her potato salad never had enough of it. The lack of salt and too little mayonnaise was definitely the problem. “Something was sho nuff missing,” Veola muttered to herself.
She tried to bring it up to Eva Mae one time, but feared hurting her feelings. Her children should have told her, but Veola guessed they didn’t know any better. Veola was just picky about what she did and didn’t eat from Eva Mae’s kitchen.
While the food simmered, she now had to think about herself. Her attire for the day required one last inspection, so she headed toward her guest bedroom.
Traipsing through the dining room, instinctively, she glanced out the windows, but all was quiet. She threw her hands on top of her head and felt her headrag. Despite her tossing and turning during the night, it remained in place. Headrags were made out of old, worn-out nylon stockings or a silk scarf. Both had their share of holes from uncontrolled hairpins and were never meant for the public eye. On the off chance it might become loose, she had placed a little extra Vaseline on her scalp the night before just to give her graying hair the added smoothness she claimed from her American Indian heritage.
Lord, she took time with her looks, for she was proud of her appearance and rightfully so. That’s how she’d grabbed her husband in the first place.
“You da prettiest thing I ever seen,” said the man who had swept her off her feet at age sixteen. She’d worn her best cotton dress to the creek gathering that Sunday after church which made him take notice. That man, Ervin Cook, became her husband that same year. “Some folks say I married you for your looks, Veola,” she remembered him saying. “I told them they only halfway right. I told them I married you ’cause of the way you looks and cooks.”
Veola smiled at the memory, yet on that day, she had laughed out loud along with Ervin. Even before they married, she remembered the first time she grabbed him and almost squeezed him to death. They were walking in the wooded area of the land his family had when he took out his pocketknife and carved their names in a tree trunk.
“Nobody ever put my name in a tree before,” she told him.
“Well, it’s already written in my heart, so I might as well put it somewhere for the squirrels and the birds to see, too.”
Even with the wonderful memories of her husband doting over her, times were not always as wonderful as these recollections. Her husband had died almost forty years ago from consumption shortly after the birth of their third child. She had raised her kids with some help from his family initially, yet when the age spread of her children spanned between six and ten years old, she felt confident to go out on her own. Veola’s determination to make a life for her and her three children made her stronger than ever. She had done it without depending on anyone, and the only keepsake of his she kept to this day was his pocketknife. Whenever she wanted to re-live that vivid moment of her past, she’d pull that old, rusty knife out of her jewelry box.
She thanked Ervin for her three wonderful children. Her oldest, Carneda, and her family lived across town. She taught English at the black high school, Booker T. Washington, on the north side of town. The older son was in the army, stationed in Germany; the younger one was an airplane mechanic on a naval ship in the Mediterranean. She was proud of both of them and she paused, thanking God that the older one had survived his assignment in Vietnam.
Veola caught herself daydreaming, and now at almost sixty-one years of age, she was still concerned about looking just perfect—this time, though, not for Ervin.
Sunday, the social outing for the week, was the day for black women to show themselves off—to look their very best. But Easter Sunday was special, second in importance only to Mother’s Day.
As a woman of color, church was not only her refuge, but also a place where she sought her direction, asked for guidance, renewed her strength, and affirmed her faith. Black folks knew what church was for, and this March 26, 1967, Easter Sunday morning was no exception.
The new pastel print dress of yellow and green linen had been ironed the night before and laid out on the high bed with her matching purse, gloves and feathered hat nearby. Ironing was a sin on Sunday in Veola Cook’s house or any other house she had to be in on the Sabbath. She had no problem telling all of her children and grandchildren or anybody else’s children about how this was the Lord’s day.
Her white patent leather square-toed heels sat on the floor. These would raise her about three inches from her mere four-feet, eleven-inch frame, giving her added confidence. They were a far cry from her usual white uniform flats. If she had to wear white to work during the week, what would make her want to wear white on the weekend? Nothing but Easter. She had even bought her some new stockings the day before at Luke & Lane’s, the closest five and dime store within walking distance to her house.
She had caught Carneda, her only daughter, using words like hosiery, pantyhose, and even nylons, but to Veola they would always be stockings.
She got out her white flats just in case her low heels hurt her feet. She would find room for them in the bag she would carry, which would hold her plastic rain scarf and umbrella. East Texas weather was unpredictable, and she hoped the children’s egg hunt wouldn’t get rained out.
The words of the song, “woke up this morning with my mind stayed on Jesus,” ran through her mind as she scurried about. Veola wanted to sing those words to Loretta right about now.
What’s yo mind on this morning, Miss Loretta Mayfield? On Jesus or something else?
Once she got to the kitchen, she glanced under the old Melmac plate covering the hot-water cornbread. That old plate had functioned as her skillet cover for as long as she could remember, and when she wanted to, she flipped the plate over and used it to sample her fixings. The green beans and potatoes still simmered, seasoned with plenty of chopped onions, black pepper, and other carefully selected spices. Veola’s stomach grumbled. Instinctively, she reached into the bread compartment of the metal three-tiered canister on the countertop and after undoing the wire twist, retrieved a thin-sliced piece of light bread (white bread to northerners). The brand was always the same: Sunbeam.
From her icebox Veola pulled out a tomato and the mayonnaise from one of the door compartments. She cut two slices and slapped a little mayonnaise on the bread. Finally, she folded the single slice of bread into a half-sandwich for her pre-breakfast treat. If Veola was out of mayonnaise, tomatoes, and fresh light bread, then in her opinion, she was out of groceries.
As she left the kitchen, the phone rang.
“You ’bout done?” Jessie asked.
“I was on my way to the bathroom. My beans is just about ready, Girl.”
“Well, I was thinking,” Jessie shot back, “that I’d just bring what I have to take to da churchhouse over to yo house so when Carneda come down to get yo food after church, she could pick up both our boxes. Then I wouldn’t have to come back home.”
“I’m sure that’ll be fine, but is you gon’ try to walk over here with that box this morning?”
“Yeah. It ain’t heavy. It’s only barbecue chicken and a buttermilk pie. See you in a minute,” Jessie answered.
“All right then. Call me when you’re leaving so I can make sure you get here in one piece.”
“I’m gon’ keep my eyes open myself when I head yo way.”
“You do that. We both be looking.” She snuck one more look through her bedroom blinds. Still nothing.
As Veola fixed her face, she thought how full of folk the churchhouse would be this morning. She and Jessie, ten years her senior, were head ushers. Seating all these folk would keep them busy.
Most of the regular membership attended sunrise service, Sunday school, and morning worship. Many visitors came along with the so-called “CME” members of her Christian faith, not to be confused with the C.M.E. denomination. This “CME” stood for the days that folk would crawl out of the woodwork to go to church—Christmas, Mother’s Day, and Easter. To each his own, but Veola Cook had attended every Sunday since she was a tiny girl.
After more primping, Veola stood back from her dresser mirror and eyed herself from head to toe. Lord, I look cute today, she thought, and hoped her church folk knew it, too. On a schedule, she was off to the kitchen to finish packing her box.
Jessie Davis lived one block west and a half a block south of Veola. Veola tried to watch out for her in case the box was too heavy for an old woman. Jessie would question her in a minute if she knew Veola’s thoughts. “Who you calling old?” Jessie would say.
When Veola opened the storm door as Jessie approached, her heart raced. One of her clay pots had been shattered, and a pile of trash had been dumped all over her front porch. Veola didn’t know what to think.
“Who done that?” Jessie asked.
“Chile, I don’t know. But I’ve got to clean up this mess ’fo I go. I can’t leave my front porch with all this trash on it.”
She swept the pile into the garbage can she had retrieved, and Jessie held it in place, so none of it would fall into her flowerbed.
Lugging the can on her way to the back of her house, she got another shock. The bushes around back, the ones close to her bedroom window, had been trampled on, like someone had run through them.
Reaching her back porch, she noticed a closed paper sack full of cigarette butts. She put the sack inside the trash can and secured the lid. She would investigate later.
Veola and Jessie descended the front steps together, and as soon as they got into the street, a car in the distance shone its headlights right at them. They turned in the direction of the car, and immediately, the lights went out. Veola and Jessie frowned at one another for it didn’t appear to have a driver. No shadows.
“Shhh,” Veola ordered.
“Why?” Jessie whispered.
“See if we can hear something.”
Jessie obeyed.
“I don’t hear nothing,” Veola said, within seconds.
“Me neither.”
“Let’s get to the churchhouse.”
“Shole is. We wasting time out here listenin’ for Lord knows what.” They nodded at one another.
The dogs barked and Veola and Jessie could see them moving about, held close by their chains. They must have been a part of some of the ruckus, for near them were overturned trash cans.
The church was about fifty yards east of Veola’s house, on the opposite side of the street. Those arriving on foot were unprotected by a stop sign or stoplight and had to watch for occasional speed racers going and coming down North Lincoln Street.
As Veola crossed the intersection, she knew she had to take her mind off what she had just seen and turn it over to God. Besides, He was the focus of this holy day. Because of Him, a big day of excitement was planned at Greater New Mount Olive Missionary Baptist Church of the Living God, and as difficult as it was, she willed her heart to be in the right place. She knew she wasn’t crazy, for she was right. The noises, that trash, and her trampled bushes were proof.
* * * * *
After Tyrone Walker and Jeremy Barton conducted their business, Tyrone asked Jeremy for a ride to his friend, Fayetta’s house, not wanting to take his own car. As they pulled to a stop, they spotted two old ladies walking toward the church or dressed for it anyway on this Easter Sunday. Jeremy and Tyrone ducked down, hoping they wouldn’t be seen.
When the coast was clear, Tyrone exited immediately. Jeremy sped off using the back way in the opposite direction of the church.
When Tyrone heard Fayetta was in town, he had to see the woman he had cared about for so many years. Surprising a woman at this hour was a gamble, but because she was special, he was certain she’d understand. The purpose for his early visit was to catch her before she busied herself with Easter plans. Something told him she might leave town without seeing him, and he couldn’t let that happen.
He knocked a couple of times before she answered the door.
“I need to see you,” Tyrone said, smiling as he requested a bit of her time.
“Right now?” Fayetta frowned.
“I heard you were here, and I wanted to see you ’fo you got away.”
“Why you have to come over here waking everyone up this early in the morning?” Fayetta whispered loudly.
“’Cause I didn’t know if you was gon’ leave and head back today or what.” Tyrone stared at the ground and fidgeted with nail clippers in his pants pocket.
“And wake everybody up at this hour?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That I still care ’bout you.”
“That was a lifetime ago, and you know it.”
“No, I don’t know it. It ain’t never stopped for me.”
“After all these years, it should have. Being stuck in the past is your problem.” Fayetta rolled her eyes.
“No, it’s not just mine. It’s a problem for everybody. Leonard. Me. You.”
“We have been through this, Tyrone, but you won’t let go.” She turned, then backed away, but he grabbed both of her shoulders and swung her to face him.
Tyrone maintained his grip, making sure he wasn’t hurting her. Right now, he had to take control, yet he didn’t want to scare her. “Why you want to shut me out?” he asked.
She jerked away and freed herself. “I am not going to talk to you about this right now. You don’t get it, and you never have.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you have feelings for me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why you love Leonard so? He ain’t got no job, no car, and I damn shole look better than him.”
“This is not about you.”
He softened his tone of voice. “But I care about you, always will. What I feel ain’t never gon’ go away, and I don’t want it to.”
“Coming over here disrupting the whole neighborhood don’t impress me one bit. You’ve got to get over this,” Fayetta warned, and hurried into the house, catching the screen door before it slammed.
Tyrone realized he had forgotten to ask how long she would be here, and maybe he had made a mistake by being too honest. He always seemed to say the wrong thing to her. His heart was on the line, and he didn’t know any other way to approach it. He walked home.
•
Positive her neighbors were watching from their windows, Fayetta wondered who had seen the ridiculous encounter. She hoped they would not get to meddling into the situation, and how she wished she could excuse herself from it. But, she couldn’t. She’d come to Parkerville for a purpose, unwilling to let anyone stop her.
Tyrone was living in the past, but she had moved on. She knew Tyrone had feelings for her then, but he should have gotten over her by now.
Emotionally, she was a wreck. She made a cup of instant coffee and went around to her mother’s back porch. She sat, trying to put some semblance of order to her life. Her day was not supposed to start this way, and the fact that it was Easter made it that much more difficult.
•
On the other side of town, Veola’s six year-old grandson, Cameron Allen, had used two alarm clocks this Sunday morning. His mother, Carneda, stepped into his doorway to tell him to get up, but he was already awake from the peal of the church bell at First Presbyterian Church at 9:00 sharp. Cameron assumed it was a white folks’ church since he didn’t know any black churches in downtown Parkerville, which was located across the railroad track and southwest of his family’s neighborhood of KIBI Hill.
KIBI was the local radio station, and he lived right near the tower. The residential community surrounding the tower was likewise elevated on this hill, thus the peal of the infamous church bell carried into Cameron’s bedroom.
Anticipating this Easter Sunday, he had recited his Easter speech to his older brother, Kenny, one more time before he’d gone to bed the night before. Cameron cared less about Kenny, his fifteen-year-old elder sibling, who appeared bored as he rattled off Psalm 121 for the umpteenth time, for Cameron thought that was part of the job of being an older brother.
It was going to be a long day—Sunday school, worship service followed by dinner, the Easter program, and the Easter egg hunt. Easter Sunday meant a new suit, new shoes, new shirt and tie, a fresh haircut, the works.
Cameron beat Kenny to the breakfast table, and they quickly ate the bacon, scrambled eggs, and jellied toast. Their mother spared them sunrise service at 6:00 this morning since the Easter program would require them to be awake and alert, not somewhere on the back row stretched out while the other children were reciting their speeches. They needed their time of preparation, and sleep was definitely a requirement for their best performances.
The breakfast was hurried so they could jet off to Sunday school, and
even waking up at 9:00 would be pushing it to get there by 9:45.
Their father, Charles, was absent at breakfast. Carneda,
affectionately called ‘Dear’ by her children, told the boys that
their father had eaten earlier then gone back to bed.
“He’s
coming to the eleven o’clock service.” Carneda reassured the boys
that he would be there to see them perform. The Easter eggs were
packed, and the banana pudding and mustard greens were secured in her
carrying basket.
•
After the boys had inhaled their breakfast, and Cameron had polished off his chocolate Nestle’s Quik, Carneda came down the hall in her newly made Easter dress. Both boys stood slack-jawed as if they had just seen Jesus get up out of the grave. Carneda shared Veola’s high cheekbones and skin as smooth as a rose petal. She had found a light-green chiffon fabric to capture her spirit, and the floral shawl and matching shoes were exquisite accessories. Quite a seamstress and designer, she’d made her dress and shawl, and her finished products were usually stunning. Knowing fashion was part of her background in home economics, so finding material to match shoes, hats, gloves, and all the other accessories was not considered a challenge but a necessity.
Her light caramel complexion was even more so highlighted on this picture of pastel perfection. She hoped Charles would notice later when he got his behind out of bed and to morning worship service on time.
Charles worked out of town during the week, so sleeping in his own bed on weekends was a luxury. She let him sleep this Sunday morning as long as he could, but come eleven o’clock, she expected him to be at church.
Carneda spread cocoa butter lotion onto the boys’ hands. They weren’t ashy, but now the grooming was finished.
“Okay, boys. Let’s go.” She then walked to the end of the hall and called toward her and Charles’ bedroom, “Charles, we’re gone. See you there.”
Charles’ snoring drowned her out, but she had done her best to be heard.
Kenny carried all the food to the trunk of the car, a sparkling baby blue 1966 four-door Buick Skylark. He had cleaned it inside and out the day before in preparation for a chance to drive it around the block. Carneda occasionally gave in to his begging and pleading and let him drive to the Piggly Wiggly grocery store that was down the hill on the other side of the railroad tracks. This Sunday morning, she drove and Kenny rode shotgun.
At 9:40 they were off to Greater New Mount Olive Missionary Baptist Church of the Living God. Mama would be there, waiting.
•
Tyrone checked to see if his mother, Eva Mae, was spying out of her window when he heard Leonard knock at the front door. “Did you know Fayetta’s down at her mama’s house?” he asked, watching Leonard barge in.
“How you know?”
“’Cause I know, that’s how. What do you think she’s here for?”
“Hell, it’s Easter. A lot of people come home at Easter—see they family, visit folk.” Leonard patted his empty pocket. “Give me one of your cigarettes. I done run out.”
Tyrone obliged, used to Leonard mooching smokes. Tyrone squinted. “When was the last time you talked to her?”
“This week.”
“This week?” Tyrone froze.
“Yeah, she called and said she was coming in town early to see her people. I didn’t know she’d be here for the weekend.”
“Well, hell. She got to be here for something.”
“Probably is.”
“Why you didn’t tell me she was coming?” Tyrone’s interest piqued, and he studied the floor.
“What the hell you got to know that for?”
“Shit, I’m just asking. Why you all uptight just ’cause I asked about Fayetta?”
Leonard stared at him.
Tyrone realized he had too many things to do today other than to get into it with Leonard, besides, he knew him well enough to know he’d clam up. “Look, man, I got to go take care of some business. I’ll holler at you.” Tyrone stood up.
“All right. Later.”
Leonard left, on foot, not having a car to his name, and Tyrone thought that whatever Leonard came by for was quickly forgotten.
•
Sunday school at Greater New Mount Olive Missionary Baptist Church of the Living God was supposed to start at 9:45 a.m. But most black folks’ churches start when they start, and they end when the preacher gets hungry.
Kenny and Cameron entered the main sanctuary from the back of the church after dropping off their mother’s food box in the dining hall. They avoided Mrs. Eva Mae trying to steal some “sugar” from them. Once they rounded the corner by the choir stand, they were in full view of their grandmother. The love in Veola’s smile after catching sight of her grandchildren was infectious. With everyone dressed to the tee, and they knew it, too, they bee-lined for her embrace.
“Hey, Mama,” shouted the boys. Carneda’s children knew Veola as “Mama” because they called their mother “Dear.” Not MaDear or Mother, just Dear. Since Veola had the title of “Mama” from her own children, including Carneda, then Carneda’s bunch joined her in referring to Veola simply as “Mama.” Big Mama, Nana, and even MaDear were left to anyone else who wanted those labels. The choice of these terms of endearment was common in black families.
“Hey, babies. Y’all look so nice. You’re so dressed up.” She inspected them simultaneously: their ties, their sparkling white shirts, their coats and pants, their shoes, and finally their faces.
“What’s that on you?” Veola asked Cameron. “Come here. Let me get that off.” With one quick lick of her finger, she rubbed Cameron’s cheek. Whether it was dry skin or a piece of lint, it disappeared.
“You look good, Mama,” Kenny said, and Cameron nodded. The hugs and kisses were cut short for the time had come to end socializing and be in the pews.
Veola took her place at the head of the table as secretary of the Sunday school. Her note-taking came later.
Once the congregation sang “Jesus Keep Me Near the Cross,” and Deacon Ruben Earl Mosley prayed, the people separated into their individual areas, grouped according to age.
Sunday school was more interesting since there were more people than usual. Once everyone congregated back in the main sanctuary after their individual classes, they gave their reports. The official headcount, according to Veola’s tally was sixty-three; last Sunday’s count was thirty-two. As Veola looked over the attendees, she noticed the abundance of new hats and patent leather shoes. Loretta Mayfield was nowhere to be found.
The pianist chose “He Arose” for closing, and after Reverend Johnson gave the benediction, everyone immediately began to anticipate who else would arrive for the 11:00 worship. Who was coming? What would they be wearing? Who was in from out of town?
Veola asked Carneda to drive over and get the boxes of food since they had a little time in between services. Veola rode with Carneda to have the opportunity to tell her daughter about her morning surprise. “You’re dressed up today, and you look good in that color.” She complimented Carneda on her exquisite outfit purposefully before she eased into her news. “Oh, I just wanted to tell you when I opened my door this morning, someone had dumped their trash on my front porch.”
“What?” Carneda glanced at her. Her expression showed deep concern.
“I opened the door watching for Jessie, and it was all over the front porch. My clay pot was in pieces.” Veola knew her compliment to Carneda was long gone.
“Did you hear anything?”
“Yeah, I heard some noises, but I didn’t open the front door yet. I looked outside a few times, but I didn’t see anything.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Why?”
“’Cause this is serious. You don’t know if someone was trying to get to you. It’s too dangerous for you to be here by yourself.”
“I’ve been here all these years, and I’m not going to get all up in arms over some garbage.”
“Mama, someone was on your front porch in the middle of the night, so you can’t tell me that I wouldn’t see that as dangerous.”
“I’m not saying I’m not concerned, but I’ll deal with that later.” She wanted to stop the conversation now; it was ruining Easter.
Veola decided not to mention the trampled bushes. That would send Carneda into a hissy fit since she had this kind of reaction just to the trash. Besides, the hour for morning worship was close, and she didn’t want to get her riled up before the Easter program.
“You know we’re going to talk about this later,” Carneda warned.
“I know.” Veola wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
Carneda waited in the driver’s seat of the car as Veola locked her screen door. An unfamiliar face glanced up as she exited her porch. The lady was dressed for church, and she walked in the direction of Greater New Mount Olive.
“Good morning,” she greeted Veola.
“Good morning, Sister.” Though Veola didn’t know her, calling her “sister” further personalized her greeting. In the car, Carneda glanced over, and the women exchanged nods.
Veola was nosey when she wanted to be, but she didn’t ponder over the woman’s identity or destination long. Sooner or later, if the stranger lived nearby, she’d see her again.
“Mama, who was that? Does she live around here?”
“I don’t know her, Carneda.”
They drove around to the back of the church and unloaded the boxes, but Veola saw no sign of the stranger.
Morning worship had its share of Easter rituals, including the songs. “He Lives” was the choir’s processional number, and Kenny stood on the back row, next to his friends. The boys replaced their suit coats with choir robes, but they would re-appear in their chic ensembles afterward.
Cameron sat close to the back of the church with his buddies. His daddy arrived and sat next to Carneda down front. Veola guarded the side Cameron was sitting on as she ushered, keeping an eye on him in case his little bunch acted up. She knew they were eager for the Easter program to be over so they could get to the Easter egg hunt.
At that second, the stranger caught Veola’s eye. She realized the woman was the lady she had spoken to earlier. The lady sat on the pew in front of the first graders. She knew the woman was dressed for church when she saw her earlier, but now upon close examination, her outfit was nothing short of plain. Usually on Easter, folks dressed up for bringing Jesus back to life. But this woman’s attire seemed peculiar: no special hat, no new shoes. Veola stepped forward, astonished to see the woman wasn’t even carrying a purse, much less a new one!
She knew the sisters would find time to pull each other back in a corner of the dining hall and attempt to figure out whom this woman was, where she lived, what she was doing at Greater New Mount Olive. The sisters thrived on gathering that kind of information.
After everyone had been blessed or scorned by the pastor’s sermon, they stood and sang the recessional hymn, “God Be With You ’Til We Meet Again.” With the final amen, the parishioners scattered.
Out of nowhere, Veola called, “Cameron, now don’t you be running around and getting dirty while we’re getting ready for dinner.”
She spoke as if she were the spokesperson for all mothers and grandmothers of the church. The children heard her warn Cameron, and if the warning was good enough for him, it was good enough for them, too. Cameron played it safe by going up to his six-foot, four-inch daddy and giving his leg a hug.
The women gathered in the kitchen to sort their boxes and baskets, and the men planned their strategy of hiding the Easter eggs during the Easter program. Some children read over their speeches, and others rehearsed moving their lips while facing the walls or windows. The teenagers talked about make-up, new love interests, and the latest LPs being played on the radio.
Dinner was almost ready to be served, and Veola’s food box was not yet set out. The box could wait, she decided. She had to meet this strange woman.
* * * * *
Veola extended a hand to the stranger. “My name is Veola Cook, and I saw you walking up Jackson Street. I didn’t know you were on your way here.”
“I know who you are, Miss Veola, but you probably don’t remember me, do you?” The woman maintained Veola’s handshake.
“I noticed you didn’t stand up as a visitor. I just don’t remember you being here before.”
“Well, it’s been a long time. I’m Fayetta Dewberry, Melda’s youngest daughter.”
Veola’s smile broadened. The two women embraced as if they were long lost cousins at a family reunion. “Lordy, lordy, lordy. No, it ain’t. Little Fayetta who went off to Dallas? Now that I look at you, I can see you favor your daddy with those cheekbones and eyes. When was the last time you was in Parkerville?”
“You knew my daddy?”
“’Course I knew your daddy. After he left Parkerville, he headed for Houston, I believe. Now, I knew your mother much better. We were surely sorry to hear about her passing. Y’all had the funeral there in Dallas, didn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. We moved there almost fifteen years ago when I was sixteen. I’ve come back to Parkerville a few times to visit my auntie and cousins, but that’s just been in the last few years.”
“Now did y’all ever sell your mama’s house?” Veola asked. She was curious about what everyone was doing. Other folks’ business was not off limits.
“No, the family kept the house, because we never knew if Mama would want to come back to Parkerville again. My cousins rent it out, but with all of us, don’t much come to me,” Fayetta explained.
“So glad you could make it today. Well, are you here for a while?”
“Well, at least for a few days. Hopefully not too long, though.” She forced a smile and blinked rapidly.
Veola knew there was more to this story, but now was not the time. She had her food to tend to in the kitchen.
Just then, Carneda came to the backdoor of the sanctuary. “Mama, do you want me to start putting your food on the table?”
“Come here a minute, Carneda. This here is Fayetta, Melda’s daughter. You remember her, don’t you?”
“Fayetta? Oh yeah, you were just a teenager when I saw you last. I think Kenny had just been born when you left here,” Carneda said.
“That’s probably right,” Fayetta said.
Veola interrupted the reunion. “Now Fayetta, we’re going to talk some more, but I’ve got to get my dinner ready. You’re planning on staying, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go myself. It was good seeing you this morning. I didn’t stop you earlier when I saw you on your porch, but I still remember you in that swing. I knew you were probably in a hurry since I was almost late myself. I’ll see you next time, Miss Veola.” Fayetta turned and exited the church.
“Good seeing you too, Baby,” Veola added as she watched her leave.
Veola thought about her old friend, Melda Dewberry, and how she regretted not seeing her before she passed away. The word on the street was that she got a bad case of pneumonia and her heart couldn’t handle all that extra fluid that developed in her lungs. They said she almost “drowned herself in her own liquids” without ever even touching water. Veola knew she had that story right because it was hot gossip when it happened. Well, God knows best, and it was good to see Fayetta. She wondered what had brought her back into town, but right now, her box was calling her.
•
Tyrone made a week to a month’s pay in five minutes stealing. He was with and without a job so often that he had to keep up an image with his mother that he always had an income. The goods he obtained sometimes more than satisfied his bookies, and dealing weed on the side was his added cushion. All his mother cared about was that he left the house every morning and she got her rent money on time.
An ideal robbery for him usually involved three particulars—good if he were high, better if he found loose cash, and best if some real jewelry was mixed in with the costume stuff.
A good thief should always do his homework, and he had been watching this house for a while. The target of his quest was the Simpsons. He was in real estate, and his wife’s picture frequented the newspaper at social events. Tyrone called Mr. Simpson’s office earlier this week and according to the secretary, he would not return until Tuesday morning.
The neighbors had not been home the last couple of Sundays, so he assumed everyone around here went to church, simplifying this job even more so. Good Christians, he guessed. While he still felt his high, it was time to move.
He parked his car at the nearby apartment complex. He strolled around to the back, scanning for any watchers before quietly scaling the fence. He headed down the alley behind the realtor’s house.
Darting off the main path, he started toward the garbage door of the next door neighbor. The brick was still where he had placed it last week. His target—the room next to the master bedroom.
After putting on his gloves, he removed the outside screen and broke the glass with little noise right at the latch. He slipped in and strode into the master bedroom.
The purses were easy to find. The chest of drawers. The dresser. The nightstands. He found the jewelry box full of cheap stuff. Nothing anywhere. No cash. Shit. Now frantic, he dashed off to the other rooms.
In the spare bedroom closet, he was surrounded by a ton of dresses. Obviously her domain, he ransacked the drawers. Extra underwear, but not a goddam thing he wanted. Time to go. This had taken him longer than he thought.
He slipped back out the same window, still noticing no one and angry that this job was a screw-up. As soon as he reached his car, he sped home.
Because of his frustration, his high had worn off. Damn, he needed a joint—badly. Easter Sunday was supposed to have been as lucky for him as it was blessed for Christians. Instead, he was scammed.
He would work on another plan later, but not with these Simpson folk. They didn’t have nothing he wanted, but he was certain he’d try again. Odds were on his side for scoring well the next round. Surely bad luck wouldn’t doom him twice.
•
When the Easter program began, the youth of the church had assembled in the sanctuary. The adults finished up their chores.
At 2:35 p.m., Cameron was flanked by a couple of his friends. The boys were ready to say their speeches and showcase their talents so they could beat the girls to the eggs. They could outrun all the kids their age, and today it was a matter of being quick on the draw. They had seen all the eggs beforehand, and they were concentrating on filling their own Easter baskets. Their minds raced, jumping the gun, of course. One more hour of being dressed up and then the coats and ties would fly off. In spite of the all the differences between the frilly-hairdo’d girls and tie-clad boys, everyone got hand claps of praise.
One boy’s speech was “Why I Love Jesus.” Another gave his rendition of “What Easter Means to Me,” and Cameron completed his recitation of Psalm 121. Veola always stuck out her chest in maternal approval of her children in all of their accomplishments and endeavors. Once again, she sat proudly on “her” pew and shouted “Amen, Amen” louder than anyone when each child finished his or her presentation.
Kenny was in the choir for young adults, and they sang Veola’s favorite song, “How Great Thou Art.” Oh, Lord, how she loved that song. The opening lines touched her soul intimately.
‘Oh, Lord, my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the
world Thy hands have made.’
Every time she heard them, she immediately raised one hand in the air as if to thank God personally or bow her head as if she were about to use the line and break out in her own personal prayer. A good song will do that for a soul if the heart is open to receive it.
After the second benediction of the day, everyone exchanged hugs and proud moments. Veola realized most of the men were missing. They had sneaked out during one of the choir selections to hide the eggs. All the fathers heard their own children though, for missing their child’s performance at Easter was not an option.
At 3:45 p.m., everyone gathered in the dining hall, and the children were set loose for the hunt.
Parents of the younger children helped their infants find the eggs close by while Cameron and his crew tore out to the far ends of the grounds in hopes of finding the ones that the girls surely wouldn’t go after. Everyone had a reason for hunting eggs, and Veola saw it as a day to bring harmony to the church family. The members basked in the children’s excitement—everybody except Loretta Mayfield. Veola had yet to lay eyes on her neighbor.
The Easter egg hunt was executed without a glitch, but now, Cameron and his friends knew they had twenty minutes to get their parents packed up, head home, and get undressed for the second main event of the day. Every child, and even some of the teenagers, knew what was about to occur. On television, starting at 5:00, on Channel 7 would be—The Wizard of Oz!
After a round of goodbyes, Charles took Veola and Cuddin’ Jessie home. As Veola dropped her box containing its empty containers on the dining room table, the phone rang.
“Hello, Veola?”
“Yeah, Eva Mae.”
“Who was that woman you was talking to after church?”
“Let me call you back. I just walked in and a couple of things I need to do ’fo I get comfortable and sit down.”
“Call me back.”
“I will.”
Veola exited her front door and saw her porch was clean. She didn’t miss a scrap when she swept before going to church, but now it was due for a full inspection. She wondered who would do something like this.
Still clad in her church clothes, she made her way to the trampled bushes outside her bedroom window. From where she stood, she wondered if Jessie could see what she was doing. Her hedge branches were bent out of order, yet none were broken. Her space had been violated. Someone had been close to her window. Was this the tapping she’d heard?
A clue to her dilemma could be within the trash. She opened the lid and saw that it did not deserve to be re-dumped and sorted through, but from the empty containers, she knew that it was her own trash.
Why would anyone dump her garbage? What were they looking for?
Lord, help me get through this, she prayed. Something wasn’t right. She’d have to be more careful in her daily activities, for she didn’t know who was watching her. She stared at her neighbor’s back door, wondering whether or not Loretta had anything to do with this. Surely not, since their disagreement occurred after she heard the noises. Veola entertained all possibilities. Where was Loretta anyway? She hadn’t seen her all day.
After returning inside and still with her church clothes on, she returned Eva Mae’s call and explained who Fayetta was. They shared stories about Melda, yet most importantly, they talked about how shabby Fayetta’s clothes were and concluded she couldn’t even afford a purse.
Passing judgment was much too late and enough to end the conversation. After hanging up, Carneda buzzed right in. “Mama, I’m checking on you. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I started not to tell you anything, because I know how you worry.”
“I can’t believe you wouldn’t tell me. You know we are not finished talking about you living over there by yourself.”
Veola felt Carneda about to get huffy. “Well, I’m not going to let you talk too long about it, because I like being over here by myself. Quit worrying about me. I’m fine.”
“That’s easier said than done, but I know I can’t tell you anything anyhow.”
“So leave it alone, then. You know I’m not going anywhere. Go take care of those boys.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow because it’s obvious you don’t want to talk right now.”