Chapter 8

Three weeks later, Sam and Emma exchanged vows. Tenant officiated the ceremony.

The day of the nuptials, thunder rang though the heavens and lightning knifed the sky, dumping buckets of water. Emma was near tears.

Louisa said, “Don’t worry, it’s good luck.”

The reception was held at the Robinsons’ home. People had never seen so much food and flowers in one place.

Emma wore a girdle beneath her simple white dress. It did wonders concealing her bulging stomach, but nothing at all to dissipate her glow. Louisa dusted Emma’s face with so much powder that for a few moments, the girl looked like a ghost. In the end, all of Louisa’s efforts were for naught, because minutes later, Emma’s radiance burned right through that mask of powder, bathing her face luminous once again.

It made Tenant nervous whenever he saw a guest looking too hard at Emma. During these moments he would bellow boisterously, “Look at my beautiful daughter, she’s just glowing with happiness!” And any mother in earshot would roll her eyes and spit, “Who he think he fooling? I been pregnant before, I know what it looks like!”

Sam, who was not a drinking man, had two glasses of fine champagne at the reception—the bubbles were still floating in his head as he and Emma entered her bedroom.

Everything was pink: the canopy bed, walls, and window treatments. Everything.

Sam looked around the room and fell apart with laughter.

“Shhhh,” Emma warned, reaching for his zipper.

“What you doing, girl?”

“What you think? It’s our wedding night, you know.”

Sam backed away from her. “You jumped the gun on that. I gave you your wedding gift a few months back, remember?” he slurred drunkenly, aiming his chin at Emma’s midsection.

“No, I don’t quite remember, so I guess you gonna have to remind me now, won’t you?” Emma giggled seductively.

* * *

Before God blessed them with abundance, Tenant and Louisa had been sharecroppers, living in a one-room chattel house with two other couples and their three children. That life wasn’t so distant a memory that they couldn’t recall having to offer privacy in a home where there was no privacy to be had. They’d turn their backs on the grappling lovers, push their fingers into their ears, and pray for a hasty conclusion so they could snatch some shut-eye before it was time to head back to the fields.

But in 1917 there were no fields for Tenant and Louisa to fret over, just the squealing bedsprings and love talk slipping through the thin wall that separated their bedroom from Emma’s.

That first night and the nights that followed, Tenant and Louisa lay in bed, spines touching, palms pressed over their ears, minds ringing loudly with the familiar appeal: Hurry up and be done now. Hurry up!