Gathering of Waters (8 page)

After the last miscarriage, Melinda developed a severe case of anemia, along with a host of ailments that flourish when you humans are sad or depressed.

She’d been to see dozens of doctors who had prescribed her just as many medicines and tonics—but nothing seemed to help. Not a surprise, because even I know that you can’t cure unhappiness with a pill—even though your kind continues to try.

Melinda gave Doll a pitiful look and sputtered, “I’ve gone and caught pneumonia.”

Doll’s eyes bulged. “Pneumonia? Oh my sweet Jesus.”

“I’m hot to the touch, but I feel like there’s ice running through my veins.”

“How long have you had this fever, Miss Melinda?”

“Two, maybe three days now.”

Doll pressed her hands over her heart. “Well that ain’t good, not good at all.”

Melinda started hacking and coughed up a glob of green phlegm, which she leaned over and spat into her chamber pot.

“May I?” Doll asked.

Melinda nodded, even though she had no idea what she was giving the woman permission to do.

Doll rolled back the blankets exposing Melinda’s petite frame, which was so frail it didn’t even fill the thin nightgown she wore. When Doll reached for the hem of the gown, Melinda’s hands began to flail.

“It’s okay, Miss Melinda,” Doll assured. She took hold of the hem and rolled the material up to Melinda’s belly button.

Melinda’s thin, sun-deprived calves, thighs, and pink bloomers glared up accusingly at Doll.

“What are you doing?” Melinda whispered.

Doll gently pressed her hands against Melinda’s belly and closed her eyes.

Melinda watched, and rationalized why she was letting the Negro woman touch her beneath her gown. She supposed desperation was a major factor because she was truly sick and tired of being sick and tired. If Doll had suggested that the sacrifice of a cow or fowl would rid her of her illnesses, and bring her husband back into their marriage bed, Melinda would have agreed— wholeheartedly.

Hell, she had been poked, prodded, and prescribed medicine by some of the best doctors in Mississippi, and what good had it done her? So, really, what harm could the caring hands of a reverend’s wife present?

Doll’s eyes fluttered open. “The fever is low in your belly, that’s a good thing. I know what to do.” Doll turned and rushed from the room.

Melinda rolled her gown back down and pulled the covers over her body.

When Doll returned, Caress was with her, holding a bowl. Melinda smelled the onions before she saw them.

“Miss Melinda, where do you keep your nylons?”

“Nylons?”

“Yes, ma’am. Trust me.”

Melinda coughed. “Caress, you know where they are.”

Doll used her bare hands to shovel the sliced onions into the feet of the nylons and then slipped them onto Melinda’s feet.

“Caress, hand me a towel so we don’t spoil these beautiful sheets,” Doll said.

“And what will all this do?” Melinda asked.

“It’s going to drag that nasty fever right out of you.”

“It stinks.”

“And it’s going to get worse. But you’re going to feel a whole lot better.”

Doll went to the wicker basket filled with johnnycakes, plucked one from the dozen, and presented it to Melinda. “Try to eat little something.”

Melinda shook her head. “I can’t keep nothing down.”

“Well,” Doll sighed, as she dropped the cake back into the basket, “I’ll just leave them down in the kitchen and when you’re ready, they’ll be there.”

Melinda rubbed her feet together and squirmed at the sensation. “Uh-God, Doll, I don’t know if I can take it.”

“Yes, ma’am, you can and you will. I guarantee that the fever will be gone by the end of the day.”

Doll’s gaze traveled across the room and to the window. Her hand floated to her neck.

Melinda thought the woman had fallen into a trance. “Doll?”

“Hmmm,” Doll sounded, turning her gaze back onto Melinda. “I’m sorry, I drift off sometimes.” Her hand fell back down to her side. “Miss Melinda, I’m gonna have to be going now. I got to deliver some johnnycakes to Ms. Fern and Mrs. Sawyer.”

“Okay,” Melinda mumbled. “Caress, get my purse—”

Doll shook her hand at Melinda. “Not a dime, Miss Melinda. Your recovery is all the payment I need.”

“What about the johnnycakes?”

“On me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course!” Doll beamed as she slipped the handle of the basket onto her wrist. “Now don’t forget, you leave them nylons on until nightfall, okay?”

Melinda nodded in agreement.

Doll swept out of the room like a gale.

Sleep carried Melinda off to memories of easier times. When she awoke, the drapes were closed, night had fallen over the land, and the bedroom smelled god-awful. For a moment Melinda couldn’t determine where the stench was coming from, and then she remembered the onions.

When she peeled the nylons off her feet, the onion slithers were black as tar. Disgusted, Melinda climbed out of the bed and tossed the foul-smelling nylons into the dying fire. At that moment she became keenly aware of three things as she stood watching them burn away to smoke: 1) the bedroom already reeked, so throwing the onions into the flames probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do; 2) she felt 50 percent better than she had before Doll’s remedy; and 3) the crimson vase was gone.

Chapter Fourteen

C
ole Payne leaned forward and gazed at himself in the bathroom mirror. He ran his tongue over his teeth, skinned back his lips, and examined his mouth. He dipped his hand into the jar of pomade and smoothed the clump of greasy, waxy substance over his mane of dark hair. After that, he headed to the bedroom to check on Melinda, who had felt well enough to get out of bed and sit in a chair. When he entered the room she was reading.

“How are you, darling?”

Melinda smiled. “Good.” Her eyes lit on his hair and his crisp white shirt. She could smell cologne.

“Are you going someplace?”

Cole shook his head. “No, why?”

“You look like—well, nothing. You look very handsome today.”

Cole crossed the room and pecked her on the cheek. “I do it all for you, sweetheart.”

That was a lie. The extra care he’d taken with himself on that day, and on all of the Tuesdays that would follow, was for Doll Hilson. You see, Tuesday was the day she delivered her basket of johnnycakes.

Cole stationed himself on the veranda and watched the street for Doll. When he spotted her, he became as excited as a schoolboy on Christmas day.

“Morning, Mr. Payne,” Doll greeted with a soft smile.

“Morning, Doll.” Cole’s response was outrageously loud and cheerful.

As soon as she disappeared around the side of the house, Cole snatched open the French doors, sprinted across the parlor, down the hall, and slammed into the kitchen just as Caress was opening the back door.

Both Doll and Caress were startled by his sudden and rowdy arrival, and the women exchanged perplexed glances.

Cole glanced stupidly around the kitchen before his eyes fell on the pot of coffee simmering on the burner. “I believe I will have some more coffee,” he said.

Caress nodded, reached up and removed a cup and saucer from the cabinet, and then ambled over to the stove.

“So, how is your husband doing?”

Doll’s eyes popped with surprise. Cole Payne had never said more than two words to her.

“
My
husband?” Doll spouted with astonishment.

Cole laughed. “Well, Caress is a widow, so I must be talking about
your
husband.”

Caress set the cup and saucer down before Cole and filled the cup with coffee.

“He’s fine, thank you. I will let him know that you asked about him.”

Caress spooned three heaps of sugar into Cole’s coffee and added a dab of milk.

“Doll, would you like a cup of coffee?”

Cole could have said,
Doll, would you like to kiss me?
for the dense and uncomfortable silence that followed.

Caress’s head did a slow and comical spin. When it stopped, her eyes were wide and her mouth was an open, gaping hole.

“Sir?” Doll said.

“Coffee. Would you like some?”

“Well, uhm … I don’t …” Doll stammered.

“Caress,” Cole demanded in a casual tone, “pour Doll a cup of coffee.”

Caress didn’t move.

“Have you gone deaf as well?” Cole snapped.

Caress stuck out her bottom lip and folded her arms defiantly across her breasts.

“Caress!” Cole bellowed, and brought his fist down onto the table. The teaspoon rattled to the floor and coffee swilled over the rim of his cup.

Caress scrambled to the cupboard. Cole composed himself, bent over, and retrieved the spoon from the floor. When he was upright again, he saw that Doll was still standing at the door.

“Please,” he said, as he rose, rounded the table, and pulled a chair out. “Sit down.”

Doll’s hand floated to her neck and began to stroke it. “Thank you, Mr. Payne,” she purred.

While Doll was being served coffee at the Payne residence, her daughter Hemmingway, nearly fifteen years old, was headed toward the grocery store that Cole owned. Utterly unaware that the innocent sway of her hips and perfect onion-shaped backside bouncing beneath her skirt was causing a stir amongst the men she passed.

They—the men, that is—wouldn’t dare admire Hemmingway in the manner they desired: wide-eyed and frothing at the mouth. She was, after all, the reverend’s daughter—so they glanced, glimpsed, and peeked, like shy two-year-olds.

There was one amongst them, however, who took every opportunity available to make his desires known. His name was Mingo Bailey and he was infamous for his shameless pursuit of women and his triumphs over moist-eyed virgins.

“Pssst.”

Hemmingway heard the offensive sound, but continued walking.

“Pssssssst!”

Annoyed, Hemmingway turned her head just enough to sling, “I look like a cat to you?”

Mingo stepped out from beneath the shade of a willow tree. “You
could
be
my
pretty kitty.”

Hemmingway smirked, “I ain’t looking to be some man’s pet.” She glanced down at the slip of paper she held which listed the items she was sent to purchase from the store.

Mingo fell into step behind her. His eyes lit on her bottom and then glided down her exposed legs, pausing at the dents behind her knees. Mingo began to salivate; he could spend a lifetime slurping pop from those tender spaces behind Hemmingway’s knees.

“You better stop ignoring me, girl, or I’m gonna take this good stuff elsewhere.”

He was tall and thin, but muscular. The color of cedar, he walked with a bop because his left leg was longer than his right.

“Go on then,” Hemmingway laughed as she stepped into the store.

Mingo lingered. He removed the cigarette he kept tucked behind his ear and rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers before replacing it.

When Hemmingway reappeared he fell into step beside her once again.

“Girl, you better start paying me some mind. How you ’spect you gonna get into heaven if you keep ignoring me the way you do?”

“I ain’t your girl,” Hemmingway snapped as she shifted the grocery bag from her left hip to her right. “And heaven ain’t the place I’ma end up if I allow myself to deal with the likes of you!”

“Aw,” Mingo sighed and reached for the bag, “lemme carry that for you.”

Hemmingway stopped, turned to look him full in the face. “And what’s that gonna cost me?”

“Cost?”

“Yeah. I hear Mingo Bailey don’t do nothing for no one for free.”

Mingo almost smiled. She had heard right.

“You’re killing me, girl!” He grabbed his chest and roared with laughter. “I wouldn’t take a red cent from you, baby.” He reached for the bag. “I’d give you the world if I had it to give.”

“For free?”

“Of course!”

Hemmingway handed him the bag.

They walked along in silence until they reached the bridge that connected Candle Street to Nigger Row.

After offering a curt thank you, Hemmingway reached for the bag, but Mingo held it away.

“I’ll carry it all the way to your front door.”

“So my daddy can tear my behind up for being with the likes of you? No thank you.”

“What’s so wrong with me?” Mingo asked, handing the bag over.

“I think you know,” Hemmingway snorted, and walked off.

Mingo leaned into the splintered wood railing of the bridge and removed the cigarette from behind his ear. He pulled a long matchstick from the breast pocket of his shirt and swiped it against the heel of his shoe. By the time he brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette, Hemmingway was already on the north shore.

He took a long and thoughtful drag of the cigarette and wondered if Hemmingway Hilson would be as feral a lover as her mother had been.

Doll was coming down the road from Cole Payne’s house when she saw Hemmingway and Mingo. She ducked behind a tree and watched Mingo watching her daughter. Only after he flicked the cigarette butt into the river and walked away did she step from her hiding place. Doll started to follow him, but stopped when the reason for her pursuit suddenly vanished from her mind. You see, Doll thought she was suffering from lapses in memory. And I guess that would be the best way to explain away the periods in her life when Esther’s will overpowered her own.

For Doll, childhood memories were choppy and gray. The months leading up to her marriage to August were cloudy. She could only recall bits and pieces of her pregnancies—although the labor and delivery of the children were vivid. Their escape from Tulsa in 1921 was quite clear in her mind. She remembered the night sky lit morning bright by the fires the white people set to the black-owned properties and the air filled with the scent of gunpowder and kerosene. Dead bodies scattered in the street.

Although she had been living here with me for more than six years, she could not remember when they arrived, or the photo that had been taken of them on the front porch of their new home. The names and faces of the people here came and left from her mind just as quickly as the hours moved through the day. She suspected that her daughter didn’t like her; the boy, however, seemed to worship the ground she walked on.