Midnight Without a Moon(14)

Queen, with her straight black hair pulled high in a ponytail like some movie star, didn’t even acknowledge Hallelujah. She sat at the table with one dainty hand wrapped around a Mason jar filled with iced tea and the other flipping through a Sears and Roebuck catalog, as if she had money.

Her sleeveless red and white checkered dress clung to her curves like gold on a ring. And she wore enough rouge and red lipstick to put a harlot to shame. If I had dressed like that, Ma Pearl would’ve laid an egg.

When Hallelujah spoke to her a second time, she stopped midflip and turned up her nose. She stood, sneered, and said, “Go to hell, Clyde Bernard Jenkins the Turd.”

Satisfied that she had sufficiently insulted Hallelujah, she picked up her iced tea, snatched up the catalog, and switched on out of the kitchen, that smirk still plastered on her ugly face.

Hallelujah shrugged as if he didn’t care, but I saw that hint of red come back to his cheeks. I felt heat rise in my own face too. It made me want to slap Queen straight on into the next week. Just because she was almost sixteen didn’t mean she could damn the preacher’s son to hell and call him a turd.

Queen didn’t return to the kitchen until all of us field hands—?me, Fred Lee, Mr. Albert, Fish, and Adam—?had washed up and were seated at the table. Her face was pinched up worse than the edge of a pie crust as she sat on the bench next to the open window. Ma Pearl never let anybody else sit away from the table.

When Papa came in and took his place at the head of the table, he smiled and asked Hallelujah, “How’s Preacher?”

“Just fine, Mr. Carter,” Hallelujah answered.

Papa reached for the jug and poured himself some tea. “Gettin’ his sermon ready for Sunday?” he asked.

Hallelujah nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Papa squinted at him. “It any good?”

Hallelujah fidgeted for a moment, then lowered his eyes and muttered, “It’s a real killer, sir.”

We all laughed, even Mr. Albert, Fish, and Adam, despite the grief that hung on their faces like veils.

Amid the laughter, Ma Pearl brought a huge pot of beans and set it in the middle of the table. Whatever we didn’t eat at dinnertime, we’d have again for supper that evening.

When Ma Pearl took the top off the pot, the first thing I saw were little slimy pods of green floating on top. Before I knew it, I gasped and opened my big mouth. “Ma Pearl, you put okra in the beans?” I crossed my arms and huffed. “You know I hate okra.”

When Ma Pearl frowned, I knew what was coming next. I cringed and felt the sting before her heavy hand even reached my face. Whap!

I tumbled backwards, toppled the chair, and landed on the wood floor.

Ma Pearl stormed to the other side of the table and stood directly over me. Glaring down, she crossed her arms over her generous bosom and said, “Beggars shouldn’t be so choosy.”

With both palms soothing my stinging face, I muttered a choked, “Sorry, Ma Pearl.”

Tears raced down my face as I slowly rose from my sprawled position on the floor. I wanted to get up and run, but Ma Pearl might’ve thrown a skillet at my head if I had left that kitchen.

As I righted my chair and sat, I didn’t dare look up. I knew everybody at that table shared my shame. They clamped their mouths shut and stared at their hands.

But Queen? Without even looking, I knew her lips were curled up in a grin.

Ma Pearl finally dropped her hands to her sides and stomped back over to the stove. She snatched up a pan of cornbread and threw it on the table with a clank. “If you don’t like my cooking,” she said, scowling, “try catching a train to Chicago and see what yo’ mammy got on the stove.”

I wiped my face with my shirtsleeve and choked back fresh tears.

“Rose Lee,” Papa said gently.

I didn’t answer him, and I wouldn’t look up.

Papa’s voice was stern but kind. “Rose Lee,” he said, “when you lay down on your bed last night, was your belly crying for food?”

I muttered, “No, sir.”

“Then thank the good Lord for this food. Not everybody in this world has some.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled. I bowed my head and said as quietly as possible, “God in heaven, thank you for this food. Please let it satisfy my belly so I won’t go hungry. Amen.”

Except for Ma Pearl’s angry breathing, the kitchen was silent. Tears blurred my vision, but I could see well enough to swallow my shame, pick up my plate, and ladle a good helping of beans onto it. To appease Ma Pearl, I made sure I included one, and only one, pod of slimy green okra. I just prayed they were all gone from that miserable pot come suppertime that evening.





Chapter Seven


SATURDAY, JULY 30


I WAS TEN YEARS OLD WHEN I ATTENDED MY FIRST FUNERAL. It was the funeral of what I thought was a very old woman. She had long white hair surrounding a wrinkled black face, and the undertaker had shaped that face into an awful frown. The woman’s name was Mrs. Vergene Miller, and she left behind thirteen children, all full grown. And with the way the undertaker had molded that frown on her face, I couldn’t help but wonder if she ruled her children with an iron fist, the way Ma Pearl ruled hers.

But what stood out most and made me remember Miss Vergene’s funeral was not her white hair or her frowning face; it was her thirteen children and the way those children, especially her eight sons, wept and wailed and fell out on the floor in a dead faint as they cried out for their mama.