Under the Peach Tree (10 page)

A knock on the shed made me jump. Norma stood in the doorway. Had I been in the shelter for that long?

“Momma said you'd been out here all day cleaning up the shed. She figured it would take you a week clean all of this up.” She stepped inside, looking around at the organized shelves and tools that I hung on the walls. “It's after six. I'm making dinner, are you hungry?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, come on inside.” Norma smiled, shutting the door as she left.

I looked around the shed at all of the work I'd accomplished. It felt good doing something besides sitting in a house all day being yelled at for stupid reasons. I felt a sense of purpose truly begin to form. I knew I was meant to be here, helping May. In the process of helping her, I would also be helping myself.

I locked the shed up and headed back inside. I entered into the dining room, watching Norma's two kids do their homework and play around. The boy was the hyper one, running around the table multiple times until his mom yelled for him to sit down. The girl stayed quiet, working on her homework and looking up at me every now and then. Norma headed back to the kitchen.

“How old are you?” I asked her, taking a seat at the table.

“We're both seven,” the girl answered.

My eyebrows rose. “Who's older?”

“We're twins,” the boy answered, bouncing in his chair.

Twins. Like Faith and me.
The boy reminded me of myself, hyper and happy, while the girl sat quietly and thoughtfully, like Faith. It almost brought tears to my eyes.

I turned to the boy. “Did you get presents on your birthday?”

His face lit up. “Momma got me a Spiderman toy and my cake was Spiderman!”

“Mine was a princess cake!” the girl said. I smiled at the equality, something I didn't know myself. It made me happy knowing other children didn't have to ask why their mommy didn't love them.

Norma returned with two plates and set each by the kids. She gathered their homework and put it in their book bags. May came into the dining area and Norma helped her to get seated. Norma went back into the kitchen and emerged with two more plates for May and me and then disappeared again. She returned with her own plate and sat across from May at the end of the table.

“Let's grace the food,” she said and bowed her head. I watched as May and the kids bowed their heads, wondering what they were doing. “Dear Father, giver of all good, accept our praise and bless our food through Jesus Christ, our blessed Lord. Amen.”

They all lifted their heads and began to eat. I frowned. “What was that?”

“What?” Norma asked.

“When you grace the food, why do you do that?”

“You've never graced your food?”

I shook my head. Momma never allowed any prayers at the dinner table. If Faith prayed over her food, it was done in silence.

It was May who answered my question. “We bless our food because we want to honor God in everyday activities, like eating. It also reminds us that God is the source of all we have. He gave us food and we thank and bless it so that we may be healthy.”

I nodded my understanding and dug into my food. Norma cooked baked chicken marinated in balsamic vinaigrette, with greens and mashed potatoes. She was a good cook and I loved everything about her food. I felt full and healthy for the first time. It was the most normal meal I'd eaten in a while.

Norma had the next day off and didn't need me around the house, but I still came anyway. I liked being in that house, around May and Norma.

When I arrived, the kids were outside playing in the yard. May sat on the porch, drinking lemonade. I said hello and walked into the house. Norma was sitting at the table in the kitchen, talking on the phone. “Can we get set up on a repayment plan? What about a modification?” She sighed. “I just don't want to lose this house. My grandmother has been living here since she got married!” She sighed again. “Fine, just send the paperwork, thanks.”

She turned around and saw me standing there and sighed again. “How much did you hear?”

“Not much,” I lied.

“Well, whatever you heard, don't tell my grandmother. She doesn't know that we are underwater,” Norma said.

“May is your grandma?” I was surprised. “I thought she was your mom.”

“Because I call her Momma?” Norma smiled. “Momma May, that's what all her grandkids call her. She practically raised us. Momma is the kind of woman all women should aspire to be like. If it wasn't for her, me and my siblings would be reckless and into drugs like my real mother. You know how that is, don't you?”

“Huh?”

“Well, I assumed your mother was on drugs. No normal mother would allow their child to be homeless.” She covered her mouth quickly. “Unless she passed away.”

“No, she's alive.”

“Come in here and sit down.” I did as she said. “Why were you homeless then, Hope?”

Just as I was about to explain, Dante walked in with the twins clinging to him. He smiled at me and then directed his attention to Norma. “Your brats are destroying the yard,” Dante said.

Norma stood up and guided her kids into the kitchen. “Time for homework!”

Dante took a seat where Norma had been sitting. “You goin' to church Sunday?”

I tensed. “No.”

Dante frowned. “May thinks you are. She told me to come talk to you about the youth program we have.”

“I . . . I ain't interested, but thanks.” I went to stand but Dante grabbed my arm, gently coaxing me back in my seat.

“Why?”

“I don't go to church,” I said in irritation. I was tired of people asking me.

“Why?”

“Can you stop asking me questions? I don't like you!” I screamed, standing up.

May stormed into the house, walking quicker than I'd ever seen her walk. She stopped a few feet away from me and pointed her cane. Her anger was evident. “Child, don't you come up in my house being nasty and fussin' at the boy because he asked you a question. That ain't nothing but the devil.”

I flashed back to all the times Momma had called me the devil and sat down in the chair, defeated. Even an old church woman thought I was the devil.

“I ain't the devil,” I mouthed back.

“I ain't say you was. I said being nasty and fussin' is the devil's doing and ain't got no place in my house! I'll wash your mouth out with soap! Tell the boy you're sorry,” she demanded.

I looked at Dante, who sat smugly in his chair, smiling like he'd won a prize.

I frowned. “I'm sorry.”

“I don't believe her!” he said quickly and smiled wider. I wanted to knock him out.

“I'm sorry for yelling and fussing at you, Dante,” I said, exaggerating my pronunciation of each word.

He tried hard not to laugh, which lightened my mood up. I guessed it was somewhat funny. I never had much of a sense of humor.

“Come outside and talk to me, Hope,” May said, turning back around and feeling her way back to the porch with her cane. I sighed and followed. May nestled in her chair, drinking a glass of water. I took a seat beside her and waited for her to speak. She didn't say anything for a while, and I started to wonder if she ever would.

“I've been thinking about what you told me about your mother beating you,” she said. “Something similar happened to me when I was around your age. Back in 1948 I got my first job as a maid for the mayor and his wife. They were a beautiful couple and everyone admired them. The mayor had a certain charm that many women fell for. He slept around frequently. His wife knew about it, but being a woman in 1948 and having a strong opinion that objected her husband's was unheard of.

“I had been working there for about two months, everything was going good. The mayor was always away. He was very much into his work. His wife stayed home and looked after the kids. During the winter, the mayor came around more. I noticed he had a drinking problem. There wasn't a day that went by that winter where I didn't see him drinking. I used to hear them argue upstairs. The next day I'd help his wife cover the bruises on her face with powder and makeup. I noticed how the mayor would watch me when I cleaned, it was how he watched the white women around town.

“In late January, his wife was ill in her pregnancy and was put on bed rest most of the day. I was working in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes when the mayor came behind me and began rubbing on me. I was afraid that he'd beat me if I didn't cooperate, beat me and then kick me out. I wouldn't have had a place to stay. So I let him touch me. He whispered in my ears, clasping my hips, telling me he loved my brown skin. Said he always had a fantasy for Negro women. And then he stumbled away.

“Same thing happened the second night. This time I was cleaning off the table when he came from behind and pushed me onto it. He . . . Well, I don't want to get too detailed. Somehow, memories like that never fade. I used to think that it was best to tuck them deep inside so that they wouldn't bother me from day to day. I was wrong. We have to let it out and give it to God. Well, he had his way with me that night. It happened over and over again for almost two months, and then I found out I was pregnant.

“I was young and stupid and ran straight to his wife, telling her everything that happened, hoping she'd believe me. I sat there with her through her tears, I thought she would've understood.” May shook her head, disgusted. “But she could do to me what she couldn't do to the other women her husband slept with. She beat me, badly, and I lost the baby.”

I listened intently as May continued.

“But it didn't stop him from doing what he did. She tried to kick me out but he wouldn't let it happen. He kept coming to me late at night, forcing himself on me, telling me he loved me . . . but he didn't. That man knew no love. I only ended up running away from that place. I took all of her jewelry and sold it and took a train to South Carolina, where nobody knew my name. The mayor and his wife found me. I was beaten so badly, they thought I was going to die. That was when I lost my sight. I didn't talk about it for a long time, even after I met my husband.” She stopped, and smiled. I could tell it was a sweet memory she thought of. “He didn't care that I was blind and told me I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and that God told him to love me and to make me his wife.

“Hope, we gotta go through the bad to get to the good. We gotta suffer to know pleasure, to appreciate it. I could no longer see. This man took my innocence, his wife killed the baby inside of me, and together, they took my sight. Shouldn't I be angry? Shouldn't I jump up and scream at the world, hate people who are only trying to be nice to me? No. Because even then, God still had a plan. If I hadn't worked for the mayor, I wouldn't never ran away to South Carolina and met my husband. Life has a funny way of correcting itself and only God knows its ways. But God wills us to keep pushing, even when we're ready to give up. He keeps us strong, even when our own muscles fail us. You, Hope, you have a purpose. It might take awhile to realize what that purpose is, but it's there, waiting for you to claim it.”

I was overwhelmed by her testimony, so similar to my own and yet so very different. I, too, held my deepest emotions inside, pushing them away so that I could make it through the day. I hadn't truly broken down over losing my baby, over losing John and Faith, because I was afraid that if I had broken down, I wouldn't get back up. I'd be too damaged to fix. I didn't want to know the extent of my pain; I didn't want to test it. I wanted to keep it buried deep inside, like May did. But even she said it's best to let it out.

I looked at the old lady beside me. She was blinded, beaten, and mistreated, but even after all of that, she was still able to smile. She got back up and lived a beautiful life. Maybe I could too. And she was right; we were a lot alike, in many ways. She had said she sensed a spirit similar to her own when she met me, and it dawned on me. I felt the same thing. It was why I was so intrigued by her in the first place.

“Come to church on Sunday. You really need to hear the message that I have,” May said.

And just at the mention of church, it was as if everything she had said meant nothing now. I recoiled back into my shell, closing myself off because of an invitation to go to church. Too many memories surfaced of me being a little girl, crying every Sunday when Grandma took Faith to church, leaving me behind. Memories of me being hungry because Momma only had enough food to feed Faith before she went to church. Memories of praying that, one day, I'd be able to go to church like Faith. Thinking God hated me because I was a bad girl. Knowing Momma hated me . . . knowing she still did.

Nothing had really changed. I was still that sad little girl. “No, I . . . I don't want to go to church,” I told her.

“I can hear the pain in your voice when you say it, child. Why?”

I hadn't realized I'd stopped breathing until I gasped for air. My hands were hurting from clutching my chair so hard. I felt like I was going to explode. All of the hurt was going to ooze out of me. I couldn't do it.

Just then, Dante came outside, saving me. I was never so thankful for his presence.

“May . . .” He stopped when he saw the pained expression on my face. “Is this a bad time?”

“No!” I almost shouted, standing up. I was relieved he came when he did because I didn't want to have that conversation with May. “Hey, Dante, wanna go for a walk? I need to get some exercise.”

He frowned, not believing me, but I didn't care. “Okay,” he finally said, and off we went before there could be any further discussion about church.

After we turned the first corner, I stopped and bent over. I tried to fight the tears that threatened to come, but they took over, making my body convulse as I silently cried. I felt Dante's hand on my shoulder, a friendly gesture I was sure, but I moved away, not wanting a man's touch. I forced myself to straighten and wiped my tears away and kept walking like nothing ever happened. Dante followed closely behind, giving me enough space to vent silently. For that I was grateful.