The whole town is done up. There are streamers everywhere. There’d be confetti too if it hadn’t clogged up the drains one year. We’re all grouped up by family. Kin next to kin. Last year and the year before, I stood next to Moses’s family. Now that three years have passed I’m standing with Mother, Daddy and the girls again. I was almost late, what with rehanging the curtains this morning. Daddy’s sharp knock at the door nearly made me fall off the ladder. That’s bad luck. But it’s even worse luck to be late to the Calling. I had to take my rollers out as I ran out the door and would have forgotten to take off my apron if it wasn’t for the girls snickering.
Mother ignores me for most of the way. We join the procession of families to the well for the Calling. It’s almost like a picnic with the laughing and joking, kids carrying on, running in and out of clumps of people. This part is always cheerful. Stragglers rush to catch up and, because we are all one big community, we slow down so no one has to turn up last or late. It would be awful to go to the Calling alone. Jeremiah and his wife and Mae and the good doctor join in with their respective new families in tow. Mae makes a lovely stepmother, doting on the little boy like he’s her own. Curdle Creek is home. These are my people and I’m where I belong. Of course I am. No one with any good sense would even joke about leaving Curdle Creek. Whatever we need is right here, and anything we don’t have, we don’t need. Out-of-towners come running from miles around to get here. They’re usually running away from disease intent on killing them or mobs intent on killing them. Dead is dead. We’re their last chance. The only place standing in the way between whatever’s chasing them and dead. Curdle Creek is a haven. Last-chancers call us angels—they’re always making that mistake.
Strolling arm in arm, some of us are humming; some folks are even singing down Main Street. Just past the Town Hall we turn the corner off of Main Street onto the road that leads to Miller’s Barn. The Calling’s always been at Miller’s. It sort of makes it more official. The Millers are one of the last founding families. Soon, we’ll be at the well. The bell, Old Glory, strikes the Opening Call. That bell has been through more tribulations than anything in Curdle Creek. When the Great Depression hit the rest of the world, it didn’t touch Curdle Creek. But that didn’t stop folks from speculating on melting her down. She’s still got a crack rippling through her from where the blacksmith tried to break her wide open like a walnut. She carries every scuff from a careless cleaner, holds every gong of past bell ringers. If bells could talk, Glory would spill all our secrets.
We pass by the bell chamber and there’s a hush; even the children, the older ones gathering stones along the way, settle into it. We walk the last few feet in a sort of reverence, some folks thinking about supper, some about babies yet to come, others about someone they miss. I suspect we’re all hoping not to be Moved On this year.
Across the street, the ushers clear away any debris and remnants from last night’s wind so as not to distract from the Calling. The stage is set up, covered in bunting. We all know who the Caller is. One year, it was poor, sweet Remus. Romulus never did recover from it. Started questioning everything. Proposing ordinances to end ordinances. Crying at the well. Wailing. His name was called the very next year. He wasn’t around to hear it though. This year the Caller is a girl. She’s small and shaking. The wind stirs up, whipping her braids around her head, poor thing. The well will do that to you. If she lives that long, it will be a few hours before she can breathe without the fresh air burning. Before her eyes adjust to the sun.
I hear that when they come up, Callers don’t recognize none of us. They say we all look like shadows creeping around on stilts. Our voices frighten them. In just a few hours, they grow accustomed to the echoes, the absence. Or maybe they get to thinking about how just last night they were tucked in their own bed hardly worried about the next day. Hoping not to see any of their family’s names and then hoping a little that they do. Not a parent or child but an uncle, a second cousin, someone distant. After the mourning, they’d be a celebrity for 365 days. Everyone knows somebody who’s been Moved On, but when it isn’t you it is a little exciting. I don’t suspect it would be any different for a Caller, especially if you didn’t know you’d be in the well. You’d wake up, brush your teeth, eat if you had a stomach for it. Your parents would probably be gone before dawn, out telling tales, reminiscing like they always do the night before. You’d get a message to come down to the well in the morning. You’d wonder if it was a general message, another practice—but you’d know. Your stomach would drop. Your hands would shake. Your legs would wobble. You would know that come morning you’d be lifted up in the air, folded inside a bucket that seemed to be just your size. Maybe you’d wonder how long they knew it would be you. Maybe you’d hesitate, make them ask you twice to climb in or wait until they scooped you up, weightless. They’d remind you that it was just for a few hours. Hardly worth all that fuss. That all you needed to do was to pick through the hundreds of scraps of paper and pull up the one that felt right. Not worry about the name it bore. When it was all said and done and you had the right paper, you’d know it was the right one by your instincts. You should trust those. Don’t bother trying to read the name for yourself. It’s too dark down there and it’s bad luck even if it wasn’t. When they pull you up, you’d read the name. If you gathered more than one scrap of paper, even if it stuck to your hem, your hair, clung to your skin, it’s included and gets considered too. You’d call all the names loud and clear so everyone could hear you on the first try. The name would spread like pox from one to the next until Mother Opal repeated the Calling to make it official.
Surely you’d ask about the lid. If they could please, please leave it open for you so you could see the sun or breathe some air. They’d say no. Unless they lied. It would be worse if they lied—if you went down an inch or two, believing, only to hear the lid rumble and slide into place. It would break your heart. You’d panic because the training does not prepare you for this, or for the smell. It smells like death. It has to, because, otherwise, it won’t work. With light, it won’t work. With fresh air, it won’t work. The Books say so. So even if they lied, you knew it when you heard it. Maybe that’s why the voices hurt when they pull you back up.
After the well gives you a name and you pull on the rope at noon—you’ll know it’s noon because even if you’ve pulled on the rope all morning, begging for them to pull you up, they won’t pull you up until noon—you’ll lean over to whisper the name. It’s always a whisper the first time. The fresh air takes your breath away. Only Mother Opal will hear you. Speak louder, she’ll say, and you’ll cough, spit the name out like phlegm, wipe your mouth, say the name clear. You’ll collapse, dirty and shaken. You won’t see the Messengers, light satchels packed, backs already burdened with the weight of the news. You’ll be lowered again. Three times more, just to be sure. By the time you’ve delivered the third name—if there is one—you’ll be relieved to be lowered that final time, because otherwise, even from the town square, when the news has been delivered, you’d hear the wailing. The wailing always comes after Mother Opal makes the announcements. From the well, though, you will only hear muffled voices and silence. If loved ones come to spit in the well, to throw words or curses upon your head, the marshals standing guard will protect you. You will not hear the doubts questioning your honesty, the neighbors calling you names.
Later, when the wailing ends, when the Moving On have been led through town for the last time, and you have grown used to the lack of air and light, they will pull you up again. After the Moving On have been led through town, those remaining—not the family, never the family—will thank you for your wisdom, wish you a life full of luck, abundance, and years. The Sisters will lead you home.
In the morning, you’ll jump. Even though we’ll all be tired, spent from the Warding Off, there will be a service for you. A few words, a short prayer, a quick Warding Off, the Creek.
MOTHER Opal opens the ceremony with the Original Speech of the Calling. She invokes the ancestors to watch over the proceedings, to guide over us with fairness and justice. She talks about the lost places. Cities, towns, whole countries rife with war, poverty, sickness. Places so filled with spite, hate and ignorance that it bubbles, festers and overflows, contagious, spreading from one body to the next, generation to generation like a birthmark. She talks about slavery, of course, and the long toil, the centuries-long wait for freedom. The waiting feeling like a curse, another chain. The promise of it skittering and haunting. She reminds us that the Founding Fathers and Mothers did not wait to be set free. Did not hope for it. Pray for it even. They fought for it. Paid for it with blood. This land we stand on, this place we call home is the only place where a Black man or woman can be free. Can have hope. Can have much of anything. Curdle Creek is a blessing. If not a cure for the festering, it’s a relief from it, a respite. A refuge. It’s as true now as it was when the ancestors declared it a hundred years ago. As necessary too.
She invites us to turn to one another. To peer into the face of our neighbor, no matter the shade of brown, and declare that person kin. To promise them safety. We’re all feeling it, the tenderness of that promise. The frailty of it even here. Especially now.
By the time she finishes, the mood is somber. There’s a chill in the air that’s got nothing to do with the October breeze. Everyone in Curdle Creek is eligible to vote, just as we’re all eligible to be nominated to be Moved On. The Deacons hand all of us, except the ones who can’t read or write, one slip of paper. One coal pencil. Just like the ancestors would have used. Children, and anyone who can’t write for themselves, whisper their nomination to a Deacon to jot it down for them. All of us gathered have a responsibility to vote based on our own experiences. Secondhand slights should not be considered. It’s a serious moment that calls for reflection and reverence. As always, the children finish first. They are sent to gather more stones while the adults consider our selections more carefully. We have fifteen minutes to deliberate until the bell signals the end of the waiting.
The clock strikes ten. It’s time to vote. By the time it gets to me, the voting box is stuffed with scraps of paper. Our whole future relies on four-by-four folded squares. I fold mine the same as everyone else’s, flat, flat, over, under, tuck, tuck, seam, seam. If it sticks out in the slightest, there’s a good chance the Caller will take a special notice of it and call that name instead of another. I wish Mr. Jacobs all the luck that he deserves and stuff my vote in the box. I pass it to the left and watch Mother place her vote, then the girls. Then the box is off to another family. It takes a long time for the box to make its rounds under the watch of the Deacons. The Deacons vote before handing the box over to Mother Opal. In her hands, the battered box looks brand-new.
The box is practically bursting.
“I can feel that this year is going to be a good year for Curdle Creek!” she says. “It will be a year of plenty and a year of peace. But first, the Calling.”
The lid of the well is slid across. In the well, the Caller moans even though it’s only been an hour or two of dark and damp. The box is put in the bucket; the bucket is lowered. Yanked back up before she has time to scramble inside. The well is sealed again. The moaning stops.
We wait with picnic baskets and lunch boxes. Cucumber sandwiches, dollops of potato salad in good porcelain bowls, battered pork cutlets, slices of strawberry shortcake and carafes full of sweet tea make their way around the waiting crowd. I don’t have an appetite for none of it. Even though it’s too late to be nominated this year, I don’t turn my nose up at it either. I nibble and swallow what feels like dry hunks of wood and I smile doing it.
Daddy joins us with a mug of coffee for Mother. It’s sweet and sugary the way she likes it but she doesn’t so much as sip it. I don’t suspect she has any more of an appetite than the rest of us. Mother Opal moves through the crowd, fanning herself with her pink, embroidered special occasions fan. It’s not hot but she’s sweating. It’s not like her to be burdened by the weather. We have plenty to share so I pour her a glass of tea and make my way to her.
“Mother Opal, can I get you anything?”
Her smile drinks me in from head to toe. “Don’t you look lovely? You make quite the becoming farmer. And look at you, just reading my mind. I would just love an ice-cold glass of tea.” She puts the glass to her lips, then pauses. “This tea wasn’t made by your mother by any chance, was it?”
“Yes, Mother Opal, it was. Mother makes the best tea in all Curdle Creek.”
“So she does.” And Mother Opal turns the glass upside down, sloshing the fresh tea and a slice of lemon onto the ground. It feels like everyone has stopped talking, eating, and worrying just to watch Mother Opal do it. I just know Mother knows.
WHEN the bell rings again, it’s noon. The Caller is pulled up. The well’s crank is rusty so it catches every so often, sending her back down an inch or two before making up ground. Finally, the bucket reaches the mouth of the well. It takes two Deacons to help her out of the bucket but there she is, bedraggled as if she’s been down there a whole month. The well will do that to a person: age you.
She uncurls her fist and holds up the first piece of paper. Reads the name.
“Sister Mildred.”
Mother Opal repeats the name. It isn’t really a surprise. Mildred stopped paying tithes when her firstborn was called a year and a half ago. Like he wasn’t nearing fifty-five. The Mothers saw it coming; Sisters tried to warn her. But each time the collection plate passed her way, she turned her nose up, pursed her lips, held her bag tight to her chest, and refused to even hand it to the next person in line. Made a big show of it. She’s stubborn like that.
Despite screaming and hollering, the Caller is lowered again. When she is brought up for the second time, her face is streaked with tears. Her braids are unraveled. Her dress is torn. Her voice is coarse. “Brother Isiah.”
Mother Opal makes it official. Brother Isiah sort of got caught up in Sister Mildred’s protest, saying if the good Sister could be called and wasn’t she just filled up with grief already? it proved that whatever kept Curdle Creek going was rotting—curdled to the core and, like neighboring towns the world over, we should let loose the old ways. Of course the Caller saw Brother Isiah’s name too.
Still, my heart is beating so loud I’d think Mother could hear me. She’s standing stiff watching them lower the begging Caller down for a third time.
When the Caller is brought up for the third time, she is bent over. Broken. Her shoulders shake. Her tiny chest heaves. The Deacons check that there are no loose papers stuck to her. They lift her off the ground so we can see her feet: bare. Nothing stuck to them either. She opens the final piece of paper. Whispers the name. Mother Opal leans closer. Urges her to speak louder but she can’t. The words will not come out again. The message is between the Caller and Mother Opal. We turn to Mother Opal to relay it.
“This will indeed be a year of prosperity for us all. The final name is Osiris Turner.”
There is no mirth, no malice when she calls Daddy’s name. But it feels like a cut. The crowd breaks out in congratulations and thanks. Folks are relieved. No need for them to worry. Mother Opal has already turned her back to the crowd. She’s on to the business of scheduling the Moving On. Due to the inclement weather, she says, it will take place this evening and be followed the next day, as always, by the Warding Off.
I have to see the Caller. To hear my Daddy’s name from her mouth. It’s my right. It says it in the Books. But it’s bad luck for the family to question the Caller. Though it doesn’t seem like my luck or hers can get any worse, of course it can. Still, my feet move closer to her and I don’t stop them. Everyone wants to touch her, to rub her skin for luck. They press close around her. They are grateful that theirs wasn’t the name that fate, spirits, luck or sulfur-laced hallucinations led her to pick. They praise her, lay empty blessings at her feet. Her shoulders sink with the weight of their thanks. They chant her name, “Beth, Beth, Beth.” I’m nearly there, close enough to face her. I just want to know why. What did Daddy do to make anyone nominate him? How did she pick the one scrap of paper with his name on it? Was it only one? Did she really say Osiris? Could it be me she meant to call?
My mouth moves before I make it through the crowd. She’s two feet away from me. I step out to block her way. She looks up, slow, eyes unfocused, dazed. She looks through me. I’m pushed back by hands reaching for strands of her hair, scraps from her clothes, slivers of skin. The Sisters press forward, parting the crowd like stalks of corn. The Caller is lowered back into the well for the final time, for her own safety. An usher rings the bell. That’s how we all know when to start. From pockets, wide skirts, hats, backpacks, air, they all pull out their bells. Some are metal, others are made of wood. Everyone has one. For one full minute, they cling and clack, rattle and ping, clang and tinkle. They look rotten, the whole lot of them. The men in their sweat-stained shirts. Women in dresses creased and plastered against skin. Children dirt-faced. Even Mother, the girls, Daddy. They stand still, except for their arms, staring forward like soldiers into the eyes of the person across from them. Each tries to out-shake the other. The damned bells ring and ring. My hand itches to but I won’t pull mine out. What do I have to be thankful for?
The bells echo. They pound in my head. Louder and louder. The minute passes. Everyone faces me. No one speaks to me. I turn to leave. I have to get home. As if they can hear my thoughts, they close in on me. Their heads bob in time like they all have the same thought in it. Get her. They’re mouthing some sort of wordless chant to a tune that I don’t know. The air around me is a squeeze-box so tight I just want to get out. Their skin, breath, sweat, nails, teeth, words are everywhere I want to be.
I’m panting, trying to catch my breath, to have something to hold on to. I know it just feels like their fingers are playing piano on my skin, running up and down my spine. Really, they won’t touch me until someone sounds the signal. At least, that was the rule when we were kids playing Outsider on the playground. At school, the game ends when the bell rings. Sort of. It’s the bell that says playtime is over so of course the game ends then. But this isn’t school. These are perfumed, powdered, sweaty bodies, stale-coffee breathed, whiskey-skinned. Their stench turns my stomach. They’re too close. Someone clangs a bell in my ear. It’s sharp. My nerves rattle in high C. A woman grabs my arm, shoves a tin bell in my hand. Her strong fingers clasp my wrist. She shakes and shakes. My whole hand might pop off but of course the bell rings. On the other side of me, a man with bony fingers cups my face, forces it forward. Folks line up across from me. They stare. If I look at one of them, they will forgive me. I close my eyes. The bell keeps ringing.
It should be one of them. One of these lying, sinning, luck-grabbing banshees that had something to do with Daddy’s name being called when it wasn’t even his turn. It should be any one of them. Mother Rogers is always grinning about something—why not her? We could all use a rest from her under-her-breath gossip. If that’s too spiteful for comfort, what about Brother Simpson? I don’t see why not. He’s always touching and feeling on folks. A close-talker, leaner-in like him could be called and who would complain? I sure wouldn’t. If not him, what about one of them? One of the triplets wouldn’t be missed. Everyone says they all look alike. What difference would one less make?
I sound like one of them: infected. Ready to throw in my lot with theirs just like a second-chancer. Even worse, I sound like a non-believer. One of those lost souls thinking the old ways don’t fit this new world. Desperate for change soon as their names are called. To be fair, they call for changes before that, but out of politeness we pretend not to hear, so out of politeness they call even louder. The louder they call, the more certain it is that the Caller will see their name when the time comes. It’s like fate. There’s no room for a non-believer. Not in Curdle Creek, and, to hear the last-chancers and the Council tell it, not anywhere else in the whole world either. I don’t care. I’d rather be anywhere else than here.
But the melody is so lovely, so freeing. It’s like honey pouring in wounds I didn’t know I had. Like there, that hurt when I breathe, and there behind my heart, and there, there, there. It’s like balm settling like skin on water. I’m where I belong. We’re all ringing in time. It’s the rhythm of Curdle Creek. It moves everything. I just needed to be reminded. Now, my heart beats in time. My breathing falls in line. We’re all doing it, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe. It wasn’t a mistake. The well decided. The Caller called his name. Mother Opal confirmed the announcement. Daddy’s Moving On.
The ringing is louder. The woman drops my wrist. My whole body shakes. My hand convulses around the bell. I can’t set it loose. This must be the Hallelujah. I’ve played Catching the Spirit before but I couldn’t have known that the truth would feel so right, so pure. My daddy is sacrificing for the town, for the whole world even. Could anything be so beautiful, so painfully sweet? They must all see it now, my holiness. I feel it bubbling, the blessing moving through me. I must anoint them, my flock, the first witnesses.
The words feel old inside my mouth. I can’t stop them. “One by one before it’s done. Two by two until it’s through. Three by three just wait and see! More and more will grace death’s door!” My body heaves, unburdened. It—because I would have never done anything like this—wails and sobs. I’m overcome. The ancestors have given me a message. The Moving On must stop tonight. Who would have imagined? Me, the bearer of salvation. Mae will be so jealous. I can almost see her now, writhing on the ground, moaning. It would be just like her to foam at the mouth if she could. Not even a Mother yet and I’m chosen by the ancestors. Folks closest to me lean in, watching my mouth, trying to catch the words before they fall. They will write my name in Book I for anointings. My name will never be called. Mother and the girls will have years of pass-me-down luck. Jasmine, Cheyenne, and Little Moses can come back home, Romulus too. Daddy won’t be Moved On after all. I’ll be a saint. There’s no ordinance about it, but that’s just because Curdle Creek hasn’t had a saint before now.
I look around to tell Mother Opal. I see her slipping through the crowd, Mother’s close behind her. “Mother Opal! Mother!” I call. They both slow for a moment; Mother looks over her shoulder. Neither stops. Mother Opal is walking faster; now she’s running. So is Mother. Daddy gathers the girls, the crowd disperses. Everyone leaves to prepare for the Moving On.