Balm by Dolen Perkins-Valdez Page A

length in that strange accent, Madge struggled to understand as Sadie retold the story of a mother who died rescuing some nurse in a soldiers’ hospital and a father, yet living, who had sold her off to a man she barely knew. Madge had the passing thought more than once that the widow might not be altogether right in the head. After all, a spirit guide was a far-fetched notion, no matter how sincere, and even the death of an unloved husband could do strange things to a woman.
    â€œMadge,” Sadie said after a few minutes, “don’t you have anyone you’d like me to contact on the other side? Surely you do.”
    â€œNo, ma’am.” Madge dabbed at the mark with a wet cloth.
    â€œWell, what about a letter to your people? Shall I send something for you? I hear the battles down in Tennessee were terrible. You should at least check on them.”
    â€œI don’t write and they don’t read.”
    Concern radiated from the widow, but Madge did not know what to do with it. She did not know how to receive what this white woman had to give. She could not forge something out of thin air where before none had existed. It had been hard enough to grow accustomed to the widow’s odd indulgences: a sack of oranges, a scratched brooch for a gift. Madge frequently used the lessons she had been taught early on, staying low in the bushes, watching the widow from a height, seeing her in light of the things she owned: a fine house, a crepe-trimmed dress, ribboned shoes, strands of pearls. The things this white woman owned made it difficult for Madge to accept her kindnesses. But even more than that, if the sisters could not bring themselves to love her, then this woman surely couldn’t either.
    â€œSometimes the healing is with the living,” the widow murmured.
    â€œYou still got a daddy, don’t you.”
    The widow looked at her intently, and Madge knew she’d spoken too much. She concentrated on her work, rubbing the darkened sore until the paste disappeared. Madge’s hands were anointed, but healing took leaves and roots. Without God’s bounty, she could do no more than place a warm palm against a forehead. It was the same with this affection Sadie dangled before her. Where was the plant, the tree, the bush that bound them? Such ties had not existed in Tennessee, and Madge doubted she could make them here, no matter how magical the city.
    So as Sadie looked into Madge’s face, clearly seeking the return of whatever warmth she was hoping for, Madge turned to leave.

7
    B ECAUSE HEMP KNEW RIGHTEOUSNESS WAS SOMETHING to be earned by the worthy, he sat in the same pew every Sunday morning. He had never heard a preacher like Daniel Martin. When the man thumbed the pages of his Bible, Hemp was certain he could read. Before freedom, Hemp worshipped under a tree. Now he crept along the boundary of a cleft, the new life perched on one side, the old one on the other, keeping in mind that the trick was to keep from falling in the gap, losing both old and new, for in that darkness lay something irretrievable, and when images and sounds landed on both sides, like the times he woke to the ring of a farm bell from somewhere inside his head, or saw Annie walking sure-footed through a crowded street, he slowed his step. Even now, as words tipped out of the reverend’s mouth, words Hemp could not repeat even if God commanded it, he sat transfixed, feeling as though the words did not rightfully belong to him, stolen goods sliding from the man’s mouth into Hemp’s ears.
    His loyal presence in the second row, the eagerness with which he pointed his finger to the ceiling, yelling “Yas, sir! Yas, sir!” when the spirit called, earned the preacher’s respect, and Hemp became a deacon in a matter of weeks, ascended to that honored position just below the reverend who was just below the divine. He joined three other deacons, all refugees. The building that housed the