May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel (21 page)

The hand starts with Jordan dealing, and Marcella the first to bet. After she declines, Witt wagers ten dollars, van Nils squeaks it up to twenty, Starling leaps in to make it forty, and that aggravates Jordan enough to make it sixty. Marcella looks at her cards again, grins slightly, and puts in sixty dollars. By now the men have given up any remorse in trying their hardest to beat her, so Witt raises it to eighty.
No more “Poor Miss Marcella”?

This is where the brandy comes in as van Nils makes it a hundred, Starling a hundred fifty, and Jordan, angrier than ever, makes it an even two hundred. He looks around the table as if he has settled the matter once and for all. But Marcella quickly calls the bet, and the men begin to look around at one another, shocked that she’s still in, and perhaps feeling a little guilty for their bravado. Witt, van Nils, and Starling simply call the bet as well.
Scared, are we?

Jordan makes the call for cards and Marcella looks at her hand again, then lays them down with a blushing smile.

“No thank you, Mr. Jordan,” she says as graciously as possible.
Be sure to flash those eyelashes now
, she reminds herself.
That’s it. Now look around and take in their … panic
.

The men all take one or two cards, trying to posture strength and assurance. She watches their faces again as each of them picks up their new cards, and predictably, with a pot of a thousand dollars, whatever reserve they’d had before slips quickly away. Witt quietly exhales and
she knows he’s missed his straight or flush. Even van Nils has to know his two low pair won’t do the trick in this kind of pot and Starling bites his lower lip slightly before forcing a confident smile and sticking out his chest. That leaves only Jordan.
He couldn’t possibly have hit something to go with his three of a kind … or perhaps … no, he didn’t get the fourth … he couldn’t stay that calm if he had
.

It’s her turn to bet, and she knows that this is the hand of her life so far. It will either provide her with a great story to tell to all her friends back home, or assure that she’ll never mention this night to anyone again. She lifts her cards up and slowly fans them out, looking at the three of diamonds, the jack and six of spades, and the two and nine of hearts, studying them as if trying to make sure that they haven’t changed since she first looked at them. Then she bites her bottom lip as if holding back a smile, and places the cards neatly face down on the table, watching them all the way, then looking up with her eyes first, her head still slightly tilted downward.
Mischievous smile now
, she tells herself.

“Well gentlemen, it’s been so much fun playing cards with
y’all
.”

“An’ you
too
, Miss Marcella,” Jordan replies, maintaining what composure he can with such a large pot at stake. “So does that mean you fold?”

“
Fold?
Oh no, Mr. Jordan—my apologies, but I mean to
wager
.”

“Oh … it’s just that it sounded like you were done for th’evenin’,” he says.

“Well yes it
is
gettin’ ratha late,” she agrees, “an’ perhaps I
should
make this m’last hand. It’s just that y’all have been such gentlemen, an’ I don’t want there t’be any ill feelings.”

“Miss Marcella, I think I can speak for all of us when I assure you that we could
never
think ill of you,” van Nils declares.
Oh, Mr. van Nils
, she thinks through her smile,
someday you’ll find a woman foolish enough for you, and you’ll live happily, foolishly ever after
.

“Oh, that’s so kinda you to say, Mista van Nils,” she replies, and blushes as much as her olive skin will allow. “Well then … I’ll wager five hundred.”

“Five hundred!” Witt exclaims as if the chandelier has just crashed to the table.

“Oh … well, yes, I know I’m dippin’ inta all that dress money Daddy gave me,” she answers. “But this is
so
much more fun than buyin’ a dress!”

“Yes, but do you need to … that is …” Witt’s still at a loss, and Marcella notices that van Nils and even Starling have already pushed their cards away from them. “It’s a shame with this kind of hand,” Witt stammers, “… but … well … I can’t bet five hundred—not with the way
fortune’s
smiled upon you, Miss Marcella.”

He tosses in his cards as if he’s doing her a gentlemanly deed, and then there is just Jordan and his three of a kind. Of all the men at the table, Jordan has played the best poker.
But not
that
good. Not good enough to call here
.

“Miss Marcella,” he says after a long pause. “I’m not likely to sleep tonight if I don’t get t’satisfy my curiosity an’ see whatcher holdin’.”

“Well, I sure don’t mean to cause you any un
rest
, Mr. Jordan,” she says amusingly.

He looks at her sternly for a moment, then returns to his former, artificial self.
Just lay them down … go ahead now
, she thinks.

“But then again, I’m not likely to sleep for a
week
if I lose five hundred dollars to a … well, no offense now, but … to a woman. Even one as bright an’ charmin’ as you.”

How could I possibly be offended by that?

“So if I fold these cards,” he continues, “will you go ahead an’ show me yours?”

Marcella blushes as if he’s asked her to show him her petticoats.

“Well Mr.
Jordan
,” she says, and looks around the table. “I … am I
allowed
to do that, gentlemen?”

They chime in with immediate approval, just as anxious to see her cards as Jordan is.

“Well in
that
case,” she says, looking at Jordan with a wry smile, “I s’pose I could.”

He thinks about it for a moment or two, then throws over three aces, shaking his head at sacrificing such a hand.

“You had the straight, Miss Marcella?” Jordan asks.

“Naw, it was a flush!” Starling insists.

“Well,” she begins, “you gentlemen should know that I
never
do this … but I just
had
to try it one time.”

She flips over her colossal bluff and it’s as if they don’t recognize it right away, as if they’re looking closer and closer trying to figure out what they’re missing. And then they collectively understand what has happened. Not very long ago she would have triumphantly collected the chips and delivered a brief lecture on the capabilities of women. But instead she maintains her mischievous grin, and a situation that might’ve ended with fists being thrown were she a man, quickly gives way to laughter. And then the men are fawning in their congratulations. She stays for a few moments to collect all their praise, and most of their money, then cashes in her chips and leaves, as each of the men stands and applauds her exit. Her winnings total fourteen hundred seventy-five dollars.
Oh, how they will hate themselves in the morning
.

Upstairs, she enters her room through the hallway, and hears Miguel and Bartolomé stirring in the parlor that connects their rooms. There’s just enough time to stuff the money away in a dresser drawer before Miguel begins knocking.

“Marcie,” he calls. “Marcie … 
tenías suerte?
”

She opens the door and steps past him, walking to the table where the nearly empty brandy bottle is situated. She pours herself a small glass with what’s left and for effect says nothing as she walks over to a nearby chair and flops down in it. She drinks the brandy down in a sip, then gazes at her brothers.

“No luck,” she announces. “Couldn’t get a decent hand all night.”

“How much do you lose?” Bartolomé asks, deflated.

“Menos que vosotros,”
she says. “That’s how I know you’ll never say a
word
of it to Papa.”

Both of them look at each other, shaking their heads as if they’d never had any intention of telling their father.

“I didn’t think they can beat
you
,” Miguel says in astonishment.

“
Could
Miguel,” she corrects. “I didn’t think they
could
beat you.
Subjunctivo
.”

“We need more brandy,” he replies.

THE NEXT MORNING BRINGS THE
final day of the trip, and Marcella is off from the hotel before her father or brothers emerge from their
rooms. Walking as casually as she can manage, she makes her way to Montgomery Street, then pauses, unsure of which way to proceed. In the distance to her left is a church steeple still under construction. Mrs. Carlisle hadn’t said anything about what to do from here, but the steeple is a more promising sight than anything she sees to her right. Her heart begins to race as she nears the building, then sinks when she sees that it’s made of brick instead of wood. Mrs. Carlisle had described a white wooden structure that would be nearly forty years old by now. This one is newly built, with only the steeple left to be completed, and for those next several moments she worries that the whole trip will end in failure. But then she sees a beacon of hope.

A small tapestry hangs over a wooden post beside the church, adorned with a pattern of three backwards
L
’s interlocked to form the image of a wood cabin tipped onto its side. A square yellow patch fills the inside
L
, and she knows that this is exactly the place she has sought. A minute later her hope is confirmed, as she approaches the front of the building and sees the sign out front: First African Baptist Church.

She can’t help but smile, then quickly composes herself before looking up and down the street to see if anyone is watching her. There are several people along the avenue, but none of them seem to take particular notice of her. It’s still quite early, but she can see that the church doors are slightly opened, and she walks up the steps and inside the building with newfound determination. The pews are empty and everything is silent, but she sees another promising sign glancing up at the ceiling and the Nine-Patch ornamentation. A man walks out from the door next to the pulpit and seems to take no notice of Marcella at first, but when he does look toward the back of the church, his smile quickly fades as soon as he sees her. And she knows this will be more difficult than she had anticipated.

“Good mornin’, Ma’am,” the man says, and walks tentatively toward her.

He is far too young to be the man Mrs. Carlisle had described as the pastor she remembered.
But he’s dressed in a preacher’s suit and he walks with the calmness of a preacher, even if I am making him nervous
, she thinks.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” he says again as he stops perhaps ten or fifteen feet from her and bows slightly at the waist.

“Good morning,” she replies.
Should I curtsey, or would that be scandalous down here?

“May I be of any assistance t’ya, Ma’am?” the man asks before she can figure out whether to curtsey or not.

“I hope … that is … I believe you can. I’m looking for Mr. Marshall. Pastor Marshall.”

The calmness in the man’s face quickly gives way to suspicion.

“Reveren’ Marshall’s no longer wit’ us, Ma’am,” he replies. “Passed some years ago.”

And at that moment the impulse hits her to just turn around and walk out, difficult as this will now be, and given all the consequences. But she couldn’t possibly return to the ladies in New York, to Mrs. Carlisle in particular, and say she had made it to the actual place and not seen it through.

“I’m so very sorry,” she says, and can see the surprise in his face now. Then, remembering Mrs. Carlisle’s description of living in Georgia, Marcella realizes that this might be the first time in this man’s life that a white woman has apologized to him.

“Thank you, Misses …” he replies, bowing slightly again.

“Miss,” she corrects. “Miss Arroyo.”

“Miss Ar- …”

“Marcella.”

“Miss Marcella,” he says with greater ease. “I’m William Campbell. I’m the pastor now since Reveren’ Marshall passed.”

“Oh! Oh, that’s wonderful to hear. Then yes, Reverend Campbell, you
can
help me.”

She looks back at the open doors and then around the church to verify that there is nobody else around them, before proceeding.

“I am from New York, well, Spain originally, but New York for the last seven years now,” she begins awkwardly, then adjusts her voice down to little more than a whisper. “I am … I’m a member of the Ladies Abolition Society of New York, and one of its founding members, Mrs. Carlisle, lived here in Savannah for seventeen years when she was married.”

He’s never heard of Mrs. Carlisle
, she thinks.
Of course not, it’s been years since she was here. And now he’s got that look you would expect when I mentioned the Ladies Abolition Society
.

“I’m sorry Miss, but I don’ think I can help you none.”

“You are not familiar with Mrs. Carlisle, I imagine?” she asks.

“No, Miss.”

“Well, Mrs. Carlisle had the idea two years ago that we should start collecting whatever money we could in order to purchase freedom for slaves,” she said. “We raised nearly two thousand dollars last year and were able to buy the freedom of a woman and her sister and two children. They live in Brooklyn now.”

Nothing. He doesn’t believe me. Keep explaining
.

“Then my father and brothers were coming on this business trip, and I knew they would be traveling through South Carolina and Georgia, and Mrs. Carlisle mentioned that we could put the money we collected since last year to far greater use if we could get it to people who …”

She looks around before continuing.

“… who were assisting with runaways on the Underground Railroad.”

His expression changes dramatically now as his mouth opens, and his eyebrows are lifted as high as they can go, like he’s just heard the greatest blasphemy imaginable.

“Miss, I don’ know o’ nothin’ like that ’round here,” he says. “This is a good Christian place o’ worship here, firs’ one of its kind, bringin’ Jesus to th’colored folks, an’ we don’ know nothin’ ’bout any o’
that
business.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I … I know I shouldn’t
talk
about such things,” she offers. “I’m very new to this.”