a roof, a bath, and a bed. She laid her head on the pillow at around eight and fell fast asleep. At about midnight she woke up. She could hear music coming from the porch. Banjo, guitar, mouth harp, fiddle, mandolin. It sounded so perfectly perfect, she couldn’t help but open her window as wide as it would go and lean out to hear some more. Every chord, every note, cried a river. It reached right down into the soil of the land they were playing on. Charlotte was sure that if they played long enough, the flowers would be teased right out of the earth.
“You sing it, Mazy. You sing it loud, Miss Mazy Watts,” the banjo player yelped. And then Mazy Watts began to sing. One song after another, so absolutely beautiful, Charlotte wondered if she had sold her soul to be able to sing like that. She’d heard such stories about a man who, one hot summer night, sold his soul to the devil to be able to sing the blues. A summer night as hot as this one. Charlotte closed her eyes and inhaled every sweet scent, every sweet sound surrounding her. She’d never heard anything like it, and she simply couldn’t contain herself. She was suddenly clapping and singing from her window like a big-bellied warbler.
“You sing it, girl,” the fiddle player yelled up to Charlotte.
And she did, calling to Jesus and polishing those pearly gates with her hands that were waving wildly in the warm midnight air.
“Praise Jesus!” someone cried.
And they did: Mazy Watts, Charlotte, and a chorus of others who slowly gathered to the porch that night and sang until the sun came up. Maybe thirty people showed, maybe more, from who knows where, to sing, to praise, to give thanks, to ask for forgiveness, to ask for salvation, to lament, to exalt, to grieve, to accept, to weep, to live, to die, to sing the gospel. It was as if church were open all night under the stars. And for a moment, Charlotte felt okay. Okay about her life and okay about the prospect of dying. Somehow, she thought, dying is what we have to do to complete the circle. The music was telling her so. It had been so many years since Charlotte had experienced the sensation of being held in someone’s arms. But tonight, between the music and the moon and the unaccountable black magic of the Southern air, she was embraced in the spirit of everything that was good in this world. And she felt free.
Every part of Charlotte felt free by the grace of the great gospel gods: her arms, her legs, her hips, her feet, but especially, most especially, her soul.
The following afternoon, she woke to the harsh clarity of late light spilling off the walls while the sun sluggishly climbed down the backside of another day. However, one thing was clear, clearest of all, and that was she did not want to die. The music had made the dying seem okay last night, caught in its current and carried to the “shores of milk and honey,” but today was today, and she wanted to live and hear a lifetime of it now. However, time was short, and with only a year she had no time to ruminate about how much time she did not have left. So she hurried off in search of Mazy to say goodbye. There she was, raking the flattened grass in front of her porch as if bent on giving a straight road back its curves.
“Good-by, Mazy Watts,” Charlotte said, pulling her close, nearly suffocating the poor woman in her full, generous bosom. “I have to tell you, Mazy, I’ve never heard a voice like yours in all my life.”
“And you, too, sister Charlotte, you got yourself your own beautiful voice.”
“Thank you, Mazy Watts. Thank you. One night in Mississippi. I saw more in one night than I ever thought I could, because of you.”
“What’d you see, Charlotte?” Mazy asked as they walked toward Charlotte’s car.
“I saw...I saw...” Charlotte was trying to put her finger on the feeling. And then it struck her. “...a glimpse of paradise, a passing glimpse, but a glimpse nonetheless.”
“Ahhhh,” Mazy said, “that can
“You sing it, Mazy. You sing it loud, Miss Mazy Watts,” the banjo player yelped. And then Mazy Watts began to sing. One song after another, so absolutely beautiful, Charlotte wondered if she had sold her soul to be able to sing like that. She’d heard such stories about a man who, one hot summer night, sold his soul to the devil to be able to sing the blues. A summer night as hot as this one. Charlotte closed her eyes and inhaled every sweet scent, every sweet sound surrounding her. She’d never heard anything like it, and she simply couldn’t contain herself. She was suddenly clapping and singing from her window like a big-bellied warbler.
“You sing it, girl,” the fiddle player yelled up to Charlotte.
And she did, calling to Jesus and polishing those pearly gates with her hands that were waving wildly in the warm midnight air.
“Praise Jesus!” someone cried.
And they did: Mazy Watts, Charlotte, and a chorus of others who slowly gathered to the porch that night and sang until the sun came up. Maybe thirty people showed, maybe more, from who knows where, to sing, to praise, to give thanks, to ask for forgiveness, to ask for salvation, to lament, to exalt, to grieve, to accept, to weep, to live, to die, to sing the gospel. It was as if church were open all night under the stars. And for a moment, Charlotte felt okay. Okay about her life and okay about the prospect of dying. Somehow, she thought, dying is what we have to do to complete the circle. The music was telling her so. It had been so many years since Charlotte had experienced the sensation of being held in someone’s arms. But tonight, between the music and the moon and the unaccountable black magic of the Southern air, she was embraced in the spirit of everything that was good in this world. And she felt free.
Every part of Charlotte felt free by the grace of the great gospel gods: her arms, her legs, her hips, her feet, but especially, most especially, her soul.
The following afternoon, she woke to the harsh clarity of late light spilling off the walls while the sun sluggishly climbed down the backside of another day. However, one thing was clear, clearest of all, and that was she did not want to die. The music had made the dying seem okay last night, caught in its current and carried to the “shores of milk and honey,” but today was today, and she wanted to live and hear a lifetime of it now. However, time was short, and with only a year she had no time to ruminate about how much time she did not have left. So she hurried off in search of Mazy to say goodbye. There she was, raking the flattened grass in front of her porch as if bent on giving a straight road back its curves.
“Good-by, Mazy Watts,” Charlotte said, pulling her close, nearly suffocating the poor woman in her full, generous bosom. “I have to tell you, Mazy, I’ve never heard a voice like yours in all my life.”
“And you, too, sister Charlotte, you got yourself your own beautiful voice.”
“Thank you, Mazy Watts. Thank you. One night in Mississippi. I saw more in one night than I ever thought I could, because of you.”
“What’d you see, Charlotte?” Mazy asked as they walked toward Charlotte’s car.
“I saw...I saw...” Charlotte was trying to put her finger on the feeling. And then it struck her. “...a glimpse of paradise, a passing glimpse, but a glimpse nonetheless.”
“Ahhhh,” Mazy said, “that can
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