Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands (4 page)

In the mirror, my face flushed furious at Miz Sooky’s ignorance. Miz Sooky’s not a bad person. She really isn’t. She’s always doing nice neighborly things like bringing over fresh-baked banana bread or sharing home-grown tomatoes. But, like a lot of people around here, she’s got a gigantic, gaping
hole
in her head when it comes to Negroes. Fact is, never
once
in my life have I seen Miz Sooky that she hasn’t worked in some reference to what she calls their “dark danger to Southern womanhood.”

Miz Lillian, who’s as smart as a whip, pursed her red lips at me in the mirror and together we shook our heads. Miss Iris made a face at Miz Sooky’s lumpy old sack-dressed body, reclined headless at the sink, her square-cut hands like turnips, spotted and gnarled from gardening without her gloves on.
As
if any man, besides old Mr. Fred, would want to bother your frumpy
old bones,
I thought.

“Sooky?” Miz Lillian said, changing the subject firmly, “You bringin’ your sweet corn salad to dinner-on-the-grounds this Sunday?”

Deacon Brass leans against the big oak tree like a scrawny stork, jacked up one-legged, perched on his heel. After a long, slow drag on his Pall Mall, he lifts his chin, blows smoke and drawls, to no one in particular, “Re-trial or not, those two boys are gonna
fry.
”

And what about that murdering J. D. Bowman? Will he fry,
too? Or
, I want to scream at him, at all of them,
does Justice
wear a hood on top of a mask?

Daddy, seeing my face, intercedes. Smooth as molasses, he asks, “Your mother ready, Roo?”

I nod, mute, feeling the familiar catch in my throat, the pinch in my chest that comes from not being able to speak my mind.

“Gentlemen,” Daddy says, throwing an arm around me that’s half warning, half comfort, and nods our goodbye to the men in the shade.

Chapter 6

At four-thirty, Ren and I race to the brick-front post office at the end of our street. This is it, we’ve decided, one week to the day since Doto’s friend Blanche forwarded the notice that Mr. J. Edgar Hoover had received Daddy’s letter. This is the day we’ll receive his reply.

Together, we duck through the heavy, half-glass door, hoping to avoid our postmistress’ evil eye. Hands on the counter, Miss Maybelle Mason unpleats her neck, squinting into the afternoon sun, an old turtle sniffing for trouble.

“Marie Louise!” she snaps, stopping us in our tracks. “You two want to explain why you’re not in school today?”

“Easter vacation, ma’am, all week,” I say, wondering why she’d hit us with such an obvious question. The front porch of the post office is also our school bus stop. Each school day, Miss Maybelle watches us and the Samson boys like a hawk, making sure we don’t sit down on either of the two benches out front which she informs us are “U.S. Government property!” I’m sure she keeps track of school vacations closer than we do.

“How old are you now?” she demands, giving me the once-over.

“Twelve, going on thirteen in July,” I say, resenting her greenish-yellow gaze.

“Good. My niece from Virginia is comin’ to town next month and she’s bringin’ her daughter who’s about your age. I’m callin’ your mother to have you two play together while my niece and I visit.”

Miss Maybelle stops, not having asked me if I’m interested or anything, but clearly expecting a reply. As if, in addition to the P.O., she’s the boss of the world.

“I’ll tell Mother you’ll be calling her, ma’am,” I say lamely, hating how she makes my blood boil.

“Don’t forget! Now, what kind of trouble you two gettin’ into with no school all week?”

“No trouble, Miss Maybelle, just playing at the packinghouse or down at Dry Sink.” Ren’s scratching the back of his left leg with his right foot.

“Dry Sink! There’s no place around here called Dry Sink. What are you talkin’ about?” she demands. Nothing sets her off like an inaccurate address.

“You know it, ma’am,” I say. “That big, dry sinkhole in the back grove behind our house.”

Miss Maybelle’s age-spot-speckled face creases briefly into her snapping-turtle smile. “
That
what you call it? When I was a girl, it was Little Lake Annie, the local swimming hole.”

“Dry Sink? A swimming hole?” we ask, truly amazed.

“Certainly was. We had a rope off the big old oak tree on the side, used to spend hours swinging off it into the lake,” she cackles.

Ren and I look at each other, dumbstruck.

“You kids today have no idea what
real
fun is!” Miss Maybelle huffs. “Go on, now. Marie Louise, tell your mother she’ll be hearing from me.”

Ren and I beat a path around the corner to P.O. Box 122, second section, third row from the top. Moving fast, to escape Miss Maybelle and recover the conviction that “This is the Day!” Ren misdials the combination the first time and has to do it again. Finally, the little glassed door springs open. There it is—the large manila envelope from La Grange, Illinois, and a handful of small ones. I grab them all and, after cat-walking carefully past the front counter, we fly the half-mile back to the house.

Doto’s where we left her, enthroned on the screened front porch with the large leather journals she calls her “book-work.” In the blue one, she records her “monthly updates” from the trustee who administers her father’s estate. In the red book, she tracks her “income and outgo.”

We burst through the screen door and our grandmother looks up, cat eyes twinkling. We thrust the envelope into her hands, grabbing our sides and gasping from the run.

Slowly, she takes her silver letter opener and slits open the top. Mother, having heard the door slam, appears expectant on the porch, reading glasses in hand. As Doto removes the stack of smaller envelopes from their enclosure, we eye each one for an official-looking clue. Quickly, she spreads them fan-wise like a bridge hand, scanning the return addresses in the upper left corners. Her face falls in the message it’s not here.

“Look again,” we insist, as she deals the stack, one by one, face up on her ledger book.

Not there.
Even though last week’s packet gave notice that our registered letter had been duly delivered to F.B.I. headquarters, even though he’s had a whole seven days to respond, Mr. J. Edgar Hoover has not yet found time to reply.

“Damn,” Ren says glumly. As the three females surrounding him look at him sharply, he levels his eyes, obviously feeling justified.

“Double-wide Hoover dam,” Doto tosses the compliment to what she calls his
mettle
.

“Triple-toed beaver dam,” he tosses back.

“Daddy’s in the car barn.” Mother sighs, veiling her disappointment. Ren and I run to deliver the news.

Easter Sunday, Miss Maybelle nabs me in the vestibule. “Marie Louise, I hope you haven’t forgotten our social plans?” she says, squeezing a face-crease in my direction. “My grandniece Maryvale will be here the second Saturday in May and I’m sure she can’t wait to play dolls with Miss Reesa McMahon!”

“Dolls!” I grouse to Mother once we’re seated in the church pew. “You think Maryvale is some little bitty old biddy like Miz Maybelle?”

“I doubt it, Roo. I’m sure the Good Lord broke the mold after He made Maybelle,” Mother murmurs. “Now, sit up straight, here comes Daddy and the choir.”

Chapter 7

Easter night, Mother and I are peeling eggs when all of a sudden Buddy, asleep by the door, shoots to his feet and winds up his tail. At Luther’s tappety-tap-TAP, Mother calls, “Come in!”

“Evenin’, MizLizbeth. Howdy-Doo-Roo,” Luther calls back. His over-bright smile’s a poor mask for the dark grief lines crisscrossing his face. “Y’all have a nice Easter?”

“Okay, how about you?” Mother asks gently.

“Good as could be, all things considered,” Luther says, dropping his eyes quickly to pat Buddy. My throat tightens at his sideways reference to Marvin, and following his lead, I swallow
hard
. After a moment, Luther looks up again. “How’d the program go?”

Under Daddy’s direction, the choir performed an Easter cantata.

“Came off well,” Mother says and leaves it at that.

The Easter service had been agony for me. I’d gone unprepared for the effects of the familiar story—the bright young man, so kind and gentle, so gifted at storytelling, the murderous mob, the uncaring officials, the terrible sorrow of his family and friends. Of course, Jesus’ story turned out considerably better than Marvin’s. The rousing finale,
Up from the
grave He arose with a mighty triumph o’er His foes,
left me sobbing. Miz Sooky Turnbull, sitting in the pew behind us, reached up and patted me encouragingly, heartened, I’m sure, by the hope that I’d somehow blundered my way into salvation. It wasn’t that at all, of course. Jesus rose,
a victor o’er the
dark domain.
Marvin’s dead,
gone forever
.

“How about yours?” Mother asks him.

Few white people realize that besides being the best citrus pruner in the county, Luther’s choir director at St. John’s A.M.E. And nobody, outside our family and his choir members, knows that the choirs of both churches often perform similar programs, courtesy of sheet music passed between the two directors.

“It was fine,” Luther says, his eyes appreciating Mother’s kindness.

I watch the two of them, marveling at the way they tiptoe around each other’s pain, like the way your tongue probes yet protects a toothache.

“Armetta do her solo?” Mother inquires.

“Ah wish you could’ve heard her.” Luther’s smile is real this time. “Not even Paul Robeson hisself coulda sung ’bout the balm of Gilead any better. The whole church-house was lifted up, lifted right up.”

“Wish we could’ve been there. Please tell Armetta I’m thinking of her,” Mother says, laying a soft hand briefly on his forearm. “Reesa, show Luther in to Daddy, please.”

Luther trails me into the living room where Daddy sits at the piano working on his new piece.

“Evenin’, Mist’Warren. What we got here?” Luther takes his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and puts them on his nose. “Rhap-so-
dee
in Blue,” he reads. “How’s it go?”

“You know this, don’t you?” Daddy asks. “I used to. Forgot all about it ’til Doto showed up with the sheet music.”

“Can Ah hear it?” Luther asks with the briefest flash of his old self. Daddy sees what’s coming. Settling in on the sofa, so do I.

“Play it for me, Mist’Warren,” he chides Daddy gently.

Musically, Daddy and Luther are different as night and day. While Daddy works hard mastering his pieces, Luther has the ability to hear a song once and play it back, perfectly at first, then even better, embroidered with whatever he hears inside his head. In the comfortable, comforting game they’ve played for years, the rules are simple: Daddy plays first for Luther, then Luther returns the favor.

When Daddy lays his hands on the keyboard, everything about him elongates. His head rises above an upright back. His legs extend flatly to the floor, right foot on the pedal, left toes gently tapping. His fingers stretch out on the keys, wrists flat.

“Rhapsody in Blue” is my new favorite song. When Daddy plays it, I imagine I’m in a place far away from here, where people are nothing but nice to each other. I see it clearly inside my head:

A beautiful ballroom, the handsome, tuxedoed gentleman and the charming Miss Rhapsody—a vision in sky-blue chiffon, swirling about her, around them as they dip and float across the polished marble floor. The sound of sophisticated music, the perfume of jasmine and orange blossoms fill the air, and her hair, with sweetness.

“That’s a
fine
song. You played it right elegant!” Luther tells Daddy at its end.

“Thank you, sir.” Daddy nods, ceremoniously yielding the piano bench to his old friend.

Luther sits. His long, loose-jointed body curls over the keyboard, palms pressed together briefly as if in prayer. Lightly, he lays one finger, then another, on the keys, tickling out the La-Da-Dee-Da of the opening. Then, fanning his fingers like a faith healer, he plays. Once the basic line is laid, he begins his embroidery, threading twice as many notes as Daddy did. Elbows, arms and his entire right leg pumping, angular yet effortless, like an ibis taking flight. Mother appears in the doorway. Doto, Ren and Mitchell crowd the upper stairwell.

Luther’s version of the song is local—less Rhapsody, more Blue. His lady lays sobbing-hearted on her bed, waiting for the one who has not come. Memories of their last perfect dance together fall like leaves onto the crumpled heap that was her party dress, now abandoned on the floor. At one point, she gets up, suddenly alert, certain he’s come. But,
no
, she realizes.
No
body’s there. Sinking back into bed, sadder than before, she knows he’s
not
coming, not tonight, not
ever
again.

Oh, Marvin . . . Remember when I said I wasn’t looking forward to teenage dances because I didn’t know how; and you said,
“Don’t worry, li’l Rooster. Ah’ll teach yuh t’ Car’lina Shag with the
best of ’em!” Who’s going to teach me now?

When Luther finishes, my entire family applauds him wildly. He looks up, dazed and distracted by a sorrow so thick it’s seeped out his fingertips. He nods, thanking us all. “No, Luther, thank
you
,” Doto calls from the top of the stairs. “That was wonderful.”

“You’s most kind, Miz Doto,” he says softly.

Doto says goodnight and herds the boys back into their bedroom. Mother returns to the kitchen and I remain, temporarily forgotten, on the sofa.

In a voice worn and tired, Luther says quietly to Daddy, “Mist’Warren, Ah come for your help.”

After their first year in Mayflower, my parents say, they asked Luther to stop addressing them with the customary Mistuh and Miz attached to their names. “We’re friends,” they told him, “our first names will do.” But Luther wouldn’t have it.

“Ah ’preciates what you saying, and Ah’m proud to call you friends ’cause you’s quality folk; but you’s in the South and got to get use to they ways. If Ah was to call you jus’ Warren and Lizbeth, the white folks ’round here bound to think
you’s
crazy, and they’d laugh at you and leave you alone. Worse’n that, they’d take a notion that
Ah’s
getting uppity and that don’t bring nothing but trouble, Ah
mean
!”

Eventually my parents surrendered to Luther’s logic, yet, in his way, Luther rebelled against it, pruning the customary
Mistuh
down to
Mist
’ for Daddy, grafting
Miz
and
Lizbeth
into a single word.

What is it, Luther?” Daddy asks, sitting in the chair nearest the piano bench, leaning forward.

“Armetta’s plum grief-struck over losing our Marvin. Since it was the Klan that kilt him, and Mistuh Reed Garnet’s a member, Armetta swears she can’t never set foot in they house again. Miz Lucy Garnet’s been up to our house with they little girl crying,
please
come back, saying Mistuh Reed had nothin’ to do with it, it was the Lake County devils that kilt our boy. Armetta won’t take a listen—though she loves that li’l May Carol like her own, such a sweet child. But, Mist’Warren, Armetta’s use to working, she
needs
to work, take her mind off funeralizing. Ah’m wondering if you might have something for her to do. Not in the house. We know MizLizbeth likes to tend her own. But, maybe at the packinghouse, cleaning up, clearing out. Just enough to get by ’til she finds herself a new fam’ly to work for.”

Daddy sits silently, thinking.

Yes!
I think.
You must say yes!

“We don’t usually hire help this time of year, except for Robert, who sweeps up a couple times a week. But . . . it has been several seasons since the showroom had a thorough cleaning. We could keep Armetta busy for a week or so, maybe two. That help?”

Luther’s and my shoulders sag in relief. “Bless you, Mist’Warren. Thank you. Can she start tomorrow?”

“Eight o’clock, before it gets too hot.”

Luther looks down at the keyboard, then back at Daddy.

“They’s something else . . .”

Daddy’s nod tells him to continue.

“Ah had a visit from Mistuh Harry T. Moore. You know who he is?”

“Leads the N-double A-C-P over in Brevard County, doesn’t he?” Daddy says. “Helped the Negro teachers get a bigger paycheck?”

N.A.A.C.P.? Marvin used to joke that those letters meant Ne
groes Annoyed by the Abuse of Colored People.

“That’s him, ’cept he’s the State leader now. Mr. Moore heard ’bout Marvin and come to see me and Armetta, asking what the authorities been doing ’bout it. Ah told him Constable Watts says he’s ‘looking into it,’ which is ’bout like a diamondback wonderin’ where that rattlin’ noise come from.”

“Exactly.”

“So Mistuh Harry T. Moore say he talk to Mistuh Thurgood Marshall ’bout what happened. You know him? Head lawyer for the national N-double A-C-P in New York City?”

“Know
of
him.”

“Mistuh Moore say since we was together when we found Marvin, Mistuh Marshall be wanting to talk to you, Mist’ Warren. Mistuh Moore say Ah need to ask if you’d be willing to talk to them.”

“Of course, Luther. I’d welcome the opportunity to speak with either of those gentlemen.”

“Mistuh Moore say Mistuh Marshall been a good friend of the coloreds in Florida. He say Mistuh Marshall has big friends in Washington, D.C., might be able to get the local authorities to pay more attention to this.”

“Tell Mr. Moore I’ll be happy to help, any way I can.”

“The hang of it is,” Luther says, his voice all of a sudden choked, and his eyes glimmer, “Jerry Tee heard some of those ol’ Crackers talkin’ at the gas station. They say the Klan wasn’t even after Marvin. They just confused him with somebody else in a white Cadillac with New York plates.”

Luther’s head drops, his shoulders fold in on it as he begins to sob. Daddy’s eyes are watery as he puts his arm around Luther’s bent-over back. I feel hot tears rising, their wetness racing down my cheeks.

“I heard that, too,” Daddy tells Luther softly.

Luther tugs a large plaid handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wipes his eyes and his nose.

“Mist’Warren, the Klan done kilt-dead our boy for nothin’.”

Daddy takes a shuddery breath. “I know, Luther, and I can’t even begin to tell you how bad I feel about it.”

“Thank you,” Luther says, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes again. “Ah couldn’t tell Armetta ’bout that, and Ah warned Jerry Tee he better be muffle-jawed in her direction; her heart’s done broke enough already. Ah ’pologize for spoiling your evening. It’s just been a rope . . .”

God! How did You let this happen?

“No apologies, Luther. Armetta’s isn’t the only heart that’s hurting around here,” Daddy says sadly, catching my eye across the room.

“Folks in The Quarters are scared outta they wits; most of ’em grabbin’ they chil’ren off the street at the least li’l noise or the motor-by of a white man’s truck. The chil’ren are having night terrors, too. Hardly a night goes by that Ah don’t hear a couple of ’em, up and down the way, waking up screaming in they beds.”

“Luther, these people must be stopped. There
has
to be a way.”

“Ah wish they was, Mist’Warren. Ah sincerely wish they was.”

But who?
my heart cries.
How?