Midnight Without a Moon(45)

After Emmett Till’s funeral, Aunt Belle and Monty had decided to return to Mississippi to see what assistance they could offer the NAACP. They would arrive on Sunday and stay for two weeks. By the end of those two weeks I hoped to convince Aunt Belle to take me back with her. In my heart I knew Chicago was not an option. If Mama didn’t want me and Fred Lee when we were Li’ Man and Sugar’s age, then she certainly didn’t want us when we were just about grown. She renounced us as her children the day she began referring to us as Sister and Brother and had Li’ Man and Sugar call us Aunt Rose and Uncle Fred.

In the meantime, while I waited for my chance to be a part of the great colored migration, I had to drag that sack through the field and collect Mr. Robinson’s cotton while Queen and Fred Lee went to school. Queen had thrown up every morning. And every evening after school she fell asleep before her head hit the pillow. Ma Pearl was still asking her if she had the summer flu. She refused to believe her precious Queen was capable of doing any wrong.

That Thursday was also the fourth night of revival. Ma Pearl made us all go to the mourners’ bench. But I wasn’t trying to get religion. Why would I want to go to heaven if she and Aunt Clara Jean would be there? I’d take my chances in hell before spending an eternity with them.

So every night, Monday through Wednesday, I had sat on that front pew—?the mourners’ bench. I sang when everyone else sang, shouted when everyone else shouted, and got down on my knees and bowed when everyone else prayed. But I didn’t pray for religion. I asked God to put a curse on Ma Pearl and Aunt Clara Jean instead. I knew it was selfish and evil, but after exhausting myself with tears in that cotton field, evil was all I could feel toward them.

I knew I needed religion or, more specifically, a faith, something to believe in. But I didn’t have to kneel and pray before a bench in the front row of the church, with a bunch of people moaning and praying over me, to get it.

Reverend Jenkins said that all we had to do was confess that we were sinners and ask for forgiveness. But the old folks said that was nonsense. You couldn’t get religion without a sign.

“You gotta be still and ask the Lawd for a sign,” Deacon Edwards had cried out every night of revival. “Pray, ‘Lawd Jesus, I is a wretch undone. Please, Suh, look and have mercy. If I got religion, please show me some sign.’”

And I did. I prayed that Deacon Edwards would lose his voice so he would stop screaming all over the place. I also prayed that Aunt Belle would change her mind and take me to Saint Louis.

I would find my faith eventually, when I was ready. And not when Ma Pearl said I should.





Chapter Twenty-Four


FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9


“‘I LOVE THE LAWD; HE HEARD MY CRY,’” Deacon Edwards sang out. The rest of the church joined in as he dragged out the words:

“‘I-I-I-I l-o-o-o-ve d-e-e-e Law-awd. He-e-e-e hear-r-r-r-d my-y-y-y cry.’”

Deacon Edwards: “‘And pitied every groan.’”

The church: “‘A-a-and pi-i-i-tie-e-ed e-e-e-ver-e-e-ey gro-o-oan.’”

Friday had finally come, and the mourners’ bench wasn’t as packed as it had been on Monday. There were only a few of us, six to be exact, still waiting for a sign. On Monday the front pews had been so packed, there was barely room for our arms, which were smashed to our sides as our hands lay folded in our laps. But on Friday the choir stand was packed and the mourners’ bench sparse, as the newly saved saints glared piously down at those of us still waiting to receive a message from heaven.

Queen had crossed over on Tuesday night. Finally. I guess the death of Emmett Till was enough to scare even the worst of sinners toward salvation. When I asked her what sign she had asked God for, she told me it was none of my business and to worry about getting my own sign. So much for being saved. She perched on the front row of the choir stand, her legs crossed, her lips pursed, her nose pointing, fanning her proud face with a paper funeral-home fan that displayed a picture of Jesus knocking at a door.

Well, I had asked for only one sign, and I knew I wasn’t about to get it. Deacon Edwards was in full swing, leading the opening prayer, praying for the last of the mourners on the bench. If all of us didn’t cross over that night, revival would not be considered a complete success. So he prayed fervently, sweating and spitting while folks moaned and shouted as if a funeral were in progress.

The prayer portion of the night seemed to drag on forever. After Deacon Edwards, Miss Doll prayed. Ma Pearl, of course, couldn’t let either of them outshine her. She prayed, it seemed, for nearly a half-hour. While she prayed, I—?rather than asking for my soul’s salvation—?asked that she’d choke on her spit, which was flying all over the front of the church.

After all prayers had been delivered on behalf of us sinners, Reverend Mims, a small man from a nearby farming community, approached the podium to deliver the message. We always had a guest preacher for revival, as it was a well-known fact that an educated preacher like Reverend Jenkins couldn’t save souls with his rhetoric. It took fire and brimstone for that. Reverend Mims, though small, was an imposing figure. His voice was loud and intimidating, making me feel as though it were the devil knocking at my heart, wishing to come in instead of Jesus. And he was as black as a witch’s hat, as Ma Pearl liked to say, with almond-shaped eyes as yellow as gold.

Since he never used a Bible, Reverend Mims simply began speaking. “Jesus said, ‘Behold, I stand at the do’ and knock. If any man open it, I’ll come in and have supper with him.’ How many y’all want the Lawd to come to yo’ table this evening and have supper with ya?” he asked, pointing at the six of us left on the mourners’ bench. He waved his hand toward the choir stand. “Look at all these folks who said yes when the Lawd knocked. Don’t you want to join them at the table?”