Although it was John’s idea to have a New Year’s Eve party at First Baptist Church, he was conflicted about ringing in the new year with a celebration as he had just survived a showdown with White. But Tilla had made the choice for him, telling him that he had to go to the celebration, that he couldn’t let down the church.
It was Tilla who wanted, indeed needed, to go to the party to celebrate John’s victory, the victory for the colored people of Lawrence County. The original idea of celebrating the new year slid behind celebrating Lawrence County’s new hero. And even if no one knew but her, Tilla wanted to claim rights to a part of the John’s success. She was his ballast that kept him sailing.
They arrived at church at eight o’clock. As they approached the large oak double door to the church, John and Tilla stopped on the landing and listened to the revelry going on inside the church. John raised his head and said a brief prayer. The church, the kinetic center of life in the colored community, came through for him, and he thanked the church members who stood by him.
After he lowered his head, Tilla looked at him and said, “We’re heading into a new century. In a few hours, it will be nineteen hundred. I didn’t know how it was going to turn out with White. I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you. I don’t know if I could have gone on.”
John’s eyes glistened as he fought back tears. He thought of the letter he wrote Tilla and was relieved that he had removed it from under her pillow. He blinked and one tear finally dropped, landing on the ridge of his right high cheekbone.
“Look at my handsome husband,” Tilla said with a mesmeric smile, revealing teeth as white as a wedding cake. “I’m so proud of you. You stood by what you believed to be right.” She knew how and when to praise her husband. She continued to put a song in John’s heart and a rhythm in his step. She wasn’t necessarily keeping count when she praised and supported her husband, but she expected a corresponding return somewhere down the line.
John looked at Tilla; she looked resplendent cap-a-pie, from her touring hat that was a confection of red and black feathers, to her five-strap, jade suede two-inch Cuban heel shoes. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” John said.
She stepped backward and looked John over one more time before they’d go into the church to join the celebration. It was John’s night; he was the cynosure and everything had to be right.
His starched white bib shirt was not fully tucked into his Edgewood charcoal, herringbone red-and-black pinstripe pants. She inserted her right hand down his pants and pulled on the shirt to straighten it.
“Hey, watch it,” John said as she moved her hand up and down his trousers to obtain the perfect fit. “We can turn around and go home. The kids are away,” he said, smiling with an aspect in his eyes that could make Tilla melt.
But not now. “No, sir,” she said, returning the smile, looking at him with come-hither eyes. “We’re going to have a good time in this church.”
John reached for the door. “Wait,” Tilla said.
She reached over to him and adjusted his pert striped waterfall tie. She looked at John’s clothes; everything was in place. He looked gallant enough for her. “Can we please go in now?” John asked.
“In a moment,” she said. She moistened her right thumb and stroked his right eyebrow to tame a few strands that stuck out. “There,” she said, proclaiming that her work on him was done. “Now we can go in.” She went first, lilting her way in.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Davis,” someone said as they entered the church. “Go get something to eat.”
“Good evening,” John said while removing his black Homburg hat.
As they walked into the church’s refectory, they could taste the food as the air was thick with the aroma from collards, cornbread, ham, turkey, cow peas.…
“Happy New Year, Mr. and Mrs. Davis,” Reverend Owen said to John and Tilla at the door to the refectory. “Son, I’d like to talk to you,” he said looking at John.
“Baby, go over there to be with Junior and Goldie. I’ll be right over,” John said.
Because the lighting in the refectory was dim, Tilla could not tell where he was pointing. Tilla squinted and finally saw Goldie. “Oh, I see them,” she said.
Reverend Owen looked at John. “You’re looking mighty dapper, son.”
“These old rags?” John said.
“Listen, son. Colonel Jefferson said there could be trouble tonight. Seems like some folks may not be ready to let it go,” Reverend Owen said.
“Let what go?” John asked.
“What happened to White and all.”
“We acted in self-defense. White came within a whisker of killing me.”
Colonel Jefferson has a few men looking out for us tonight. I’ve asked the Lord to protect us. I don’t want you to worry, but I thought I should tell you.”
“Thanks, Reverend Owen,” John said as he patted Reverend Owen on the shoulder.
Reverend Owen looked at John and emitted a sober smile. “You know, John,” Reverend Owen said, “a wise man once said that fortune is not for the faint-hearted. Thank you.”
John sat down next to Tilla. “Honey, this is your plate,” Tilla said pointing to it.
“Boy, you better dig into that food,” Junior said. “If you don’t, I will.”
“Don’t worry about me,” John said, “this food won’t be here long.”
Junior had cleaned his plate and was not quite sated. “Darling,” he said, looking at Goldie, “go get Papa some more black-eyed peas and collards.”
“Anything for my baby,” Goldie said.
As she sashayed from the table to please her husband, Junior yelled, “And I want some more cornbread.”
John had difficulty eating his dinner as he was waylaid with people streaming to him to thank him for taking a stand against White and the Council. John had illuminated the hearts and minds of the colored community for standing up to White and was now basking in the phosphorescence of being a celebrity.
Reverend Owen noticed the disruption and asked the crowd to let John enjoy his meal. But no sooner had he finished eating, the stream started again. Jimmy was the first in line. “John, Tilla, this here is my woman. Soon to be my wife. Tell ’em your name,” Jimmy said.
“Elizabeth.”
“Do you go to our church?” Tilla asked.
“No, my papa’s a minister at another church. That’s where I go.”
“Thanks for what you done for us,” Jimmy said. “I’m glad I was part of that brigade. Made me feel good; made me feel like I am somebody.”
Others clamored to talk to John. People from the Colored Farmers’ Alliance brought a smile to his face. He shook hands with all those who approached him. Even with a throbbing hand, he gave no indication his hand hurt.
“Listen, my brothers and sisters.” Reverend Owen shouted. He raised his arms in the air and moved them slowly down as a signal for the pianist to stop playing as the witching hour was upon them. “Five minutes before midnight. Five minutes before a new century arrives. We’re going to start counting down at ten seconds.”
He suddenly remembered the time capsule. “I want to thank you for writing something for our time capsule. We won’t be here in a hundred years when it is opened, but let’s pray that the Negro race will be truly free by then and that there be no more such thing as racial superiority.” Up until this point, the Negro had been in some kind of bondage; whether it was being an afterthought as a second class citizen before slavery firmly took hold or after slavery, that bondage had begun to fray a bit after the passage of the amendments to the United States Constitution during Reconstruction. The bondage grew tighter, though, after Reconstruction. “Two hundred and eighty-one years of being treated as an inferior people by our white brothers must come to an end.”
The pianist at the Newby and Evans upright started up again, playing “Maple Leaf Rag,” a ragtime favorite. Junior, the supreme archon of dance, instantly recognized his favorite ragtime tune, grabbed Goldie’s arm forcing her out of her seat, and swung her around; they then settled into doing their favorite dance, the slow drag. As the tune neared its end, he grabbed Goldie tightly around the chest, kissing her with an open mouth, and she squeezed his back side, both now oblivious to their environment.
Reverend Owen removed his waist watch from his trousers. Less than a minute to go. He raised his hand signaling for the crowd to listen. “Attention, attention,” he shouted. “I want everybody to stand. When I start counting, count with me.”
Tilla held John’s left hand tightly.
“Ready for this new century?” Junior said to Goldie.
She kissed him, fiercely and lingeringly. She released his lips, saying, “What do you think?”
Reverend Owen: “Ten, nine …” Everyone joined him and they counted the rest in unison. “… three, two, one.”
“Happy New Year!” they all shouted.
John’s heart skipped a long beat, his eyes widened. He put his arm around Tilla’s waist, squeezing her tight, unsure how to react to the peal of rifle and gun shots he heard from outside.
Fear emanated from John’s visage, and Junior noticed it. He knew it was just some roisterers outside partaking in a jamboree. “It’s okay, boy; just some of us shooting in the air to mark the new year.”
k
Council President Allen Montgomery had been charged and convicted of bribing three elected officials within six months after White’s collapse in front of The Messenger. With his initial time spent preparing for his defense, he neglected the Council’s business, and the Council soon went out of business. Some in the colored community talked of John’s showdown with White as causing the collapse.
Within five years after the New Year’s celebration that ushered in the new century, John sold The Messenger and was out of the newspaper business. While the colored community continued to show its appreciation of John’s militant stand against the Council, the marvels of celebrity that surrounded him five years ago had faded. He was still a deacon at his church, he still dispensed advice to neighbors, and on occasion, he’d talk to a politician about offering his support. He figured he’d miss attending conferences on journalistic standards, meeting colored journalists from other states. But because he needed to spend more time with his growing family, he was satisfied to leave the newspaper behind. Time had come for him to do something else.