One day remained before White had said he would come for John’s answer.
John didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning most of the night. Much needed to be done before he could give his attention to White. With pressing work issues on his mind, he arose at dawn and decided he’d go to the press office to finish printing the rest of the New Year’s Day edition of The Messenger.
He went to his barn and looked at his favorite horse, an appaloosa. Just as he reached for the reins to the horse, he decided against it. He had given Jethro and the other workers the day off to spend time with their families on Christmas Day and the day after. His appaloosa would also get the day off. The sting of the early morning chill hung in the air. He quickly put out fodder for his horse and other animals and hurried to the press office on foot.
As he inserted the key into the door of the press office, he paused, wondering whether he’d be strong enough to confront White. A sudden gust of wind rocked his body, impelling him to turn the key. He quickly walked to the furnace and tossed in a bucket of coal. While he rubbed his hands in front of the furnace, feeling the heat that his body begged for, an image of White popped into his head, and he shivered as his body warmed from the furnace.
He turned and looked in the corner of the office. Four hundred copies of the New Year’s Day edition of The Messenger sat of the floor.
He picked up a copy and sat down; he looked at the paper, but he was unable to focus. White’s words—tick, tock, tick, tock—entered his head. I’ll be here at high noon followed. He shook his head to try to dislodge any image of White from his mind. It worked. A smile lit his face as he looked at his paper and the once-blurred words came into focus. He was proud of the special New Year’s Day edition. The headline—HELLO TWENTIETH CENTURY—in twenty-four-point type was Tilla’s idea.
The lead story discussed the gains that The Messenger wanted to see Negroes make in the new century. He jumped to the last paragraph of the article.
Colored people intend to cash their promissory notes for all the sacrifices we have made from the moment we first set foot in this country to where we are now. We intend to claim our rightful share of freedom and fully participate in American commerce of service and industry. A new era is upon us, and we will seize the moment.
White’s image returned just as John finished the article. John shook his head again to dislodge the ghastly image. It didn’t work. He walked to the press and turned it on to crank out the last one hundred copies of the New Year’s Day edition.
The last copy was finished an hour later. A few delivery men were scheduled to deliver the paper tomorrow morning to the usual places—businesses and homes of the people who could afford to pay five cents per paper.
John sat down and put his head in his hands, hoping the matter with White was just a bad dream. He reached down into his shirt and pulled out the rust-colored locket his mother had given him twelve years ago on the night he left Richmond. It was an amulet of sorts; he later believed it, along with prayer, were responsible for his successful journey to Mount Hope. Just as he was about to open it, a sudden wave of melancholy rushed over him, and he began to cry. He spit out the salty tears as they reached his mouth.
Cacophonous sounds of bells ringing loudly and cannons being shot now wracked his head, and his body absorbed vibrations from irritating shards of noise. His hands trembled and his heart raced. He sat paralyzingly still in the chair, his eyes wide open, hoping the harsh sounds he heard were a figment of his imagination.
It was not his imagination. Over the sound of his racing heart, he heard a rat-a-tat-tat; it couldn’t be ignored. He put on his woolen coat and retrieved his revolver from a desk drawer. His arms and legs tingled with gooseflesh. He shook his limbs and gumshoed toward the door, careful to stay close to the wall and away from the front of the door. There were no windows to look out of to see who was filling him with fear.
He was not ready to face White. His mind was not right. He needed to see his family to gain strength before he could face down White and all the evil things that came with him. The Lawrence County Colored Brigade was not due to arrive until tomorrow morning. He wondered whether White knew about the brigade. He shuddered while thinking that anyone at church could have betrayed him.
Despite his concerns, he yelled, “Who is it?” while holding his revolver tightly.
“Open up, Boss,” the man yelled. “It’s cold out here.”
John had forgotten that one of his delivery men was due to pick up The Messenger for delivery.
“Are you alone?” John yelled.
“Yes, Boss. Like I said, it’s cold out here.”
John opened the door slowly until he could see the face of his delivery man. “Get in here,” John said, grabbing the man by the right arm and yanking him inside.
The man removed his hood from his head. He saw John’s trembling hand holding the revolver. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
John didn’t have the strength to talk much now. “I forgot that you were coming to get the paper today. You know where they are.”
“You alright?” the delivery man asked.
John nodded.
He just wanted to go home to hug his wife and children. “I’m going home. Lock up when you’re finished.”
“Hey, Boss,” the delivery man said.
John looked at him, his eyes vacuous, his soul in retreat.
“Me and my wife and kids looking forward to the New Year’s Eve party at the church.”
John nodded and felt that he’d disappoint his delivery man if he told him there might not be a party. Many in the Lawrence County colored community were counting on it. Despite the help of the church, though, John felt alone in going up against a beast that excelled in instilling fear in people.
k
A few hours later, Theo sat on a sofa in the living room and watched his father polish and look over his Winchester rifle to make sure it was in fine fettle. John looked at Theo periodically but said nothing.
The silence was shattered when Tilla said, “John, you and Theo come on to the kitchen and eat dinner.”
John sat down in his usual end spot, and Theo sat next to him. Theo remained quiet as he looked at his father. John returned the look and saw worry in his boy’s eyes, as though he felt something was awry with the Davis household.
Noticing two plates filled with pork chops, snap peas, carrots, and mashed potatoes on the table, John said, “Tilla, I want you to sit down and eat with us.”
“Oh, honey, I’ve been nibbling all along. I want to make sure I’m taking care of my two favorite men right now.”
“Mama, I ain’t no man,” Theo said.
Tilla looked at Theo and smiled. At five years old, Theo had the markers of future handsomeness: an elegant nose, his father’s hazel eyes, and the kind of cheek dimples that people liked to poke a finger in. “You’re my man,” she responded.
Theo looked at John. “Papa, am I a man?”
“You heard what your mama said.”
“Yes, Papa. I’m a man.”
John tore into his food and asked Tilla for a second helping. As she refilled his plate, she said, “Honey, you’re eating like this is your last meal.”
Tilla’s words bore through John’s heart. He ate two spoonfuls of mashed potatoes. Theo was still working on his pork chop. “Theo,” John said, “go check on your sisters. If they’re alright, I want you to go to your room, okay?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Honey, I’m done here,” John said using his head to point to his food.
“What’s the matter, John? I can tell something’s wrong.”
His belly was full, but his eyes were empty. “I wish I could talk to my mama right now. She’d tell me what to do.”
Tilla dipped her head as she’d done whenever John talked like that about his mother. John had come to learn that she felt she was competing with her on matters of grave importance, but John had assured her it wasn’t so.
It had been over twelve achingly long years since that night he left his mother in Richmond. He wanted to hear advice from her, for her to tell him he would make it through the troubled waters, for her to sing a hymn letting him know that God would usher him safely to shore.
Tilla’s core was stronger that John’s. Where he needed to talk to his mother to gain her counsel, Tilla could rely on the same core as Ann—innate wisdom and fortitude. She couldn’t depend on counsel from her parents. Her mother Fannie had died a few years ago, supposedly from the bite of a black widow, and her father Pony had been murdered a few years back.
Tilla knew the confrontation with White was brewing and drew nigh. John had told her about the vote at church, but he had taken her vote for granted. The loss of her parents and her sister’s disappearance years ago weighed on her. So the thoughts of her young family losing a husband and father tormented her day and night. She tried to keep her roiling emotions to herself, reluctant to say something lest John ask. But every once in a while, she’d make a roundabout comment how it would all be so easy for her husband to issue a retraction; how John was hefting the heavy burdens of the colored community. But because John had showed so much courage in the face of the maelstrom that he was facing, she sucked it up and decided to do her uxorial duty and support her man no matter what.
Indeed, in a moment of reflection a day or so ago, she had told John that she would stand behind him. “Behind me?” John said with a smile and quick laugh.
She started to ask John the meaning of the laugh but stopped because the meaning had become clear. Tilla returned the smile and said, “You know what I mean,” as she gave him a love tap on the arm.
Things were serious now, and John needed his mind to be in the right place. “Tilla, come with me to the living room,” John said.
“But the kitchen’s a mess. I need to clean it.”
John helped her clean the table. He put the scraps in a large bucket outside for the hogs while she washed the dishes.
As he returned to the house, he saw Tilla at the sink scrubbing the last plate. John stood a few feet away peering at his wife, hoping she’d understand what he was about to tell her.
John’s tired eyes widened, begging for her attention. “Okay, okay, I’m coming,” Tilla said.
She sat next to John on the settee. He took in a heavy sigh and let it out slowly. His mind was a tumult of heavy waves and strong currents, crashing up against the walls of his head, having nowhere to go, making him feel dizzy. He sighed again.
Tilla saw distress in his eyes and reacted like she’d do to comfort one of her children; she’d touch them, caress them, knowing that her hands had a palliative effect. She extended her hands and massaged John’s temples. It worked. The dizziness soon vanished.
He opened his eyes, and they landed on Tilla’s heavy eyebrows. Then the rest of her face came into view. Her long nose and large round eyes gave her face immediate authority. Her full, sensually curved lips and deep dimples gave her an arresting natural expression. He wondered what she’d do if he didn’t survive tomorrow.
John picked up her left hand and began to stroke her hand and forearm. Her skin was still as soft as when he first touched her nearly seven years ago. “You and the kids are going to stay with Junior and Goldie tonight,” John said.
Tilla recoiled as though John’s words punched her in the stomach. She recovered, expostulating, “There’s no need for us to leave this house tonight.” She paused, then added with a wan smile: “We’ll go there tomorrow morning before you go to the press.”
She was often better at reading life’s imperatives than he, but he decided to take complete control, at least as best he could. “Listen to me,” he said looking at her sienna-colored, moist lips, afraid to look her in her eyes for fear of what he might see, eyes now sunken in stone. “Junior says it’s okay. Now I want you to pack what you need to pack.” He stiffened his posture and forced himself to look Tilla in her eyes, large eyes that had dazzled him for so many years, were now losing a bit of luster with each word he spoke. “I’m going to take my family to Junior’s. Now hurry up, I want to do this before it gets too dark,” he said as his voice began to crack.
She closed her eyes to overrule her remonstrating heart.
Tilla finished packing. She gathered the children in the living room at John’s request. “Thank you, honey,” he said.
Tilla gave a faint nod, pursed her lips, and held her tongue for the nonce.
“Theo, my little man, you’re going to stay with Cousin Junior tonight. Now I want you to take care of your mama and sisters while you’re gone. You hear me?”
“Yes, Papa.”
k
Just several more hours before he was scheduled to face White. Otis and his brigade would set up at eight o’clock in the morning to be ready in case White made an early arrival. John was content that his family was with Junior. His heart had grown obdurate; he needed to face down the Council’s men, led by White.
He retrieved his Winchester rifle that hung in the closet. A drawer in the closet contained his socks and rifle cartridges. He removed the cartridges and placed the rifle on the bed and the cartridges on the walnut chest of drawers that had once belonged to Tilla’s father. He blindly rubbed the surface of the chest of drawers, then opened the top drawer, unsure of what he was looking for. As he closed the drawer, he saw a sliver of silver underneath a pile of old clothes.
It had been twelve years since he held them so tightly. He had risked his life for them; they had caused him to flee from Richmond. Without the flasks, he told himself, there would be no Tilla and no children. He thought of Monsieur Billingsly asking about them in Sloss Furnace in Birmingham. He didn’t know what was going to happen tomorrow, but he wished he had told Tilla about the flasks. He had his family, and the flasks just didn’t seem to matter anymore. He put the flasks back where he found them.
His mind turned to a large hand-drawn portrait of his mother he had commissioned last year. He did his best to recall the picture he took of his mother using just his memory. He ambled into the living room and went to the back and adjusted the catawampus portrait. The color portrait was an oil on canvas painting of his mother that hung high on the eggshell-colored wall. John was proud of the location he selected for the picture of his mother. It gave visual height and historical depth to the house.
His bond with his mother was infrangible; he relied on it to give him strength and sustenance to face difficult situations. He looked at the picture. Ann looked down at John with the same soft eyes he remembered twelve years ago. She wore her favorite tignon. The smile was as wide as John could make it, almost too big for her face. And of course, the front gap teeth were present.
In a moment of lamentation, he said, “Mama, I’m sorry I had to leave you. There’s so much I need to tell you. I just couldn’t tell you what happened that night I came home with that rifle. I told you old man Wilkerson gave it to me. Not so, Mama. Please forgive me. All you knew was what I told you, that I had to leave because I couldn’t take being in Richmond anymore. Truth is, Mama, I didn’t kill Madame Billingsly. She tripped and fell down the steps. But I was mad at her. She didn’t like me.
I saw when you looked at the hole in my pants. I was so happy you didn’t ask me about it. Truth is, I tore a hole in my pants climbing out of a window in Billingsly’s shed. I used a sledgehammer to break into Billingsly’s cabinet. I took something that didn’t belong to me. Wait one moment, Mama.”
John walked to his bedroom and retrieved the flasks.
“You see these,” he said holding them up to the picture. “This is what I took that night. I took them because I heard Billingsly say there was something valuable in the cabinet in his office. I never figured out what this is,” he said pointing to the engravings on the flask. “No need to, I guess.
“Oh, Mama, you won’t believe this. I saw Billingsly about six years ago in Birmingham. He asked me about something valuable that was taken from him. I didn’t answer. He threatened to kill me, but he almost lost his own life when he nearly fell into the furnace. I saved his life by pulling him out. I couldn’t tell if he was thankful. Seems these whiskey flasks have been nothing but trouble for me.
“Soon after seeing Mr. Billingsly, I packed up to move to Mount Hope, the place you told me to go to look for Cousin Riley. I didn’t find him because he was dead, but I found his son Junior.
I wish you could see my beautiful wife, Tilla, and my children. Mama, I run a weekly newspaper now. Seems it’s caused me some trouble.”
He recounted the situation with White and the Council. “What should I do?” he asked his mother.
As he waited for his mother’s answer, he heard a loud thumping sound at is front door.
He heard someone yell, “John Davis.” His heart began to race again just like it did early in the day when he was at the press office. The same heavy fear had returned. Bile rose up his esophagus, something that hadn’t happened for a while.