The new church that Riley Davis and Pony Hawkins had helped fund was finished. Reverend Owen sat in his new office.
The Norman Gothic structure was nearly three times as large as the original. The interior was striped horizontally with terra cotta, green, blue, all colors of the rainbow. Little cherubs leaned on their crossed arms looking down from the vaulting, and between them were large cockle shells. The crowning glory was the three medallions in the chancel on either side of the altar; in each was painted the head of an angel with long flowing hair. There were five stained glass windows along both sides of the sanctuary. The transfiguration window showing Peter, James, and John accompanying Jesus to a mountaintop where they see the transfigured Christ converse with Moses and Elijah was Reverend Owen’s favorite.
The sanctuary consisted of a simple building on a raised basement with a crenellated bell tower centrally placed on the front façade of the building. Wooden finials decorated the corners of the tower. The church exterior was made of red common brick. Round brick arches, brick corbelling, and brick piers divided the bays of the building that characterized the exterior treatment. The cornice consisted of brick corbelling and a small wooden boxed cornice. Within the sanctuary, there was first floor pew seating and upper balcony pew seating. The clerestory consisted of the choir loft and a large segmental-arched art glass window.
Reverend Owen sat at his desk sans his jacket, something he did rarely. He rolled up his freshly starched shirt sleeves, then sat down. “Thank you for coming,” he said to John and Tilla as they sat across the desk from Reverend Owen.
Tilla held John’s hand tightly.
“You been coming to church a few months now and I can tell that you’re quite an impressive young man. You’re doing a lot of good for the colored farmers. You got your own farm, place to live. You’re doing things for this church.”
Tilla squeezed a little tighter, and John looked into her eyes that shone with a limpid luster. He took her right hand and with his thumb caressed the tender web between Tilla’s thumb and forefinger.
Reverend Owen looked at Tilla, whose face was aglow with the excitement of being a first-time mother. “I understand you’ve got something in the oven.”
Tilla’s stomach was still flat, but she rubbed it with her left hand. “Yes,” she said letting loose a beatific smile that could melt an iceberg.
Looking at John, Reverend Owen said, “You gonna be getting married, son, and I’m honored that you asked me to marry you.”
Tilled interjected, “Mama would have it no other way.”
“I’ve counseled lots of couples on marriage. I’ll tell you what I told them. Marriage is about love and respect. John, you must attend to the emotional needs of your wife, and Tilla, you must always give and show respect to your husband.”
John’s eyes begged for a meaning. Reverend Owen continued: “Think of a bank where you make deposits and withdrawals. When you make a deposit of love, you will be able to withdraw some respect.” He turned slightly and looked at Tilla. “And Tilla, when you make a deposit of respect, you can withdraw love. Understand?”
Silence.
“It’s simple: you need to speak and know the language of love. There are many, but I’ll give you five things I want you to remember. Women liked to be touched. Give your wife hugs; kiss her and slap her on the rear, but not too hard.”
John and Tilla laughed in unison.
“Women like gifts. They also like words of affirmation; tell her how she looks to you. Look at her and say, ‘‘Honey, you’re beautiful.”
John was silent.
“Go ahead, say it, John.”
John looked adoringly at Tilla’s visage, focusing on her lustrous protruding orbs. From the beginning, John had admired Tilla’s bewitching blend of brains and beauty and believed he’d claimed a prize that would make even his mother smile.
“Honey, my precious stone, I’m so blessed to have a beautiful and smart woman like you.”
“Wow, man, you’re a natural.” Reverend Owen continued. “I can’t stress this one enough—spend quality time together,” he said looking at both of them. “The last one is to do acts of service. If she asks you do something, try to do it, John. But Tilla, I say to you, be careful what you ask your man to do.”
Tilla nodded.
“Okay, any questions?” Reverend Owen asked.
John and Tilla looked at each other, then shook their heads sideways, almost imperceptibly.
“I’m going to get your marriage license tomorrow,” he told the betrothed couple.
He opened a drawer to his desk and retrieved a piece of paper and slid it toward Tilla. “I want both of you to write your names and the year of your birth on this paper.”
Tilla moved the paper close to her, then picked up the pencil on the desk and signed her name—Otilla Hawkins. She added the date—1876. She slid the paper toward John, who gently took the pencil from Tilla. He was struck by Tilla’s curlicue penmanship. It was the first time he had seen Tilla’s signature. John Moses Billingsly; 1870. John slid the paper to Reverend Owen.
“Otilla Hawkins and John Moses Billingsly,” Reverend Owen said aloud.
Suddenly, John thought about the Billingslys in Richmond. He didn’t want their name attached to his, his wife’s, his kids’. “Reverend Owen,” he said using his right index finger in a gesture for Reverend Owen to give him the paper, “I need to make a change.”
John crossed out Billingsly and wrote Davis. John showed the change to Tilla, who evinced her approval by nodding. He then handed the paper to Reverend Owen.
“Why the change, John?”
John explained he decided to adopt the new name to show his kinship to Junior.
“I told my mama that I didn’t like the Billingsly name. That’s the name we took after slavery ended. Mama told me I could change it so long as I didn’t change the names she gave me—John Moses.”
“Well, let me be the first to call you Mr. Davis.”
Reverend Owen looked at Tilla. “And on January tenth, you’ll be Mrs. Davis.”
John would later have his new surname officially changed at the right time.
k
Fannie soon forgot about Roscoe. Her husband was gone, and she had to be happy for her daughter. As best she could, she tried to let her daughter’s wedding distract her from thoughts of Pony. His killer was never found. Cecil Thornsberry coveted a tract of land that Pony owned; Thornsberry wanted the land to build a general store, as the location would be ideal. When Pony refused to sell the land at a deep discount, Thornsberry hired a gunman to kill Pony. But before he shot Pony, the gunman forced him to sign his name on a fraudulent deed, which Thornsberry later had officially recorded.
Fannie took charge of the wedding, inviting people, doing the cooking along with some women from church, and making the seating arrangements. But inevitably, thoughts of Caroline and Pony surfaced from time to time, as well as the thought that Tilla was leaving her to be with her new husband.
John’s emotions ran from euphoria to melancholy. He’d found the woman he’d coveted. The combination of Tilla’s smarts, patience, affability, culinary skills, and powerful good looks proved irresistible.
The day before the wedding, John placed his clothes on his bed, making sure all the necessary pieces were accounted for. He could not depend on Tilla’s help; she was staying with Goldie. He made a mental note of his matrimonial togs. Black, lightweight, single-breasted, wool frock coat. Check. White cotton, button French-cuff shirt with turned up collar. Check. White ascot tie. Check. Black, lightweight wool, five-silk-covered-button vest edged with black silk grosgrain. Check. Contrasting-striped, black, lightweight wool trousers. Check. Black Oxford shoes. Check. White spats. Check. Black cotton socks. Check. White pocket handkerchief. Check. Watch and watch chain. Check. Silver cuff links. Check.
Satisfied all pieces were accounted for, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared ahead with Richmond, his mother, and Douglas on his mind. Where his impending nuptials brought half his heart to a high, thoughts of his mother and Douglas plunged the other half to a low. He wished his mother could attend the wedding—he cursed himself for not making more of an effort to locate her and bring her to Mount Hope. But he convinced himself his mother would be content to have him married no matter the venue. Douglas of course would have been his best man—the man to whom he owed his life. And as far as John knew about state-sanctioned private prison camps, Douglas had forfeited his life to an abyss of a hellhole.
After a few seconds, he stood and took a few steps to the pine wood chest of drawers in the corner of the bedroom. He opened the top drawer and removed one of the two flasks that he purloined from Billingsly seven years ago. He sedately shook the flask. He heard nothing. Yet he removed the cap and turned the flask upside down, shaking it a few times. Empty.
He ambled to the kitchen and removed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the kitchen cabinet above the wood stove. He removed the cork and slowly filled the flask with the eau-de-vie that he’d somehow hoped would raise his spirits. After taking a swill, he shivered.
He stepped outside to gauge the temperature. It was a balmy day, Tuesday mid-morning; an overcoat was unnecessary. He’d be comfortable in his dark brown wool sack suit and derby.
As he meandered along the dirt road leading him away from his house, he thoughtlessly imbibed from the flask. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, and his last bite was around eight o’clock the night before. Before long, the alcohol sluiced straight into his bloodstream. His steps became less sure, and he blundered hither and yon.
k
Dusk had arrived. All cooking was done. One thing left to be done: Tilla needed to don her wedding dress; she hadn’t seen it since she was fitted for it at Bernstein’s Haberdashery three weeks ago. Fannie kept it under close watch in a closet.
Fannie removed the long gold dupioni-silk dress with pearl-edged double sleeve flounces in silk and ivory lace. The lightly boned bodice had back lacing. Fannie laid the dress on her bed. Goldie gawked at it.
Tilla quickly doffed her floral, woven, cotton-lined bodice broomstick dress. Goldie helped her put on the bodice. Fannie held the dress gingerly as Tilla stepped in it with her right leg, then her left. Fannie pulled up the dress where it briefly stopped after meeting the curves of Tilla’s hips. With a wag of her hips the dress continued its slide up Tilla’s torso. She put her left arm in the left sleeve first, followed by the right. Tilla turned around and Goldie fastened the back of the dress near the neck. Tilla walked over to the large oval mirror in Fannie’s bedroom and looked at the doppelgänger who stared back at her. She smiled broadly. She then turned ninety degrees showing off her sinuous profile in the agreeable mirror.
“How do I look, Mama?”
A glint appeared in Fannie’s eyes. “Dazzling, Babe. Simply dazzling.”
The glint quickly disappeared. “What’s wrong, Mama?”
Fannie stroked Tilla’s left cheek with the back of her hand. “Oh, I wish your father could see his beautiful daughter right now. He’d always told me you would be a beautiful bride someday.”
“Papa said that?” Tilla asked.
Fannie nodded.
“Remember when you asked me which day of the week you should get married on?”
“Of course I do.”
“It was your father who wanted you to get married on a Wednesday, so that’s what I told you.”
“But why Wednesday?”
“Your father was a bit superstitious. He wanted you to have lots of kids, and thought getting married on a Wednesday would somehow help. He said getting married on a Monday was for health; Tuesday was for wealth, Wednesday was best of all, Thursday was for losses, Friday was for crosses; Saturday was for no luck at all.”
“I never knew that,” Tilla said.
“Did you know that, Goldie?” Tilla said.
“Can’t say that I did.”
“Goldie, please tell me my matron of honor has her dress ready to wear?”
“Girl, you know I do.”
It was seven o’clock in the morning and the weather had turned a bit colder.
k
Junior rapped on John’s front door. He was dressed and ready to go, a full five hours before the wedding. He wore a navy-blue coat with covered buttons and matching waistcoat, black trousers, short turnover shirt collar, floppy bow tie, and black high-low boots.
After standing at the door for several minutes, Junior sat down on a small wood bench near the door, believing that John was still in bed. After a few more minutes, he stood up and called John’s name several times.
No response.
“John, are you there?” he hollered.
He walked to the back of the house where he was met by two white and brown beagles. “Where’s John?” he asked them.
A harsh sounding noise came from the front of the house. Junior moved in the direction of the noise. As he neared the front of the house, he saw a man lying motionless on his side on the porch.
Junior ran to the man.
“My God, John. What happened to you?”
He lifted John off the porch.
John reeked of alcohol. He groaned as Junior straightened him to reduce John’s increasing shaking.
Junior reached into John’s pocket, retrieved the door key, and unlocked the door. After taking a few steps inside the living room, he pushed Junior aside and ran out the front door where he threw up.
John sat at the kitchen table, removed the flask, uncorked it, and turned it upside down as he put it in his mouth. It was empty. He rose and slowly walked to the cabinet, looking for another bottle.
Junior cut him off. “Look, man,” Junior said, “I gotta take care of you. No more of that stuff. You getting married in a few hours.”
John flailed his arms, knocking Junior’s arm out of the way.
Junior grabbed John from behind, holding his chest with his powerful right arm. He backed up and forced John to sit down.
“Don’t move.”
As he moved away from John, he pointed his right forefinger at John as to tell him to stay put.
“You need something in your belly.”
Junior fired up the wood-burning stove. Soon the water was brought to a boil. He poured the water over the grits and sat the bowl in front of John.
“Eat, dammit,” Junior screamed.
John flinched at the scream. He took his first satisfying spoonful of grits. He put down the spoon and looked at Junior with apologetic eyes.
“Now finish that while I fill the tub.”
Junior made several trips to the bathroom where he emptied hot water into a white galvanized iron bathtub.
“Okay, get in the tub. You smell foul, man.”
John doffed his coat, followed by his shirt, then pants. Each piece of clothing lay wherever he threw it. Finally naked, he put his right leg in the tub and quickly yanked it from the water as it was too hot.
“Just get in, or I’ll throw you in.”
John finally spoke his first words. “Wait,” John protested, “I’ve got sensitive feet.”
Junior looked at John’s feet; the discoloration was evident. “What happened to your toes?”
“I got frostbite in Birmingham.”
“What happened?”
“Tell you later.”
John tested the water again a few minutes later. This time it met his satisfaction.
“Where’s the soap?” Junior asked.
John pointed to a small cabinet on the floor. As Junior bent down to open the cabinet door, he tasted gossamer cobwebs. He pursed his lips to blow out the cobwebs and opened the cabinet to retrieve a bag of powered almond soap; he poured a heavy dose in the tub. He yanked a cotton wash cloth from the towel rack and began to scrub John’s back. John raised his right arm high, and Junior scrubbed John’s axillary area. John raised his left arm high, and Junior scrubbed again. He tossed the washcloth in the tub and said, “Okay, hurry up, you on your own now.”
Within a few minutes he stood. Junior threw him a towel. After drying off, he wrapped the towel around his waist. He had reached his full height of six feet, two inches tall. He had added more pounds to his slightly muscular frame.
At twenty-three years old, there was no need to shave; he didn’t have much facial hair, or much body hair for that matter. He brushed his wavy hair with a coarse swine bristle comb.
He placed his right hand about six inches from his mouth and exhaled, letting out a burst of warm moist air. He took a dollop of charcoal tooth powder from the tin container sitting on a stand next to the sink and placed it in his mouth. Mixed with his saliva, the powder turned into a sticky paste. He used his tongue to distribute the paste throughout his mouth, then brushed his teeth with his wooden horsehair bristle toothbrush.
The clock was ticking. Less than one hour to go. John looked at the wedding clothes he’d laid out the day before. Everything was still there. He threw the towel on the chair in the corner of the bedroom, then walked over to his bed and donned his cotton union underwear. He tugged on the gusset to make sure he had breathing room in the groin area.
Fifteen minutes later, John walked out of his bedroom, looking like a soigné bridegroom. He made a mental check to make sure he had not forgotten anything. He put his finger in the air as if to say wait. He ran to the bedroom and retrieved his overcoat. All was now in order.
Looking at John, Junior said, “It’s a miracle how you cleaned up. Now, let’s go.”
As he patted Junior on the shoulder, John quipped, “Can I at least enjoy these last few minutes of freedom?”
As they walked alongside each other, John was thankful for Junior. He knew he should not have drunk to excess, but it was his way of dealing with demons that had continued to haunt him; he just thought the alcohol would excise them from his mind.
He had come close to missing out on his wedding, for which he figured Tilla would never forgive him, and for that matter neither would Fannie and his mother.