The Book of Harlan. Bernice L. McFadden
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want you to know that I ain’t never felt about no woman the way I feel about you.”
Emma shot him a bashful look.
“Emma Robinson, I’d—”
“Yes, Sam?”
“I don’t want you to think me too forward, okay?”
“Okay, Sam.”
“Emma, may I kiss you?”
All she knew of kissing were the brush of lips against cheeks and the modest pecks newlyweds bestowed one another after her father pronounced them man and wife. Although there was that one time when she was walking with her mother and, out of the corner of her eye, she spied a couple in the alleyway that separated the feed store from the barbershop. The woman’s back was against the wall, the man pressed against her, their lips tightly locked; Emma wondered how in the world they were able to breathe. The scene never left her and every time she thought of it, her intestines wiggled in her gut.
“I would very much like you to kiss me, Sam Elliott,” she uttered breathlessly.
The kissing quickly escalated and before Emma knew it, she was on the bed, skirt rolled up to her brassiere, bloomers dangling from her ankles, Sam on top of her panting like a racehorse.
It was over as quickly as it had begun.
Afterward, they lay very still, listening to each other breathe.
Sam touched her waist. “Emma?”
“Yes?”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He pulled her to his chest, brushed the hair from her face, and kissed her wet cheeks.
“Why are you crying?”
“I can’t say. It’s so stupid.”
“Are you sorry we did this?”
“N-no.”
“Then what?”
“I’m just worried that people will know.”
“How would they?”
“I heard that people can tell by looking at the back of your knees.”
Sam chuckled. “I think that’s an old wives’ tale, Emma.”
“Maybe.”
“The only way people will know is if you tell them.”
“Well, I’m not gonna tell a soul—are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Good, then we don’t have anything at all to worry about.”
Sam kissed her again. “Not one thing.”
Chapter 7
“You’re what?” Tenant boomed, carefully setting his Bible onto the sofa table.
“Pregnant,” Emma repeated timidly, gripping Sam’s hand.
“Pregnant?” Tenant uttered stupidly as if he’d never heard the word before. He turned confused eyes to Louisa. “Pregnant?”
“Yes, dear,” Louisa said sadly. “Three months.”
Dumbfounded, Tenant dropped down heavily beside his wife. He winced at Sam. “I know you, don’t I?”
“Yes sir, I’m—”
Tenant wagged his finger at the young man. “Aren’t you Lucille Nelson’s beau?”
“No sir, I’m not, I—”
“What in the world are you doing in my living room . . .” Tenant trailed off, his eyes bouncing from Emma’s face down to their tightly linked hands. “Oh, no. No, no, no,” he lamented, shaking his head.
“Daddy, we—”
Tenant raised his hand and turned to his wife. “Well, we’ll just have to send her away.”
“Away?” Louisa said.
“We’ll send her up to Atlanta or maybe down to Jacksonville!” The words tumbled from his mouth. “She’ll have the baby and put it up for adoption—”
“Adoption?” Louisa reeled back in horror.
“Yes. And then she’ll go off to Howard University and complete her education.”
“I’m not putting my baby up for adoption!” Emma screeched.
Louisa shot her a hard look. “Now Tenant, there’s no need for all of that. Sam is willing to marry Emma.”
“Marry?” Tenant barked, jerking his thumb violently in Sam’s direction. “Him? Who is he? He’s nobody. Just a carpenter. Certainly not good enough for our Emma!”
Emma started to protest, but Sam quieted her with a gentle squeeze of her hand.
Stepping toward Tenant, he said, “Sir, I believe Jesus was a carpenter too, was he not?”
Chapter 8
Three weeks later, Sam and Emma exchanged vows. Tenant officiated the ceremony.
The day of the nuptials, thunder rang though the heavens and lightning knifed the sky, dumping buckets of water. Emma was near tears.
Louisa said, “Don’t worry, it’s good luck.”
The reception was held at the Robinsons’ home. People had never seen so much food and flowers in one place.
Emma wore a girdle beneath her simple white dress. It did wonders concealing her bulging stomach, but nothing at all to dissipate her glow. Louisa dusted Emma’s face with so much powder that for a few moments, the girl looked like a ghost. In the end, all of Louisa’s efforts were for naught, because minutes later, Emma’s radiance burned right through that mask of powder, bathing her face luminous once again.
It made Tenant nervous whenever he saw a guest looking too hard at Emma. During these moments he would bellow boisterously, “Look at my beautiful daughter, she’s just glowing with happiness!” And any mother in earshot would roll her eyes and spit, “Who he think he fooling? I been pregnant before, I know what it looks like!”
Sam, who was not a drinking man, had two glasses of fine champagne at the reception—the bubbles were still floating in his head as he and Emma entered her bedroom.
Everything was pink: the canopy bed, walls, and window treatments. Everything.
Sam looked around the room and fell apart with laughter.
“Shhhh,” Emma warned, reaching for his zipper.
“What you doing, girl?”
“What you think? It’s our wedding night, you know.”
Sam backed away from her. “You jumped the gun on that. I gave you your wedding gift a few months back, remember?” he slurred drunkenly, aiming his chin at Emma’s midsection.
“No, I don’t quite remember, so I guess you gonna have to remind me now, won’t you?” Emma giggled seductively.
* * *
Before God blessed them with abundance, Tenant and Louisa had been sharecroppers, living in a one-room chattel house with two other couples and their three children. That life wasn’t so distant a memory that they couldn’t recall having to offer privacy in a home where there was no privacy to be had. They’d turn their backs on the grappling lovers, push their fingers into their ears, and pray for a hasty conclusion so they could snatch some shut-eye before it was time to head back to the fields.
But in 1917 there were no fields for Tenant and Louisa to fret over, just