Dollbaby: A Novel (17 page)

The room fell silent as the reverend paced back and forth across the platform in front of the podium. Ibby was mesmerized. She didn’t understand half of what he was saying, but she liked the sound of his voice.

“There was a custom in those days, a custom to keep the passing plantation master alive as long as possible. They did this by propping him up in bed with many pillows. I remember hearing of a plantation owner who was dying for a whole two weeks, because of all the pillows propped around him. After all hope for survival was gone, the family held a caucus. You know why?”

“Why?” the congregation shouted.

Ibby glanced over at Birdelia, who was staring at the pastor as if he had cast a spell over her.

“They were debating
when
to pull the pillows out, and who should have the solemn task of doing it. You see, brothers and sisters, pulling the pillows out became a serious question! I tell you this because the remembrance of former times was forced upon us during the filibuster in Washington. When President Johnson decided that there would be a civil rights bill, it just became a matter of time before a decision had to be made about when to pull the pillow out from under the Old South. When the Senate voted for cloture to end the debate, that was the signal, brothers and sisters,
that
was the signal that the pillows had been pulled
out
, and with cloture came the demise of the Old South, which has been to the Negro such a grievous affliction. The filibuster had been an angel with a flaming sword, trying her best to keep the colored man from the gates of paradise of full citizenship. But led by our president, the Old South was beaten to its knees and had to surrender to shame!”

When Reverend Jeremiah stopped to wipe his brow, Ibby felt her face growing warm. She flicked the paper fan back and forth, but the heat in her face was rising. As it was, women were falling out into the aisle and collapsing, rolling around on the ground until male ushers picked them up and carried them out the front door like pieces of timber.

The rest of the congregation rose up and declared, “Free at last! Free at last!”

Reverend Jeremiah let this go on a few minutes before he raised his hand and called for calm. “That great man, Lyndon B. Johnson, who will go down in history as one of the men who could match and master Harry Flood Byrd, defeating his tactics designed to hold the Negro down. The Old South hath met its Waterloo, and may her dying groans be heard around the world to warn oppressors that God still lives and still moves in mysterious ways. The pillow has been pulled. Let it die! Let it die!”

The congregation jumped to their feet again. “Let it die, let it die!”

This time the reverend let them shout, and he yelled over them, “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men cannot make the oppressive and segregation-ridden Old South live again. Who would have believed that men of this generation would have lived to see the Old South on the run, beaten to its knees? Let it die! The pillow has been pulled out. Lady Liberty has shown her face. Give me liberty!”

“Give me liberty! Give me liberty!”

Ibby looked up when she heard her name, heard them calling for her to rise up and stand among them. Without giving it another thought, she got up and calmly walked over to where the reverend was standing. The congregation hushed.

The reverend bent over. “Yes, child?”

“I’m Liberty,” she declared, raising her hands in the air the way she’d seen other women in the church do.

A lone scream rang out. Ibby turned to find a flurry of horrified faces staring back at her as a handful of women fell into the aisle like toppled bowling pins. Ibby glanced back at the Reverend Jeremiah. He was trying to say something to her, but his voice was faint and garbled and seemed to float above her like a dream. That was the last thing she remembered before her eyes fell back into her head and she crumpled to the ground.

T
he True Love Baptist Church was evidently prepared for the throngs of women who succumbed to the spirit set forth by the mighty Reverend Jeremiah each Sunday, given the number of fainting cots set up under a large tent outside the church. When Ibby awoke, that’s where she found herself, surrounded by Queenie, Doll, Birdelia, and Reverend Jeremiah himself. Queenie and the reverend seemed to be in the middle of a conversation when Ibby opened her eyes.

“She’s Miss Fannie’s granddaughter. Miss Fannie got taken ill this morning, so I brought her along. Didn’t think she’d be no trouble.” Queenie was wringing her white gloves in her hands.

“Why didn’t you say so?” he said. “Any granddaughter of Miss Fannie’s is always welcome, you know that. But I’m confused as to her inclination to address me in the middle of my sermon.”

“She ain’t never been to church,” Doll piped up, “much less a colored church, Reverend. But I think the poor child was confused. You see, her name is Liberty—Liberty Bell. When she heard her name, she done thought you was calling her up there to the stage, that’s all.”

He gave a slight chuckle. “Well, ain’t that something.”

“That something,” Doll said. “One sermon the folks ain’t likely soon to forget.”

He nodded in agreement. “You can count on that, Sister Viola. Time heals all wounds. Including those festering on the inside, the ones only the Lord can see.”

“So they say,” Doll said, giving him a sideways glance. “So they say.”

Ibby closed her eyes, wondering what they were talking about. Even though there was a slight breeze, she was still perspiring heavily and felt kind of woozy. When she cracked open an eye, she found a boy’s face so close to hers that she could feel his breath on her face.

“Thaddeus Trout, what do you think you’re doing?” Doll scolded. “Get away from Miss Ibby, and go and fetch some lemonade.”

“Who is she? Why she here?”

“This here is Miss Fannie’s granddaughter. I told you about her. Where you been, anyway? You at the service, or you just now showing up for the vittles?” Queenie pointed her finger at him.

“No, Mama, I been here.”

“Where? I didn’t see you?”

“I was standing in the back with Shorty.”

“Uh-huh.” Queenie heaved up her bosom, a sure sign she wasn’t buying it. “Well, go on, fetch some lemonade, like Doll asked you to.”

After Thaddeus ran off, the reverend looked around. “Where is Sister Etta Mae? Perhaps the laying of the hands will free this child of her affliction. Sister Etta Mae, we need you over here.”

A short, fat woman in a white robe appeared by his side. “Yes sir, Reverend sir?”

“This child here is in need of your assistance.” He nodded toward Ibby.

“I can see that.” Etta Mae came and stood at the head of the cot. She closed her eyes and turned her head up toward the sky before placing the palms of her hands on either side of Ibby’s temples.

The sudden shock of the woman’s warm hands on Ibby’s face made her bolt upright.

“I dare say, Sister Etta Mae, you work fast,” the reverend declared. “Mighty fast, indeed.”

By this time Thaddeus had returned with a paper cup. Birdelia tried to grab it from him. “Give me that, T-Bone.”

T-Bone yanked it away. “No, I want to give it to her.”

“Come on now—you all stop that,” Doll snapped.

T-Bone made a triumphant face at Birdelia and handed the cup to Ibby, then disappeared into the crowd.

“What you gonna do?” Queenie sighed and rolled her eyes at the reverend.

“Keep them close, keep them close,” he repeated, then turned toward Ibby. “I’m Reverend Jeremiah, but I do believe we already met in the church a little while ago.”

Ibby blushed as she shook his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“No need for sorry, child. Take your time, sip some lemonade, then come on over and enjoy the rest of the day.” He patted her knee.

“Thank you, Reverend,” Queenie said.

“Come on.” Birdelia tugged on Ibby’s arm.

Ibby looked timidly over at Doll.

“It’s okay, baby. Go on with Birdelia,” Doll said, jerking her head toward the crowd of people buzzing around several tables in the side yard of the church.

As they made their way through the crowd, to Ibby’s relief, no one seemed to be paying her any mind. Birdelia walked over to one of the tables and handed Ibby a paper plate, a napkin, and a plastic fork. She moved along the edge of the table, pointing at the various bowls and casserole dishes.

“That there is poke salad, hoecake, black-eyed peas, collard greens, and fried okra. Oh, and Mee-maw’s famous deviled eggs. Over there we got pickled pigs’ feet, barbecue chicken, ribs, and hog’s head cheese.” Birdelia stopped to examine a big pot. “Not quite sure what that is.”

T-Bone came up behind her, holding a plate full of food. “That’s possum stew, dimwit.”

“Don’t need your help.” Birdelia gave him a put-out look.

“Appears you do,” he said, not budging. “I’m T-Bone.”

Ibby was a little disquieted at the way T-Bone was smiling at her.

Birdelia pushed him. “Go away.”

T-Bone gave Ibby a half-wink. “Catch you later.” Then he ran off to sit with some teenagers hovering under a large oak tree near the edge of the churchyard.

Birdelia continued down the table. “That there’s fatback, cabbage, jambalaya. Over yonder, on that other table, that’s all the sweets. Bread pudding, that sort of thing.”

As they sat on the ground under a tree clear on the other side of the churchyard, Birdelia warned Ibby about T-Bone. “Don’t mind him. He thinks he God’s gift to women. Got a way with him.”

The whole time Birdelia was talking, Ibby noticed that T-Bone kept glancing over at her. It was making her feel all tingly inside.

Only this time, she wished that feeling wouldn’t go away.

T
hat evening Doll hung Ibby’s dress up and came back and sat on the edge of her bed.

Ibby gazed up at her. “I’m sorry about today.”

Doll smoothed her hair. “Now, don’t you fret none, you hear? Besides, you gave all them folks at church something to talk about for a good long while.”

Ibby propped herself up on her elbow. “You don’t have to stay with me. I’ll be fine.”

“I ain’t gone leave you here all by yourself. Besides, sometimes when Miss Fannie’s feeling low, I’ll come around and stay a night or two on the second floor, just to make sure she don’t get lonely in the middle of the night. I got a cot in the sewing room, just for such occasions.”

“Doll?”

“Yes, child.”

“When will Fannie be back?”

Doll thought a moment. “Don’t know for sure, baby. Expect we hear from the doctor in a few days.”

“Why is Fannie so sad all the time?”

“Oh, baby. Ain’t no simple answer for that. She just gets that way sometimes, when the sorrow comes bubbling up.” Doll put a finger
under her chin and drew her eyes to hers. “Listen, your grandmother going to the hospital got nothing to do with you. Later, when you all growed up and got a family of your own, you’ll understand. It hurts to love sometimes. But that’s just God’s way, I reckon.” Doll thought about her own words. She knew she was speaking for herself as much as for Ibby.

“Doll?”

“Yes, child?”

“What happened to Balfour?”

“I had a feeling you might be asking about him after his name came up at lunch yesterday.” She glanced up at the ceiling and took in a deep breath. “There was an accident. After that, Miss Fannie, she ain’t been the same since.”

Graham Bell ran up to the third floor and flung open the door to the attic room. His younger brother, Balfour, whom he called Balfy for short, ran in behind him, carrying a balsa wood airplane in each hand. It was a few weeks before Christmas, and the boys were excited. They’d just finished listening to President Roosevelt’s radio address downstairs with their mother and father. The president said the war in Europe was raging and the United States needed to stay on alert. He was planning to send help to the British to stave off a possible German invasion. The Japanese had been waging war in China for a few years. It was 1940. Graham was almost ten. Balfy had just turned eight. And all the boys knew about war was how to play at it.

Graham opened the window overlooking the front yard and leaned out. A cool breeze swept in, blowing a few leaves from the oak tree into the room. Balfy came up beside him.

“Here, Graham.” Balfy handed him a plane, then took a box of matches out of his pocket.

“You’re going to be in trouble if Mama finds out you been playing with matches,” Graham said.

“So don’t tell her.” Balfy put the plane on the windowsill and lit a match.

All Graham could see was the top of Balfy’s head as he bent over to light the match, his wavy hair the color of straw. The breeze from the window blew the match out. He bent over further, trying to shelter the next match from the wind.

“Give me the matches. I’ll do it.” Graham held out his hand.

Balfy waved him away.

“Ouch!” Balfy screamed and blew out the match. “I just burned myself!” He rubbed his finger against his wool knickers.

“You’re going to burn the whole house down, the rate you’re going.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Balfy said. “I’ll tell you when to throw the plane. I’ll light mine on fire, and you can throw yours out at the same time and pretend you just shot me down.”

“Jeez Louise, you’re a bossy little brother!”

Balfy stuck his head out the window and held up his plane. “Are you ready?”

Graham did the same. “Ready.”

“Wait a second, while I light the plane on fire.” Balfy sat on the window ledge and tried to light the match. He struck once, then again, almost losing his balance.

“Watch yourself, Balfy. I’d hate to have to pick up the pieces on the sidewalk because you’re too damned retarded to light a match.”

“Shut up, Graham.” Balfy held the tip of the plane up to the lit match. “Wow, look at that!” he said as the flames shot up.

“Hurry up!” Graham yelled.

“Now!” Balfy shrieked. “Throw your plane!”

Graham’s plane brushed against a few branches in the oak tree, then glided down and settled onto the brick walkway below. Balfy’s got caught up in one of the branches and dangled by a wing.

“Boogers!” Balfy cried as he crawled out the window and stood on the gutter that was just beneath the window. “I can get it!”

“Are you crazy? Mama’s going to tan your hide if she sees you standing on the gutter like that. Come on back inside before you kill yourself! You can have my plane. I’ll buy another one tomorrow!”

Balfy held on to the roof shingles and leaned out. “I can get it. It’s only another inch or two.”

“Did you hear what I said?” Graham shrieked. “Come back inside now! It’s just a stupid toy plane, and it’s burned up besides. It won’t fly again.”

Balfy’s eyes grew wide as the gutter groaned and gave way. He tried to grab the roof, but the gutter was ripping from beneath him.

“Help me, Graham!” Balfy was reaching toward him with panic in his eyes.

Graham tried to grab Balfy’s hand, but it was too late. All he could do was watch Balfy’s face, frozen in fear, as he fell to the ground and landed facedown with a thud. Graham leaned out the window, staring down at his little brother as the airplane Balfy had been trying to rescue unfastened itself from the tree and spiraled to the ground like a wounded butterfly. It landed just beside Balfy.

“Balfy?” Graham leaned out farther, repeating his name again and again, hoping Balfy would turn over and start laughing, as if it had all been a joke. His brother had a habit of doing things like that just to scare the tar out of him.

Then Graham saw a pool of blood by Balfy’s head, just as his mother and Queenie came running out the front door. When his mother turned his brother over, Graham thought he was going to heave. There was nothing left of his face. Then Graham heard a bloodcurdling scream. It wasn’t until much later that he realized the scream had come from his own mouth.

Queenie looked up at him. “What happened, Master Graham?”

Graham stared down at her, not knowing how to answer without sounding guilty. “We were just playing airplanes. He—he fell from the window.”

Fannie was holding Balfy’s head, kissing his bloody face in such a frenzied way, it scared Graham. When she looked up at him, there was desperation in her eyes.

Fannie waved a frantic hand. “Quick! Somebody call an ambulance, Queenie!”

Norwood came running out of the house and bent down next to Fannie. “For the love of God, what happened?”

Fannie glanced up at the window again. Her eyes were cold this time, so cold they tore through Graham like an ice pick. He knew in that instant that his mother blamed him for the accident.

His father looked up at him. He must have seen how distraught Graham was.

“It’s okay, son,” he said. “Don’t be scared. Come on down here.”

Graham shook his head.

“Son,” his father said in a calm voice, the one he used when he was trying to get Graham to do something he didn’t want to do. “We need your help. Bring some towels.”

Graham tore down the steps, grabbed towels from the bathroom on the second floor, and ran as fast as he could down the last set of stairs and out the door to where his parents were huddled over his little brother. When his father moved aside to take a towel from him, he saw Balfy’s face. His eyes were still open, as if he were screaming, and his mouth was filled with blood. His wheat-colored hair was tinged in red. He wasn’t moving.

“Balfy!” Graham jumped forward, trying to hug his brother.

“It’s too late, son.”

Graham could feel his father’s hands shaking as he pulled him back.

“Don’t say that!” Graham screamed. “He’ll be okay. Balfy, wake up. Wake up!”

Fannie was holding Balfy close and whispering in his ear, rocking him back and forth. “I love you, son. I love you. Remember that. I love you. Don’t leave me. I love you.”

“Balfy, wake up!” Graham shouted.

Queenie came bounding down the front steps as the ambulance pulled up to the house. “How is he?”

Fannie shook her head.

Queenie started to moan. “No. Can’t be. Can’t be. Lawd no. Not Master Balfour. No, Lawd.”

Norwood jumped up and whispered to Queenie, “Look after Graham. I think he’s in shock.” Then he headed to meet the medics who were coming up the walkway toward them.

“It’s all my fault,” Graham whispered.

Queenie pulled him close. “Weren’t your fault, Master Graham. Were an accident. An accident, that’s all.”

Queenie hugged him so hard he couldn’t breathe. She was steering him away from Balfy toward the house. He tried to break loose, but she was gripping him so hard that he couldn’t move his head.

“Let me go,” Graham said, trying to push her away.

“No, baby, you stay right here with me.”

They fought for a few moments until Graham gave up. Queenie was still holding him in a bear hug, but he could see underneath her arm as a medic listened for a heartbeat and then shook his head. Graham started crying, heaving sobs of disbelief.

“Now, now, Master Graham, it’ll be all right. Queenie’s gone take care of you.”

Graham watched his brother’s body being placed on a gurney and covered with a sheet. The ambulance driver spoke with Norwood for a few minutes. Then the medics rolled the gurney toward the ambulance. As soon as they closed the door, Fannie sank to the ground.

“Mama!” Graham called after her. He reached his arms out, wanting to run to her, but Queenie held him back.

“She’s in shock, boy, just like you. I’m gone take you inside now. Nothing else you can do out here. They’ll take care of your mama.”

Queenie guided him inside. He kept turning his head, looking to see if they were going to take his mother away, too. Norwood was trying to put Fannie’s arm around his neck so he could lift her up. He
finally grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her up over his shoulder. One of the medics followed him inside.

“Watch out, Queenie,” Norwood said as they carried Fannie up the steps and into the house.

Graham didn’t know which way to turn. He wanted to run toward his brother in the ambulance to say one last goodbye. He wanted to run to his mother to make sure she was all right.

And part of him wanted to run away and never come back.

When they got in the house, Graham could hear shuffling sounds coming from his parents’ room. Then the door shut, and his father and one of the medics came back down the stairs.

Norwood leaned down and spoke to Graham. “Listen, son. I have to go to the hospital and take care of the paperwork for Balfour. They’ve sedated your mother. She should sleep all night, so don’t disturb her, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Graham said.

Norwood stood up and looked at Queenie. “Can you stay here tonight?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Norwood, sir. I’ll tend to Graham. Don’t you worry none.”

Graham didn’t remember anything about the rest of that night, but in the morning when he woke up, he heard banging on the third floor. He stood at the bottom of the steps, afraid to go up. He went downstairs instead and out to the front yard, where he could see Crow up on a ladder boarding up the windows to the attic room and the turret. Crow acknowledged Graham with a tilt of his head. Graham did the same. When he looked down, he noticed there was still blood on the path where Balfour had fallen. He stooped down to touch it. It had soaked into the soft brick. He tried to scrape it off with his shoe, but no matter how much he scraped, the bloodstain still showed. He rubbed harder and harder, trying to make the stain go away. Harder and harder, until his foot wouldn’t go any faster.