A Matter of Souls (8 page)

“Hazey, I didn't mean—”

“Yeah, you always
mean
, Jurdine.” Hazel cut her off and looked away. What was she apologizing for, anyway? A lifetime?

There was quiet between them. Then, as Hazel looked at Jurdine again, she didn't only seem genuinely mournful, she seemed … old.

Hazel was awake enough to see how ridiculous it was: Jurdine was banking on Time, and Time didn't cut deals with nobody. Even Miss Clotille's gentlemen callers had gotten scarce when the lines started creeping around her eyes and throat.

“It won't last,” Hazel murmured to her sister.

“You're talkin' out of your head,” Jurdine said. “And
you might as well know, being light-skinned won't get you nothin', 'cause we still poor and Colored in this lil' bitty Louisiana town …” She paused, biting her lip. Her tone was bitter as lemons.

“I'm not stayin', Hazel,” she went on, her words running together fast. “I'm just another mouth to feed, and what I make don't help put Mama and Daddy ahead at all. 'Sides, I can't hardly breathe around here anymore!” Jurdine leaned. She never came around the bed; she never touched Hazel's cheek or took her hand.

“It would kill Mama and Daddy, Jurdine.”

“But you know how it is! Look at what
you
did! It's either die or go crazy!” Jurdine was pleading with her. Hazel sighed, and despite the numbness, felt pain.

“I know,” she said. She was so weary. “How come we can't be who we are?” she asked.

Jurdine's eyes flashed, and for a minute, she was not a ghost; Hazel glimpsed somebody she didn't know: she saw some kind of raven-haired queen.

“Nobody here
knows
who I am,” Jurdine said in her old, high-and-mighty voice.

“
I
know!” Hazel said with all the energy she could muster.

“I don't wanna fight, Hazey,” Jurdine said, half turning away. She stooped to pick up her pocketbook from the floor and then looked back. Before she could speak, the sounds of their parents' voices floated from the end of the ward.

“This is good-bye, Hazey!” she whispered. “I don't plan to be home when you get out.”

Hazel was too full of everything to part her lips: fear, wonder, disbelief—she swallowed hard, and suddenly Jurdine rushed toward her and planted a hot kiss on her forehead.

“You always were prettier than me. That's why I hate you so much.”

Hazel heard her sister lie to their parents about working a double shift that night. And then Jurdine was gone.

Johnson C. Johnson pulled over a chair and swung the curtain around the bed in one great swoop.

“Guess we'll have to put off our dancing, but not for long, I hope.” JC wasn't smiling when he said it, and Hazel was strangely comforted by that.

JC sat down. He was clutching a bunch of purple hydrangeas, which made Hazel smile.

“You better stay out of Miss Clotille's backyard,” she said, wanting to laugh but afraid it might hurt. “I believe she does count them blossoms.”

JC cocked his head and laid the flowers on her lap, reaching into his shirt pocket for something.

“She invited me to 'em,” he said. “And asked me if I was coming to see you. When I said ‘yeah,' she said to give you this.” He handed Hazel a small, light purple envelope.
Lavender,
Miss Clotille would have said.

Hazel started opening the envelope by slipping her little finger under the edge of the seal. Miss Clotille said that a lady should never rip open packages or envelopes.

“You know, Hazel, life sure is funny sometimes …” He hesitated. “… but I'm not laughing about it.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” she asked, slipping one of Miss Clotille's perfumed notecards from the ragged lips of paper.

“Well, I saw your sister when I was on my way over here. And she saw me, too; at least I thought she did. But then she kind of looked right through me and just kept on walking.”

Hazel sucked in a breath. He hadn't named names, but she didn't have to wonder which sister.

“W-where was she, exactly?” Hazel tried to keep calm.

He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Easing into the bus station. She was in traveling clothes and heels, carrying a little grip …” He was watching for Hazel's reaction. “… and she was going into the Colored passenger entrance, not that side service door, so I knew she wasn't making no deliveries for the plant.”

“You sure were paying a lot of attention,” Hazel said sharply, because she was secretly afraid that Johnson C. Johnson might be judging Jurdine, like she was right now. Hazel suspected that Jurdine's actions were simple practice for the way she would pretend wherever she was going. She had already chosen the new kind of air she was going to breathe. It didn't include anybody like JC, or Hazel, or even Mama Vee. Hazel shuddered.

“The way your sister looked at me, I had to pay attention. It was like she was daring me to say something—anything—but then I blinked, and she cut me a look like I was something dirty on the bottom of them high-heeled shoes!” He sat back in the chair with his hands on his knees, still staring at Hazel.

“You knew she was going,” he said.

Hazel was crushing the lavender note between her fingers. Without answering him, she opened it. Her hands were shaking. She read the first line, hoping for a distraction. She found one.

“My dearest Hazel: I was sorry to hear about your misfortune, but as you know, I have a busy household to run. I consulted with your grandmother, and have had to engage someone else. She is a quiet girl with a desire to serve. With a bit more polish, you would have had great potential in a domestic career, I think. I'm sure you will keep a good enough house, if you ever marry. Yours in friendship, Clotille Veatrice Henderson, Esq.”

Hazel looked across at JC with wonder. “Well, I'll be. She fired me!”

“She did what?” JC's eyes flashed, and he half-rose from his seat. “I oughta—”

“You oughta nothing, Johnson C. Johnson. But thank
you for jumping hot on my account. Let me swallow all this for a minute.”

Every woman in Hazel's life except her own mother had turned on her, shown all their ugly, and she wasn't sick over it. Hazel was surprised that with all this loss, her heart wasn't heavy.

“JC, you're so right!” Hazel said slowly. “Life is mighty funny … in that sad kind of way.”

“I may not be sure yet who I aim to be,” she added, “but I'm real clear on what I'm not. Are you?”

“Oh, I know you're gonna make it clear to me, Hazel Mozella Reed.”

Hazel leaned to touch him. She was aching, hurting … but she knew she would heal. She let the purple notecard slip off the edge of the bed as she moved.

“You think there's a wheelchair around here somewhere, JC? Looks like sunshine outdoors. Could we go outside?”

He leaped up, grinning like he had that day—it seemed so long ago!—when he'd called to her over Reverend Clark's hedge. Song of Solomon he'd recited, Hazel recalled. She winced and eased back against the pillows, hoping that she wouldn't fall asleep again before he came back.

But her eyes didn't close. There was too much now to think about.

C
ovington marked an
X
on the line next to his name. He guessed that this was not the time to let on that he could actually reproduce the letters of his own name in his own hand from his own knowledge. He read silently, not even moving his lips.

Covington Markham, June 19, 1868.
He would never have written the last name, anyhow. After feigning concentration over that crooked
X,
Covington looked up.

“Well, congratulations, Covie. You're a mighty lucky Colored boy,” the lawyer said.

Covington didn't even flinch; he'd learned long ago that Colored and pride didn't ride well together. Not the kind of pride that could cause him to lose a livelihood. He only ducked his head to give the impression of a respectful nod, a mannerism he'd perfected working at his uncle's knee.

“Thank you, Mr. Worthy.”

“Elizear Markham has left you an unbelievable gift, I hope you understand. What are you going to do now?”

Covington raised his chin and looked directly at Worthy as he slipped the papers into the inside pocket of his Sunday suit. He did cut a figure, he knew; and because his uncle had made sure he kept out of the fields, his back and shoulders were straight as a board. He wasn't tall, but he was wiry, and quick-limbed as well as quick-witted.

Covington turned his hat between his long fingers, aware that his green eyes, set deep in the shadows of his almond-skinned face, were cautious. Covington and the lawyer both knew that the question was only a coded version of the challenge the man was issuing from his own, equally green, eyes. And they both knew that Elizear Markham had left Covington what he justly deserved. Covington finally spoke.

“Well, Mr. Abe, I guess I gonna hang out my shingle and open up shop!” Covington wickedly enjoyed lapsing into the southern intonation and vernacular that his uncle had beaten out of him.

Worthy raised his eyebrows, surprised for a moment, then nodded.

“I suppose you are going to try,” he said slowly. He reared back, his hands clasped under his chin. “I suppose you are.”

Covington clamped his hat onto his close-cropped auburn hair without smiling. He gave his breast pocket a
quick pat, as a final gesture to the lawyer that he would do much more than try. He believed in himself, and now that both the deed and the fully executed will were safely in his possession, what Worthy believed didn't matter.

“Afternoon, Mr. Abe,” he said cheerily over his shoulder. “Your shoes be ready day after tomorrow.”

Covington didn't wait or listen for any answer. When he stepped out into the crisp September air, he was wrapped up in wash-worn muslin, lavender scent, and kisses.

Beesi didn't care much for public propriety. And Covington didn't care much for anybody now, except for Beesi. He laughed and gently pulled her away from him.

He wanted to run his fingers through her soft, thick hair, but if a Negro man and woman showed affection out in the street like this, it might draw some unwelcome attention. So he resisted, slipping his arm underneath hers instead, heading around the corner.

“What you gonna do now, Covie? What you gonna do now?” Beesi was breathless and insistent, as always.

Covie rued the long-ago day when Beesi had been dropped (or thrown—he never knew) on her head, an incident that had somehow left its mark inside her brain rather than outside. Near about every sentence was repeated, every instruction forgotten once and then carried out twice. But that meant when Beesi hugged once, she hugged twice …

“Gonna practice my trade!” Covie put a loving hand on Beesi's shoulder. When his fingers brushed against
her sleeve and the detailed scar underneath, he held them there, directing his rising anger from the brand on her arm toward a hope, an anticipation, of his future fortune. Their future fortune.