Glorious (12 page)
M
eredith was sitting in the parlor reading the paper when she came across the full-page announcement about the writing competition and her immediate thought was that Easter’s novel would be the perfect candidate. Not the one Easter had been showing her, but the one she kept hidden under the bed in the confines of her suitcase. The one Meredith had been secretly reading. The one that Easter had yet to reveal even existed.
Every few days Easter would bring a stack of papers to Meredith for her review and Meredith would scan the pages for the loveliness, but it wasn’t there and she’d go stiff with anger and ask, “Is this all you’ve been working on? Is there nothing else?”
And Easter would innocently bat her eyes and shake her head no.
Liar!
The more Meredith thought about it, the more she realized that Easter was playing her for a fool. Living in her apartment, eating her food, and taking her money with every intention of publishing that manuscript behind her back.
Maybe her plan was to publish it under a pseudonym, with the hope that Meredith would never be the wiser. If Easter thought that she was sorely mistaken, because Meredith Tomas would read every book ever published from that moment forward, until she found it, and when she did she would slap Easter across her face and then spit on her!
When the butler walked into the room, Meredith’s face was flushed, her hands were clenched into tight fists, and she was shaking like the last leaf in autumn—she looked like she was in the throes of a stroke.
The beginning of the end looked like a brand-new day for Easter. It was as clear and encouraging as a Sunday sermon. Everyone was talking about the competition, those inside and outside of Harlem. W.E.B. DuBois, the great Negro leader and author, after hearing about it, was quoted as saying, “There is in this world no such force as the force of a person determined to rise. The human soul cannot be permanently chained, and here now is the proof!”
Horace assembled a panel of judges which included William E. Harmon, the educator and writer Brander Matthews, and the English novelist W. L. George.
The winner would be announced at the Boni & Liveright offices on April 1, the day of fools.
Just four days before the announcement, winter puckered its rime lips and blew thirteen inches of snow across the city. Schools were closed and squealing children layered in wool coats streamed from brownstones and tenement buildings out into the bright whiteness. Snow angels were made, snowmen carefully constructed, and snowballs pelted at anything that moved. By noon, though, the sun was sitting bright and high in the sky, the temperature had climbed, and the icicles began to fall. Blankets of snow liquefied and receded into the sewers and standpipes. The sound of rushing water reverberated through the city, augmenting the irritation of the men who’d gathered in the conference room at the Boni & Liveright offices. The three judges leaned back in their chairs and gazed down at two manuscripts.
Harmon said, “This is a problem.”
“A big one,” said George. “Plagiarism is a sin that should be punishable by law.”
Matthews scratched his chin. “That might be taking it a bit far.”
“I don’t think so. Plagiarism is theft. In less civilized countries they cut your hand off for stealing.”
“Are you calling America a civilized country?” George chuckled and the rest joined in.
Harmon raised his hands and quieted the men. “They live together, you know.”
“Yes, I heard that.”
“That makes this all the more difficult.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Well, do you think Meredith Tomas actually wrote it? I mean, we’re looking for the best story written on Negro life,” Matthews said.
“Are you suggesting that as a white woman she could not have written this story?” George’s eyes narrowed.
“What I’m saying is that the experiences found in this story,” Matthews reached over and tapped his finger against the stack of typed papers, “are much too authentic and the dialect is . . my God, dead on! I just can’t imagine Meredith Tomas writing with this much precision.”
George raised a finger. “I think we are disregarding the mystery of the art and the artist.”
“How so?” Matthews asked.
“Let us not forget the case of Thomas Chatterton.”
The men nodded agreeably. Thomas Chatterton had been writing faux medieval poetry ever since he was twelve years old and in 1769 successfully touted his poems as unearthed authentic period pieces of a fifteenth-century monk.
“Practice makes perfect, gentlemen,” George said. “And let’s not forget Al Jolsen.”
Harmon was horrified. “What are you trying to say?”
“Jolsen, a white man, put on blackface, sang mammy, and for a few hours became a very believable Negro.”
“So?”
“I think he’s saying that some people are talentless save for the fact that they are excellent mimics,” Matthews interjected.
“So in this case who would be the mimic?” Harmon asked.
“Why, Meredith, of course. But,” George drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the oak table, “E.V. Gibbs has only written short stories, and clearly this novel was a massive undertaking, and to write a perfect novel the first time out of the gate is rare.”
Harmon shook his head. “How do you know that this is her first attempt at a novel? Writers die all the time, leaving behind volumes of unpublished and unseen work!”
“You have a point.”
“This novel goes far above mimicry.”
“I think you are biased, Mr. Harmon.”
“I don’t care. Think what you want.”
“Let’s not bicker. We’re going to have to make a decision,” Matthews said.
Harmon raised his hand. “My vote is for E.V. Gibbs.”
“I’m for Meredith Tomas,” said George.
“I’m torn,” Matthews shamefully admitted.
George dug into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Then I guess we’ll have your Lady Liberty decide—”
“Wait, will we tell them?”
“Tell who?”
“The women … the writers. Gibbs and Tomas?”
“Yes, of course, I suppose we would have to.”
“And the newspapers?”
“What of them?”
“Will they be notified?”
“I don’t see how it can be avoided.”
The men were quiet for a moment. The sounds of metal shovels scraping against the snow echoed up from the streets.
“All agreed?”
“Ay!”
“Okay then, heads, Meredith Tomas; tales, E.V. Gibbs…” George flicked his thumb and the coin rocketed into the air.
W
AYCROSS
, G
EORGIA
1961
T
he quarter dropped down into the brown palm of the teenage boy, who then slapped it loudly onto the back of his free hand. “Tails!” he shouted. “You have to carry the watermelon.” The younger boy glumly bent over and hoisted the ten-pound melon up onto his shoulder and the two started down the dusty road. The air that day was still and the heat, heavy and damp like a black woman’s working hand. It pressed against faces, armpits, scalps, and even private places, springing salty streams of water.
There were few trees on that last stretch of road, so there were only small bits of shade along the street—no defense at all against the rays of sunlight that crept under the awning of the bus station like a thief. The heat was worse inside the depot and the whirling fans just shifted it from one corner to the next, leaving Dodd Everson’s face pinched and pink and finally forcing him to roll his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. When he glanced at his watch it told him that the bus was still late and his patience began to peel away.
Five minutes later the sound of a diesel engine brought a sigh of relief from Dodd and the others who were waiting for loved ones. He rolled his sleeves down again, buttoned the cuffs, and adjusted the white straw Panama hat he wore. The woman he waited for sat slumped sideways in the stiff bus seat with her cheek pressed against the window. She was asleep and her mouth was slightly ajar; a stream of saliva inched its way down her chin. The bus hit a bump in the road and jolted her awake. Her eyelids fluttered open in time to see the rusted aluminum sign on the side of the road which stated:
Ice-cold Coca-Cola served here.
Stomach grumbling, she wiped at her chin, then began the arduous task of bringing her old body erect again. Flicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she unsnapped the silver clasp of the beaten black leather purse she’d clutched on her lap through four states and fished out a peppermint ball she’d been saving for just this moment.
Welcome to Waycross—population 1,856
, a small wooden sign three feet from the road proclaimed. The woman rolled her eyes and snorted loudly at the black letters.
When the bus came to a shuddering stop, passengers leapt from their seats and grabbed the hatboxes, valises, and paper bags that had made the journey on the steel racks above their heads. But she was too old, too tired, and too wide to immediately tackle that particular task and so she remained in her seat.
The soldier boy who’d helped her onto the bus in Charleston and then taken the seat beside her had talked about everything, including his pretty, hazel-eyed wife waiting for him in Waycross. An hour had passed before he realized that he hadn’t offered his name.
“Joseph Gill. But my friends call me Josey.” Grinning, he extended a strong dark hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Josey. Easter Bartlett.”
They shook.
“Pleased, Mizz Bartlett,” Josey said, and then, “’Scuse me, ma’am, uhm, did you say Easter?”
“Sure did.”
“Why that’s certainly a unique name.”
Easter nodded and mused on how the word “unique” rolled off his Southern tongue.
“Yes, that’s what they tell me.”
Now he was hovering over her, staring down at the dark oily spots on her battered straw hat.
“This here is Waycross, ma’am.”
Easter smiled and nodded her head in agreement. She looked out the window and then back at him.
“Didn’t you say you was getting off here?”
“Uh-huh, just want to take my time.”
Josey heard the fatigue in Easter’s voice. It was a familiar sound—as commonplace in black women as fish were to the sea.
“Of course,” Josey said, and shot an anxious look outside the window.
Easter followed his eyes. “You see her?”
“Uhm, not yet.”
“She’ll be here. Don’t look so worried.” Easter began to lift her body from the seat.
“There she is!” Josey yelped. He stretched over Easter and knocked frantically on the window. “Carol!”
Easter smiled at his excitement and then tapped him gently on the waist.
“Sorry, ma’am.” Josey gave her a shameful look. “Can I help you up?”
“Sure can,” Easter said, taking his waiting hand. “Go easy now.”
He gently pulled and she gently pushed and together they got her old body upright.
“You okay?”
“Fine, just ancient,” Easter laughed. “Hand me that suitcase up there, would you?”
Off the bus, the heat wrapped itself tight around Easter as she made her way to the small depot. Josey offered to carry her suitcase, but Easter declined, sending him away with a wave of her hand. “Go on now, don’t be bothering yourself with this old woman. You got babies to make!” she cackled happily.
Easter lumbered toward what she hoped would be some sort of cool—some sort of cool, and the promise of an ice-cold Coca-Cola. Her mouth began to water, turning the mint into a lump of sticky sugar on the center of her tongue. Sweat ran down her face and into her eyes, transforming Dodd Everson into a white and pink blur as he stood waiting just outside the entrance.
“Easter Bartlett?”
She looked up into his ice-blue eyes.
“Yessuh, that would be me.”
H
e didn’t carry her bag. Didn’t even offer, just introduced himself and turned on his heels and started toward a white Cadillac with a ragtop and spiked chrome wheels. There was a Confederate flag sticker on the bumper. No words, just the flag. Easter supposed that said it all.
They climbed in, Dobbs shoved the key in the ignition, and they were off. The tires cut through the dry earth, raising curtains of red dust that settled in sheets on the windshield and hood of the car. Dodd cussed under his breath and pressed down heavily on the gas pedal.
Easter clung to the armrest; he was driving too fast and her seat was too far up, pressing her belly against the dashboard. A sudden stop and she was sure she would be thrown through the windshield to her death. The thought churned her already sour stomach. A Coca-Cola would have helped with that problem, but when Easter stopped to wipe the sweat from her eyes she saw the frown on Dodd’s face, and she knew that he would not allow her the time it would take to buy the Coke, just his “Is this all you got?” and her “Yessuh, this is it.”
And so when the bubble of air found its way into her mouth, she parted her lips and released the loud, stinking foulness and did not follow it up with an apology.
Dodd made a face and rolled down his window and asked if Easter wouldn’t mind doing the same.
They whizzed by ramshackle clapboard houses that gave way to ramblers, raised ranches, and Queen Anne Victorians. Once he came upon the street known as Vesey, he eased off the gas and they crept past the bright yellow heads of sunflowers that hung glum on their green stems, laughing children splashing happily in kidney-shaped pools, and husbands proudly pushing their brand-new Flymo lawnmowers across jade-colored lawns.
The home of Dodd and Shannon Everson was a modest blue and white bi-level with a circular porch and an attached garage. A magnolia tree sat in the front yard, its blooms covered the front walk in a blanket of pink petals.
Dodd climbed from the car, went to the trunk, and retrieved Easter’s suitcase. As Easter sat fumbling with the lock, the front door was flung open and Shannon rushed squealing from the house. “Oh, Easter!”
She ran to Easter and threw her arms around her neck and Easter found herself veiled in Adorn hairspray, perfume, and gin.
“Welcome to our home, Easter. It’s been so many years. It’s so nice to finally see you again.” Shannon beamed and planted her hands on Easter’s shoulders.
Shannon was a twelve-year-old tomboy the first time she came to spend the summer at the Maryland farm with her Aunt Hazeline and her family. Back then Easter was the cook, the housekeeper, and the nanny, and Hazeline had taken to referring to her as the
all-around-everything,
because Easter was efficient at everything she did. Shannon arrived that first summer with skinned knees and her blond hair pulled back into two ponytails. She abhorred dolls and playing dress-up and preferred instead to climb trees and capture frogs with her male cousins.
Shannon spent four consecutive summers at the farm. Each year she arrived with one less boyish trait, until finally she transformed into the young woman her parents had prayed for. Shannon had never forgotten Easter and so by the time Shannon sent the letter asking if she would come to Waycross to be the
all-around-everything
to her family, Easter was grateful because she had spent three years watching the cancer run like a freight train through Hazeline’s body until it made its final stop in her brain.
Waycross was not a place Easter wanted to return to, but she had no other options for employment and over the years she had made her peace with the town and so she sent word back to Shannon, agreeing to come.
“Nice to see you again, Miss Shannon,” Easter said when Shannon finally broke the embrace.
“You put on some weight, I see,” Shannon laughed.
“That comes with age, I guess.”
“I suppose it happens to the best of us,” Shannon said wistfully and slid her hands down her slim hips. “C’mon in the house, you must be hungry from that long ride.”
Inside was inviting and filled with sunlight. A pink and white vase regurgitating a rainbow of flowers sat on the sofa table. The living room led to the family room, which looked into the backyard. The dining room was separated from the kitchen by a swinging door.
“You sit yourself right down,” Shannon gushed, and pulled a chair from beneath the round, white kitchen table. “We have some leftover pot roast, julienne carrots, and mashed potatoes.” Shannon tilted the oven door open, reached in, and pulled out a casserole dish. “I’ve been keeping it warm for you.”
A bluebird fluttered to the window, peered in, and then fluttered away. Easter supposed that this was a good sign. She was smiling to herself when Shannon paused, looked over her shoulder, and said, “Oh, it’s going to be so good to have you here. I can hardly wait for the children to meet you.” Shannon set the plate of food down before Easter. “They’re just going to love you.”
Easter opened her mouth to speak but Shannon continued, “Now, what can I get you to drink? We got sweet tea and Coca-Cola. Oh, and I think there’s some ginger ale and—”
“Ma’am?”
Shannon stumbled to a stop. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, her lips parted.
“I’d like to freshen up a bit, if you don’t mind.”
Shannon’s eyes rolled in her head and she went pink. “Oh, silly me, just going on and on. Of course you can, let me just show you where.”
A small room off the kitchen between the laundry room and the pantry, a room not even big enough for a child but crammed with a bed, bureau, nightstand, and what looked to Easter like a kneeling bench. The walls were a bland peach.
“This is the closet.” Shannon pointed a finger at the door on the left side of the room and then nodded to the right and said, “That’s the bathroom.”
“Thank you.”
The bathroom, with its blue and white flowered tile, had a pleasant feel about it. A small potted cactus sat on the windowsill. Easter washed her hands, threw water onto her face, and rinsed her mouth clean. When she returned to the kitchen Shannon was seated on the counter, her legs crossed at the knee, laughing gaily on the phone.
