Mother Opal’s death changes nothing, and nor does my visitation, if that’s what it was. The Charter Mothers decree that Mother Opal’s rulings during her tenure were true and just and that there is nothing gained from delaying the Moving On to investigate further. The Moving On will take place just like it always will, tonight.
The Messenger wears three wigs, one for each Council member, to deliver the news. Daddy’s hands tremble, tinkling the cup against the saucer in his hand. Mother paces back and forth, asking the Messenger questions she does not have answers to.
“Which one of you decided this?”
The Messenger looks to her notes. There is no information about who declared that the ritual would take precedence. She shrugs, as indignant as she would be if she were a Charter Mother. “I do not need to answer that,” she says. Lines spent, she turns to go. “If there is nothing else—”
“Why wasn’t I consulted about this before it was voted upon?”
The Messenger shrugs again. Wraps all three shawls around her shoulders. Gathers her bag. “You will be pleased to know,” she says, repeating the line from earlier, “that you have been nominated as the new Head Charter Mother according to Book V on Emergency Situations. You will assume your post immediately after the Warding Off. We look forward to working with you in this new capacity.”
The Messenger tips her church hat prop and is on her way. I tip her again on the way out.
Daddy sets down the trembling cup. He hasn’t taken a sip anyway.
“Would you like some more tea?”
“No, but thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You can help me pack,” he says. “That’ll free me to say my goodbyes. I’d like to say them now instead of—” His voice breaks. “I won’t be able to say them during the Moving On.”
Daddy wraps his fingers around mine. His palms are rough, his fingers warm. He’s not the only one shaking. He must be wondering what he could have done, who he could have offended. How unlikely this thing called luck is.
He’s already up the top of the stairs by the time I shut the door. I’m not supposed to, but I lock it. The Deacons will be gathering outside, lined up, heads bowed.
“It isn’t fair,” Mother says as the latch clicks.
The windows are closed, curtains drawn. It’s dark. Heat’s trapped up with nowhere to go. It feels as though the whole place is going to crack open. Daddy doesn’t answer her. He tells the girls and me to gather around in a circle. We hold hands. Hum the family song. Before we’re even at the chorus there’s a knock at the front door. Dread and them don’t usually knock.
“Looks like we’ll have to put off that packing for some other time,” Daddy says.
We drop hands.
“Just go out the back! Go out the back! Who would see you?”
Daddy looks at Mariah and Rumor. They’re swinging hands and singing, “We would! We would!”
“Don’t pay them any mind, they’re babies!” Mother’s practically yelling.
I’ve never seen her this way before. I almost want to close my eyes but I need to witness in case there’s a trial. She’s standing between Daddy and the door, blocking his path. It’s a violation, surely. It’s either in Book XIII or Book XXII. Unless it’s even worse. If it’s impeding, it’ll be in Book VIII. If that’s the case and I have to swear hand on heart at Town Hall, she’ll be called to take his place unless she’s Moved On with him.
Daddy turns to me. I stand straight. My mouth’s so dry I don’t think words would come out even if I knew what to say. Mother is courting chaos and conspiring to seduce into temptation. Breaking two ordinances in one throw. There are whole books dedicated to it. Papers written about it. Pastor led a sermon about this very thing, temptation. It’s a thou-shall-not-er. I step back in case the girls—in the telling of the version they choose to tell on the stand—put the words in my mouth instead of Mother’s.
I should have tried to save my brothers; Moses too. I should have done something. I kept quiet then. I’ll keep quiet now too. “I wouldn’t see a thing,” I whisper. I close my eyes to show that I mean it. Mother’s offering him a way out. Please let him take this way out.
“Constance, you know better than any of us that if I run out that back door you’ll be bound to tell them which way I went. What would you say? That you don’t know? Didn’t see me? You’re a Charter Mother, woman. What would that look like? Anyone called to lead the town at least has to follow its rules.”
“You aren’t going to be here anyway. I’ll be all alone!” Mother’s crying. Her chest heaves. Her words come out broken. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry before. Her lips are twisted upward in a painful-looking smile, her eyes squeezed shut, her cheeks puffed out; red patches grow beneath her otherwise smooth brown skin. She looks unnatural, close to popping. I don’t ever want to see her look like this again.
“Forgive her, she knows not what she speaks.” I whisper the apology on her behalf. “Her mouth is full with the tongues of grief.” I hold my breath for sixty seconds. They don’t have clocks in Heaven, Hell, or wherever the ancestors are, so a one-minute apology will have to do. I skip ahead. “Humble, most honorable, all-knowing and all-seeing Mothers of Curdle Creek, her head is firm but her heart is swollen. Please give Mother the strength to endure without question, or to question and find a way to endure. Amen.” If it reaches them, there’s no harm in asking a favor, is there? “And please, in the spirit of mercy and the thanks that is my birthright as a citizen of this land, follower of ways, believer in traditions, etcetera, etcetera, please grant Daddy luck everlasting, life abundant and time enough to die from old age. Please keep him from the Moving On.”
“When we got married you told me if it came down to this town or me, I wouldn’t stand a chance. You swore an oath. Took a vow.”
I want her to deny it. To tell him it’s not too late, to beg him to ask her now so she can declare her intention to leave. Black folks ain’t safe anywhere but here. Beyond Curdle Creek it ain’t nothing but lawlessness and running. Always running. It’s awful. Fires flaring up. Homes combusting. Air thick with smoke. Floods. Locusts. It’s like the End of Days, they say. It was prophesied. We’re safer here. But maybe safer isn’t safe. If we all leave together, at least there’s no one left to pay for us. At least we’ll be together. Maybe then we can find my children.
My heart’s beating loud. It’s in my head, my fingers. Everywhere. I cover my mouth to keep from screaming Say it! If she’s going to say it, it has to be her choice. Otherwise I’m inciting her to commit blasphemy. It would be almost worse than getting Rumor to take the town’s name in vain again.
Mother says nothing. She looks at me, at the girls, back at Daddy.
Daddy nods. He’s right, but doesn’t look smug about it. He hugs her. It’s all right since even if they are both Moved On they won’t be buried together. Mother will be buried next to her new or last husband. If there is one. Daddy will be buried in the same plot, though. He’ll just be beside the husband after him. So a till-death-do-us-part hug now won’t cause any harm. He squeezes the girls. They both wriggle and complain. They can’t wait to go and gather more stones with their friends. They whine that it isn’t fair. Their friends will have more time than they do. They’ll get all the good rocks, the black ones with jagged edges. Daddy kisses me on the forehead. His lips are chapped. I try not to focus on them. I couldn’t stand for my every memory of him to be tainted with the image of his lips dry and puckering, wanting. I make pictures in my head. A snapshot of his hands, slender and wringing. His dark eyes, nestled in wrinkles. His gray hair and salt-and-pepper beard. If I could, I’d snap a picture of his smell. His voice too. Bottle them for later. The scent of smoked meat and mint, the rich sound of kindness saved for a day without rain. Or another time I’ll need it.
There’s another knock. I picture the woodpecker bursting through the sitting room of a family of fat, wriggling grubs midway through supper. Mother wipes her face. Straightens her dress. Pats her hair. A few deep breaths and she’s a rule swigging Charter Mother again, as predictable as a clock stuck on three.
“Ready?” Daddy asks, as if it’s up to her.
“Ready,” she says. Even though it’s not up to her any more than Moses’s going was up to me.
Daddy opens the door. The men rattle off something about deeds and rules, names and blessings. Mother mouths the words as they speak; she knows them by heart. Daddy steps outside.
“Wait! They didn’t say the Warding Off prayer. You heard it!” She turns to me. “They didn’t do it right so it doesn’t count. Osiris, get back in this house! Get back in!” She’s pulling at Daddy’s shirt. “If they’re all set to do it, make them do it right!”
Daddy shakes her off.
The men look like they want to be anywhere but here. They look to the sky, the ground, one another. Finally, they turn their backs on Mother like she’s a stranger destined to be gone before the morning bell too. No one wants to see a Charter Mother behave this way—it’s not decent. As if it’s a sign, three women swoop in—the Mourning Brigade. I should have known they’d come. They’ll tell the Deacons to move along and leave us be. That it isn’t Daddy’s time. There will be parchment. It was all a misunderstanding. Some sort of official paper sealed with Mother Opal’s signature confessing to having misheard. It will be the first annulment, the only one in history. I know because the Book of Annulments is filled with blank pages.
Of course the Mourning Brigade does no such thing. They don’t say anything at all. The men don’t seem to look at them; they sure don’t say anything to them either. They part to let the women through and quickly close the gap. The Sisters march toward the house. Their coats are crisp, held in place by years of starch and practice. Their faces, though they’d all tie in a race for the oldest alive, are smooth. They are quick. They bundle Mother and the girls back inside the house. They hush and coo, click and murmur. They don’t waste empty words. Instead, they whisper in unison, all singing the same hymn. Daddy is Moving On. Even the faithful falter. The sun will still rise in the morning. The tune is without warmth or mirth. There’s not a wrinkle of kindness between them.
THERE’S dust everywhere, and smoke. There’s always smoke lately. The town north of us has been burning for three days straight. For now, it’s too far away to hear much of anything but the occasional engine buzz, rifle shot, scream. As long as they keep their troubles to themselves, we’ll keep ours too, the timers say. There’s rumors that other Black towns didn’t survive the razing of 1919. Couldn’t pick up the paper without a headline. As kids, we used to stay up late at night, Mae and me, reading the town newspaper and imagining what went on outside Curdle Creek. The sin, the absolute sin of it. Robbing, killing, cheating. There didn’t seem to be an end to the things people were willing to do to their neighbors.
Without the Moving On and the Warding Off, Curdle Creek would be just as bad. Lawless. Streets flooded with ghosts. The dead bumbling and unholy, grudge filled, taking up time and space. The living, reckless. Coming in and out of town with one foot here, one someplace else, as though home’s a revolving door. Moral compass swinging every which way. Our ways are what save us—protecting us from them and from being like them. I know it and I don’t care. I don’t care about any of them. Not the Mothers, the Sisters, the town, its secrets. How long can I afford to stay here? To keep sacrificing us to save them?
“Stop!” I yell, ordinance be damned. Book XXV forbids yelling except in an emergency. Only Mother Opal and Charter Mothers can declare an official emergency, let alone sound the alarm. But it’s not like I’m running up the hundred and thirty-five steps to the bell tower, toppling over the ringer, yanking the bell thirty-three and a half times to warn of an attack. There’s no time for that right now. I just want this—this taking of my everything—to stop.
It doesn’t. I could yell until I’m hoarse. The men don’t pay me any mind. They probably can’t hear me. The procession has begun. The Curdle Creek marching band, an award-winning troupe full of drums, flutes, clarinets, tubas, saxophones, trumpets and of course bells, steps in double time, making its way closer and closer to the house. What sounds like a hundred pairs of feet pounding on the pavement is really twenty-five of the town’s finest believers. The band is almost sacred. Not one member’s name has ever been called in over a hundred and fifty years and that’s older than the town and everyone in it. They halt their melancholy tune—some number designed to make your heart beat with it while you’re crying and silent-wailing—and descend into a drum roll to wait.
The band marches in place in front of the gate.
The drum majorette high-steps, arms raised, shiny whistle between her red lips. Her head bobs in time with her tweets. Her hat, pristine black, with a plume of feathers, perches high atop her curly black hair, pin curls practically starched to death to keep hair and hat in place. The drum majorette says she wants the Moving On to be perfect. Not so much for the town, but for those Moving On. It’s the least she can do, she says. She tweets the customary seven blows: four for the thanks and one for each of the Moving On. At the last tweet, the drum roll gets faster, louder. One minute of musical celebration. Then it’s twenty-four seconds of the cymbals. Then, God help us, the bells.
Two minutes later, the drum majorette claps her gloved hands. Instruments are readied. She gives the signal. The marching band high-steps, the majorettes twirl and spin, the drum majorette whistles trill and sharp. The drumming starts. The other two Moving-On-ers are already in line, solemn, heads bowed, marching in time surrounded by volunteer marshals—townsfolk nominated by the Dedication Committee.
Arms back, knees straight, one of the marshals bows to Daddy. It’s a sign of respect. At least he has manners—or a good memory. Whenever Daddy’s been a marshal, he’s been kind. Always allowing the Moving On a moment of dignity, a blindfold if they asked for it, a bit of a shoulder to lean on if they needed one.
Daddy doesn’t look at me. He straightens his shoulders, takes his place in the middle row. It breaks my heart to see him marching in place, half a beat behind the others. As if she just can’t wait to get started, as soon as he’s in line the drum majorette trills. It’s loud and close; it pierces my ears. The parade is in motion. The Moving On has begun.
The band, the marshals and the Moving On march straight down the middle of the road as they’ve done over a hundred times before. They kick up clouds of dust, making their way down Pleasant Mills Road until they get to Pleasant Mills Lane, where they will turn and be out of sight. The Deacons follow close behind. They’re sort of their own band though: no instruments, no high-stepping, just marching. Each of them holds on to something. Some have ropes, there’s more than one Bible, one sack of rocks. They all carry sticks.
Mine’s in the house. I clench my fists, dig my nails into my palms to keep from swinging them. Nothing good would come from attacking the band, pulling Daddy out of line, or crying. Instead, I follow them. It’s forbidden. Families aren’t meant to take part in the procession. It’s bad luck for anyone else. I know it’s just superstition, but my skin tingles anyway. Mae would laugh at me if she saw, but I cross myself like it says to do in Book XIX. In case that’s not enough, and so as not to completely break the ordinance, I’m careful to walk out of step with the others, out of time with the music. It isn’t too hard. Though, every once in a while I’m in step with Daddy. He must not be thinking straight. He’s marched in many a procession. He should know the rhythm by heart. It never changes.
They march straight through town without faltering or wavering. The street is lined with men and women doubled over, arms outstretched in thanks, one palm up for forgiveness, eyes down for respect. In their other hand, they clench a pipe, stick, or rock. Those with large hands hold more than one weapon in them. It’s only the families who don’t give thanks publicly. Husbands, wives, children—the left-behind family—take turns praising and thanking, singing remembrances, in private. While the town Moves the body of the living On, the family, later, moves the spirit. The Warding Off is all about the soul. It’s a celebration with candles, incense, mourning, running. I praised dear Moses from the moment he left the house until the Moving On bells rang. Then, just like everyone else, when it was time, I chased his spirit through town. My heart wasn’t in it. If his ghost wanted to come back to visit, it wasn’t my place to deny it.
Folks stay doubled over until we pass. I know they don’t mean any harm but I wish they’d look the Moving On in the eyes. Instead, they bend so close to the ground they could topple over with a good wind, hand already outstretched to save them. It’s uncomfortable. Their backs must be aching, heads swimming like they might pass out. Imagine! Falling out when the Moving On pass by. So disrespectful to make someone else’s last moments all about you. The whole town would be out for you. Even still, I’d switch places with any one of them right now.
Those we pass fall into the procession seamlessly. They are in rhythm, in step with the Moving On. From time to time one gets a little anxious, tries to rush the proceedings. The drum majorette stops us all, tweets until we fall back into step before she starts again. We will march until we reach the Town Hall. Then, we run. The Moving On will get a two-minute head start before the town descends on them, pipes, sticks, rocks and all.
Other than the music and the marching, the occasional muffled gasp, the town center is quiet. Go down any side street and there’s sure to be mayhem. Children running wild, playing rude games like Move-On-Already-Mary and Too-Slow-Joe. We walk past the church, the Grand Hotel, Carter’s Everything Store, straight past the library, and Penny for Your Thoughts Beauty Emporium. At Fleming’s, my father slows. The band does too. They’re at the section where the bass drops and the drums beat like a heart to inspire the Moving On to the next step. It’s almost beautiful. It sounds better when the orchestra plays it on Memorial Day but the marching band doubles as the orchestra so it isn’t worth complaining about.
Sister Mildred looks pale. All of the beautiful brown has seeped out of her face and arms, leaving a grayish-looking woman in an oversized dress that sticks to her back. Brother Isiah doesn’t look much better. His suit bunches when he walks. His tie is too tight and he looks about to faint. His forehead is dripping with sweat plastering his hair to his scalp. Daddy’s breathing through his mouth. He can’t seem to catch his breath. His body is stiff. Every so often he twitches. It’s almost like his feet want to move faster than his body knows how to. It won’t let him move all at once.
It’s almost invisible, the motion, but one minute he’s standing still, the next his back is sort of rippling. He’s getting smaller, shrinking like a silk shirt on a washboard. It’s so quick that it takes me a moment to figure out that he’s already running. He’s always been fast, and the men—even though they’ve trained for moments like this, moments when the Moving On decide they don’t want any part of the town or the traditions or maybe they just decide they can’t wait any longer and now is just as good a time as any—don’t seem to know what to do. They bump into each other, bumbling over rope; one reaches for the sack of rocks. Daddy has about fifteen seconds’ head start.
Like an old picture show, the crowd springs to life. It’s too late for Mildred and Isiah. The crowd is already upon them with objects ready. They get a head start but it’s not two minutes before the bells are ringing and clanging and the pipes are clanging along too. They sort of stumble together even though it’d be better if they split up. They make their way to the Creek. It’s the last place they should go. The banks are always slippery this time of year and the tide is at its highest for the Moving On. Meanwhile, the Deacons are chasing Daddy down Main Street. Rocks rain onto buildings and signposts, backs and heads without reaching their intended target. Daddy slips through an alley with the Deacons not far enough behind.
The screaming. I can’t keep the sound out. In my head, the men sound just like the band marching with their stomping feet. The marching band’s still playing, the bells are still ringing, above a hawk screams. I guess I do too. My heart is drumming so loud it almost drowns everything else out. I’m running like I’m chasing after the devil. Faster than I’ve run in my whole life before now. Trespassing through yards, trampling over flower beds, bumping into sheds, tripping over cows, traipsing through fields, I’m breaking hundreds of rules as I go. My side’s cramping, threatening to seize if I don’t slow down. No matter how fast I go, I can’t outrun the sound of Daddy running away. This must be what goodbye sounds like.