Bound by Blood and Brimstone (5 page)

dead in my tracks. It was Momma and Aunt Celeste.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day when you’d refuse me a simple request, especially

after what we’ve shared.”

“Celeste, be fair,” Momma said plaintively. “What makes you think I have that kind of

money, anyway? Just look around you, for heaven’s sake. This isn’t exactly Buckingham Palace.

If I had the money, you know I’d give it to you.” I could hear the strain in her voice, and was

suddenly angry with Celeste for upsetting her.

“Just who do you think you’re dealing with here, Mona Roberts? I know you have

money. I know it’s a lot, and I also know William doesn’t know anything about it.” My heart

skipped a couple of beats, the fine blond hairs along my arms, stiffening. Momma had money? It

was impossible!

“Mona, I’ve told you how it is. Robert may not be called back to the plant, and we could

lose the house. Do you want to see me wandering the streets? Do you want to see Melvin go

hungry? You’re the only person who has the power to help me.” Her voice was growing shrill

and thin, grating on the summer air like a key raked across sheet metal.

When Momma didn’t respond, Celeste’s tone took on a desperate quality, and she spoke

with urgency, as I continued to hold my breath. “Listen, Mona, I know we’ve always had this

wall between us, but I’ve never asked you for a thing in all these years. After all, I
am
your only

sister.”

The hot air seemed to thicken. My head was spinning. What was going on? How could

Celeste think we had money, when she was the one with all the finery?

I knew when Daddy had met Momma he’d been looking for factory work after the war.

He’d told me he’d seen her the first time in a boarding house in Huntington, where she’d stayed

while teaching school. I knew Momma was educated and had been earning her own money, and

she’d given it up to move to Silver Rock Creek to be with Daddy.

She’d known him only a month when they got married because Daddy said they couldn’t

stand to be without each other. Though enchanted by their romantic story, I realized there was a

lot I didn’t know about my parents.

“Celeste, please don’t put me in this position,” Momma said, an undercurrent of anger

tightening her voice. “William could never stand secrets, you know that. You can’t ask me to

risk losing him after all I’ve been through.”

“What
you’ve
been through? It’s always been about you, hasn’t it, Mona? What about

what
I’ve
been through?” Her screechy voice, so full of venom, chilled the sweat on my brow to

icy rivulets. “What do you think it’s been like for me, knowing what I know, afraid to breath a

word of it, terrified if I did tell, it would end in a shooting?”

“Celeste, are you trying to blackmail me?” I could hear Momma’s voice break, the tears

close and ready to fall. The question hung in the still air as though caged there by her sorrow. My

scattered thoughts fluttered against my skull like frantic birds imprisoned in glass.
What’s black

mail, and how can you do black mail to somebody? I never saw any black mail.
Anything Lonnie

Watts, our mail carrier, had ever delivered to our place was always in a white or brown envelope.

“I’ve held my tongue all these years,” said Aunt Celeste. “When I think that if I hadn’t

stopped you, well, all I can say is, now is the time for payback. You can call it what you like.”

In bed that night, I lay awake a long time, thinking about secrets, black envelopes, and

sisters. While none of it made any sense, somehow I knew Aunt Celeste wouldn’t be back for a

long time, if ever. I never told anyone what I’d heard.

Miraculously, since Melvin never ratted me out, I didn’t receive that expected beating for

my messy prank. Aunt Celeste and her family pulled out of our front yard on Saturday morning,

the usual goodbyes exchanged.

Afterwards, Momma grew quiet and withdrawn for weeks, not once mentioning her sister

again. Aunt Celeste didn’t lose her house after all, as evidenced by the addresses on the

occasional cards she sent. As for me, I never stopped wondering what Aunt Celeste knew about

Momma that I didn’t. When I finally learned the truth, I’d have given my life to have never

known.

From earliest memory I knew I was different from other kids. Sensitive by nature, I

seemed to have an acute awareness of the feelings and moods of others, like a sneak peek into

their hearts. When I’d least expect it, I’d get startling flashes of insight into their motives or past

experiences.

Understandably, such vivid psychic moments could be frightening enough to incite panic

in a child. Time was needed to accept the uncontrollable nature of this gift and the fact that I

could survive its fearful effects. I came to think of this sensitivity as my “window.”

I wasn’t sure when it began or what caused it. Maybe it started the night I was a witness

to the birth and death of my baby sister, Angel. Maybe it began the day it dawned on me that just

like Cain with Abel, I was destined be my sister’s keeper. Either way, my “window” was part of

me.

Oddly, my “window” refused to open when I was near Reese Watkins, as though a

curtain had been erected to block the sun. I figured it was because he was so close to God. As our

preacher, he was a frequent guest in our home and one of the first people to express sympathy

during those bleak days following Angel’s death. During that nightmare fog of confusion and

grief, it occurred to me that I didn’t care for him or his overpowering aftershave. Then I forgot

all about it until the day he came for Sunday dinner and made me cry.

It was a radiant autumn morning of brilliant clarity when the leaves were beginning to

turn and hillsides appeared to be lit by some red and gold flame. The sky was cloudless, the air

sharp with the tang of wood smoke, and the bare windows of our small church were fogged from

the heat of close bodies.

I wondered, for the thousandth time, as we cleared the church doorway and headed for

our usual bench, what it was about Momma that always drew such peculiar looks from people. It

was like watching someone compelled to peek at something dangerous and forbidden, like those

“dirty” pictures older boys at school snickered over. That look never failed to baffle me and, as

my eyes darted around the room, I spied it on more than a few faces.

Did those looks have anything to do with her appearance? Were they jealous? My

momma wasn’t beautiful in any traditional sense, certainly not like the models we saw in our

Sears Catalogue. Her features were far too bold, her jaw too square for her to be considered a

beauty.

But as I watched her out of the corner of my eye, it occurred to me that her delicate hands

and tiny feet could possibly be a source of envy. Maybe they hated her thick honey-colored hair,

worn in a coiled braid at the nape of her neck, or the way she carried herself, like some fragile

treasure was balanced on top of her head.

Whatever it was that people saw when they looked at her, they obviously weren’t

prepared to let go of it. I sighed and let my eyes sweep the room. The benches were filling fast.

Lorrie Beth jabbed my ribs with her bony elbow. “Look,” she muttered, her scrubbed

face glowing. “The Potters are back. This makes three weeks in a row!” I craned my neck toward

the door as a tattered gang of children trudged in behind their sullen-eyed mother.

The Potters were the poorest family in Warren County. The oldest, Molly, was in my

section at school and, to my knowledge, had never eaten a single bite for lunch. Kids shied away

from her, claiming she smelled like a chicken coop. Those weren’t empty claims, as everyone

knew the Potters kept their chickens in the house with them. Hogs, too, I’d heard. Rumor had it

their daddy left one morning on a hunting trip and didn’t bother to come back.

“They’re wearing the same clothes they had on last week,” Lorrie Beth whispered. “I

remember that big hole in Denver’s shirt.” She kept fidgeting, kicking, winding stray curls

around her finger. I knew what had her so edgy—her ever-present fear of Caleb and Sue Lee

Jacobs showing up. I could’ve put her mind to rest, as those two had never darkened the door of

any church.

“Lorrie Beth,” I said, unable to keep the annoyance out of my voice, “in case you haven’t

noticed, we’re wearing the same thing too, you little twit!” I was more interested in seeing what

Denzilla Fouts wore. Her daddy owned the drug store in town, and she was the only woman who

came to church wearing make-up, or in Daddy’s words, “face-paint.”

With her stately tread, Denzilla entered the room like the Queen of England in her store-

bought suits and matching heels. To complete her ensemble, she sported a small, boat-shaped hat

with a stiff veil which stuck out over her forehead.

The best part of all was Denzilla’s hair. Never before had I seen hair that color. Naturally

wavy, it clung to her head in a solid, blue-black mass, like an alien helmet. Convinced she

must’ve rubbed soot or a can of shoe polish through it, I marveled at her extraordinary creativity.

As I watched, she perched herself on a bench next to Thelma Bates, her gossip partner.

Thelma favored tent-sized dresses in patterns of daffodils or roses in screaming colors. Her two

chins wobbled as she chattered, her carnation-scented cologne, stifling enough to call funeral

parlors to mind.

Thelma’s husband was Sheriff Bates. Once, I’d heard Daddy refer to Sheriff Bates as a

“whoremonger.” I’d no clue what that meant, but it made me think of a droop-faced hound dog

with a lolling tongue. Whatever a whoremonger was, I knew it wasn’t nice.

Black Diamond Church of God was at maximum capacity. All our neighbors were

present, as were my classmates and their parents. Near the front row, Charlotte Hughes sat

primly in a slim skirt and snowy blouse, her shapely calves on display in sleek, seamed

stockings. No one sat with Charlotte. People rarely spoke or even glanced her way. It was

because of the baby she’d given away.

Whenever Charlotte’s name was mentioned, people spoke in whispers, raising their noses

ever so slightly. None of it made any sense to me. I couldn’t understand why anyone would give

away a baby who didn’t have a daddy at home, or why people were so upset by that.

Behind Charlotte, Everett Hobbs shifted on the hard bench beside his daughter. Next to

Wonnie Dean, he was the oldest man we’d ever known, and had gone “soft in the head.”

Sometimes, instead of shouting “Amen” during the service, he’d holler “No, Myrtle!” Myrtle

was his dead wife. I’d overheard our mail carrier tell Momma that Everett had been so mean to

Myrtle, she’d just up and died to spite him.

Without warning, Momma suddenly reached over and pinched me, her signal to sit up

and stop squirming. On the stage, a couple of elders were strapping on their guitars, a sure sign

service was about to start.

The music was deafening and off-key, but feet stomped and hands clapped, reaching

upward. Heads bobbed and shook. As I watched, Dancing Shirley stepped out into the aisle and

began to spin, overcome with the Holy Ghost. Her long hair whipped and swirled, her feet

pounding the plank floor. Shouts of “Praise the Lord” surrounded her as she worked herself into

a frenzied sweat.

When the music lulled, someone began to pray aloud. A multitude of others joined in,

many of them speaking in unknown tongues. Some cried and groaned. Some jerked. Some fell to

the floor in the Spirit.

The noise rose and swelled about me, and I leaned over to glance at Daddy. He was

standing, head bowed and eyes shut, his hands clasped behind his back, lips moving in private

prayer, serene in the midst of chaos.

The last hour was devoted to the sermon. As Reese Watkins took the stage people

scooted to the edge of their seats, preparing to be edified. Once he revved up, Reese was like a

caged lion pacing its perimeter. At appropriate intervals, he’d stop pacing long enough to hop up

and down. His grumbling voice rose to a roar of fearsome volume before easing into a rhythmic

drone.

As he paced, he wiped sweat from his brow, slicking sandy hair back from his bland face.

Reese was stoutly built, broad through his shoulders, with a thick neck and fleshy hands. His one

outstanding feature was his right eye. It lacked life or light and had the unfortunate tendency to

drift in its socket.

“Brothers and sisters,” he intoned, his voice rising again. “The devil and his angels are

waiting in that lake of fire that burns for all eternity, waiting to snatch those of you who stumble

in this walk of life.” Louder and louder he roared as the packed room rebounded with

“Hallelujahs.”

I turned my mind inward, tuning him out. Reese’s favorite topic was hellfire and