Tananarive Due Page 11

  Sarah puzzled over Moses’s words, then she felt a surge of anger when she thought she understood: He was making excuses for Mr. William Powell! Her frame went rigid with rage. “You takin’ his side!” she shouted, not realizing she’d raised her voice so loud. “You ain’t even never met him, an’ you takin’ his side over me!”

  Moses looked surprised and uncomfortable, but his voice stayed calm. “I ain’t met this one. But I met him, all right, li’l gal.” He leaned closer to her, pointing out a scar at his temple that must have once been a deep gash. “I met my pappy, ain’t I? So I ain’t takin’ his side. I’m jus’ tellin’ you the way I learnt it. Slaves couldn’t be no men, but men ’posed to be treated like men. An’ when they ain’t . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence, shrugging. “Well, I’m sho’ glad I don’t ’member bein’ no slave like my pappy do.”

  Still fuming, Sarah began to walk faster so she could pull ahead of Moses. He didn’t seem to feel the least bit bad for her! But Moses, keeping his slower pace, called after her: “I’m sorry you bein’ whipped on, li’l gal. That’s a crime, whippin’ on a li’l thing like you. Maybe this man need somebody to tell ’im to keep his hands to hisself.”

  At that, Sarah slowed again. Moses had spoken the words she’d been longing to hear. She’d often drifted to sleep at night with the fantasy that Alex had come back to beat Mr. William Powell so badly that he’d be too scared to go near her.

  Moses stopped walking at the street corner where Mr. William Powell’s slant-roof wooden gray house was visible halfway down the block. Sarah could see the bright red and yellow roses Lou had planted near his porch in full bloom, deceptively welcoming in the late-afternoon light. “Nobody’s gon’ whip on my li’l gal,” Moses said resolutely, nodding as he stared at the house. “You an’ me’s gon’ have to think on what to do ’bout this. That all right, Sarah?”

  Sarah nodded, encouraged. She barely noticed when Moses took her hand and squeezed it, except that his palm was so warm and damp. After a moment, feeling uncomfortable with her tiny hand inside his much bigger one, Sarah slipped her fingers away.

  “You aren’t yet the woman Louvenia was, child,” Miss Brown said through the straight pins in her mouth as she fussed with the hem of Sarah’s dress. The pins bounced when she talked. Sarah posed, her arms outstretched like a scarecrow as she gazed at herself in Miss Brown’s vanity mirror, dwarfed inside the too-big white dress her sister had worn on her wedding day. “I’ve got to take in the bust, the hips, an’ the length, too. Might fit then.”

  Sarah’s heart had been pounding steadily harder since she came to Miss Brown’s that morning, and the rhythm of her nervousness reached a peak while Miss Brown worked. Sarah licked her dry lips. “I ain’t got to have this dress,” Sarah said. “I’ll wear one o’ mine.”

  Miss Brown sucked her teeth. “Don’t be silly, girl. You can’t wear one o’ those rags. Hold in your breath.”

  Sarah took a deep breath, and Miss Brown drew the waist in tighter, pinning it in place. “ ’Sides,” Miss Brown went on, “I assume the boy has somethin’ presentable he’s gonna wear. He has money, doesn’t he?”

  Sarah shrugged. She’d never seen where Moses lived, and all she knew about his livelihood was that he was an engine wiper at the railroad yard. He always seemed to wear nice boots, and he’d bought her a beef-stew lunch at an eating house once, but she didn’t have the faintest idea how much an engine wiper earned.

  “I’ll tell you why I ask . . .” Miss Brown said, her voice muffled behind Sarah’s back. “One thing I’ve learned bein’ in white folks’ business all these years is this: When a girl’s getting married and she doesn’t have to . . .” At that, she patted Sarah’s belly, and Sarah flushed with embarrassment. “. . . and if it isn’t for love . . .” Miss Brown straightened up to gaze into Sarah’s eyes at the word love, and Sarah couldn’t hold her gaze. “. . . then it’s always for money. So I assume this here boy—what’s his name again?”

  “Moses,” Sarah whispered.

  “Yes, so I assume this here boy, Moses, must have some money.”

  “Miss Brown, he ain’t got no money.” Lou spoke up unexpectedly from the bedroom doorway. She was holding baby Willie on one arm while Willie reached for the white lace in Lou’s other hand. Thwarted because Lou dangled the lace out of his reach, Willie let out an indignant cry. “He look like he can barely ’ford clothes on his back. He’s black as coal, tall and skinny as a willow tree, and got crooked teeth to boot.”

  “He don’t have no crooked teeth!” Sarah said, although she hardly sounded convincing.

  “So what is it, then, girl?” Miss Brown said. “It’s love after all?”

  Sarah nodded, unable to bring herself to lie to Miss Brown. Noting Sarah’s silence, Miss Brown pursed her lips and sighed. “I sure hope you aren’t about to have no baby.”

  “Oh, Lord . . .” Lou said. “That’s the same thing William said!”

  Angry at the mention of Mr. William Powell’s name, Sarah forced herself to ignore the doubts emerging in her mind. She tried not to remember what she’d been thinking when Lou put on this very same dress for her wedding, when she was so convinced Lou was not truly in love. Now she wasn’t any better than her sister. But she did love Moses, didn’t she? She loved the way he was so gentle with her, the way he listened to her, the way he told her things about himself, the wise way he seemed to ponder things she never considered. She loved him just like . . . a brother, she realized, and she felt nausea tickle her throat.

  “All right, Sarah, I’ll have this altered by Sunday, since you’re in such a hurry. It’s a shame! Your little figure hasn’t even had a chance to grow in yet,” Miss Brown said. “I don’t understand why you’re in such a hurry to marry these men you scarcely know, jus’ looking for botheration. Lou got lucky with that Powell fella, ’least so far. I hope you get lucky, too, Sarah, but it doesn’t seem to me like luck runs in your family.”

  On their way back home from Miss Brown’s, Sarah carried Willie, enjoying the gleeful way her nephew’s eyes danced above his round cheeks as he stared at her. He gurgled, reaching up to wrap his little fingers tightly into her scalp, and Sarah laughed. It seemed like Willie was the only one who could make her laugh anymore. Remembering the scar at Moses’s temple, she hoped her little nephew would never have one like it from his father. She wished she could take Willie away with her, too.

  “I ain’t gon’ make like I don’ know why you gettin’ married,” Lou said as they walked, watching Sarah with eyes that didn’t blink. “An’ I ain’t gon’ make like I ain’t glad you goin’, neither. I’m glad fo’ both o’ us, cuz things ain’t right like they is.”

  Those words hurt despite their truth, and Sarah swallowed hard. In the time since Lou had been married, she and her sister had grown much more distant because Lou was defensive whenever Sarah complained about her husband’s violent moods. As far as Sarah knew, Lou had never once said a word in her defense, and she resented it. Was Lou afraid of her husband? And was she jealous of Sarah, too? Probably so, Sarah thought, and she’d be more jealous if she knew how Mr. William Powell looked at her when he tore off her clothes. Unless she knew already.

  “You always sayin’ how you think William so mean,” Lou went on slowly, “but you jus’ got to talk to a man a certain way. You know—don’t be fat-mouthin’ all the time. An’ don’t be too bossy-like. A man always gon’ cuff you if’n you do that.”

  “Papa didn’t cuff Mama,” Sarah said. “Not even one time.”

  “Sarah, you gon’ have a sad life if’n you speck you gon’ find any man like Papa,” Lou said matter-of-factly. “Moses gon’ be jus’ like William, you watch.”

  Now, with dread to accompany her uncertainty, Sarah’s feet felt leaden as she climbed the porch steps behind Lou and they walked into the house. She could smell the greens Lou had begun simmering that morning for supper, but the other scents in the house made her feel sick. She hated the smell of Mr. William Powell’
s pipe, of the musk of the dirty old sofa where she slept, and even the roses Lou had cut off to put on the table. She hated everything about his house.

  Even if Lou was right about Moses, it didn’t matter, she thought. She needed to leave.

  “Shhh. Put the baby down. William prob’ly back there ’sleep,” Lou said, speaking very quietly the way she always did when she knew her husband was taking a nap. “I’ma go to the back an’ git you a few dollars. You ’bout to move out, so that money’s yours. An’ by the look of that man you marryin’, you gon’ need it, too.”

  Sarah was alarmed, quickly taking her sister’s hand. “No, Lou, don’t do that. Don’t make ’im mad. Jus’ leave the money be.”

  “Hush. It’s only right, Sarah.”

  For the next tense minutes, while Sarah laid Willie on a blanket next to the sofa and tried to keep him quiet, Sarah’s heart was in a frenzy of worry for her sister. Mr. William Powell was very particular about the money he kept in the drawer next to his bed, and she couldn’t imagine what he would do if he woke up and found Lou fooling with it. She didn’t want any more shouting, any more whippings. She just wanted to be gone.

  Satisfied that Willie was near sleep, Sarah jumped up and crept to the back room her sister shared with her husband. When she reached the doorway, she saw Mr. William Powell sprawled facedown across the bed with no shirt on, snoring loudly. Lou had apparently finished what she had come to do; she was pushing in the drawer beside his bed, and it made a small scraping sound that made Sarah jump. But Mr. William Powell didn’t notice, not stirring. Grinning the way she used to when they were girls, Lou waved several dollars over her head for Sarah to see and covered her mouth to contain a muted laugh. As scared as she was, Sarah nearly laughed, too, reminded of the times she and her sister had broken into their mother’s precious molasses jar when they were children.

  But Sarah’s smile slowly vanished as her eyes went back to Mr. William Powell’s sleeping form. She had never seen her brother-in-law without his shirt on, and she tasted something vile coat her tongue when she noticed the crisscrossing dark lines that looked like brand marks imbedded deeply in his back. Scars, she realized with an awfulness so dense that it was a cloud she could not breathe. So many awful scars, nearly a lifetime’s worth, just like Moses had said.

  Please, Jesus, Sarah prayed earnestly, closing her eyes, please don’t let Moses be like Mr. William Powell even though his pappy gave him marks, too. Please let him be good to me.

  She repeated that prayer and held on to that wish until her wedding day.

  Sarah and Moses got married at the AME church by the same preacher who’d married Louvenia and Mr. William Powell, although the only people who attended the ceremony were Lou, Miss Brown, Miss Janie, and Sally. Instead of marrying at the pulpit, she was married in the basement where she’d once attended school.

  “You now pronounce man an’ wife,” the cotton-haired preacher said, and Sarah froze when she saw Moses’s face looming above hers, poised for a kiss. She held herself perfectly still as he bent over to press his wet lips to hers, holding her breath until he pulled away. She tried to smile at him afterward, but her heart was flying. Moses would expect to take off her clothes and touch her when they got home, she thought. He would want to fuss with her between her legs the way Louvenia had told her a man would like, and stick his man-part inside her, and it would hurt. It was her wifely duty, Lou said, and if she tried to refuse him he might force himself on her because it was his right.

  Sarah barely tasted the food Miss Brown fixed for them after the wedding, and she couldn’t respond when Miss Brown shook her head and muttered that she wished Moses had at least pressed the white shirt he was wearing. “He seems like a nice enough boy, but didn’t he notice that rip in his trousers near his foot? You’d think he’d wear his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes on his wedding day! You look lovely, but I swear . . .”

  The whole time, Sarah dreaded the time when Moses would say he was ready to go, and then they would be alone. Sarah, you really done it now, she thought, feeling dazed as she took shy peeks at this giant who was now her husband. Why you had to go an’ git married ’fore God?

  It was a long walk to where Moses lived south of the railroad, near Cherry Street, and he carried Sarah’s meager belongings in a sack on his back: her folded-up dresses, her Bible from Lou, her photograph of Papa, the five dollars Lou had snatched, and the wooden bowls and quilt Miss Brown and the ladies had given them as wedding gifts. He whistled all the while he walked, gently tugging her hand. Sarah could feel Moses’ pulsebeats in his long, clammy fingers. Or was that her own heart racing? Moses tried to begin conversations with her about how nice Miss Brown’s house was, but Sarah was unable to so much as grunt back at him, so he gave up on talking to her. They walked most of the way in silence, and Sarah felt as though she was moving farther and farther away from everything she knew.

  The houses near the railroad were built close together, and they were in poorer condition than the ones where Mr. William Powell lived. Many of the houses had tin roofs, wooden walls with large spaces between the planks, chickens in the yards, and goats tied to wooden posts. There were no sidewalks or gas lamps to light the streets, so it was very dark by the time Moses pointed to a little house at the end of the row of shacks.

  “I know this look like catfish row out here, but there it go,” Moses said, sounding slightly dispirited. “Mine ain’t nothing like Miss Brown’s, but it got two rooms, a cookhouse an’ outhouse in back, an’ it keep warm in wintertime.”

  The house was built of brick, at least, Sarah noticed, but it also had a tin roof, and the patch in front was overgrown with weeds and wild grass nearly four feet high. Moses had chickens in front of his house, too, behind a wooden fence. Gazing at the house that was now her home, Sarah felt nothing at all. A strange numbness had spread inside of her, which grew as she heard the rumbling of an approaching train and its deafening whistle on the nearby tracks. The noise drove all the thoughts out of her head.

  Inside, the front room was small, crammed with a rocking chair, a fireplace, and a pinewood table and two chairs that looked homemade, but sturdy. There was also a small braided rug on the hardwood floor that was very faded, but added a comfortable touch. A well-kept banjo stood against the wall in the corner. There were two windows in the front room, but no curtains. The more Sarah studied the room, the more it reminded her of her family’s little cabin in Delta. Feeling nostalgic, Sarah sighed a small sigh.

  “I figger on gittin’ better work ’fore too long,” Moses said, mistaking her sigh for displeasure. “We gon’ move to a better street then, not right up on the train yard. I know them big boys is loud comin’ through, but you gits used to it.”

  Next Moses showed Sarah the back room, which was much smaller still, with only room enough for his sleeping-mattress on the floor and a wooden bureau against the wall. This room had no window, so he had to bring in a lamp so she could see. As soon as he followed her inside the doorway of the small room, Sarah felt trapped. The neatly pulled blankets on the bed looked ominous to her.

  “This where we gon’ sleep,” he said, his voice rumbling a bit in his throat.

  Sarah didn’t answer. Without realizing it, she’d hugged her sack in front of her.

  Moses’ hands went to Sarah’s shoulders, and he began to rub them. Sarah’s entire body felt as if it had turned to rock, and her head tensed back. After a moment, Moses pulled his hands away. She could feel the warmth of his body behind her, but he didn’t move to touch her.

  Moses sighed, and she smelled his breath wash over her. “How old you said you was, Sarah Breedlove McWilliams?” he asked her. Her new name sounded like a lie to her ears.

  “Fo’teen,” Sarah said, a whisper. It was the first word she’d spoken to him since she’d become his wife.

  “Fo’teen, fo’teen . . .” Moses murmured. “Well . . . there’s all kinds o’ fo’teen. Some girls ready to marry when they’s twelve, an’ some still ain�
�t ready when they twenty. Ain’t that right?”

  Not turning to look at him, Sarah slowly nodded. She felt herself bracing for him to touch her shoulders again.

  “I know you ain’t axe me, but you wanna hear sum’pin I think?” Moses said.

  Sarah didn’t move or speak in response.

  “To my mind, the kinda fo’teen you is ain’t ready for no husband.” Was he going to send her back to Mr. William Powell’s? Sarah turned around to look at Moses, and she saw that his features were gentle, free of anger. His eyes bored into hers. “Naw, you ain’t heard me wrong,” he said. Very slowly, he raised his fingertips to her chin and rubbed her skin with his thumb. But when he lifted those same fingers toward her hair, Sarah felt herself angling her head away. She was ashamed of her dry, coarse hair, which she’d covered the best she could under the lacy veil Miss Brown had made her. She also couldn’t bear the thought of Moses touching her that way.

  “Lemme tell you what I’m thinkin’ ’bout,” Moses went on, moving his fingers back to her chin. “We legal-wed now, an’ you belong to me, and can’t no man whip on you no mo’ ’less he ready to die. That what you wanted, right?”

  Sarah nodded, but she felt her eyes stinging. Maybe it wasn’t fair that she’d married Moses for that reason, since his eyes plainly told her he wanted much more from her.

  “So . . . you gon’ live here, an’ you gon’ cook fo’ me an’ wash my clothes, an’ you gon’ work at the laundry fo’ Miss Brown ’til I gits better wages. An’ I only got this one little room what to sleep in, so we gon’ both sleep in here. I’ma let you sleep in my bed tonight, an’ I’ma fix myself a spot in the corner, yonder,” he said, pointing to a bare spot next to the bureau. “Come mornin’, I’ll fix sump’n diff’rent so’s we both got ’nuff room. You’ll sleep on yo’ side, I’ll sleep on mine. An’ I’ll tell you why: You ain’t ready fo’ no husband yet, an’ I seed that from the start. You still too much a child. But I’m a man, see, an’ I can’t be sleepin’ close to you ’cept to think like you a woman. So we ain’t gon’ sleep close, not to start. An’ you keep yo’self covered up, cuz I can’t be lookin’ at no woman’s body I can’t touch. You hear?”