Yellow Wife(41)

When we got to his room, he undressed me and tucked me under his covers. I closed my eyes, bracing myself for another long night, but he climbed in bed next to me, put one hand on my belly, and used the other to cradle me. Then he kissed my temple and fell asleep.

He still had me in his arms when I awoke the next morning, and my neck was stiff because of it. Brenda was the first thought that came to mind. Was she right about me? Maybe I needed to seek God.

“Good morning.” He kissed my cheek.

“I want to go to church on Sunday. Take everyone with me. We used to have service on the plantation. I miss it.”

“That can be arranged. That African church is a few blocks away. The others have never been, but I reckon they’ll be curious.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.” He rubbed my belly.



* * *



When Sunday came, I had Monroe dressed in a navy jacket buttoned to high-waisted trousers. He wore matching socks, and I combed his hair with a part in the middle. This would be his first trip outside of the jail and I could not wait to see his little face when he saw the horse and buggy, all the people moving through the streets, the stores and city lights.

“Miss Pheby, you lookin’ good,” July commented on the mustard-colored dress that I wore. I had sewn together a pretty blouse for July out of the extra material from the shed, and she looked lovely in lavender. She was old enough now for a corset and hoopskirt but I did not want men getting ideas about her, especially now that she had received her first blood, so I dressed her down like she was still a child.

I could see the others gathered in front of the house out my window when Abbie came for me. They seemed anxious to get to church, and I did not want to be the one to keep them waiting.

“Miss Pheby? Marse said leave Monroe with Basil. Rest us gon’ on to church.”

“I am taking him with me.”

“Marse told the gatekeeper you ain’t ’pose to leave here with Monroe.”

I picked up my brush and threw it across the room, angry that he would relay his dirty message through Abbie instead of telling me himself. That bastard. Always separating me from my son. I wanted Monroe to know God. Hear the choir. Catch the spirit.

“Basil ain’t so bad. He a good man. Guard Monroe wit’ his life till you return.” Abbie took my arm and steered me away from throwing anything else. When we got downstairs, she reached for the baby. I kissed Monroe’s cheek and then handed him to her. He looked from me to Abbie and started kicking his feet in a fuss. Abbie moved out the back door with him, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth to calm him.

Elsie tried looking away when I approached, but I already noticed her checking me out as I came down the steps. We did well staying out of each other’s ways most days.

“Miss Pheby,” she said, and I did not correct her.

“Morning, Elsie. Ready to hear the word of the Lord?”

“Monroe ain’t comin’?” She tipped her chin.

“Might not be ready to sit still for so long.” I walked ahead, and July fell into step next to me. We exited through the front entrance. I could hear them singing from the jail as we passed.

The First African Baptist Church sat a few blocks away, at the corner of College and Broad. As we made our way, hundreds of Negroes filed into the street headed toward the church. The women’s bonnets framed their beautiful faces and the men dressed neatly. The church stretched in a rectangular shape with its long side facing Broad Street. The foyer was dimly lit, and I could smell the smoke of frankincense and myrrh. Inside the sanctuary there was a wide center aisle with royal-blue carpet. Straightaway I noticed the men moved to sit on the left side and the women to the right. All the children congregated together in side galleries. In the front pews, upper-class whites, dressed in the latest fashions, sat together, with additional white men stationed in the corners of the room and along the back wall, watching. Negroes could not gather, not even in broad daylight to hear the word of God, without being watched.

The church filled fast. The choir walked to the front gallery and began to sing. A lovely pale woman led the massive choir in a few hymns. I recognized one or two. Her voice reminded me of Lovie’s from back home, and I longed for our little church service in the clearing on the plantation. Missed Essex holding my hand and smiling at me.

When the choir finished the last note, the white preacher wearing a yellow robe with a gold cross sewn into the fabric walked up to the pulpit. At the sight of him, everyone sat up straighter.

“I want to welcome you to First African Baptist Church. I am Pastor Robert Ryland. Do we have anyone visiting for the first time? If so, please stand.”

My group stood, as did a few others throughout the sanctuary.

“Welcome to the house of the Lord. Please be seated. You are all in for an amazing treat from a Lamb of God. We have Reverend Nathaniel Colver, all the way from the Tremont Temple in Boston. He will deliver the sermon today.”

Mr. Colver was a medium-sized white man with tight lips. He stood in front of the congregation wearing his white collar and spoke eloquently. It surprised me to hear him hint at the perils of slavery, and how all people should have the right to live with dignity. When he finished, the same woman led the choir in a final song.

Let Jesus lead me

Let Jesus lead me

Let Jesus lead me