The Devil's Beating His Wife (6 page)

It was irresistible. I climbed the steps to the screened front porch. The neglected wood moaned under my weight. As I pulled the twisted door open wide enough for me to enter, the hinges screamed with outrage.

"Hello?" I didn't know why I called out, but it seemed the polite thing to do.

My stiff leg felt like lead as I stepped onto the porch. Dragging my leg across the rotting wood, I placed my hand on the doorknob and raised my hand to knock. The staccato sound bounced from wall to wall in the abandoned house.

I entered the living area and craned my neck to peer throughout the house. The interior was even worse than the weather-beaten exterior. The gray walls had exposed areas of plaster. The ceiling was bubbled and bloated from water damage. The wooden floorboards were all rotted through, leaving holes that exposed the foundation below.

Someone had left behind an old studio couch. I could understand why. Those things were heavy and awkward to move. An old side table sat in the middle of the room. At one time, the floral wallpaper probably had been a lovely touch, but now it was faded and peeling from whole sections of the wall.

To the right of the living room was a small dining room with a large table and three chairs. A big, hideous mirror hung on the wall, reflecting the table and my disheveled appearance. The tables, chairs, and couch were cheap and easily replaceable items, but the ugly mirror was probably worth a buck or two. I wondered why it had been left behind.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a slight movement that resurrected my feelings of unease. My heart pounded in my chest, and I feared being overcome with another episode. I entered the kitchen, which was completely bare of any appliances or furniture. Only a few cabinets along the wall and the kitchen sink remained.

Another movement. This time I caught the source. It was a curtain hanging from the small kitchen window. Someone had left it open, allowing air to flutter against the beige cloth.

Placing my hands on the top of the window, I tried to push it closed. The wood had long ago warped, making it difficult to shut. As I leaned against the sink and pressed down, I caught a whiff of sweet honeysuckle.

Something about the smell triggered my imagination. In my mind, I tore down the old, decrepit farmhouse and constructed a well-loved and well-maintained home brimming with warmth and people. Floral curtains hung in the windows and family portraits lined the walls. I could picture myself standing at the window, listening to the laughter and screams of children. I could see my wife standing at the oven, removing a pan of bread. A cool breeze would blast through the air, causing her to laugh with delight. I would then turn to her, place my hand on her hip, and kiss the bare, brown skin of her shoulder.

Spicey. This place was made for me and Spicey. It was time to quit dawdling and put my plan into action.

CHAPTER THREE

April 11, 1945, Twiggs County

"That white boy has been standing there for gosh darn near an hour, Ms. Della," said Rodney Felt, the unofficial mayor of the colored section. He liked to think that he knew everything about everyone even before they knew it themselves.

He was staring at me as I stood in front of Ms. Della's store, watching her movements. They were all aware of my presence. They talked loudly about me, not caring what I thought of their conversation.

She had aged quite a bit, Ms. Della. The last time I'd seen her was when they had buried her son. I had been there, following the march up to the Negro cemetery. I kept a respectful distance, not wanting anyone to know of my presence. I had stood in the shadow of trees and watched the funeral. By the end, I had talked myself into walking across the graves and offering my respects. I had been only a few feet from the grieving mother when a swarm of colored women blocked me. They had stared me down until I finally backed away, whispering my condolences, and left the cemetery.

Ms. Della's raven hair had turned to steel gray. Lines framed her mouth and nose. She was a decade younger than my mother, but she looked like she was damn near death. She said nothing to Rodney or me as she continued to sweep the walkway outside her small store.

Mother had hired Della the day she'd appeared at our house. For ten years, she worked for my family, cleaning and cooking day after day, night after night. She never missed a meal, except for Christmas dinner when my mother attempted to cook us a holiday meal. We might not have been her favorite people, but she had been loyal to my family until that damn night. She didn't come around after that. Rightly so, I guess, but it had shook Mother real bad.

For a time, Della and Spicey had taken odd jobs to put food on the table. But about fourteen months ago, they had inherited some money from a distant cousin. Ms. Della had used the money to purchase the corner store.

"You think he gonna stand there all day?" asked Ms. Betty Ray, an elderly widow who knew all of the gossip that Rodney didn't.

"Wait now," said Rodney, laughter lingering in his voice. "Give him a moment or two and he'll be fallin' over from the heat. Them white people ain't made for this type of weather."

Every morning, Ms. Betty and Rodney sat on the bench outside of Ms. Della's store. They did nothing but watch the comings and goings of everyone. I guess there ain't much else to do when you've lived to be five hundred years old.

Rodney spat into the dirt. His dark eyes pinned on me as I stood at a distance and stared at Ms. Della. She had been out there sweeping for the last thirty minutes. You'd think that she had swept all the dirt away by now.

Clenching the flowers in my hand, I took a deep breath and made my way across the street. Ms. Betty and Rodney watched my labored movements as I crossed from Wilkinson County into Twiggs County. The road and the railroad tracks not only divided the counties, they also separated the whites from the coloreds.

As I neared the front of her store, Ms. Della stopped sweeping and turned to stare at the hanging tree across from her store. I couldn't help but wonder if she had bought the place because of its proximity to that site. Perhaps it was some kind of shrine for her?

I stood at the bottom of the steps and removed my hat. Glancing up at Ms. Della, I said, "Good morning." She didn't look at me. She didn't acknowledge my existence. There was no give in her facial muscles. No welcoming smile or hint of civility.

"Did you hear that?" Rodney asked Ms. Betty.

Ms. Betty cackled, rocking back in her seat. Her right eye was a milky color, leaving her partially blind. "This cracker's 'bout to get his head bust in."

"They'll probably hang Della from that same tree that they hung her boy from."

"You think they'll set her body on fire like they did him?"

Rodney slapped his thigh and chuckled hoarsely. Pulling out his kerchief, he wiped his mouth and shook his head. "That po' nigga. I don't think that I'll ever get the smell of his burnt body out of my nose. I can't even have a fire burning in my house cuz it brings back such awful thoughts."

Closing her eyes tightly, Ms. Betty raised her hands in the air and beckoned the Lord. "Lord have mercy on that po' chile's soul. And they called it a suicide. How do you hang yourself dead then set yourself on fire?" She gazed down at me, her one good eye drilling a hole through my forehead.

Once again, words were sticking to my tongue. I licked my lips and forced my mouth to move. "Ms. Della?"

Her head whipped around. She didn't look at me; instead, her eyes focused on a spot near my feet. She set the broom on the wall near the door. Turning away, she entered the store and slammed the door behind her.

I climbed the steps, reached out, and grabbed the door handle. A cane slammed against the door, shutting it.

"Boy, didn't they teach you how to read?" asked Ms. Betty. She pointed to a sign on the door that read "No Whites allowed." Since the night that boy died, the coloreds had stayed on their side of town while the whites remained on theirs. It had remained like that for the past two and a half years until my damn foolish self broke the rules by venturing into the Twiggs County side of Appleton.

Glaring down at the meddling crone, I grabbed the handle, pulled the door open, and stepped inside. The store was small, but neat and tidy, with two aisles full of dried goods and cans of food. Ms. Della had disappeared into the back room, leaving me alone at the store's only counter.

Suddenly, a faint trace of honeysuckle floated through the air. Closing my eyes, I pictured the scene with me and Spicey, our children running around in the background. There was a creaking sound, and I opened my eyes and glanced towards the entrance to the backroom.

Joy and relief damn near dropped me to my knees. I smiled tentatively at my beloved. "Spicey."

There she was. The woman who had given me a reason to live. The woman I was willing to give anything to be with, even if it meant losing my family and friends. She was everything to me. So exquisitely beautiful and pure.

Her face and body were partially obscured by shadows. Her tightly coiled hair hung loose around her shoulders. Her arms rested by her sides.

"Spicey."

She cocked her head to the side. I felt emboldened enough to step towards her, hoping she would meet me halfway. I wanted to snatch her up and leave this place. I wanted to take her from this store. From her mama. From this town. From the memories.

The love of my life stepped into the light and raised her arms. I stared at the smooth skin of her face for a few moments before I realized that she was pointing the business end of a shotgun at my head. My stomach dropped.

"Get out." Her smooth voice was deep. Stern with conviction.

I quickly regretted that I had hoped she would meet me halfway. "Spicey, girl, you need to put that gun down, you hear? You might hurt someone."

Her long legs ate up the distance between us. I stared down the hollow barrels of the gun.

"Get out now." She advanced on me until I stepped back, retreating from the store. With my good leg, I kicked open the door and stepped onto the porch.

"Woo wee," said Rodney. "She done pulled out the shotgun."

"I bet he done wished he'd read that sign now," murmured Ms. Betty, not hiding the laughter in her voice.

The two of them sat on the bench, admiring Spicey's pluck. I had to turn around in order to step down from the porch. I had to be careful where I stepped, or I'd end up spread-eagle in front of these people.

I kept walking until I stood in the middle of the road. Spicey never lowered the gun, even though I had put several feet between us. She continued to glare at me, and her finger hovered near the trigger.

"Put the gun down now, Spicey."

Rodney nudged Ms. Betty. "Look at him, standing in the road. He 'bout done pissed himself, but he still thinks he got the upper hand."

"He'll learn soon enough if he moves one step towards this store," Spicey said, holding the gun on me. She waved the barrel in the direction of the county line. "This here ain't your side of town. Be gone."

Stepping back into Wilkinson County, I dropped the flowers. Finally, Spicey lowered the gun and took a deep breath. Her features were tense. Her shoulders were hunched. She'd had one minor victory, but she looked utterly defeated. Spicey grabbed the handle to the door and entered the store. She pulled the window shades down and placed a "Closed" sign in the pane.

It was dumb of me, but I kicked at the flowers, taking pleasure in seeing the petals scatter to the wind. But the shifting of weight was too much for my leg. It collapsed under me, causing me to fall down on the county line.

I heard whooping and hollering coming from Ms. Della's store. Rodney was pointing in my direction, laughing to high heaven. Ms. Betty was shaking her head, the pink gums of her mouth visible even at this distance.

Forcing the sounds of their merriment out of my head, I pushed to my feet. Leaning down, I grabbed my hat and brushed it against my leg. I shoved it onto my head and shot a spiteful glare towards the two old coots sitting on the porch. I straddled the border, torn between going home with dignity or rushing onto the porch and begging for Spicey's forgiveness.

The border separated us. The road separated us. Those were easy to overcome. That night was going to be a lot more difficult.

Today was a tiny setback. Okay, maybe it was a big setback, but I was convinced the odds were in my favor. Luck had seen me through the chaos of war; I'd be damned if it failed me now.

Brushing my pants off, I ignored Ms. Betty and Rodney's taunting chatter. I would move forward accepting that maybe with a little more time, the events of that night would fade from our memories, and Spicey and me could get on with our life together.

"I'll be back, Spicey!" I yelled at the store.

Stepping on the beheaded flowers, I pivoted and set an awkward, stiff pace back to my family's farm. Leaving behind the caterwauling, I walked past service shops and storefronts that had "Whites Only" signs on their front widows. I ignored the questioning glances sent my way. I had just turned to walk down the back road that led to the farm when I heard the rumbling of my brother's truck.

Carver pulled alongside me, keeping a foot between me and his truck. I could feel him watching me, maybe judging me. I glanced over at my little brother and noticed that his truck was packed full of his buddies. The four rejects.

As they all sat in the pickup truck, dressed and prepared for battle, I knew this could escalate into another volatile incident. Unlike many of our classmates, friends, and relatives, these boys had been deemed unfit for service by our American government. Instead of unleashing hell on the Krauts or the Japs, they had created battle lines between the white and colored folk. This wasn't a casual joyride. They had come prepared for war.

Richard Moran, a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy of Irish heritage, had been rejected because of a few too many run-ins with the local sheriffs. Sitting there with a pistol tucked into the back of his pants, you'd think he was the lawman of these parts.