Ruby (16 page)

The fellowship often said that Celia bore witness to God better than her father, the Reverend Jennings, ever had. That it was a shame she hadn’t been born a man so that she could stand in the pulpit as preacher. Celia, who often watched as Pastor Joshua stumbled midsermon, due to his nearly conquered stuttering habit, never allowed herself the blasphemy of envy. She knew she was born exactly as God intended, to do the work He assigned her.

Celia looked at the clock once more. 9:07. She slammed the kitchen chair under the table, walked to her sitting room window and looked down the red road. Empty. Celia willed Ephram over the hill. The wind whipped up little dust devils on the road in response. Celia gnawed at the inside of her mouth and thought of the matching tri-cornered hat she planned to wear today. It was, she’d noticed when she first saw it in the Spiegel catalog, a holy trinity hat, complete with tall cream and navy feathers. Its illusion lace scooped around the circumference of the hat and her Page Boy wig in silver/black would shine under it bone straight.

Celia pushed the flat of her palm against the windowpane. The wig was waiting for Celia on one of her five foam wig heads. All of Celia’s good hair lived above her dresser mirror. Ephram had nailed up a perfect shelf for them a year ago, so that Celia
could look in the mirror, then above at the selection of wigs to determine which one would be best for the garment she was wearing. Her Ephram had done that and so much more. He loved her wigs almost as much as she did. He knew, for instance, that the Charade in Fancy Black was her favorite—long bangs, hanging curls in the back—but that the Misty Page Boy would look best with her new hat.

Celia walked back into the kitchen. 9:15. The fixed frown line between her eyes deepened and she bit deeper into the soft flesh inside her cheeks. A question flashed through her mind: Had he somehow taken his Sunday clothes and planned to meet her there? Celia nearly ran into Ephram’s bedroom. The navy suit still hung where she’d left it yesterday afternoon. The white shirt, washed and ironed, with the blue tie she’d chosen for him, was still draped over the hanger. Celia sat down on Ephram’s bed, anger rising like steam from her wide sturdy body.

Monday through Friday Celia lived in head rags, her scalp oiled with Camber’s Hair Food each evening, then seasoned with a crisscross of bobby pins. She wore housedresses from the Salvation five-and-dime and slippers with the fluff mashed out of them. She cooked Ephram’s meals: breakfast, dinner and supper, plus a nighttime snack. Wrung the necks from chickens and cracked their fertile eggs. She made Ephram’s bed and sprinkled his sheets with rosewater to draw good dreams, then put epsom salts in the corners of his room to keep out haints. Gave him a teaspoon full of ipecac when he had fever and Bayer aspirin when his nerves shot through his arms and legs. Cod-liver oil every weekday morning. Celia scoured and Cloroxed and Lysoled the house at number 8 Abraham Road during the week, and managed
the money Ephram earned from bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. Celia kept all of the tips he made taking the groceries to White ladies’ Buicks. Monday through Friday Celia did all this and more for her boy.

She sat on the bed, her heart knocking against her sternum, growing more enraged as she recounted her weeks upon years of service.

Saturday was upkeep and preparation. Cutting and chopping for Sunday supper. Making sweet potato pies and 7UP cake. Keeping the stove wood dry then lighting the fire. Ephram had bought her a Sears gas model ten years before but it added a funny aftertaste to her pies and she wouldn’t stand for it. Loading the washing machine. Then rewashing what the machine didn’t catch on her scrub board, using liberal amounts of bleach. Hanging everything out to dry on the line then taking it all in. Heating the iron on the stove and pressing the sheets, the pillowcases, then Ephram’s work and Sunday clothes. Only then would Celia attend to her own church attire. Take her hair out of the kerchief. Wash it. Oil it. Then pin it up again so that it would stay snug under the wig of choice. Once in bed she would read Deuteronomy, her favorite book of the Bible, until she fell quickly to sleep.

Sunday was Celia’s only day. Celia gnawed more rapidly at her left inner cheek. She bit down on the soft flesh until she tasted blood and she clutched at the quilt on Ephram’s bed. He must, must remember. He couldn’t
forget
that today was her day to share counsel with the most Holy. To teach others by example: by demeanor, testimony, by speaking in tongues, and certainly by her attire. What better way, Celia and Ephram had agreed, to glorify God than to wear a mantle worthy of him? They always wore matching colors to service. As a pair, thought Celia, they
had always been exemplary. Today’s navy outfit had cost Ephram $55.68 of his tips, without the wig. But it was worth it. Her standard Sunday best would not have sufficed on this special day.

Celia stood in rage.
For today
—Celia ripped the quilt off the bed.
Was the day
—She ran to the cupboard and grabbed a handful of baking soda then dashed it on his sheets as a calling prayer.
Celia Jennings would be voted in as Church Mother
.

The white powder made a small cloud above the bed. Celia crossed herself and spat over it for luck. Ran back to the kitchen. 9:25. Then back to his bed. She spread her face and arms over his sheets. Holding the bed she began praying her boy home.

Celia had dreamed of holding her rightful position as Church Mother since she was a little girl. After her mother was taken to Dearing Mental, and the Reverend was lynched, she’d held on to the picture of herself seated in the Church Mother’s place, the corner pew with the white ribbon. Not the pews that faced the preacher where the general mass of the congregation sat, but one of the special two flanking the pulpit on either side like an open ended square. The ones people had to look past to see the minister, and the Church Mother’s seat was the most visible.

Celia stood from her prayer bristling. Baking powder on her cheek, neck, arms and breast. She picked up Ephram’s suit and walked into the kitchen. 9:40. The election was to be held after service so … 
If
Ephram came home,
if
they made it to church before the end of service,
if
she won the election, she would be given the brilliant white sash to wear each Sunday with the words “Church Mother” written in silver glittering cursive.

Celia folded Ephram’s suit carefully, and put it in a Piggly Wiggly sack. She went into her bathroom and wiped the soda from her sturdy face, her body. She slipped off her housedress and
wetted and soaped the washcloth in the sink and just like that she knew Ephram was not coming home this morning. Celia began to cry as she washed between her legs. She sat on the toilet and wondered if it was God’s will that she let this cup pass from her lips. Perhaps He was trying to spare her the responsibility and sacrifice that being Church Mother entailed.

But then hadn’t He helped her all along to win the post?

Hadn’t He started two years ago when it became apparent that Mercy Polk, Mother Mercy she was called, would soon be unable to fulfill her Church Mother duties due to old age and incontinence? At God’s heeding, Celia had secretly campaigned, had made special entreaties to the Pastor’s wife, May, and others of influence on the board. However, the rules of removal had been more stringent than those of Supreme Court justice. Once in office, a Mother simply could not be supplanted. Even after Mother Mercy passed away, her seat had remained empty for six whole months. Four was the usual protocol of respect shown to each Mother. Mother Mercy’s tenure had been such that she had been given two additional months for the congregation’s mourning.

There had been no doubt that Celia would win the election. The competition was weak. Supra Rankin and Mother Mercy’s granddaughter Righteous were lackluster at best. All of Mother Mercy’s heathen grandchildren had been given Holiness names at birth. It hadn’t helped. Praise B., the middle boy, had spent the last five years in Burkeville Federal Corrections for stealing stamps from the post office. Salvation was rumored to be dating secretly Pastor Joshua right under his wife’s nose. The twin girls, Milk and Honey, had each gotten pregnant, out of wedlock, by the same itinerant preacher. Their baby boys, born within two weeks of one another, were both cousins and brothers at the same time.
Then that horrible thing had happened to Honey after she left her child, moved down to Beaumont and was said to have gotten mixed up with a lesbian homosexual and a life of drugs. The fruit, thought Celia, never falls far from the tree.

There was also the fact that none of the other nominees for Church Mother had committed Genesis through Nehemiah to memory. Not to mention Psalms, Proverbs and Lamentations. Forget that she knew Matthew through John. Corinthians one and two. And of course Revelation. Who else could say that? Supra Rankin’s tongues were a joke, painted-on things to impress the multitudes. Righteous Polk had only her grandmother’s glory to push her into a nomination. None of them had her following. The women who gathered about her after Bible study to ask questions. Leaning into her every word. Not one had her pious nature. Her humility, the years of missionary work in Kountze County, Beaumont City and Nacogdoches. Who else had traveled to the convention in Hardin County in ’55 or Galveston in ’57? Taken their own child’s money and spread the word from little Liberty Township? Who had put their small church on the map at the ’59 convention in Raleigh by being voted chair of the Preparatory Basket Committee? Who else had had a vision of Jonah and angelic visitations from the twelve Apostles or the gift of prophecy? Certainly not Righteous Polk with her hanging slips and scuffed shoes. Did the woman not a have a mirror to look into before going to church on a Sunday morning?

Who else had not married and remained God’s holy vessel? No. It was His will. It was God’s will that Celia Jennings take her rightful place among all of the other women whose pictures hung on the ladies’ lavatory wall. The lobby was for past preachers, but when the lavatory was moved indoors in 1945, the In-His-Name
Liberty Township chapter of the Holiness Church’s Women’s Auxiliary had decorated it with pink and beige rose wallpaper. Hung chintz curtains and two framed pictures of past church mothers over the sink.

Celia thought to go to church alone to claim her prize but stopped. For what would she have said to their questions?

“I hope Brother Jennings isn’t feeling poorly,” Supra Rankin would have said slyly. And what if she had lied, “Yes, he is a bit under the weather today,” then Ephram had shown up? Or walked by the church from his night of sin? Still smelling of—her. That Bell woman. It was unspeakable. The shame she would feel as the assembly discovered the truth, that her child, her good boy, had fallen as surely as Adam fell, as surely as Samson. Fallen like fruit, not far from her tree.

Celia heard the truth as clearly as Gabriel’s trumpet booming above her head. This was the Devil’s work. Who else had a vested interest in the downfall of her church—which was sure to happen if Supra Rankin were elected and used her influence to put more pushy, bossy Rankins on the church board? Who else would tempt him who was closest to her? And who best to do it if not one of the Bells? Those fair-skinned harlots who brought shame and unrest on the community over forty years afore. That blond, blue-eyed Neva Bell, who fornicated with a White man and got herself shot because of it? No matter this one was brown. This Ruby Bell carried the same blood, and that blood carried the same sin. And the sin had risen like a flood to carry her good boy away. She would not allow it! Not now. Not ever.

Ephram was going to church today, and she would become Church Mother.

Celia Jennings rushed into her bedroom, slipped off her
house sheath and donned her new blues. She put on her Star-of-Bethlehem brooch, fastened the wig tight on her head, then attached the hat with T-shaped pins. Her shoes—she hadn’t lain them out. She went into her closet and found the patent leather blues. She grabbed her matching purse, the Piggly Wiggly bag with Ephram’s suit, and set out down the road. The same red road Ephram had ventured down not twelve hours before.

The streets and fields were Sunday morning empty, filled with the sound of her feet crunching clay, kicking dust and gravel behind her. She passed Rankin land, the scarecrow waving straw hands in the breeze. The world was in church. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to walk along the low path to stay out of sight. She winced as she passed Bloom’s Juke, still smelling of Saturday night. Then she was back on the main road. Her steps took on a rhythm. A grinding beat. Celia saw the large black bird flutter down on the fence up ahead. Its wings stretched wide as she walked quickly by and it followed her with its oil eyes. It cawed three times, then rose up in flight. Celia walked faster. The beat of patent leather speeding her closer. She reeled past P & K, dark and silent. By the time she passed Rupert’s melon patch and the pathway to Marion Lake she was almost running, the tall pines pushing her along.

When she reached Bell land her breath was deep and sharp. Her knock sounded louder than she expected on the dry rot door. No answer. She knocked again. A face darted in the window then disappeared. She lifted her hand to knock again—

Ephram opened the door.

He looked crumpled. His morning beard growing in, sleep crusting in the corner of his left eye. This wasn’t like her son, who never left the house unshaven, unwashed. He held a wet rag in his hand. His knees were soapy wet and Celia spied a full sudsy
bucket over his shoulder, in the kitchen of the filthy house. Had he been—
cleaning?
And on the Sabbath? The place was a room out of hell. Cob webs and black dirt, layers thick. Dust everywhere. The house reeked of human waste. Celia’s face went numb with disgust and fury.

Between bared teeth she said evenly, “Ephram. You late for Sunday service.”

Ephram looked down at her, his face kind but hardened. “I ain’t going today Celia.”

She heard what sounded like a bedspring in the next room. Celia craned her neck around Ephram and saw that thing sitting on a soiled mattress. Eyes like a swamp lizard. Evil mark on her cheek. Her legs spread out in that foul gray dress she always had on.