The Bernice L. McFadden Collection. Bernice L. McFadden
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“That would be my brother, John Jr.”
Mavis dug a finger into her ear and scraped. “You do, I guess, got some of her features.”
The two women eyed each other. Mavis rested her hip against the jamb of the door. She looked down at the suitcase.
“You runnin’ from something?”
“Runnin’ toward something.”
Mavis nodded, “The law looking for you?”
Easter shook her head no.
Mavis’s eyes moved to Easter’s midsection. “You in trouble?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good, cause I can hardly feed the chirren I got.”
Easter followed her in and tried hard not to stare at the hump on her back.
They stepped straight from the porch into the kitchen. Stove, icebox, round table with five mismatched chairs. A rope had been strung between the walls and a sheet thrown over it, hiding the window and the bed with two sleeping children. At the back of the house was one large room, beyond that the outhouse.
“What she die from?”
Easter thought for a moment and then said, “A broken heart.”
Mavis made a face. “Sorry to hear ’bout that. Mens bring us womens nothing but heartache.” She shook her head and sighed heavily. “You gonna have to share a bed with my eldest girls,” she informed Easter as she moved to the icebox. “I s’pose you hungry?”
Mavis set the cheese on the table, walked over to the far wall, and retrieved a tin of crackers from the shelf. “I got five kids and no man, but we get by okay, better than most folks I guess. Everybody work, ’cept the babies of course, they two and four.”
Easter sat down at the table and watched Mavis light the stove.
“I’ll make you some tea. This all I got to offer you, wish I had more.”
Easter was grateful.
“Miss Olga needs a girl,” Mavis continued as she set the kettle on the stove and then pulled at the knot in the scarf she wore on her head. “She lives in town, big white house, black dog in the yard. Take a piece of meat, he’ll let you in with no problem if you feed him.”
Easter nodded.
“They call her the librarian on the account that she got like a million books.”
Easter loved books.
The next day Easter went down to Miss Olga’s house with a saved piece of bacon from her breakfast. The dog, Blackie, snarled and bared his teeth. Easter tossed the bacon over the fence and Blackie gobbled it up. His eyes went soupy and he wagged his tail and followed Easter to the back porch. A brittle, bald-headed man met her at the door. His one good eye rolled from the top of Easter’s head down to the rounded toe of her shoes and then up again. “They call me Slim.”
And slim he was. As straight and thin as a line. Easter told him that she was inquiring about the job and he pushed the screen door open and invited her in.
The kitchen was large and sunny. A woman stood over the sink, her hands immersed in dishwater; she looked at Easter and smiled.
“This here is Mary Turner,” Slim announced in a raspy voice before scurrying from the room.
Easter said, “How you?”
Mary Turner was young and stout with rosy cheeks. “I’m blessed, thank you. How about yourself?” she said as she reached for the pot that hung from a hook high above her head.
“I’m fine.” Easter pointed to Mary’s full-like-the-moon belly. “When you due?”
Mary announced that she had just four months to go.
Easter’s eyes glided over the brass pots and sparkling tile. Something good was bubbling on the stove and Easter’s stomach churned to taste it.
The door swung open and Slim called to her, “Missus say come on in.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “But make sure you keeps your feets on the floor. She don’t like people stepping on the carpet, it come all the way from India.”
Easter walked through the dining room and into the front parlor where bookshelves covered every inch of wall space and climbed all the way to the ceiling. Olga Fields was stretched out on a chaise lounge awash in morning sunlight the color of candle wax. In her hands she held sheet music, her thin lips moving soundlessly to the melody.
“Mornin’, ma’am.”
Olga’s eyes remained fixed on the stanza. “Who sent you here?”
“My aunt.”
“And who is your aunt?”
“Mavis Hawkins, ma’am.”
“Yes, I know her. She takes in my laundry. She seems to be a decent woman.”
Mrs. Olga raised her violet eyes and peered at Easter over the thin rims of her glasses. After a moment she summoned her closer with a wiggle of her index finger. Her mouth curled into a smile as she watched Easter carefully navigate the edge of the carpet.
“That’s good, you know how to follow instructions. Do you know how to cook?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ll be helping Mary prepare the meals among other things. Slim will advise you of your duties. I pay two dollars a week and the leftovers can be divided between yourself, Mary, and Slim.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Three weeks later Lawton Fields, Mrs. Olga’s husband of twenty years, returned from his trip abroad. He was tall and lanky with narrow blue eyes and a bulbous nose that protruded from the center of his face like a cauliflower. He was not an attractive man by any stretch of the word. Olga was no great beauty herself, but certainly appealing enough to have snagged a better-looking man than Lawton. The truth was that the two were a perfect match. Both were liberal thinkers and curious about the world. However, Olga’s phobia of great bodies of water only allowed her to experience the world through her beloved books.
Lawton had an adventurer’s heart and traveled often and for great lengths of time. When Easter first laid eyes on him, he was returning from a four-month expedition to South Africa, where he had retraced the footsteps of his hero, the great missionary and explorer Stanley Livingston.
The sight of Easter drew his breath away, as she held a striking resemblance to the women of the Khoisan tribe.
When she walked into the dining room, a plate of sausage balanced in her hand, he looked up into her face and his memory swept him back to South Africa. The hairs on his arms rose just as they had when his feet first stepped onto African soil. It was a magical place, that Africa.
“What’s your name?” he asked, looking deep into Easter’s eyes.
“Easter, suh.”
“Easter.” He repeated her name as if savoring something tasty. Olga’s brow arched and Lawton sunk his fork into the plump flesh of the sausage.
Easter, Mavis, and the older children carried the scant pieces of furniture from the house and set them down in the front yard beneath the hot Georgia sun. The chintzes swarmed and the children screamed and pointed as the tiny black bugs made a beeline to their death.
Easter soaked rags in camphor oil, dropped them into cooking pots, and set them aflame, filling the house with smoke, killing the chintzes that remained hidden in the walls.
Outside the younger children played tag and hide-and-go-seek. Mavis sat in her rocking chair with her eyes closed