bed.
Mae Ann and Jessie slept with Eva, watching movies till past midnight, drinking Dr. Pepper and eating barbecued potato chips. When Jessie asked her aunt why she never got married, Eva rolled her eyes and said, “What I need a man for? Just tell me that.” And once while Mae Ann slept at the foot of the bed, Aunt Eva asked Jessie in the dark, “You got anything you want to tell me, Jess, anything at all?”
“Bout what?”
“Bout why you don’t want to git outta my car when I take you home. Bout that no count daddy of yours. That’s what about.”
“No, ma’am, I ain’t got nothing I want to tell,” Jessie whispered, images of disaster filling her mind at the thought of putting into words actions she could never truly describe.
Eva turned on the lamp and gazed at her niece in disbelief that melted into understanding. Reaching for the girl’s hands, she said, “You know, Jessie, your mama coulda been a Daddy Grace, a Billy Graham. But your daddy broke her heart and snatched out her tongue. A woman can unravel mysteries the average man ain’t even heard of. Imagine that, Jessie, yourmama living the life that was supposed to have been hers. Women don’t birth babies for nothing. Man can’t pull nothing outta his hat to beat that. And put a woman in touch with God, truly in touch, and you’ll see a miracle before your eyes. But, Jessie, your mama looked at your daddy when she was eighteen and thought she was in love. I looked at him and saw a cracked mirror, a black cat and seven years’ bad luck.” Squeezing Jessie’s hands tighter now, Eva said, “He snatched your mama’s tongue and stole her voice, Jessie. You don’t need to tell me a thing, chile, I can look at you and tell what he done took from you.”
By the time these thoughts had unraveled, they lay like shards of glass strewn on the sheets between Jessie and Lincoln. When he turned over in his sleep, and whispered her name, Jessie scurried out of the bed, dressing quickly leaving him alone in the room, afraid to imagine what she would relive if he touched her again.
A S MACON GAZED out the window of the pickup truck at the Sparks plantation, she saw the cotton field stretching before her for what seemed like miles. The field was placid, beneath the sun, content in the clear, afternoon sky. The bolls of cotton looked like flowers, resilient, staunch, clinging to the spidery vines.
“You know what you’re made of when you work a full day doing that,” Jessie said, nodding toward the field.
“Where’d you pick cotton?” Macon asked.
“My mama’s daddy one time rented a acre or two and us kids would go there and help him out.”
“But it’s so beautiful,” Macon wondered, turning back to the field.
“Yeah, from over here it’s pretty all right. But you get up on it. Have to pick it with your fingers and let those burrs tear up your hands.
You
stoop over all day long, or pull a sack hitched to your shoulder, and see how beautiful you think cotton is by the time the sun goes down.”
They had come to the Starks plantation to check on Glory Pickering, who had been attending the Freedom School and then suddenly stopped coming. Glory reminded Jessie so much of herself when she was a child that she had determined to try and get her to return to the school. During the drive, Macon had told Jessie, “You’ll have to handle this, I’m just along for the ride.” Jessie had begun to imitate Macon’s walk, the confident stride she noticed most often in men. She had even let her hair go, just stopped worrying about it, cut it short, so she could look like Macon.
“What if her mama won’t let her come back?” Jessie asked.
“There’s nothing we can do about that.”
Macon parked on the highway and the two women walked across the road to the plantation. It was noon and most of the field hands had taken a break for lunch. Jessie and Macon walked slowly through the fields. The Starks plantation covered seventy-five acres and
Mae Ann and Jessie slept with Eva, watching movies till past midnight, drinking Dr. Pepper and eating barbecued potato chips. When Jessie asked her aunt why she never got married, Eva rolled her eyes and said, “What I need a man for? Just tell me that.” And once while Mae Ann slept at the foot of the bed, Aunt Eva asked Jessie in the dark, “You got anything you want to tell me, Jess, anything at all?”
“Bout what?”
“Bout why you don’t want to git outta my car when I take you home. Bout that no count daddy of yours. That’s what about.”
“No, ma’am, I ain’t got nothing I want to tell,” Jessie whispered, images of disaster filling her mind at the thought of putting into words actions she could never truly describe.
Eva turned on the lamp and gazed at her niece in disbelief that melted into understanding. Reaching for the girl’s hands, she said, “You know, Jessie, your mama coulda been a Daddy Grace, a Billy Graham. But your daddy broke her heart and snatched out her tongue. A woman can unravel mysteries the average man ain’t even heard of. Imagine that, Jessie, yourmama living the life that was supposed to have been hers. Women don’t birth babies for nothing. Man can’t pull nothing outta his hat to beat that. And put a woman in touch with God, truly in touch, and you’ll see a miracle before your eyes. But, Jessie, your mama looked at your daddy when she was eighteen and thought she was in love. I looked at him and saw a cracked mirror, a black cat and seven years’ bad luck.” Squeezing Jessie’s hands tighter now, Eva said, “He snatched your mama’s tongue and stole her voice, Jessie. You don’t need to tell me a thing, chile, I can look at you and tell what he done took from you.”
By the time these thoughts had unraveled, they lay like shards of glass strewn on the sheets between Jessie and Lincoln. When he turned over in his sleep, and whispered her name, Jessie scurried out of the bed, dressing quickly leaving him alone in the room, afraid to imagine what she would relive if he touched her again.
A S MACON GAZED out the window of the pickup truck at the Sparks plantation, she saw the cotton field stretching before her for what seemed like miles. The field was placid, beneath the sun, content in the clear, afternoon sky. The bolls of cotton looked like flowers, resilient, staunch, clinging to the spidery vines.
“You know what you’re made of when you work a full day doing that,” Jessie said, nodding toward the field.
“Where’d you pick cotton?” Macon asked.
“My mama’s daddy one time rented a acre or two and us kids would go there and help him out.”
“But it’s so beautiful,” Macon wondered, turning back to the field.
“Yeah, from over here it’s pretty all right. But you get up on it. Have to pick it with your fingers and let those burrs tear up your hands.
You
stoop over all day long, or pull a sack hitched to your shoulder, and see how beautiful you think cotton is by the time the sun goes down.”
They had come to the Starks plantation to check on Glory Pickering, who had been attending the Freedom School and then suddenly stopped coming. Glory reminded Jessie so much of herself when she was a child that she had determined to try and get her to return to the school. During the drive, Macon had told Jessie, “You’ll have to handle this, I’m just along for the ride.” Jessie had begun to imitate Macon’s walk, the confident stride she noticed most often in men. She had even let her hair go, just stopped worrying about it, cut it short, so she could look like Macon.
“What if her mama won’t let her come back?” Jessie asked.
“There’s nothing we can do about that.”
Macon parked on the highway and the two women walked across the road to the plantation. It was noon and most of the field hands had taken a break for lunch. Jessie and Macon walked slowly through the fields. The Starks plantation covered seventy-five acres and
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