Cynthia Bond - Ruby

The Rankins, save Chauncy, who’d volunteered to retrieve Ephram, arrived in two baby blue stretch limousines hired all the way from Leesville. They crowded the doorway so Ephram cleared the way and let them pass. Despite the magnificence of their funereal finery, the black plume feathers in Supra’s hat, the pressed straightness of the women’s hair and the men’s good suits, despite the severity of mourning painted on the faces of his kin, the tears already washing down Verde’s slick cheeks, the genuine beauty of the seven Rankin brothers, and the heaving sobs of Junie’s wife, Bessie, when Ephram sat down in the back and not in the seat next to Celia that he’d shared for two decades, the whole of the parlor turned first to Ephram and then to see how Celia took it. They found her with eyes closed in prayer.

Folks said later that the funeral of Junie Rankin was a good testimony to his life. It wasn’t the best they’d seen, but it certainly wasn’t the worst. The Rankins from out of town did find it a bit strange when the Pastor mentioned how glad he was that Junie had never been vexed by Jezebels or demons or lunacy. Everyone from Liberty had just turned around again and stared at Ephram Jennings for a beat. As the singing commenced, women fell out and had to be helped up. Men clapped and sang “Seraph!” Righteous Polk did not disappoint and fell out so many times, shaking and weeping with such ferocity, that she had to be tended to in the Pastor’s office by the recently widowed Deacon Charles. At the casket the competition had been fierce over who loved Junie the most, his wife, Bessie, or his sister, Petunia. Wail landed upon wail, followed by the thrashing and beating of flesh. Junie’s framed photograph, the easel it was set upon, and two floral arrangements featuring calla lilies were casualties of the fierce rivalry. The service ended with no clear winner.

Ephram felt faint and his stomach flipped as he rose with the rest of the pallbearers, Chauncy, Percy, Gubber, Charlie and Sim Rankin. He took his place on the back left corner as all six men heaved poor Junie up and onto their capable shoulders. Ephram felt Celia boring into him the whole of the journey down the aisle, but some unnamed will would not let him meet her gaze. He left the church and climbed into the hearse with the rest of the men.

Then his bones began to tingle.

Edwin Shephard Junior drove them the four miles to Liberty Township Cemetery, where they unloaded the casket and carried Junie down to his plot. Edwin fiddled with the burial area while the six pallbearers walked into the heart of the graveyard to wait for folks to arrive. Between the family processional out of the church, the refixing of makeup and rearranging of undergarments, the heaving and sitting and gathering of strength and arranging themselves in limousines, the men had at least an hour of waiting ahead of them.

As soon as they had settled themselves on tombstones for a smoke, Ephram slipped his coat on and began walking down the hill, bound for Bell land.

Percy Rankin spit out, “I wouldn’t go nowheres if I was you until you get that meeting with Celia done and finished. Don’t want nothing to happen to that gal.” Ephram turned around, a weak terror gripping him, and rejoined the group.

Chauncy Rankin took off his jacket, looked at Ephram and busted out laughing. He laughed so hard he all but fell out on the ground then kept right on laughing. Side-splitting, tears-streaming-down-his-cheeks, ripping belly laughs. Percy and Sim turned away smiling as Chauncy quieted for a second, climbed his way up a tombstone, glanced back at Ephram and fell back to the ground howling.

Caught between shame and fear, battling the tingling in his joints and the flipping of his stomach, Ephram did not ask the question Chauncy’s actions begged him to ask: What you laughin’ at?

Finally Chauncy caught his breath and between gasps said, “Ooooooh, man! Ooooooooo, man, I ain’t laugh that hard since Gubber passed out and wet hisself at Bloom’s last month.”

Gubber spat out, “Only after y’all fool niggas stuck my hand in warm water whiles I’m asleep.”

“I ain’t saying who stuck what where, but damn , that was almost as funny as this here. What in God’s name Ephram Roosevelt Jennings be thanking playing house with that, that—” Then he was off again, spitting out between guffaws, “Oh Lord!” and “Help me, Jesus!” until it became contagious and Percy and Sim let loose as well, followed by Charlie and finally, at long last, Gubber, the men giving one another fraternal handshakes and soldierly pats on the back. The cackling built like a storm brewing. When Chauncy had the pack of them howling and snapping, he grew quiet and glared at Ephram Jennings.

“Man, you should be ’shamed.”

Ephram kicked his feet into the ground and to his great shame said nothing. His stomach still turning. A little roll of thunder played in the distance.

“You a pitiful thing” was the worst Chauncy could think to say, but his eyes betrayed far more. Chauncy looked at Ephram with the utter disbelief that such a man could exist in their midst.

Then, leave it to Gubber: “Aw he ain’t no different from us; we all looking for a woman just like our mama.”

The crowd paused for a moment, deciding whether or not to draw blood.

Sim looked at Chauncy, then put the edge of a knife in his words, “My mama got straight teeth so I can’t abide a gal with a crooked mouth, likewise Ephram wouldn’t know what to do with no sane gal who keep her clothes on come Easter.”

At that Chauncy sank into a wizened laughter. “Y’all know that’s wrong.” Then with a flick of his cigarette ash, Ephram was dismissed. Ephram tried to lasso the right words but they hurdled beyond his grasp. Then the moment was gone as Chauncy slipped on his jacket and turned to the other men, “Now which one of you men’s fool ’nuff to think Cassius Clay got the stuff to win that there Thrilla in Manila?”

“The man’s name is Ali,” Percy corrected.

Charlie countered, “Hell, calling himself Mohammad like spitting in his mama’s face.”

Percy eased out, “Don’t matter, he already whooped Frazier once.”

“Fight was rigged,” Sim countered. “ ’Sides Joe knock him cold that first fight.”

“Truth is,” Charlie shot out, “yella man born weaker than brown. Joe gonna peel that nigga like a gorilla do a banana.”

“Yo’ own daddy’s a yella nigga,” Percy threw out.

Chauncy cut in, “Then I guess he know what he’s talking ’bout.”

Sim tried out, “Maybe we should ask Ephram ’bout yella niggas.”

Ephram leaned against a tombstone, great waves of self-disgust lapping against his heart. His insides twisted left and then right. He’d been called out three times in the last two minutes, he knew he couldn’t live in the town if he didn’t act now. He tried to muster his will, but something had cut into the trunk of his courage and he found his mouth flooded with saliva. Before he could stop himself, he’d heaved and vomited all over Weller Redding’s grave. The men glared at Ephram.

“Damn, that’s nasty,” Percy observed. In response, Ephram’s stomach pitched again and he heaved all over his shoes. The splatter deflected onto the cuffs of Chauncy’s pants.

“Damn!” Chauncy shot out. “Watch yo’ fool self!” and before anyone knew what had happened he’d shoved Ephram back over the tombstone. Legs akimbo, he looked too foolish to inspire laughter.

No one had seen the clouds overhead, but regardless of anyone’s notice they had knotted in a soft, gray tangle and now began to rain. They sprinkled for a second and then, as if a faucet had been turned, they let loose a nice steady pour. Ephram felt the water splash off his upturned shoes, wet his ankles, his hands and eventually his face and hair. And without Ephram ever knowing it was there, the last of the red powder washed clean. Chauncy was cursing Ephram and the rain all at once, looming over him, fists tight. A new power and strength shot through Ephram, as if from the soil itself. He leapt to his feet and pushed Chauncy back. Chauncy staggered, disbelief splashing across his face.