Standing at the Scratch Line (34 page)

The second-floor shutters of the DuMont house were flung open and Lester looked out through the curtains at the street below. King raised his rifle to shoot, but his intended target turned back into the room before King could put his sight on him.

Journer thought she heard the sounds of gunfire and men shouting in the street from where she lay on the floor. Time passed. As sensation returned, she discovered her face was sore and her lips were bleeding. There was also pain and wetness between her legs. She was lying on her back on a pallet of blankets. She had been beaten nearly unconscious, then held down and raped. She pushed herself to a sitting position and saw Lester looking out the window. She groaned inadvertently from the pain and Lester turned around to look at her. His hair was unkempt and there was a strange smile on his face.

“You ready for some mo’?” His gold teeth gleamed. He was wearing only a pair of pants held up by suspenders. He looked in the mirror and said, “Damn, you done made me mess up my hair. Now, I hurt people for that!” Lester tried to pat his thickly greased hair smooth. “Oh, shit, now I got to put on a stockin’ cap! You got to pay for this!” There was more noise from the street and Lester returned to the window.

Journer reached up into her hair and pulled out the wooden dowel that still held her bun loosely in place. Her pigtail fell between her breasts. She held the sharpened dowel daggerlike underneath her skirt. She realized she had to be patient.

Lester turned to face her and smirked. “You think yo’ father’s comin’ to save you? You think yo’ friends gon’ break in here and save yo’ black ass? Huh! Yo’ daddy ain’t gon’ do shit, ’cause Oren done already sent him to hell! Yo’ daddy’s lyin’ back there in the alley, feedin’ the rats! And we got some big ones,” Lester laughed. “I guess it’s cause we feeds ’em. Watch and see, the rest of yo’ buddies gon’ join ’em! And if you don’t straighten up and fly right, that’s gon’ be yo’ future too!”

Journer watched Lester walk around the room and hate clouded her vision. There had been a time when all she wanted to do was escape, to run away in her tattered clothes, to take her shredded dignity to some quiet hole and curl up, but that moment had passed. Now she wanted to kill him more than she wanted to live. This decision was the culmination of the terrible memory of him on top of her, thrusting and sweating and panting, all while he kept a stranglehold on her throat. She was so fixed on her desire to kill Lester that it did not sink in emotionally that her father was dead. Her conscious mind clicked and whirred like an adding machine closing out an account as she waited wordlessly for Lester to come closer. She was surprised at the stillness of her heart.

Lester walked slowly over to her. “Do I got to put a couple mo’ fists upside yo’ head, or is you gon’ follow the program? ’Cause all the trouble yo’ family’s done caused me, I’s ready to let Oren have you. I understand he rides a woman hard. He ain’t nice like I is.”

Journer smiled even though it made her lips hurt. “You don’t have to hit me no mo’,” she said softly.

“What you say? Speak up!”

“You don’t have to hit me no mo’!” Journer said, forcing herself to speak louder.

“I didn’t hear you!” Lester said, pressing home his newfound victory. “Did you say that you learned yo’ lesson? I didn’t hear you. You got to speak louder.”

“You ain’t got to hit me! I learned I can’t stand up to you.” The words caused bile to rise up in her throat.

“That’s better. Now, lay back down there and open yo’ legs. All this shootin’ and goin’s on done made me feel like gettin’ a little mo’.” Lester knelt down between her legs and stuck a knife into the floor by her head. “If you try to get smart with me, I’ll cut yo’ throat.” He was slipping the suspenders off his shoulders when the knock came at the door.

“Who the hell is that?” Lester muttered, pulling his knife from the floor and rising swiftly to his feet. “This better be goddamned impo’tant! I ain’t got no time fo’ no bullshit!”

The breeze brought a chill and Journer shivered. She had not been able to react quickly enough. She felt an overwhelming disappointment as she pushed herself to a kneeling position. She now had a firm grip on the dowel. She was concentrating on Lester’s back when she heard Phillip’s voice.

“Journer? Journer, are you in there?” Phillip yelled. He was standing at the top of the stairs in a darkened hallway lit by a sputtering gas lamp. There were four doors opening off the hall and Phillip didn’t know which one to choose. He was panting with exertion. There was blood on his torn shirt from a cut on his forehead. He held a long-barreled revolver loosely at his side. He had used all his bullets and he was searching in his pockets for more. He found three bullets lying in the crease of his pants pocket. He called out. “Journer? Journer, where are you?”

Journer strained to call out but her voice failed her. She wanted to scream, but her throat was strangely constricted. All she could manage was a hoarse whisper. Her desire to scream increased when she saw Lester unlatch the door and sneak behind the drapes that covered a small closet.

“Journer!” Phillip yelled as he popped out the cylinder of his gun and began shucking expended shells on the floor. He was loading the third bullet into the gun when one of the doors in the hallway swung open. Without stopping to think, Phillip rushed through the door, barely snapping the gun’s cylinder back in place.

Unbeknown to Phillip, Derrick had followed him upstairs, carrying a knife in his hand. It was not a big, fancy weapon; it had only a six-inch blade, but it was perfectly balanced for throwing. Derrick had been ready to send it into Phillip’s back until he saw the door to Lester’s bedroom swing open. Derrick did not know what caused him to hesitate: perhaps he wanted to see if Lester could defend himself, or maybe he wanted to enter at the right moment and show his value by saving Lester from Journer’s rescuer. Whatever the reason, Derrick kept the knife in his hand as he crept toward the opened door.

From the doorway, Derrick saw everything. He saw Lester rush up behind Phillip. He saw the flash of metal as Lester’s knife traveled its arc and imbedded itself in Phillip’s back. The penetration of the knife propelled Phillip forward into a headlong fall and the revolver skidded across the floor as it slipped from his grasp. Lester watched Phillip writhing on the floor in pain and laughed. “You some kind of fool! You think you just gon’ barge right on into my room. Yo’ ass is mine now!”

Phillip rolled over onto his back with an effort and looked at Lester through eyes hazy with pain. “I’ll see you in hell!”

Lester chuckled and started toward Phillip, but the sound of the revolver being cocked stopped him dead. Lester turned and saw Journer pointing the long-barreled gun at him with a two-handed grip. His smile disappeared as if it had been erased. “You best be careful with that hog-leg, gal. Hell, it might go off. We don’t want that, do we?” Lester took a step in Journer’s direction. “You best give me the gun now and things’ll go easier for you.”

It was Journer’s turn to laugh. She opened her mouth wide and a strange high-pitched sound issued from her throat.

“Ahh, shit, you ain’t gon’ do nothin’!” Lester walked toward her briskly, intending to take the gun out of her hands, but the discharge of the weapon halted his advance. The bullet creased the side of his neck and spun him around. When he turned back to face her, there was a snarl on his lips. He raised his arm to throw his knife at her when the second bullet caught him in the stomach. He staggered backward against the wall, then started walking stiff-legged toward her. Journer pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. The gun kicked as the shot went wide. She continued pulling the trigger, but there were no more bullets. The hammer fell on empty chambers. Lester continued moving jerkily toward her like a marionette in the hands of an inexpert puppeteer. When he was almost close enough to touch, she picked up her dowel again. She would not miss her second opportunity. Journer tensed, ready to lunge at Lester even though it exposed her to his knife.

A shiny, flying object hit Lester in the back, causing him to turn around in slow motion. Lester never got to see the person who killed him. He fell facedown on the floor with a knife hilt sticking out of his back, just under his shoulder blades. Journer saw Derrick enter the room and lock the door. His eyes when he looked at her said everything.

Derrick took a moment to survey the scene. Journer’s friend looked like he was seriously injured. He had lost a lot of blood and was lying on the floor shivering. The woman looked as if she had put up a fight and was ready for some more. He frowned. He didn’t like uppity women. He figured he might have to put her in her place before too much happened. First, he wanted to explore the possibilities of a deal. The DuMonts had nobody left to lead. A man with the right connections might assume control of the organization. Lester had tried to squeeze too much out of the people. They would probably respond to a gentler hand. Without waiting for an introduction, Derrick outlined the general elements of his plan and put the question to his prospective partners.

“And what if we don’t take yo’ offer?” Journer asked in a hoarse whisper.

“I’ll kill the both of you and take credit for it for the DuMont organization. I got my bread buttered no matter which side hit the flo’.”

Phillip raised his head. His breathing was labored. “Go to hell! I don’t make deals with scum!”

“Then you’s a dead fool!” Derrick commented, shaking his head. “I’m gon’ have to kill you ’cause I can’t have no enemies gettin’ well.” Derrick picked up Lester’s knife and walked over to Phillip. The gusts started up again and the curtains opened and flapped with the power of the wind. When the 3.08 lead slug hit Derrick in the chest, it lifted him off the floor and flung him backward toward the door. His body crashed to the floor and jerked momentarily, then there was quiet. There was only the sound of the curtains flapping in the breeze.

After a few stunned minutes of silence, Journer crawled over to see how Phillip was doing. The room was strong with the odors of the river and the smell of death. Phillip’s eyes were closed, but he opened them when he felt her touch. He gave her a weak smile. He whispered something. She had to hold her ear to his lips to hear what he was saying. His breathing had become more labored, but she understood him to say that he was sleepy. She raised his head and placed it upon her lap as she knelt beside him. Journer allowed her thoughts to drift. In one night it seemed that everything she valued had been ruined. She did not understand how or why she had been spared when death was the only answer she sought. Journer caressed Phillip’s sweating brow absentmindedly. She was in shock. She did not even respond to the pounding on the door.

B o o k   I I

T H E   S A G A

O F   S E R E N A

A N D

K I N G   T R E M A I N

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 U N D A Y,  
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 U L Y   4,   1 9 2 0
   

Serena Baddeaux first met LeRoi Tremain when she was seventeen at a Negro carnival on Independence Day in the summer of 1920. The carnival was sponsored by several of the Uptown Black Baptist churches, and thus it was an acceptable place to be seen. Her father, a local farmer and an elder in the growing parish, would have banned her attendance had the carnival not been supported by the Baptist church. Her father was a stern, upright man who made sure that his adolescent son and his three teenage daughters did nothing to disgrace the Baddeaux family name.

On the day of the carnival, Serena rose an hour before the rooster crowed to make sure her chores were done and her dress was ready. She and her mother had been working on the dress every evening for a week. As the eldest, her dress had been the last to be completed. Her two sisters had their dresses weeks before because Serena and her mother had spent many late nights with needle and thread. Sometimes she begrudged her role as the eldest, especially when she saw the pampering her baby brother received, but that was the life of a woman on a farm.

It was still dark when she came down the stairs, and there was a chill in the air. She lit the kerosene lamp that hung over the dinner table and started fires in the hearth and in the old potbellied stove. By the time her father arose, she had milked the cow and had started a breakfast of griddle cakes and thick slabs of bacon. Her father gave her a grunt of approval as he walked out the door to the outhouse. Dawn was peaking through the windows when her younger sisters and baby brother came down to breakfast. They were full of chatter about the carnival. She had to remind them that if their chores were not done, they wouldn’t be able to go at all, but she felt their excitement. As far as she was concerned, any break from the constant drudgery of farm work was reason for excitement.

Her mother came down shortly after sunrise, when Serena was clearing away the breakfast dishes. She was dying of consumption and she had weakened to a point that she could not walk long distances unaided. Serena pulled a chair out from the table and offered it to her mother, who coughed and gave her a weak smile of thanks. Once she was seated, her mother reached over and picked up Serena’s dress and began to examine the stitching around the ruffles on the bodice. Serena turned the flame higher in the kerosene lamp for more light and pointed to the ruffles. “That’s as far as I was able to get last night, Mama. Do you feel up to something to eat?”

Serena’s father entered the kitchen in stocking feet. He had come from watering and feeding the mules and had left his muddy boots by the door. “I need me some different socks. These is all wore out. Did you finish mending my other ones?” Serena walked over to a basket beside the window and took out a pair of thick wool socks and handed them to her father. As he sat down at the table, he turned down the lamp. “The good Lord done brought us daylight, ain’t no reason to waste kerosene.” He nodded to his wife and asked Serena, “Did you finish fixing that harness like I asked?” His voice was not gruff, but there was no warmth in it.

Serena gave her father a steady look. “It’s hanging in the barn, but I don’t think it will hold long. I think you need to buy some leather straps because—”

“You think?” her father interrupted her. “Why is it buy, buy, buy all the time around here? Can’t you women make nothin’? Other people seem to make do without running into town all the time to get store-bought.”

“If we don’t have it, how we going to make it, Charles? All we got here is deerskin! For reins, you need real leather. You ain’t bought hide in near three years.” She had said words like these many times, in many previous arguments. She understood her husband was not a bad man, but one who was reluctant to spend a dollar if he could avoid it. She looked up and watched for his response.

“You ain’t got to defend the girl, Rebecca. All I was saying is, we ain’t got to buy something that we can make.”

Serena’s mother coughed and said nothing more to her husband. She busied herself with Serena’s dress. Serena also turned away and finished cleaning the kitchen. It was clear that the women had withdrawn their attention from him. After several minutes of silence, he stood up and left the house.

Serena waited until her father had left and then turned the lamp flame higher. Her mother gave her a brief smile. Serena studied her mother and saw in the lines on her face the sacrifice and hard labor that came with life on a small farm: the endless hours of sweat, the days of blistering sun and the nights of aching muscles, the weeks of tedium and the years of hopeless toil, all to reap the elusive harvest of the dark, brooding earth. If there was one thing that Serena knew, it was that she did not want to be a farmer’s wife.

With two mules pulling their wagon, it took nearly three hours for the Baddeaux family to reach the carnival. Her mother was stiff with pain as Serena helped her get down. Her father had found a space where he could park his wagon down near a small creek so that there was water for the mules. Serena was helping her mother with her shawl when she heard her eight-year-old brother, Amos, calling her name excitedly.

She left her mother’s side and went up the embankment to see what had gotten his attention. When she reached him, her brother was speechless. He merely pointed. There in the distance, standing beside some horses, was a tall, light-skinned man in a brown military uniform. Everything about the man was spit and polish; his uniform had been ironed and the creases were still sharp; his shoes were shiny and the brass clasps and buttons of his uniform reflected light. It was an unusual thing to see a colored man in the uniform of the American military service, but this man seemed to personify the warrior. He was big, broad-shouldered, and well muscled. Serena couldn’t see his face, but she was curious about him. She had heard rumors about colored men who had fought for America in the big war in faraway places and that some of these men had returned home now that the war was over. She wondered what he had seen. Had he been to Paris or England? She had often dreamed about living in a big city where everything was run with electricity.

“All the colored men from this parish that were in the service during World War One are lined up on the other side of them prayer tents!” Amos shouted. “There was almost a hundred of ’em and they are decked out with medals and everythin’!”

Serena felt her younger brother’s excitement. She was about to ask him to take her to see the soldiers when her father said coldly, “Simmer down, Amos. We here to learn the word of God. The soldiers ain’t got nothin’ we want.” The big smile on Amos’s face evaporated like water on a hot cast-iron stove. Serena shook her head but said nothing. Her father seemed to take pleasure in taking the joy out of everything. She hurried to assist her mother up the embankment, but her mind was still embroiled with the vision of the man in the uniform. Serena Baddeaux had her first glimpse of King Tremain.

The day was warm and beautifully clear. The carnival was located on one of the few flat and dry grassy areas northwest of New Orleans. There was a slight breeze blowing off the ocean that carried away the regular smell of the damp and rotting swamp. On the outskirts of the tents, there were clowns, wrestling contests, pie-eating competitions, and all sorts of colorful crafts and food booths. The carnival was obviously a success. There were booths set up by the local merchants and crafts people that sold everything from farm implements to possum pie. There were tents filled with people watching jugglers, acrobats, magicians, singers, and musicians, and there was even a traveling theatrical company that was presenting one-act plays. It was so crowded that it seemed like every colored person between New Orleans and the Mississippi border was there.

The cream of Negro society sported their best threads, promenading through the central lane between the tents, while the tongue waggers had a field day discussing who was present and what they were wearing.

Serena’s father ushered his family into one of the larger tents in which there was an all-day revival meeting. There they remained until the three o’clock supper break. Serena and her mother had prepared a meal of sliced ham, apples, homemade bread, and blackberry pie. They sat on blankets beside the wagon. When they were nearly finished eating, one of the reverends who had been leading the revival stopped by to chat.

The reverend was a fire-and-brimstone preacher and he always had the frown of hellfire on his face. There were sinners around every corner as far as he was concerned. However, on this visit the reverend sought to be pleasant for he had brought his eldest son along for the sole purpose of seeking permission for him to court Serena. He attempted to smile, which after years of frowning was a difficult act, and produced the expression of a man swallowing an extremely large and bitter pill. There were exchanges as to weather, soil conditions, crop failure, upcoming revivals; the Reverend Broadfoot was known to be wordy. Finally, Serena’s father yawned rather expressively and the reverend got the idea. “Young Fred here has come to me to get permission to court your daughter, Serena. I’ve seen them exchanging looks in the church and they’re both from good, God-fearing families. Fred ain’t going to be a man of the cloth. He’s taking over the farm. He’s a good, hardworking boy and he’ll make a good life for your daughter.”

“I don’t rightly see as if there is any problem with what Fred wants, so I’ll say—”

“Pardon me, Pa, shouldn’t we talk first? I have something to say about this!” Serena interrupted. She had no interest in Fred, who looked almost as sour as his old man, and she didn’t want to waste time pretending that she did.

“You . . . you . . .” Her father was flabbergasted. “You challengin’ my decision?”

Her mother defended Serena’s right to choose. “A girl has a right to say both yes and no, Charles.”

Her father turned to the reverend. “I think we can work things out. Let me get back to you.”

The reverend and his son took their leave. When they were out of earshot, her father commenced to fuming. “What kind of stuck-up little fool are you? You have to go a long way to do better than Broadfoot. They got a good farm and they’re God-fearing Christians. What more do you want?”

No one said anything. It was clear he didn’t want their real opinion. He stomped around a bit more. “It’s time to return to the revival tent.”

“Papa, can’t I please just take a look around the carnival for a little bit?” her little brother begged. It had been torture for Amos to sit still during the revival meeting and greater torture to remain with his family while they ate, but it was unbearable that he should not even see the inside of any tent other than the one in which the revival was given. His father was not sympathetic. Serena’s mother chose to stay with the wagon and asked that Serena remain with her. Her father agreed with obvious reluctance and ushered the three remaining children toward the revival tent.