Natashia Deon: Grace

Momma’s been pacing the room since she got back from the church gathering this morning with Massa’s nana and the other white folk. She allow Momma to go, stand outside the window and listen.

Momma’s brushing the dust off the window shutters wit her fingernails. More like a scraping but we don’t stop her. Thas how she keep busy sometimes. It let me and Hazel keep to our reading. We take turns. It’s Hazel’s turn now. “‘Yay though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.’”

“Hazel?” I say. “God like art?”

“What? No, art means are. You are with me.”

“Well, why they talk like that? Thy and though?”

“That’s just how God talk. Let me finish.”

“A’right.”

“‘Thou preparest a table. .’”

“Hazel?”

“What.”

“You think God understands us then? We don’t talk like that.”

“He understands all different kind a talk.”

“What about Momma? She don’t talk. He understand her, too?”

“I imagine he do. Now let me finish, then you can read.”

I be quiet.

She starts slow like she think I’m gon’ say something but I’m just gon’ listen this time. She say, “‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies.’”

“Hazel? What ‘preparest’ mean?”

“God’s expecting you. Always with you. Even when you don’t think He is. When your enemies are all around you.” She push the Bible to me. “Here, now you. .”

A hush covers our room. The rain quit beating, the bugs quit chirping, and Momma stopped scratching, all at once. The kind of off-quiet that make you pay attention and expect. Like the moment after lightning, waiting on thunder.

Hazel turns ’round to the door, then back to me but not looking at me, listening for something. When it don’t come she taps her Bible, say, “Now you read.”

A loud knock at the door stops me, scares me. I don’t know who that knock belongs to ’cause it’s hard and slow and nobody’s supposed to be out after dusk on a Sunday.

Hazel listens to the door, using her whole body to hear it, watches, but don’t get up.

Momma starts brushing the shutters again.

“Hazel?” I whisper.

She puts her hand over my mouth. When the knock starts again, she gets up quickly but I don’t want her to answer it.

She go to the shutters, peeks through the split, then dashes back to me, whispering, “It’s Massa Hilden. Go in the other room with Momma.”

She snatches the Bible and pitches it under the table. I run quiet across the floor, grab Momma’s hand on the way, and we slide through my bedroom door. I turn over my hiding barrel to get it ready to cover me, but when I see Momma standing alone, I don’t get under it like I should. I wait near the door with her. Want to listen. I leave it cracked open to see.

Massa walk in before Hazel get back to the door.

“Massa Hilden?” Hazel say. “We wasn’t expectin’ you. Momma came down wit a spell this mornin, been sick all over the place.”

He strolls to the middle of the room carrying that silence with him. He stops next to the table, wipes down the arms of his brown suit jacket — first time I seen him in it — and straightens the cuffs while he looks around. He takes a cigar out of his pocket, lights it, and like a baby on a teet, he sucks on it in short spurts to get it going. His eyes draw to the floor when he do. He moseys over to the Bible there, picks it up, throws it on the table, flips through its pages.

Hazel stands watching him from next to the opened front door. I reckon she hope he blow out.

Massa closes the Bible, walks his fat fingers across the tabletop, then around to the backside of the table, next to the fire pit. He picks up the poker, stabs the wood, sizzling ash.

Hazel don’t know what to say over his quiet. Finally she say, “I’m sorry we not so tidy this Sunday evenin. Momma’s been fightin a bad sickness and I don’t want you to catch it.”

“Darlin. I’m not here to see your momma. I’m here to see you.”

He pokes at the fire, then stabs a log with the sharp end of his poker, shakes it ’til the log falls off in a thud. “It’s been quite a few years now. No boys from your momma, just the girls. Got a pretty penny for ’em but I still need my boys, they bring in the real money. You understand that don’t you, Hazel? Finances.” His eyes slide toward her.

I open my door a little more so I can see better.

He say, “I need someone to take your momma’s place. A strong woman. Good hips.” He raises his hand, waves at the opened front door. “You don’t mind if my friend, Boss, come in, do you, Hazel?”

That black man come in. He ain’t nobody’s boss except that he the same one who lay on top of Momma.

Massa keeps poking at the fire and don’t say nothing to Boss even though he came in like Massa asked. Massa buries the orange tip of his cigar into our table, finally say, “Now then, Hazel. Let’s see what you can do.”

Hazel creeps back to the wall, passing by our door. She look over her shoulder and into my eyes, then straight away. She hangs there in place. Ain’t no crying from her — there never is no more — but her breathing is fast like a mouse caught in a jar. There ain’t nowhere to go but fly. Boss grabs her arm, pulls her back into the middle of the room where Massa is. He snatches the back of her hair so her face shoots to the ceiling.

I want to be strong like her and don’t cry neither.

I scoot back along the wall, squat down to my old peeking hole and frame my hands around it. I mash my cheek to the wood and air streams through the space, watering my eye. My tears are cold before they fall. I wipe ’em away, making the sight of Hazel across the room clear.

Boss presses his front against Hazel, smashing her back against the warm wall next to the fire. She shuts her eyes and turns her head. A soft wisp of hair falls and soaks into the sweat on her face. Boss brings a dark finger to the strands, sweeps it away to kiss her cheek. A kiss that musta sickened her cause she buck up, her legs rearing and sending a knee between Boss’s legs.

But she don’t get away.

Boss grabs her waist, lifts her up but her legs and arms keep moving like she running on the ground, then they go wild, swinging, sending her and Boss back against the wall. Her foot slides in the fire.

I wish I never looked through this hole.

Hot tears pour down my cheeks while the firelight flickers on Momma’s face. She stands in the door’s gap looking to Hazel.

She don’t say nothin.

Her eyelids flutter.

I hear Massa in the other room. “Hold still, girl,” and there’s a shuffle. Their back and forth turns the shadow show on Momma’s face into movement, the three shadow lines down her face, a dance. The shortest line in the middle is Hazel. The two shadow lines come together on her face making Momma’s skin gray. She don’t blink, though. She come alive.

At once, she burst through the door. “Choose me!” she yell to Massa. “What chu want me to do? I do it.”

“It’s too late, Letti,” Massa say.

“I’ll give you a boy this time! I’ll be good. I could do it this time. God gon’ bless me wit a boy. Please!” She throws herself down and wraps her arms around Massa’s leg, hugging him like she loves him. He kicks her off.

“Momma!” I yell, stumbling in the room.

“No!” Hazel say.

“Hot damn!” Massa say, scared or surprised. I don’t know which. He tilts his head from side to side trying to place me. Then finally, “I knew it! You look just like that bastard. I should’ve killed him when I had my chance, thieving from me.”