inquisitiveness and who was acknowledged by all in the small town as one of the most inquisitive women anyone knew, even Lena hesitated a moment, then decided out of respect not to read when she noticed the elegant cursive marks on the yellowed sheet of crisp-looking onionskin paper lying catercorner to the edge on the sturdy wooden table.
“This is private,” she said out loud, sounding like her grandmother,as she patted the fragile paper gently with the flat of her hand and left it alone. But she could not resist picking up the feather quill pen lying next to a clear blue bottle of blue-black ink and examining it before putting it back exactly as she had found it.
Strong morning light was coming in from somewhere. Lena tilted her head back and studied the ceiling, but she couldn’t find the direct source of light. It seemed to bounce back and forth off one wall then the other, practically flooding the high narrow space with sunlight.
On the far wall of the room was rough exposed brick, but built into the structure was a clever lever and a cantilever supporting a window that opened and shut automatically, allowing fresh air into the room at regular intervals. It was almost like a fan set on low. After just a few minutes of examination, Lena had to smile at the ingenious design.
“Well, Lord,” Lena said in admiration. “Would you look at that?”
The first time Lena, still a little thing, had exclaimed, “Well, Lord,” her mother had looked as if she had just seen a ghost. She brought her pretty manicured hand spread out against her décolletage and sucked in her breath sharply. Nellie had not heard the exclamation since her father-in-law had died some ten years before.
Looking at her strange little daughter, Nellie recalled how the older man always began each task—whether helping a friend to change a tire or dressing for a friend’s funeral, whether standing to wash his hands for dinner or going to the state offices in Atlanta about his taxes—with the call, as if he were setting out on an adventure. “Well, Lord” was a prayer of resignation and supplication, an incantation spoken to ask for strength.
“Well, Lord.” The old man had always said it with feeling and irony and resignation.
Lena’s grandfather had died the year before Lena was born, and when “Well, Lord” came out of Lena’s face, Nellie felt a chill in her bones and rubbed her hands over her arms to smooth away the chill bumps.
“Lena, where you get that expression from?” Nellie had asked, notsure she really wanted to know. She had meant to keep her voice casual as she asked, but she couldn’t pull it off. It came out sounding like the most important question she had asked since her second son’s birth and she had asked, “Is the baby all right?”
“From Granddaddy Walter,” Lena said, before she could pull the words back in her mouth. She was always answering questions honestly before she realized her answer had unsettled some adult.
So Lena didn’t use the expression as freely as her father’s father had. She reserved it for truly special, wondrous, momentous situations.
Gazing up in the newly discovered room behind the wall of The Place, she said it again.
“Well, Lord?” This time with a bit of a question in her voice.
First, she stood in the path of the fresh air drifting down from above. She stepped a few feet to the side like a girl dancing in a recital—”Step together and you lean to the side”—and could still feel the air. Then suddenly she again smelled the familiar aroma of man like a breath of fresh air.
Because of what she and Sister called her “curse,” it had been a long time since Lena had smelled a man so intimately. Her curse was not her monthly menses. At forty-five, Lena knew she would soon be seeing her periods wane, then disappear altogether. Lena’s curse was being able to gaze into another’s soul.
From the first time she ever tried to make love when she was a senior at Xavier
“This is private,” she said out loud, sounding like her grandmother,as she patted the fragile paper gently with the flat of her hand and left it alone. But she could not resist picking up the feather quill pen lying next to a clear blue bottle of blue-black ink and examining it before putting it back exactly as she had found it.
Strong morning light was coming in from somewhere. Lena tilted her head back and studied the ceiling, but she couldn’t find the direct source of light. It seemed to bounce back and forth off one wall then the other, practically flooding the high narrow space with sunlight.
On the far wall of the room was rough exposed brick, but built into the structure was a clever lever and a cantilever supporting a window that opened and shut automatically, allowing fresh air into the room at regular intervals. It was almost like a fan set on low. After just a few minutes of examination, Lena had to smile at the ingenious design.
“Well, Lord,” Lena said in admiration. “Would you look at that?”
The first time Lena, still a little thing, had exclaimed, “Well, Lord,” her mother had looked as if she had just seen a ghost. She brought her pretty manicured hand spread out against her décolletage and sucked in her breath sharply. Nellie had not heard the exclamation since her father-in-law had died some ten years before.
Looking at her strange little daughter, Nellie recalled how the older man always began each task—whether helping a friend to change a tire or dressing for a friend’s funeral, whether standing to wash his hands for dinner or going to the state offices in Atlanta about his taxes—with the call, as if he were setting out on an adventure. “Well, Lord” was a prayer of resignation and supplication, an incantation spoken to ask for strength.
“Well, Lord.” The old man had always said it with feeling and irony and resignation.
Lena’s grandfather had died the year before Lena was born, and when “Well, Lord” came out of Lena’s face, Nellie felt a chill in her bones and rubbed her hands over her arms to smooth away the chill bumps.
“Lena, where you get that expression from?” Nellie had asked, notsure she really wanted to know. She had meant to keep her voice casual as she asked, but she couldn’t pull it off. It came out sounding like the most important question she had asked since her second son’s birth and she had asked, “Is the baby all right?”
“From Granddaddy Walter,” Lena said, before she could pull the words back in her mouth. She was always answering questions honestly before she realized her answer had unsettled some adult.
So Lena didn’t use the expression as freely as her father’s father had. She reserved it for truly special, wondrous, momentous situations.
Gazing up in the newly discovered room behind the wall of The Place, she said it again.
“Well, Lord?” This time with a bit of a question in her voice.
First, she stood in the path of the fresh air drifting down from above. She stepped a few feet to the side like a girl dancing in a recital—”Step together and you lean to the side”—and could still feel the air. Then suddenly she again smelled the familiar aroma of man like a breath of fresh air.
Because of what she and Sister called her “curse,” it had been a long time since Lena had smelled a man so intimately. Her curse was not her monthly menses. At forty-five, Lena knew she would soon be seeing her periods wane, then disappear altogether. Lena’s curse was being able to gaze into another’s soul.
From the first time she ever tried to make love when she was a senior at Xavier
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