Charles Johnson - Faith and the Good Thing

When Maxwell left the store for a moment, Faith leaned over the counter closer to the proprietor and asked, “Do you know if Dr. Lynch still lives in town?”

“Lynch?” The proprietor rubbed his chin, then snapped his fingers. “Sure! You mean that loony old doctor that used to—”

“Yes,” Faith said, wringing her fingers. “Is he here?”

“Nope.” He yawned, his mouth as wide as a pit. “I heard tell he started research into plant life ’bout six months ago, and found out that rutabaga and philodendrons had feelings jes like people. Don’t that beat all? It really shook him up — blew his brains out with a forty-four on Christmas Eve. ”

Faith’s stomach sank. She thought for a moment, then said, “What about Oscar Lee Jackson?”

“We got us a new undertaker,” the proprietor drawled. “Old man Jackson retired, went to California, I hear. ”

“Then Reverend Brown,” Faith said, “do you know him ?”

“Sho.” He laughed. “At least while he was alive I did. That pain he was always havin’ in his side finally got the best of him. He passed away right in the middle of a sermon ’gainst hoodoo and conjurin’. ”

Faith held her breath, staring at him, though her mind was miles away. “What about the Swamp Woman? Is she still here?”

“The Swamp what ?” He removed his tiny silver pince-nez and stared at her. She dropped the question.

“What’re you crying about?” Maxwell asked as they headed south for Florida. “You’re always whimpering and whining about something.” He craned his neck around and glared at her. “What is it now ?”

She told him the change in climate was affecting her eyes. But the wreckage of the farmhouse never left her mind. There was nothing left of her old life. Nothing but tall tales. Perhaps Todd and Lavidia had become trees, which was well and good for them. Their release couldn’t help her one iota. If she was to free herself from bondage, she needed help.

Faith drained the bathtub water, pulled on her bathrobe, and went to the kitchen to prepare for Maxwell and his guest. Children, this sister was low, lower than a whale’s belly at the bottom of the China Sea. And that’s low. She fixed a soufflé with vengeance, knowing that Maxwell would never be able to help her. She didn’t doubt for a minute that he was part of her problem, and that this was why she reacted toward him as Lavidia had to Todd, but in exactly the opposite way; whereas her mother chided Todd for dreaming, she lost no opportunity for riding Maxwell for not dreaming enough. The office party last Christmas had done it. She couldn’t keep it out of her mind.

Before leaving for The Sentry’ s Christmas party she’d tried to explain her quest to Maxwell. She hid nothing, not even her encounters with Tippis and Barrett, and the months in Hotel Sinclair. Maxwell listened in horror from the front doorway, his mouth open. He jerked his plaid muffler around his neck as though trying to strangle himself. Then he leaned in the doorway, wheezing, his head hidden in the crook of his arm.

A chill swept across Faith’s shoulders. She wanted to hide, to take back every word. She was not ashamed of what she’d experienced; she had even thought there was a kernel of tragedy and strength in it. But her narrative, finally framed in her own words, had sounded shocking even to her own ears. Obscene. She was afraid to move or say more.

“How could you do this to me?” Maxwell whimpered. He jerked up his head and stared. His face fell away; beneath it was a grimacing demon deprived of its gold. “Are you trying to tell me I married a—”

“I couldn’t help it!” Faith hurried toward him; she encircled his waist with her arms. Maxwell shoved her away, disgusted, and went into the long, quiet hallway where he began shouting at the top of his voice, “Did everybody hear that?!” He spread his arms as Christ had on the Cross. Unlike Christ, he laughed bitterly. “Does everybody know what life’s done to Isaac Maxwell this time?”

“Stop it!” Faith screamed.

Maxwell shook. He assumed his arrogant stance again, right foot forward, left knee locked, his hand in his pocket. And already his underarms were moist and his face shiny with sweat. Down the hall a woman opened her front door and stuck a head full of grenadelike curlers out, gawking. Maxwell balled his fists at his side and groaned. “Let’s go. ”

At the Christmas party, Faith’s inner feeling of numbness was so great she couldn’t drink. She tried, but found she was too tired to keep lifting her cup to her lips. Once inside the newsroom, decorated with a large ornamented tree and blue-and-gold streamers hanging from the ceiling, Maxwell, though still in a pique, replaced his sour expression with a broad grin. He kept filling his cup, gravitated from Ragsdale to Cummings, and finally cornered Lowell by the tree. She could hear him pleading for the commencement of his prison column.

There seemed to be no way out of her bondage; her condition, her past were apparently a mark on her brow, because that entire evening people approached her with their problems. A young black from the circulation department singled her out minutes after she and Maxwell arrived, sashayed over to her, swinging his hips, and perched himself in front of her on the edge of a desk.

“I don’t plan to be here forever, sister,” he said, as if she’d asked. “I’ve got plans for my own business. ”

“Is that so?” It was very, very hard for her to stay awake.

“That’s right.” He leered knowingly at her, reeking with self-confidence, Brut, and alcohol. “I figure I can raise a little front money here, then invest it in a newspaper distribution service — just as soon as I learn the ropes here.”

. five, six, seven. Just as soon as she’d released her smile, Ragsdale replaced the boy. Tilted to one side of his squarish head was a red, white, and blue party cap; around his neck was a string of Christmas-tree ornaments he’d made into a necklace. His breath, she noticed, smelled like a brewery.

“I’m a hippie!” Ragsdale roared.

“Sure.” Faith reached for her drink. Though she didn’t want it, she forced down its contents, and tried to smile. One, two, three .

“Isaac’s doing fine,” Ragsdale said, trying to pull himself together. He blinked myopically at her through two glazed green eyes. “He makes mistakes sometimes, but overall he’s okay.” His eyes wandered over her breasts, to her face, as he swayed back and forth on his heels. “Did I ever tell you what happened to the last black reporter we had?”

The sides of her face and cheeks were aching. Faith released her dimples, paused for respite, then forced them back. “No. ”

Ragsdale downed the rest of his drink in a single raw-throated gulp. “He’s with the New York Times now, I think. Oliver Lewis, our first bla—” He paused, narrowing his eyes and sucking at his cheek teeth. “Which do you prefer, Mrs. Maxwell — black, colored, or Negro?”

“For myself,” she said testily, “Mrs. Maxwell.”

Ragsdale lowered his eyes; his face colored. “Anyway, he ran off from us to the Times, and the other people we had of your, eh, persuasion, took choice government jobs. It’s damned hard to keep a black newsman with competition like that!” Ragsdale sighed and studied the inside of his empty cup. “Do you think Isaac will stay with us?”

Her head was splitting; someone, she was certain, had split her skull with an ax and left it there. “Do you — do you want him to stay?”

“Of course! Why, if it wasn’t for Isaac, the Daily Defender would have our coverage on the South Side beat by a mile.”