CHAPTER 9

The Mississippi summer seemed to grow hotter each year, and that summer of 1967 was no different. Lord willing, we would make it through. The buds of the pagoda dogwood hung low, fanned out over the horizon in a white pageantry of pomp and dance, circumstance enough for us to walk amongst the fields in admiration of their splendor, which the Missus and I did almost every morning before the sun rose too high and suffocated us in its grief. She’d taken to having two showers a day, yet even then the heat was unbearable, that lasting kindness of a spring day long gone while in its wake stood the bearer of oppression. Even during the night we stayed out from under covers, as the sun never fully retired, even if it did turn its head.

In slow succession we made our way from the kitchen to the front porch, Miss Lula unwilling to sit indoors on any day now that there were workers in the fields. She was excited by the work of those men, insisting to me how she could just never spend so much time under that hot sun, how she could live a hundred years and never grow to like it one bit and how those people just got it in their blood. She had kept her good spirits since her recovery and seemed to strengthen each day we watched those men, calling for vast amounts of time in my company, which kept me from the fields. On occasion, Floyd would toss a wave or send over some piece of fruit he’d plucked from a tree out back. Missus never ate any, yet she enjoyed it all the same, that feeling of connectedness that grew just by being present with those around her. Often Floyd would join us on the porch once his gift was presented, resting his dog-tired feet and exhaling loudly as he took in the shade and a cold glass of water, the remainder of that glass’s contents serving as a cool bath over his head as he stood and went back to work. When Jesse returned after having taken a week off from the house, some excuse he’d given about a trip to Jackson or thereabout, Floyd sent him over with the plucked item that still bore the leaves of the tree on its stem.

“Bernie, go wash it,” Miss Lula demanded as Jesse presented it.

Ain’t never eaten one bite a day in her life and now she wanted to try it.

Jesse placed the fruit in my hand and watched as I walked it inside, his hand having been confiscated by the Missus who prevented him from leaving. I hurried to the kitchen with the fruit nearly falling to the ground in my haste. Nonetheless, by the time I’d washed it and returned, Jesse was seated by the Missus with her hand upon his shoulder to keep him there. My attempts at catching the boy’s eye were blocked each time by the Missus’s protruding knee.

“Jesse,” I called in a voice that screeched from my body like shoddy brakes.

His eyes met mine in a state of panic.

“Take a piece back for you and Floyd,” I instructed him.

Jesse attempted to stand but was stopped immediately by the Missus’s grip as she squeezed his shoulder and he eased back to the ground.

“If only for a bit,” she said slyly. “Floyd does it all the time.”

Jesse settled at the Missus’s feet, a stiffness in his movements that never allowed him to get too comfortable, I was happy to see.

“So how’s it been so far?” the Missus asked.

“Just fine, Miss,” Jesse said.

“Well, I don’t see how you manage with this heat,” she continued.

“It’s not so bad, Miss,” he said. “Once you get used to it.”

“I tell you, I’d just melt in a minute,” she said. “Can barely keep up with Bernie as it is in the mornings.”

“Yes, Miss,” he replied.

“So tell me, how’s your brother?” she asked, that bit of devilment finally peeking through as she lifted her lip and flashed her piercing fangs. “We sure do miss him around here.”

“He be fine, Miss,” Jesse said.

“Wished we could’ve kept him,” she swore, placing her sights on me now. “Just ain’t enough work sometimes. Nothing you can do though.”

“He understands,” Jesse said. “Mama sent him down to Jackson this summer with my aunt and uncle.”

“This’s no place for a smart boy like him anyway,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

“But, Jesse, you gonna stay, right?” Miss Lula asked.

“Of course, Miss,” he said. “I likes it here.”

“Good, then we’ll have to have you stop by more often,” she said, her smile growing larger. “Maybe let you help out in the house as well.”

“Thank you, Miss,” he said warmly, oblivious to her undertones.

“Well, I best not keep you or else Floyd will pitch a fit,” she said. “But be sure to stop by tomorrow and we’ll see what work we have for you inside.”

Jesse stood and took the pieces of fruit from my hand, the Missus watching this exchange as if she were a referee awaiting some action that was against the rules. Jesse turned to her, their eyes meeting just as they had on that one day inside the house. Jesse was young and knew beauty, but he also knew not to stare at a white woman too long, and so he quickly made snug the fruit in his hands and took off at a slight jog toward the fields.

The Missus exhaled then turned to me, having lost that smile or any bit of encouragement that would assure me she was still in good spirits.

“Don’t be mad, Bernie,” she said. “It’s just a bit of fun.”

Miss Lula then returned her eyes to the fields and the workers there, later adding once things were much quieter and the sun had completely passed away, “I think it’s a change of heart I’m having, but who can know for sure.”

I didn’t believe her as much as I would a drunk in a bar pleading for another round. That night I took Floyd inside the backhouse and disclosed to him the events of that day. I told him about the Missus’s lust for the boy, as I saw it, and insisted we keep him away from the main house as long as possible. Whatever she was planning, it would happen soon, I said, and could possibly cost the boy his life. It was decided between us to keep this bitter knowledge to ourselves, forcing Silva to remain in the dark a while longer, at least until we knew for sure what the Missus would do. In the meantime, Floyd would take Jesse farther out each day and have him work where the Missus had no chance of seeing him. Floyd would still bring fruit by the house as usual, so as not to draw attention to our deceit, but only at certain times when the Missus was not present, and he would place it on the front porch as if he’d somehow missed us so that she could never inquire about the boy. We would keep this up until further details of her heart were known.