Little Black Girl Lost (14 page)

J
ohnnie was in bed when the pounding on her front door rudely ripped her out of a deep, peaceful sleep. Startled, she opened her eyes and saw swirling red lights through the sheer curtains in her bedroom. She turned the lamp on and looked at the clock. It was 4:30. The pounding began again.
What's going on?
Johnnie walked over to the window and looked out. There was a police car in front of her house and a horde of people gathering on her lawn. The pounding continued. After putting on a robe and slippers, she went downstairs, fearing she was about to be put out of her house or something.

As she approached the door, the pounding began again, but it sounded much louder than it had upstairs. When she opened the door, she saw Sheriff Tate and Shirley, Marguerite's neighbor. Without being told, she knew something had happened to her mother.

In a nervous panic, Johnnie asked, “What's wrong? What's happened? Did something happen to my mother? Is she all right?” Her words were rushed and filled with fear. No one said anything. They all just looked at her, hoping they wouldn't have to say aloud what they knew. Johnnie's lips quivered. “Is she dead?”

Johnnie's late night visitors bowed their heads when they heard the question. No one wanted to be the bearer of such tragic news. They all felt genuine sorrow; especially Sheriff Tate. He had known and loved Marguerite for more than two decades.

“No, God. Not Mama. No,” Johnnie kept saying between sobs. Feeling a sudden emptiness in the pit of her stomach, she fell to her knees. Shirley helped her to her feet and held her tightly in her bosom, rocking her as the two women cried together. “What happened?” Johnnie asked, confused and overwhelmed with emotion.

“I know this is a difficult time, Johnnie,” Sheriff Tate said, “but you have to identify the body.”

“Sheriff Tate,” Johnnie began. “You know my mother. Didn't you see her?”

“Yes, but we need a member of the family to make a positive ID.”

“How did it happen, Sheriff?” Johnnie asked.

“She had a flat tire and it looks like somebody came along and killed her.”

“But why, Sheriff?” Johnnie asked. “Who would want to hurt her?” After the words found their way out of her mouth, it came to her. She knew who killed Marguerite. Robert Simmons told her about the affair with Richard Goode. He also warned her of the consequences if it ever became public. “It was Richard Goode!” Johnnie shouted, unable to contain her sudden anger. “I know it was him. He was the only one it could have been.”

“Uh, uh, we better go inside, Johnnie,” Sheriff Tate said, surprised by her knowledge of the relationship.

Sadie, who was a part of the gathering crowd, and Shirley helped Johnnie to the couch. Her legs weak from the news, Johnnie felt as if she would faint with each step.

“Johnnie,” Sheriff Tate continued, “you have to be careful what you say in front of people.”

“Why, Sheriff?” Johnnie shouted. “You know I'm right, don't you? You know he did it, don't you?”

Sheriff Tate bowed his head again and wept. “I knew your mother. I knew her before you were even born. I know your brother Benny too. I loved that woman. I did,” he said. “But we have to keep our heads about this. What's done is done. We can't bring her back.”

Sadie and Shirley looked at each other, stunned by what they were hearing. Shirley knew Marguerite still entertained men at night, but she didn't know who they were.

“So, what the hell are you going to do about it, Sheriff?” Sadie demanded.

“There's nothing we can do.”

“What do you mean there's nothing we can do?” Shirley asked.

“Listen to me,” Sheriff Tate said, almost pleading. “What do you think'll happen if I accuse, or anyone else accuses the preacher of murder? What do you think the Coloreds are gonna do? I'll tell you what they'll do. They'll demand Goode be arrested. And if I do that, you know what's next, don't you? That's right. It'll be a race riot like you've never seen. Hell, even decent white folks won't stand for it. They won't allow a white man to be arrested for killing a colored woman without eyewitnesses. If I told what I know, everything is going to come out; her prostituting herself, my relationship with her, them meeting at the Savoy hotel, everything. And even if I arrested him on suspicion, do you really think any jury is going to convict him? The district attorney will get an all-white jury and set him free. In the meantime, colored men, women and children will be dragged out of their homes and beaten, maybe even killed. My family could be killed too. We have to be practical about this. We can pursue justice if you want to, but the truth is, Goode will have to answer to God for his crime, as do we all.”

“I think you should arrest him, Sheriff,” Sadie said. “At least the people will know what kind of man their so-called preacher is. And he'll know everyone knows he killed a colored woman that he was sleeping with. Maybe the Klan will denounce him. If they do, we can get him then.”

“No. He's right,” Johnnie said, much more composed and calculating.

“What?” Shirley and Sadie shouted in unison.

“Don't you see?” Johnnie continued. “We haven't had a Klan uprisin' in years, since I was four or five.”

“I don't believe what I'm hearin',” Shirley said.

“Shirley, what will the Klan do if they find out their leader was seeing a black woman regularly at the Savoy Hotel? I know y'all know what goes on there.”

“How can you be so nonchalant?” Sadie asked. “Your mother is dead. Killed by the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. You don't want to do anything about it?”

“Of course I wanna do something about it, Sadie, but we gotta look at the big picture,” Johnnie said, no longer crying. Her eyes were full of cold, calculating rage now. “You know what's going to happen if Sheriff Tate arrests him? Don't you realize none of us'll be safe? They'll come in our neighborhood and kill and burn everything and everybody. No, we gotta handle this quietly. Goode will get his.”

Johnnie would never admit it, but she was actually relieved now that her mother was dead. Although she had her own place, she still felt her mother's powerful influence. Now that was over. Johnnie was finally free of her. Nevertheless, anger and guilt consumed her. She knew it was wrong for a daughter to be glad that her own mother was dead, but that was exactly how she felt. Still she was angry that a white man could kill her mother or any other black woman for that matter, and nothing would be done about it. Worse yet, she knew the sheriff was right. What he was saying made a lot of sense.

“I'm ready now.
”

B
ack home in her childhood house, Johnnie searched Marguerite's bedroom for a Buchanan Mutual insurance policy. While she searched, she couldn't shake the sight of Marguerite on a slab in the cold, poorly lit basement of the city morgue. As she opened each drawer, she continued to see flashes of her mother's battered and bruised body. The coroner read off a litany of contusions and lacerations found on her face and body.

Marguerite had a broken nose, a broken jaw, missing teeth, broken ribs, and a punctured lung. According to the coroner, Marguerite would have probably died from the head injuries alone. Her head looked as if it had been beaten with a baseball bat. The bullet in her brain saved her from an agonizing death.

The coroner's comments made Marguerite's quick death sound like it was some sort of consolation prize. The only thing that made Johnnie feel better was the knowledge of her brother's imminent return to New Orleans. She hadn't seen Benny and Brenda in years and longed to see her nephew, Jericho. Nevertheless, Johnnie wondered how she would explain what had been going on since Benny moved to San Francisco. Her brother wouldn't understand how she could be living in Ashland Estates while their mother still lived in the ghetto. Johnnie had a lot to explain.

“Ah, here it is,” Johnnie said aloud. “I wonder what it's worth.”

She pulled the papers from the faded yellow envelope and unfolded them. She skimmed the policy, looking for the amount.

“Fifteen thousand,” she said, feeling good. “This'll take care of the funeral and whatever bills need to be paid.”

The screen door, badly in need of oil, screeched when it opened. Johnnie could hear it from her mother's bedroom. She was suddenly reminded of her first encounter with Earl in that very room. Someone knocked. Johnnie went to the door and moved the curtain to see who it was. She smiled when she saw Lucas standing there with a red rose.

“Hi, Lucas,” she said, surprised and excited. “You're a sight for sore eyes. Where have you been?”

“I've been around, Johnnie,” Lucas said solemnly. “It's just hard to find you since you moved out. I don't have your address or anything.”

“Well, come on in and have a seat. I'll write down the address and phone number for you.”

Lucas hesitated. Although he knew Marguerite was dead, he remembered the tongue-lashing her mother gave him the last time he came to her house. After realizing how silly it was to keep standing there, he entered the room and sat down on the couch. A few moments later, Johnnie came back with a piece of paper and handed it to him.

“Is that for me?” Johnnie asked, referring to the rose.

“Yes,” he said, offering it to her. “I forgot I had it in my hand.”

She took the rose and smelled it.

“Ummm. Where did you get it?”

“In the Quarter at Charlie's flower shop.”

Johnnie kissed him on the cheek and thanked him.

“I'm sorry about what happened to your mother, Johnnie. Does the sheriff have any idea who did it?”

“No,” Johnnie said, fearing that if she told him the truth, he would do something foolish and get himself killed. She hugged Lucas and said, “I'm glad you're here. Lucas, do you know how to drive?”

“Yep.”

“Can you teach me? I had my mother's car towed here, but I don't know how to drive. I need to go to Fletcher's funeral home. Will you drive me?”

“I'll be glad to, Johnnie,” Lucas said and held her tight. “Whenever you're ready, okay?”

“I'm ready now. Let's go.”

J
ohnnie and Lucas were greeted at the door by a ghastly-looking colored man wearing a black suit and tie. When he smiled, his false teeth gave him the appearance of a meek Garden District butler. He led them to Mason Fletcher's office, where they waited for arrival of the funeral director. The office walls were strewn with artwork of Eli Whitney, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Marcus Garvey, and Dr. Charles Drew. Fletcher's desk was made of solid oak and glistened. There was a small plaque on his desk with a quote from Frederick Douglass that read:
Learn trades or starve.
Hand carved onyx figurines of Booker T. Washington and Nat Turner sat on both sides of the plaque. The wall to wall burgundy carpet was so thick that walking on it left temporary footprints.

After the ghastly-looking colored man with the false teeth left them, they casually walked around the room, reading each caption under the pictures.

It wasn't long before Mason Fletcher walked into his office and greeted them with an undertaker's smile and a firm handshake. He was wearing a light gray double-breasted suit with a gray tie and shoes. Mason Fletcher was of average height, thin, with graying temples. He wore a wellgroomed salt-and-pepper beard. He eased into his leather chair and gestured for them to sit down. They did.

“Ms. Wise, I'm sorry for your loss, and I assure you we here at Fletcher Funeral Home will do our utmost to see to it that your mother is laid to rest in the manner you deem appropriate.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher,” Johnnie said with tear-filled eyes.

Mason reached into his pocket and handed her his white handkerchief. Johnnie took it from him and wiped her eyes.

“I'm sorry. I just can't seem to stop crying when I think of her.”

“We understand, don't we, mister—”

“Matthews, and yes, we do,” Lucas said, holding Johnnie firmly.

“Well, what do you have to offer, Mr. Fletcher?” Johnnie asked.

“Why don't I show you some of our caskets and then we can talk about a price.”

They went into the parlor, where he kept twenty or so caskets. As they looked at each casket, Fletcher described its features, offering more details about the more expensive caskets.

“Mr. Fletcher, have you seen my mother?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Will you be able to make her look like she did . . . before?”

“Yes, but it will be expensive.”

He's going to try to get as much money out of me as he can.
“I have to tell you that I don't have much money.”

“I'm sure we can work something out, Ms. Wise.”

After looking at all the caskets and hearing his sales pitch on each, Fletcher recommended one of the more expensive caskets, just as Johnnie knew he would. She decided to go with a less expensive one that was the same powder blue color as Marguerite's car.

“So, how much is this going to cost me, Mr. Fletcher?” Johnnie asked.

“Depends on what you want,” Fletcher said.

“How much does the average funeral cost?” Lucas asked feeling like he had to say something, although he was impressed by Johnnie's command of the situation.

“Anywhere from two thousand to ten thousand,” Fletcher said in such a way that it didn't sound like a lot of money. “You know your mother. What would she want?”

“Well, she always told me it was a waste of money to spend anything more than a thousand dollars on a funeral. I'm sure we can't afford your prices, Mr. Fletcher. Sorry to waste your time.”

“Don't be so hasty,” Fletcher said. “I told you we can work something out. Can you afford eighteen hundred?”

“I can afford twelve.”

“What about fifteen?”

“Throw the tomb in and you've got a deal.”

“Deal,” Fletcher said and extended his hand to shake Johnnie's.

Johnnie shook on the deal, but Fletcher held on to her hand a little longer than he should have, nodding slightly and smiling lecherously. Johnnie got the feeling that if she offered herself to him, the price would be considerably less, perhaps nothing at all.

“I'll check on you in a couple of days to see how you're holding up, Ms. Wise.”

“No need, Mr. Fletcher,” Johnnie said, picking up on the hint. “I have Lucas to lean on when I feel weak. But thanks anyway.”