Chapter Thirteen

Nantucket Island

The Black Baptist minister, Reverend Davis, rose shortly after six AM. He threw off the quilt and climbed out of bed, then reached back and pulled the bedding over his wife’s backside. Marriage to Carmilla, his former housekeeper, was a mixed blessing. One or two nights a week, he felt spent and utterly happy. Still, from the moment she said her vows, breakfasts became a thing of the past. Well, what did he expect? Carmilla had never been much for mornings, and not much of a cook at any hour.

Reverend Davis went into the kitchen and lit the small pile of paper and kindling he’d put into the stove. It soon caught so he added larger pieces of wood and shut the hatch. Next, he’d grabbed the coffee pot, pulled off the lid and set the insert on the counter. He held the pot beneath the pump until, after several up and down motions with the handle, water ran from the faucet. He set the pot on top of the stove, ground some beans, and put them into the insert, then set the contraption into the pot and replaced the lid.

The reverend got dressed and brushed his teeth with a god-awful mixture of tobacco ash, salt, and charcoal. Carmilla read about this in a magazine and insisted they try it. He rinsed his mouth with water and wanted coffee to clear the nasty taste from his mouth.

He rejoiced in discovering the coffee already brewed, so he poured himself some. As he lifted the cup to drink, he noticed Carmilla regarding him with her frowzy morning hair and a beautiful smile on her brown face. The minister smiled in return and handed her his cup. “Brewed this especially for you.”

“It’s a sin to lie.”

“I’m hoping my prayers and contrition will make up for a whole lot of sins.”

“Don’t go putting expectations on the Lord.”

The minister shook his head and poured himself more coffee, this time in a tin cup. “You know I wouldn’t do that, but I can hope and pray.”

“You can at that, and very well, I hear. You home for supper? I hope and pray.”

“I expect so.”

“The age of miracles hasn’t passed.”

“No indeed.” The reverend put on his suit jacket.

“Hold up, Minister.” Carmilla came up to him, pulled him down by his lapels, and kissed him. “Now you can go.”

Smiling, Reverend Davis went out into the foggy morning. He made his way around the house to the shed where Horace, his bay gelding, waited. He set a blanket upon the horse’s back and then set the saddle in place. As he reached under the horse for the straps to buckle the saddle, he saw the lower half of a woman—an inexpensive blue skirt and scuffed black shoes. “Carmilla?” he called.

“No, Reverend. It’s Katty Baldwin.”

The reverend squeezed out along the side of the horse and wiped his hands clean on a rag. He took the pregnant woman’s offered hand and made a little bow. “Why, Mrs. Baldwin. This is a surprise. A pleasure, but a surprise nonetheless.”

A light-skinned Negro, Katty’s brown eyes were downcast and her voice little more than a whisper. “I saw you come out.”

“You been waiting? How long?

“I couldn’t sleep. Folks spotted Louis’s ship yesterday evening. It’ll put into port as soon as the fog lifts, and I’m powerful afraid.” Katty Balwin began to sob.

The reverend touched her shoulder. “Come on in the house. We got coffee, and you can collect yourself.” He led the woman through the rear door and into the kitchen. Carmilla must have heard them come in and emerged from the other room wearing a robe. They helped Katty onto a chair and Carmilla poured the last of the coffee. The crying woman took the cup in two shaking hands, so Carmilla put her hands over the distraught woman’s and helped lift the cup to Katty’s lips. The younger woman stopped her sobbing, blew on the coffee, and took a tentative sip.

Carmilla looked at Reverend Davis, but he shook his head in dismay.

“Why don’t you tell us what has you in such a state, Katty?” said Carmilla.

“I am in a state,” she said, her voice shaking, “That’s the trouble. The last time I got in such a state, Louis returned home and accused me of whoring. He hit my belly so hard the baby, a little girl—his little girl, was born dead. I’ve never been with another man, but Louis don’t pay that any mind when he’s been gone and comes back to find me with child. I don’t wanna lose this baby. I can’t face him again! Lord, I should have left Nantucket, but I have no place to go!”

Carmilla stood up and leveled a hard gaze at the reverend. “You know about this?”

Katty reached out and grabbed Carmilla’s forearm. “No, no. I ain’t told no one before.”

Carmilla looked back at the reverend. “What are you going to do about this?”

The reverend raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Apart from talking to Louis, I’m not sure what I can do.”

“I know where Louis keeps his gun,” admitted Katty. “I won’t let him kill another innocent.”

Carmilla turned to the reverend. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. I’m going to get dressed and then we’re going to accompany Katty to the police station. When Louis’s ship gets in, he can be arrested.”

“Carmilla,” the reverend tried to reason with his wife, “There’s no proof of a crime, so the police will not get involved.”

“We’re damn well gonna try.” Carmilla looked at Katty. “Pardon my French.”

Five minutes later, the three of them walked down the foggy street to the station house.

They reached the darkened building a few minutes before seven o’clock. Carmilla pounded on the locked door to no effect.

“Well, now what?” asked the reverend.

“We wait,” announced Carmilla.

“I am powerful sorry for all this trouble,” said Katty.

“No trouble at all,” Carmilla said. She gave the reverend a hard look daring him to contradict her.

“Don’t trouble yourself on our account,” the reverend mumbled in a half-hearted voice. “We want to be sure you and the baby are safe.”

“That’s right,” said Carmilla with conviction.

After waiting for an hour on the stone steps, the conviction started to wear a little thin. The reverend suggested they return home for more coffee.

“I think we should stay close,” Carmilla told him. “Her husband’s boat hasn’t docked yet, but it could happen any time. Let’s have breakfast at the Snug.”

The reverend sighed in resignation and ushered the ladies before him.

“Don’t mind his sighs,” said Carmilla in a loud whisper so the reverend could hear. “He pinches pennies so tight they scream in protest. We can well afford this.”

In a blue house across the street from the station, The Snug Café featured breakfast and lunch fare prepared by the owner, a colored woman from the West Indies, Babette Didion. Both whites and colored folk frequented the place.

The reverend and the two women made for an open table in the corner by the kitchen. The waitress, Mamma White, a very large black woman and Babette’s partner in all things, approached them with a wide smile.

“Why Reverend Davis and Carmilla, plus Kitty Baldwin!”

“It’s Katty.”

The waitress looked her over. “Yes, I guess you’re right.” She turned back to the reverend. “We don’t see you much in here, Reverend. Carmilla keeping the leash too tight?”

The reverend made a smile, bigger than the one worn by the waitress. “And I haven’t seen you and Babette none too often at Sunday service. Perhaps we can all resolve to do better.”

The waitress guffawed. “That we can. So what might I get you, folks?”

Katty seemed reluctant to order anything, but Carmilla prodded her until she ordered the same as her—eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast. The reverend ordered a coffee and a roll.

“Now how you gonna keep your strength up with a breakfast like that?” the waitress asked.

“I’ll manage.”

Mamma White looked at him and at the two women. “Yes, I guess you’re right. I don’t think you can get any more on your plate.” She laughed at her own joke and went off to the kitchen.

As anticipated, the women left half their food, so the reverend ate plenty.

The police station opened during their breakfast, but the fog remained. Sergeant Sean O’Connell, a husky man with a handlebar mustache and slicked-back brown hair looked up from some paperwork as the reverend and the two women entered.

“Good mornin’ to you, Reverend,” said the sergeant with a thick Boston accent.

“We’ve been waiting for hours to speak to someone, but the place was locked up tight.”

“When no one’s in a cell, we don’t usually stay here. The station officially opens at nine. Now, what can I do for you?”

Carmilla stepped forward and conveyed the story. The sergeant listened sympathetically and noted things down in a small black notebook he took from his breast pocket. When she finished, the officer bade Katty to step forward.

“This all true?”

“Yes, sir,” said Katty. “He beats me regular too, but it’s the baby I gotta protect. It’s his, it’s just he don’t ever see it that way.”

The sergeant set down his pencil. “Your husband on a whaler?”

“The Firm Resolve.”

“Well, I’m goin’ to firmly resolve to meet Louis when his ship comes in. Perhaps between the reverend and I, we can put the fear of both God and the law into him. I’m afraid, at this point, that’s all I can do.”

Katty lowered her gaze. “I appreciate it, but I don’t think it’s gonna do much good. Especially when he takes to drink, there’s no stopping him.”

The officer made a patronizing smile at the pregnant woman. “If he touches so much as a hair on yours or the baby’s head, in a manner of speakin’”—the policeman stood for emphasis—“I’ll take his off at the neck.”

The reverend, Carmilla, and Katty gave their thanks to the officer and went back out onto the street.

“I want to thank you both for what you done,” said Katty. She turned to go, but Carmilla grabbed her hand and stopped her.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Home. You heard the officer.”

“No, child, you’re coming with us. You’ll stay until we’re assured you’re safe, or we’ll get you someplace far from here, if you’re ready to leave him. In the meantime, the reverend will sleep on the floor.”

“Now hold on a minute!” the reverend protested.

Carmilla turned to confront him head-on. “We will welcome this poor soul into our home. It’s the Christian thing to do.”

She used the “C” word. The reverend knew from experience that further protest went nowhere. She fired the big gun. “You are right, as usual,” he said in resignation.

“Perhaps we should take Katty to her place to gather some belongings while the coast is clear.”

“Why not?” sighed the reverend, indicating his assent. The three walked across town to Louis and Katty Baldwin’s home, a small gray Cape Cod cottage with a host of flowers in the front garden. “Them’s my other babies,” said Katty, indicating the flowers. “Them are the ones he don’t trouble.”

Carmilla and the reverend waited at the doorway as Katty put her necessities into a carpet bag and readied herself. The place looked simple but clean. Two chairs bordered the fireplace and another chair sat by a window with a basket of items to mend on the floor next to it. A small vase of wilting chrysanthemums sat on the dining table. The only book in sight was a large family Bible on a small table next to the fireplace. Did they use pages from it to start their fires? The reverend shook his head to clear it of the uncharitable thought.

Katty approached them with a nervous smile. She held up her bag. “I gots what I need,” she announced. The reverend reached over and took the surprisingly heavy bag from Katty. They filed out of the house and Katty locked the door. She put the key under the mat. “He doesn’t always have one handy when he gets in,” she said.

They walked back to the minister’s house, next to the Baptist church, Katty and Carmilla nattering all the way about a variety of topics. The reverend followed in sullen silence while he carried Katty’s bag.

Once there, Carmilla buzzed around their little place, helping Katty get situated, and the reverend said goodbye.

“There’s a couple with a sick infant out in Shawkemo, and some other people who are expecting me, so it’s time I left. Looks like the two of you will keep each other company.”

Carmilla came over and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t worry about us. Katty has offered to help darn your socks, so you’ll at least have warm feet while you’re sleeping on the floor.”

“We each care for souls in our own way,” he said with a smile.

Out back, Horace waited patiently in the shed, still with the saddle half on. “Sorry, my friend. Both our patience have been tried.”

The reverend secured the saddle and put on the rest of the tack. He led the bay out of the shed and mounted the horse. You know, if I cut things short this morning, I might still be able to make the Browns’ house for a midday meal. He would check on Clarence Mahogany’s daughter, Maude, afterward.

But first, he needed to get to Shawkemo. The Meadowlarks wanted their new baby dedicated into the church. Usually a part of Sunday service, their child might not last till then.

He arrived at the Meadowlark’s ramshackle hut and thought it looked about to fall in on itself. Somehow it managed to remain intact despite the hurricane-force winds that regularly buffeted the island. The reverend tied his horse to the broken railing on a dilapidated porch and went to the door. He needed to knock three times before it opened.

Inside of the doorway stood a skinny black man, already stoop-shouldered, despite his youth. “Sorry, Reverend, couldn’t get to the door right away. Ida, our baby, got the whooping cough. Polly’s so worried, she can’t stop crying. Please come in.”

The one-room shack was dark, dingy, and full of wailing. Reverend Davis purposely left the door open as he entered to let out some of the contagion and gloom. Across the bare wood floor lay a straw mattress. Polly wept face-down on the bed. Next to the mattress sat a homemade cradle, fashioned from a crate for canned salmon. Burned into the side of the cradle were the words Winchell’s Seafood. The sick baby, who alternated between wails and wracking coughing fits, lay within.

The reverend came forward, crouched, and put a hand on Polly’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he shouted above the din. “Perhaps our act today, dedicating her to the Lord, will aid in her recovery. In any case, as an innocent child of the church, she is already part of God’s flock and she will be welcome in God’s heavenly home.”

Polly stopped to peer up at him over her left shoulder, then buried her head in the mattress and resumed crying. Her eyes were so red, she appeared sick too. Sick at heart, he realized.

The reverend straightened and regarded the infant girl for the first time. The child scrunched her eyes as she cried. Green mucus poured from her wide nose and bubbled up from the mouth during coughing fits. Crusty trails of the stuff hung on both cheeks.

“Please wipe her face, Mr. Meadowlark, and lift her into your arms.”

The man did so, and the baby seemed to breathe a little easier.

The reverend placed his hand on the baby’s warm moist forehead and for a moment the infant quit its wailing. The reverend spoke the ordinance aloud, and in doing so told the Meadowlarks to lead exemplary lives and teach the child the ways of the Lord. Polly sat up to watch the dedication and her crying quieted to little whimpers into a wet hanky.

Sensing the need to do something more, the reverend bent down and kissed the top of the baby’s head. He looked at the father.

“I’m no doctor, but as I understand it, keeping the child on your shoulder, or with its head raised in your arms may help. Steam might also be good. If she can’t suckle, have Polly squeeze milk from herself and put drops into the child’s mouth whenever she’s not coughing. Beyond that, it’s in God’s hands.”