Toni Morrison - Paradise

"I'm trying to smooth a situation out at the Pooles', and I think I'd do well to talk to Billie Delia, if you don't mind. Is she here tonight?" Pat held on to her elbows and turned to look at him. "Can't help you, Reverend."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure that whatever's going on out there has nothing to do with Billie Delia. Besides, she doesn't live here anymore. Moved to Demby." She would have liked to stop being so hostile to him, but with the mention of her daughter's relationship with those Poole boys, she couldn't control it.

"Her name's come up once or twice. But Wisdom Poole won't give me anything to go on. Something's tearing that family apart."

"They don't like prying, Reverend. It's a thing about Ruby."

"I understand that but something like this has a way of spreading, touching more than one family. When I first came here it was plain: if there was a problem brewing, a delegation was formed to see about it. Keep people from falling out with one another. Seen it with my own eyes and been a party to it too."

"I know."

"This community used to be tight as wax."

"It still is. In a crisis. But they keep to themselves otherwise."

"Don't you mean 'we'? 'We keep to ourselves'?"

"If I did, would you be asking me to explain things?"

"Pat, please. Don't take anything I say amiss. I just remembered that the young people in Bible class say 'they' too when talking about their parents."

"Bible class? More like a war class. Kind of military, from what I hear."

"Militant, maybe. Not military."

"No budding Panthers?"

"Is that what you think?"

"I don't know what to think."

"Well, let me tell you. Unlike most of the folks here, we read newspapers and different kinds of books. We keep up. And yes, we discuss strategies of defense. Not aggression. Defense."

"They know the difference?"

He didn't have to reply right away because applause began and lasted until the final member of the children's choir disappeared behind the curtain.

Someone turns off the ceiling lights. Quiet coughing domesticates the dark. Slowly, on a well-oiled pulley, the curtains part. Under lights positioned in the wings, throwing large shadows behind them, four figures in felt hats and too big suits stand at a table, counting giant dollar bills. The face of each one is hidden by a yellow and white mask featuring gleaming eyes and snarling lips, red as a fresh wound. Above a sign tacked to the table front, which reads inn, they count money, make slurping noises and do not stop when a parade of holy families dressed in torn clothes and moving in a slow two-step approaches them. Seven couples line up before the table of money. The boys carry staffs; the girls cuddle baby dolls.

Misner looked at them and, giving himself more time to think of a reply to Pat's question, concentrated on identifying the children onstage. The four youngest Cary girls: Hope, Chaste, Lovely and Pure; Dina Poole; and one of Pious DuPres' daughters-Linda. Then the boys, manfully grasping staffs while they two-stepped toward the money counters. Peace and Solarine Jury's two grandsons, Ansel and one they called Fruit; Joe-Thomas Poole paired with his sister Dina; Drew and Harriet Person's son, James; Payne Sands' boy, Lorcas, and two of Timothy Seawright's grandsons, Steven and Michael. Two of the masked ones were obviously Beauchamps-Royal and Destry, fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds who were already over six feet tall-but he wasn't sure of the other two. This was the first time he had attended the play. It was held two weeks before Christmas, when he returned to Georgia for his annual visit to his family. This year the trip was postponed because an all-family reunion was scheduled for New Year's. He would take Anna, if she agreed, let the folks look her over and, he supposed, let her look them over. He had hinted to the bishops that he was up for a new parish. Nothing urgent. But he was not sure he was well used in Ruby. He had thought any place was fine as long as there were young people to be taught, to be told, that Christ was judge and warrior too. That whites not only had no patent on Christianity; they were often its obstacle. That Jesus had been freed from white religion, and he wanted these kids to know that they did not have to beg for respect; it was already in them, and they needed only to display it. But the resistance he'd found in Ruby was wearing him out. More and more his students were being chastised about the beliefs he helped instill. Now Pat Best-with whom he'd taught Negro History every Thursday afternoon-was chipping away at his Bible class, confusing self-respect for arrogance, preparedness for disobedience. Did she think education was knowing just enough to get a job? She didn't seem to trust these Ruby hardheads with the future any more than he did, but neither did she encourage change. Negro history and lists of old-time achievements were enough for her but not for this generation. Somebody had to talk to them, and somebody had to listen to them. Otherwise… "You know better than anybody how smart these young people are.

Better than anybody…" His voice trailed off under "Silent Night."

"You think what I teach them isn't good enough?"

Had she read his mind? "Of course it's good. It's just not enough. The world is big, and we're part of that bigness. They want to know about Africa-"

"Oh, please, Reverend. Don't go sentimental on me."

"If you cut yourself off from the roots, you'll wither."

"Roots that ignore the branches turn into termite dust."

"Pat," he said with mild surprise. "You despise Africa."

"No, I don't. It just doesn't mean anything to me."

"What does, Pat? What does mean something to you?"

"The periodic chart of elements and valences."

"Sad," he said. "Sad and cold." Richard Misner turned away. Lorcas Sands leaves the group of families and in a loud but breaking voice addresses the masks: "Is there room?"

The masks turn toward each other, then back to the supplicant, then back to each other, after which they roar, shaking their heads like angry lions. "Get on way from here! Get! There's no room for you!"

"But our wives are pregnant!" Lorcas points with the staff.

"Our children going to die of thirst!" Pure Cary holds a doll aloft.

The masked ones wag their heads and roar.

"That was not a nice thing to say to me, Richard."

"I'm sorry?"

"I am not sad or cold."

"I meant the chart, not you. Limiting your faith to molecules as if-"

"I don't limit anything. I just don't believe some stupid devotion to a foreign country-and Africa is a foreign country, in fact it's fifty foreign countries-is a solution for these kids."

"Africa is our home, Pat, whether you like it or not."

"I'm really not interested, Richard. You want some foreign Negroes to identify with, why not South America? Or Germany, for that matter. They have some brown babies over there you could have a good time connecting with. Or is it just some kind of past with no slavery in it you're looking for?"

"Why not? There was a whole lot of life before slavery. And we ought to know what it is. If we're going to get rid of the slave mentality, that is."

"You're wrong, and if that's your field you're plowing wet. Slavery is our past. Nothing can change that, certainly not Africa."

"We live in the world, Pat. The whole world. Separating us, isolating us-that's always been their weapon. Isolation kills generations. It has no future."

"You think they don't love their children?"

Misner stroked his upper lip and heaved a long sigh. "I think they love them to death."

Bobbing and bowing, the masked ones reach under the table and lift up big floppy cardboard squares pasted with pictures of food. "Here. Take this and get on out of here." Throwing the food pictures on the floor, they laugh and jump about. The holy families rear back as though snakes were being tossed at them. Pointing forefingers and waving fists, they chant: "God will crumble you. God will crumble you." The audience hums agreement: "Yes He will. Yes He will."