The Bernice L. McFadden Collection. Bernice L. McFadden
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LEADS IN NEGRO LYNCHINGS …
Yes, sin was everywhere. It had even breached the sanctity of his own home.
At the church, August removed the skeleton key from his pocket, shoved it into the lock, and turned. Once inside, he loaded the pot-bellied stove with wood and paper and tossed in a lit match. As he stood watching the flames swell and flicker, his mind wandered to his wife and the bite mark on her thigh.
He’d noticed it weeks earlier as she lay sleeping. Sometime during the night, her restless tossing and turning had caused her gown to roll up and around her waist. The warm and humid day had ushered in an equally uncomfortable evening, so the blanket was left folded at the foot of the bed and husband and wife slept uncovered.
The morning August realized that sin had taken up residence in his home was a morning similar to the thousand others that preceded it. August had risen early, swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretched his arms high above his head, and yawned.
As always, he took a moment to admire his beautiful sleeping wife, and that’s when he spotted the bite, which he first took as a bruise.
On closer inspection, August could plainly see the teeth marks in her flesh, and his heart dropped out of his chest. Some man, some heathen, had placed his mouth so close to
— August stopped the thought barreling down on him.
How could she? Why would she?
Doll had not allowed him to make love to her in that way for months. She had even prohibited the normal coupling that occurred between man and wife. After a while, August had been forced to pleasure himself in the solitary darkness of the outhouse.
Now it was all clear to him: she had taken a lover.
Adulteress!
The word alone was kindle for fury.
No one would have faulted August if he had snatched Doll up by the throat and choked the breath out of her.
But not August. He did what he always did when it came to Doll’s misgivings—he turned her sin onto himself and absorbed like a sponge. He convinced himself that he had allowed his church and his flock to take precedence over his wife. The result of which were feelings of neglect within Doll. She in turn had sought attention elsewhere, and had stumbled into the arms of a heathen who plied her with sweet lies all in the name of pilfering her pyramid.
He had only himself to blame.
August exited the bedroom on legs made of jelly. He thought he might vomit and rushed to the outhouse. Standing in the darkness, he waited patiently for the surge, but it did not come. What did emerge were tears accompanied by a howl so loud and sorrowful that it woke Hemmingway from her slumber.
The door of the church opened and closed. August turned around to find one of his parishioners stepping in.
“Morning, Sister Betty.”
“Morning, Reverend.” Sister Betty’s response was cheerful. “Happy Good Friday to you!”
August smiled. “And the same to you.”
Sister Betty removed her coat and gave it two good shakes, sending droplets of water through the air. “I know you ain’t s’pose to question God, but I gotta ask why in the world he sending down all this rain!” She chuckled as she moved to August’s side and floated her hands over the stove. “Ooh, nice and toasty,” she moaned.
August excused himself. He went to the small windowless room located at the back of the church. Once inside, he lit a candle, sat down at his desk, opened the drawer, and removed six pages of notes.
He’d been working on the sermon for nearly two weeks, but now, as he scanned the paragraphs, none of it read familiar. It was as if some other man had written the words. A man consumed with grief and riddled with self-pity.
You ask, Did he question Doll about the love-bite? No. Not one word was uttered. August buried it, alongside his pride.
Hurt is a growing thing. August’s hurt took root and sprouted vines that coiled around his heart and stomach. Chest pains and a severely decreased appetite left him shaky and thin.
Hemmingway had asked, “Daddy, you feeling okay?”
August had nodded, forced a smile, and nodded again.
Doll didn’t seem to notice that her husband was disintegrating right before her very eyes. If she did, well, Esther didn’t allow her to give a good goddamn. And by this point in the story you should be well aware that Esther’s devotion to anyone other than herself was as shallow as a saucer.
August read and reread the paragraphs; drew thick lines through sentences and scribbled notes in the margins, all the while aware of the sound of the rain beating down on the roof as loud and resolute as an army of men marching off to war.
On Candle Street, Cole was preparing to send his wife off to attend the wedding of a family member in New Orleans. Melinda was upset that Cole could not join her.
“You won’t be alone,” Cole reminded her. “Caress will be with you.”
“But I don’t know if I’m up for such a long trip.”
Cole’s jaw clenched in frustration. “Now, now, Lindy, you know the doctor gave you a clean bill of health.”
Melinda glanced out the window. “But the rain …”
“It’ll be nice and dry on the train.” He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “I have to be here to receive the shipment; after that, I’m on the next train to New Orleans.”
Outside, Caress was seated alongside the driver on the bench of the carriage. Her arm was going numb from holding the wide black umbrella over her head.
Cole walked Melinda to the carriage, opened the door, and helped her inside. He planted a soft kiss on her cheek.
“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be there before you know it.”
Cole pushed the door closed and signaled to the driver, who snapped the reigns. The horses began to gallop.
It wasn’t until Mingo was spotted streaking up the middle of the road with his shoulders hunched up against the downpour that people realized he hadn’t been seen for days.
He was running so hard, he almost ran smack into the pair of horses that pulled the carriage carrying Melinda and Caress.
“Fool, watch where you’re going!” the driver yelled.
Mingo darted toward the bridge and would have collided with Doll if she had not stepped quickly out of his path. Seeing her, Mingo came to a screeching halt. “Mrs. Reverend, ma’am!”
Doll, whose head was tied in a yellow scarf that did nothing to protect her hair from the rain, whirled around and almost dropped the stack of records she had tucked beneath her arm. She looked at Mingo, but no recognition registered in her eyes. She offered him a polite smile and continued on her way.
Mingo watched her dodge raindrops down Candle Street before disappearing around the side of one of the houses.
He scratched his chin in bewilderment, then tugged the collar of his shirt around his neck and took shelter beneath a nearby tree. He eased himself down onto his hunches and fixed his gaze on the slate sky. He remained that way until Sam T. happened upon him.
“Hey, what you doing?”
“Huh?” Mingo blinked water from his eyes until Sam T. came into focus.
Sam T. was lean and freckled, with a mass of reddishbrown hair that he wore parted down the middle.
“You okay, Mingo?”
“Yeah. Uh-huh.”
“Man, you gonna catch your death out here in the rain without a coat. Where’s your coat?”
Mingo glanced down at his shirt and slacks. He seemed