W
hat you got there, gal?”
Before Easter could answer, Mama Rain snatched the notebook from her hands and held it high above her head. “Some type of diary?”
Easter tried desperately to grab the book, but Rain was tall and easily kept it out of Easter’s reach. “Give it here!”
Rain laughed, bringing the book toward Easter and then snatching it away again. “
Give it here
,” Rain mocked. “You always scribbling in this book. What you writing?”
“It’s my business!” Easter snapped as she made yet another futile leap for the book. “Goddamnit, Rain, you evil bitch, give it back!”
Rain’s palm came across Easter’s cheek with so much force that Easter stumbled backwards until she lost her footing and fell over, hitting the ground with a hard thud.
“You watch your tongue, you hear?” Rain’s voice was even, her green eyes narrowed to slits. “You don’t ever call me outta my name.”
Easter rubbed her stinging cheek. Rain spent a few more seconds glaring at her before she returned her attention to the book. Easter watched as she flipped through the thin pages, pausing every so often to stare intently at some word or phrase that had caught her eye. Easter watched and waited for Rain to see herself in those words in the pages and pages of passages. It was all about Rain, and about the smoldering love Easter had for her. The thirst was there too, blatant and screaming, aching and throbbing. She’d written about it in bold, dark letters. She would have written it in blood if she could have.
Rain finally closed the notebook and gave it one last thoughtful look before tossing it back to Easter.
“So what’s it say?”
Easter was bewildered. She’d seen Rain flip through pages of the newspaper as she sat sipping her morning coffee.
“Pardon?”
“I asked you,” Rain growled, eyeballing her, “what’s it say?”
“Ma’am?” Easter was still confused.
“Goddamnit, don’t
ma’am
me!” Rain yelled. “You poking fun at me?”
Easter scurried backwards. “No, I just thought—”
“Yeah, I know what you thought,” Rain spat before turning and stomping off.
Her ankle wasn’t broken, but it was sprained. The result of a cartwheel gone wrong that sent Rain crashing to the floor, where she lay stunned, her legs splayed wide open. The men in the audience leaned in and groaned with pleasure. Rain was not wearing any underwear.
In her tent, on her cot, between sips of white lightning, she moaned, cussed, and confessed that she was getting too old for that particular type of bullshit. Easter sat at her feet, listening quietly as she gently pressed the chunk of ice onto Rain’s bruised skin.
“I’m twenty-eight, you know, an old woman. I ought to be ashamed of myself,” she slurred as the flame of the oil lamp danced in her eyes. “I thought I was gonna be famous, but ’stead look at me, dancing and singing for niggers that got a day’s worth of dirt under their fingernails.” Her words were soaked with disappointment. “My mama probably turning over in her grave.”
Easter stared down at Rain’s pretty toes.
“What about you? What you wanna be? I know you don’t wanna be my maid for the rest of your life, do you?”
Easter shrugged her shoulders. Being with Rain for the rest of her life sounded just fine to her.
“I don’t know, haven’t really given it much thought.”
Rain turned the flask up to her lips and drank deeply. “Stand up, girl, raise your dress and let me see your goods.”
Easter turned a crooked eye on her. “What?”
Rain’s face went slack. “Well someone’s got to do it, might as well be you.”
“Do what?”
“For all the writing and reading, you just as dumb as a doornail, ain’t you?”
Easter blinked. She was completely lost.
Rain leaned over and peered directly into Easter’s wide eyes. “
You
gonna have to take my place in the show until I’m healed.”
Easter’s jaw dropped.
“Close your mouth, chile, this place full of flies,” Rain chuckled.
Easter knew Rain’s entire routine by heart, every hip-swaying, groin-thrusting
boom-chica-boom-chica-boom-boom-boom
move, but that didn’t mean that she could pull it off in front of an audience of sex-crazed sharecroppers. And furthermore, Easter didn’t have Rain’s curves—she was as flat as a board.
Nor did she find it easy to melt into the music, so her attempts at a lascivious bump-and-grind were appalling; in fact, she resembled an epileptic in the throes of a seizure. Comedy was not her intent, but it was the end result and the audience roared with laughter and threw pennies at her feet.
“You a clown, girl! A straight-up fool!” Rain howled when Easter chicken-walked off the stage and into her open arms. “It wasn’t me, but it was good!”
“You think so?” Easter was panting.
“Better than good,” Rain said, and then pressed her warm lips against Easter’s. It happened just that once but Easter would relive it a million times in her dreams.
T
en shows and three towns later, Rain’s ankle was healed, good as new. Easter was glad for it, because she was growing tired of playing the fool. The show was working its way down the Savannah River toward Elberton and Easter had fifteen dollars saved. A few more weeks and she figured she’d have enough to hop a train heading somewhere. Maybe, she thought, Rain would come with her.
But Slocum had other plans for Easter, and one evening as she sat eating her dinner of fried snook and boiled potatoes, his bloated, bow-legged shadow fell over her.
“What?”
Slocum grinned as he ceremoniously unfurled the burlap poster he held, revealing a colorful caricature of a cross-eyed, tongue-wagging, knock-kneed Easter.
Rain clapped her hands together and squealed, “You’ve arrived!”
Arrived where? Easter wondered. The bowels of life? The filthy heels of existence?
That night after the show, the moon sat low and full in the sky as Easter made her way to Rain’s tent. This was something she looked forward to all day. It was their time and their time alone in which they did whatever they wanted. Sometimes Easter would sit snug between Rain’s legs as Rain used the comb to carve fine lines through Easter’s thick hair and then braided it into neat rows. Other times Easter would paint Rain’s toenails or knead the knots in her neck until they melted away. Sometimes they’d play Bid Whist or just talk. Always, Easter waited for another kiss, but it never came.
“You never stop scribbling in that notebook, what you scribbling?” Rain had pressed until Easter broke down one day and began to share the stories she’d written about Waycross and the people who lived there. Easter read aloud the tales heavy with Southern dialect and folksy wisdom and Rain’s eyes rippled with the images Easter’s words created. “You should write a book like dem white folks. You just as good as they are.”
That night Easter arrived at Rain’s tent as usual, pulled back the canvas flap, and stepped inside. She saw Rain and something else … some
one
else, and then the light suddenly disappeared. She thought she’d been struck blind, but then her eyelids suddenly popped open and her shocked gaze collided with Rain’s dreamy, moist one. The young girl she’d been kissing blushed, turned her face away, and raised delicate fingers to her lips. Rain caught hold of her wrist and gently eased the girl’s hand back down into her lap. “Don’t be ’shamed,” she cooed lovingly, and Easter almost bit through her tongue.
After that, Easter made up her mind and then made her escape. She crept past the watching horses, the sleeping dog, and the blind prophet who strapped himself to a tree at night because he had fits that sent him stumbling deep into his own black heart. He saw nothing and he saw everything, but Easter never mustered the nerve to place her hands into his; had she done so he would have warned her to avoid the city sweet and told her to point her compass north.
E
lberton, Georgia’s landscape was littered with gaping holes and the sound of dynamite blasts echoed frequently across the horizon. Most of the men in and around Elberton worked in the quarries, gauging the earth until they struck rock that resembled sparkling river water frozen in time.
Easter had walked all through the night and only stopped to rest when the night sky began to flake away. She caught the scent of strong black coffee and followed it to a shack with a picnic table set out front. A woman was standing in the doorway staring thoughtfully down at the chickens that pecked at the dirt around her feet. When she looked up and saw Easter coming she hollered out, “Got eggs, grits, and hopping John. That’s it.”
“That’s fine,” Easter said.
“You look bone-tired, girl.” The woman set a battered metal cup down on the table and poured it full with coffee.
Easter stared down into the dark liquid. “You got milk?”
The woman shook her head. “You a li’l early, the boy ain’t come with the milk yet. Got sugar though.”
“That’ll do, I guess,” Easter said and waved her hand through the screen of steam rising from the coffee.
The woman walked off and called over her shoulder, “I’m Claudia, by the way.”
By the time Easter had finished her meal, two men and a woman carrying a basket of johnny cakes on her head had joined her. They were all heading into Elberton and welcomed Easter into the back of their horse and buggy. The johnny cake she’d bought from the woman was wrapped in newspaper, which was how she came across the ad:
Colored woman wanted for general housework. Ironing. Some cooking. Fond of children. See Mrs. S. Comolli at 115 Heard Street between 2PM and 4PM.
115 Heard Street loomed over a sweeping emerald lawn that was dotted with crab apple trees. It was an ostentatious structure, carved out of stone with columns and floor-to-ceiling windows. The Spanish-tiled roof glowed ginger beneath the sun.
Easter’s body felt condemned by the time she climbed down off of that buggy. Her knees popped and creaked as she walked around to the side of the house and scaled the steps. When she caught sight of her reflection in the shiny glass pane of the window, she didn’t recognize the woman looking back at her. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were disheveled. Who in the world would hire someone who looked like they’d walked across the state? Easter quickly did the best she could with her hair, tucked her blouse tight behind the waistband of her skirt, and then raised the bronze knocker and allowed it to fall. A few moments later a dark, generous-sized woman opened the door. She winced when she saw Easter standing there—as if the very sight of her caused her pain.
“Yes?”
Fatigue swooped down on Easter and even though her eyes were wide open, she felt herself begin to dream.
“Are you lost, gal?”
Easter swayed, then raised the newspaper and declared, “I’m here about the job.”
The woman considered her. “You got fever,” she ventured, taking a cautious step back and raising a cupped hand over her nose.
“No, I been walking most of the day. I guess I’m just worn out.”
The woman eyed her. “You from ’round here?”
“No ma’am, I’m from Waycross.”
The woman’s eyes bulged. “You walk all the way from Waycross!”
Easter laughed, turned, and pointed in the direction she’d come from. “No ma’am, just from …” She trailed off; the image of Rain’s dewy eyes and sweet face swam in her vision and Easter felt her heart break apart again. She swallowed, changed direction, and said, “The job still available?”
Olivia Comolli was olive-colored and wore her golden tresses piled in a loose bun on top of her head.
“Easter Bartlett?”
“Yes ma’am,” Easter replied when the woman called her name for the third time.
“Unique name. Easter.” The woman seemed to enjoy the name against her tongue.
“Yes ma’am.”
Olivia led Easter into an immense room filled with granite podiums that held marble busts of significant-looking men. The walls were covered in fabric the color of blood and embossed with golden leaves. Oil paintings propped on brass easels depicted everything from a simple vase filled with weeping flowers to bird dogs and their grim-eyed owners.
After Olivia interviewed Easter, she leaned back and considered her for a long moment before she said, “You speak different from the other Negro women I employ here. You have education, yes?”
“Yes ma’am, I do.”
“Well,” Olivia said, her voice ringing with excitement, “we have just lost our Negro school teacher and I think you would be the perfect replacement.”
The Negro part of Elberton was called Sweet City and Easter arrived with some high school, learning the knowledge she’d obtained from her beloved books, and a hand-written letter of introduction from one of the most respected women in Elberton.
“Ask for Mrs. Abigail at this address,” Olivia had said as she scribbled the address down on a piece of linen stationery, “she’ll rent you a room.” Olivia’s hand stopped moving and she looked up at Easter. Her eyes rolled over her as if seeing her for the first time. “You do have money, don’t you?”
“Yes ma’am.”
A look of relief spread across Olivia’s face. “Good.” She handed Easter the paper. “It’s about an hour down the road.”
Easter started toward Sweet City beneath a relentless sun. Five minutes into her journey she knew she wouldn’t make it and so stepped off the road and found a cool space beneath a tree. She spread her nightgown over the grass and used the suitcase as a pillow and in no time was fast asleep. When she woke, the loons were crooning.
The rooming house catered to Negroes but was owned by whites. The tenants were housed Oreo-cookie style—young Negro women on the top floor, the white landlord and his wife in the middle, and elderly Negro men on the first floor. This living arrangement concerned the whites in Elberton and they shared their concerns with the owners.
Niggers on the first floor … The first floor is your first line of defense and you done gone and assigned the enemy to guard your front door!
Easter wondered too, but when she met the men, it was immediately clear that any threat either of them ever presented had been beat out of them, poured, blended, and baked into humble pie decades earlier. The only contest they still possessed was for the affections of the owners and even that they had to share with the family dog.
Easter’s room was cozy and newly wallpapered, with a bay window. There was a small writing desk, an even smaller closet, and a full-sized bed with squeaky springs. She had her books, her space, and time to breathe, feel, think, and write. Who knew contentment had been hiding in a place called Sweet City?
The school was a one-room shack that sat a few yards away from the Mission Springs AME Church. The air inside the school was hot, sticky, and heavy with the scent of chalk and old books. The minister instructed her that she would be teaching children ranging in age from six to seventeen.
As the children filed in Easter carefully picked over their faces, and was quick to pinpoint the troublemakers, the slackers, the enthusiasts, and the meek. She offered a welcoming smile, moved to pull the door shut, and almost collided head-on with a latecomer whose face was as angelic as a cherub.
“’Scuse me, ma’am,” he said as he scurried around her.
She watched him move toward a seat in the last row and decided that he was at least eighteen if he was a day. Eighteen seemed right because of his gait and the confidence he wore tight around his waist like a belt belonging to a man twice his age. He settled himself into the chair, leaned back, folded his thin, muscular arms across his chest, and smirked at her.
He smirked at her and all four walls of that room collapsed. He smirked and the earth yawned and all but the two of them slipped down its grainy throat. Easter felt her mouth go dry and she reached for the water glass and brought it carefully to her lips. As she drank Easter wondered what in the world was wrong with her, because she was sure she’d left that thirst miles behind her, somewhere along the banks of the Savannah River. Regaining her composure, she set the glass back down on the desk and began the morning roll call.
“John Appleby?”
“Here.”
“April Botwin?”
“Here.”
Easter moved slowly down the list of names, aware of the cherub’s eyes boring into her. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, and felt her tongue begin to wither behind her teeth. By the time she reached
his
name, her voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper and it tumbled out in a gale of dust.
“Getty Wisdom?”
“Present.”
Have you ever heard a sweeter-sounding name?
Week in and week out she covered penmanship, arithmetic,
The Mayflower
, Washington’s cherry tree, and honest Abe. She tended to scabbed knees, knotted lose shoelaces, broke up scuffles, read her books, and wrote her stories. When she was alone in her room she thought about Getty and admonished herself in soft whispers. “Shoot girl, you done lost your damn mind.” Standing before the mirror she’d wave her hand at her reflection and ask, “What he see in you? He just a—”
She would stop herself from saying that he was just a child. She’d convinced herself that if she didn’t say it … if she didn’t even think it, then it couldn’t be true.
Her mirrored reflection smiled back at her and said,
He gotta be eighteen if he’s a day
.
Harvest time came and the class thinned. All hands were needed at home, Getty Wisdom’s included. Just the littlest ones remained and Easter’s mood turned gray.
Getty Wisdom.
She would open a book to read and his name jumped out from between the lines of the story.
Getty Wisdom.
When she sat down to write, it was his name that spilled from her fountain pen.
Getty Wisdom.
When the harvest season came to an end, Easter was giddy with excitement and went out and bought herself a new pair of nylons and made sure that the scented powder she’d dusted her neck with was visible above the collar of her blouse. She was sitting at her desk looking expectantly at the doorway when he finally appeared, and her heart stopped. He was taller than she remembered, his arms were bigger, his neck wider. He smelled of fresh-turned earth and was scrubbed so clean he shined. He took his seat and gave her that same look he had the first time they laid eyes on one another, and just like that their dance resumed. Her heart came to life again and the thumping sound transformed into a throbbing, aching thing that was quickly inching south.
Easter pressed her knees tightly together and tried hard to think about something else, something other than him, but a lot of good it did because all she got for her effort were bruised knees.
And so it became stunningly clear to Easter that if she didn’t get out of Sweet City—and quick—she would buckle under the weight of her desires, so she claimed fever, dismissed the class, and ran home beneath a fat lazy sun.
The suitcase lay open on the bed, with her best dress, a blouse, and a skirt neatly folded inside. She had a brassiere in one hand and a hairbrush in the other when the knock came to her bedroom door. Easter yanked it open and there he was, long, lean, and glistening.
“Ma’am, you left this behind,” Getty’s mouth said, but his eyes whispered something different.
He held her notebook out to her and when she reached to take it her hand caught hold of his wrist and she pulled him into her and pressed her lips against his. His nectar was intoxicating and Easter knew that she was lost. They stumbled clumsily to the bed and as they worked to free her from her brassiere and him from his trousers, she told herself that she would never again become that dried tuber, that first autumn leaf—that this time she would toss herself in wholly and completely as if Getty meant survival itself and she would drink from his cup until her passion floated. She would drink until she burst.
He buried himself inside her and Easter became a bud in spring. He lifted her legs and placed them over his shoulders and she blossomed and vainly preened for him, for the horsefly that watched from the wall, and the humming bird fluttering outside the open window.
Afterwards, they lay very, very still and before Getty drifted off to sleep he was aware of many things—the damp smell of their bodies, the darkness, her chin resting in the indented space beneath his Adam’s apple, and the heaviness of her leg against his hip bone. If he had remained awake just a few seconds longer he would have seen Easter’s eyes moving over him, claiming every young inch of him, and he would have felt her arms become clutching roots and his ears would have buzzed with the sound of her heart beating out one steady song:
gettywisdom, gettywisdom, gettywisdom …
***
They carried on like that through autumn, first frost, winter, and straight into the madness of March. The lie she told when he stole from her room that first magical night had to do with books and study. The landlord’s wife, Miss Abigail, scrunched her face up and Easter did not miss the doubt glowing in her blanched cheeks, so she kept her distance from Getty for a week and waited for the talk, but none came her way and people did not turn to salt when they looked at her.
And so they began to meet in out-of-the-way places.
When the weather permitted, a favorite spot was along the riverbank beneath a cluster of tree roots that formed a cave. There in the darkness she fed him scuppernongs and licked the sweet juice from his lips while they made love. Another place was a barn, long abandoned by its owner, where the sky seeped between the rotting wooden rafters and the air still held the scent of the young mares that once lived there. When the nights turned frigid, Easter borrowed a truck from one of the old roomers; they drove two towns away, parked off of a rarely traveled road, and she climbed on top of Getty and indulged herself while the engine grumbled angrily beneath the battered red hood of the cab and the steering wheel pressed half moon—shaped welts into the small of her back.
By April, though, he had milk in his eyes.