Balm by Dolen Perkins-Valdez Page B

churchgoers was not much of a building at all—the ceiling leaked in heavy rains, and every winter, ice damaged the roof. It was the offspring of a larger church, founded to meet the needs of newly arrived freedmen and -women, and like a new bud shooting from a stem, it was still seeking its direction. But the women wore respectable hand-me-down dresses and the preacher owned a robe adorned with the letter M sewn beneath his left shoulder. Hemp believed he had found something like a family in the city of strangers, and this comforted him even more than the sermons, for all his life Hemp had been creating a family where there was none. The deacons readily accepted him as one of them, and he did whatever was asked, so certain was he that this quiet work lay on the path to righteousness, this church the ship that would deliver him to glory.
    But on the day they questioned him about Annie, he had his first doubts about joining the church so quickly. The men were patching a hole in the roof, taking turns holding the boards in place while another hammered. When the idle chatter turned to Hemp— You ain’t heard no news about your wife? —he hammered more loudly. One of them stood looking, waiting. Hemp squinted, sunlight shooting memories into his eyes.
    â€œNaw, nothing.”
    â€œYou check with that colored association?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œNothing from that notice we put in the paper?”
    â€œSaid I ain’t heard nothing.”
    Reverend Martin climbed the ladder, a pail of water in his hand.“It’s some mighty pretty ladies in our congregation, Deacon Harrison. Several of ’em asked about you, too.”
    The men took turns plunging a dipper into the water.
    â€œFriend of mine took up a new wife,” said one of the deacons.
    Hemp raised his hammer.
    â€œYou heard? Word is colored folks getting rightfully married all over the country.”
    In the sweep of a question, Hemp was alone again, learning to accept the charitable understanding of strangers, trying to open his shoulders. These were his friends, and they only wanted to help. These men care about me.
    â€œI aims to find me a wife,” Hemp said softly.
    â€œPlenty of them ’round. Yes, sir, it is.”
    â€œNo, I mean I still aims to find my wife.”
    â€œYou and a million other freed niggers,” said one of the deacons.
    Hemp threw the tool, and it bounced off the roof, landing on the dirt with a thud.
    â€œSon, don’t,” said the reverend. “He ain’t mean no harm.”
    Hemp rolled the nail between his fingers. In the pause, the reverend gave Hemp a tender look that made him think of the day he put a flower in Annie’s hair.
    â€œYou all right, son?”
    Hemp shook his head, fought off a blue feeling. He remembered how, after word came of the recruitment camp for slaves looking to enlist, a few of the men vanished in the night. Others walked off the property in clear daylight. Hemp was the only husband who stayed behind, his face shocked and still. Annie, Annie, Annie, he’d prayed aloud. Once she heard news of freedom, surely she would come back. Harrison Hemp farm, south of Danville. Enough information for anyone. He was the one with no idea where to start. Two years after everyone else was gone, it dawned on Hemp that he would have tosettle upon some other way of finding her. When he left the farm, he knew, even after traveling God knew how many miles, his love had not moved an inch.
    The reverend gave a nod to the other deacons and led Hemp down the ladder propped beneath the hole in the middle of the sanctuary’s ceiling. He sat, motioning for Hemp to sit in the row in front of him. The reverend spoke from behind, and what he said next nearly shocked the shoes off Hemp.
    â€œSon, you believe in spirits?”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œA spirit woman.”
    Hemp could not believe his ears. “What kind of woman?”
    â€œA widow