| |
The light glowing upon my face, is too bright to be daylight. It is too warm, to be the sun. I am blinded when I try to open my eyes. The smells, the still quiet, the softness underneath my naked body are all foreign to me. There is a heaven, and I have made it. My heart is nothing more, than an empty shell. The crippling ache in my chest hurts too much for this to be heaven. I left my family behind. I will never see my Christian again.
“You cannot get rid of me so easily, woman.” His voice says softly. “Open your eyes.”
My eyelids flutter open, and I make out his form lying beside me. His face becomes clearer and I grow used to the light. He looks like hell, but he is smiling. I want to touch his face, but I cannot move. Christian takes my limp hand, pressing it against his cheek.
“Welcome back.” He whispers. “Our children are waiting to be fed, and I have been waiting to love you forever.”
I am not in heaven but laying in the gardens soaking up the sun. I am helpless as he bundles me up in the blanket and lifts me into his arms. My head is resting on his chest as he carries me back to the palace. Why did I believe I would die? I am the Payne healer and the Butcher’s wife. I have fought things worse than death and won. I live to fight again. I live to watch my children grow up. I live to love my king forevermore.
“My sweet, sweet wife.” Christian whispers before he drops a loving kiss on my forehead.
My darling Butcher. My beautiful love.
The End
This is an excerpt from JanJan Untamed’s gritty historical novel The Magnificent Miss Broadway. Available on Amazon.
––––––––
Chapter One
MY DADDY IS SO TALL and black that he blocks out the sky. He’s blacker than black. He’s blacker than Nuke. He’s blacker than the hot coffee he drinks every morning before work, and thrice as sweet. Daddy is big and strong. Hannibal Broadway is the biggest man around. His black, velvet-like skin is stretched over solid muscle. Muscle ripened from swinging a sledgehammer in the gravel pits and laying railroad with the Chinamen. He stands tall and straight like a king. His family is descended from the last wave of slaves smuggled into the deep south long after slave smuggling was outlawed. He ain't ashamed to be black neither. Our ancestors needed this black skin to survive in the African heat. They lived off the land and cared for our mother earth. They didn't try to be all fancy, and extra for white folks. Daddy is the same way. He don’t act extra for nobody, white or black.
Daddy is a sight to see. His crooked, white smile and clean-shaven head gets the ladies going. Especially now that Tiny been run off for years. Finding a fine land owner like my daddy ain't easy in these parts. Women know ain't no white landlord gonna come around and toss us out on our asses. Women of marriageable age want security. Ain’t nothing more secure than Daddy's big arms and a land deed. The ladies call out to him and wave their hands when we walk through the coloreds’ part of town. They drop by our place with plates of shrimp fried so good they look like gold nuggets, and hot cherry pies. I don't mind the food none. Some of them ladies sure can cook. Me and Arty eat real good when Daddy’s lady friends stop by. Some come empty-handed. The empty-handed women have painted faces and wear tight dresses. They have pressed-out hair and smell like perfume and pipe tobacco. I remember some of them from Nuke’s Place. Daddy is a good man, and they know it. He been places too. Alabama, California, St. Louis and even Chicago. His favorite place is New York. Daddy said he ain't seen nothing like New York City. Lillith tells me to pronounce it York and not Yawk. Lil can’t tell me what to do. Daddy said he coulda been a big city star with his good looks. And he was on his way too, until he got into a barroom fight and beat a white man to death with his fists.
“Why’d you kill that white man for?” I asked him. “Why’d they run you outta town, Daddy?” He didn’t talk much about the killing part of the story aside from saying he done it. “For callin’ me a black nigger, and spittin’ in my face. I wrung his neck like a chicken.” Daddy made a twisting motion with his hands. He had to get outta there fast. He ran til’ he hit the sea, and he stayed. That place is here. He changed his name to Broadway because it sounds like a star’s name. “We star’s, Bijou.”, he says. “Not niggers.” When he married Momma, he made her trifling-self a star too. My daddy used to be Andrew Jackson, like the white-trash president. He said he wasn't keeping no slave ownin’, Indian killer’s name, and I wasn't either. Daddy named me Bijou because I’m his bijou. Momma wanted to call me Virginia. Daddy said hell no she wasn't naming his baby queen after some hillbilly hell where lynching is a sport. So now, I’m Bijou Alistair Broadway. Alistair, is the white Englishman who carried him down south when he was running from that lynch mob. Daddy said Arty reminds him of the Englishman. I think that's why he lets us be friends. I wonder if the Englishman was white-trash like Arty? Daddy hates niggers and white folks something fierce, but he’s smart. He don’t act like he hates them when they around. Daddy avoids white folks like a pile of horse shit. That's what he says anyway. He can’t avoid niggers. They’re all around these parts and think we’re niggers too.
Not all colored folks are niggers. Just the ones ashamed of being dark-skinned. Like the ones that tell me to stay outta the sun because I’m too black. The ones that laugh at poor coloreds, but smile all pretty-like for stinkin’ white folks. Niggers say coloreds need to stop complaining about burned-out churches and late night lynchin’s. They say coloreds should stay inside at night and leave them white folks alone. Niggers say we should be glad to be here on this God given earth. An earth fertilized with colored blood. Black, Mexican and Indians alike. Niggers don’t care about them boys they found hanging from the route 57 bridge. They don’t care about that Johnson girl they found beat-up and raped in the woods. She said white men did it. She even named the son of the town doctor and the Mayor’s nephew. Word is, the sheriff spit in her face and called her a lying nigger. I guess he even threatened to lock her up for slandering the boys’ good names. They say her daddy made her apologize to the fat pig for lying on them. When her belly started growing and the half-breed baby came, her nigger daddy turned her out on her own. My daddy woulda killed them white boy’s dead, and then killed them again. He don't even know the Johnson girl, but he was mad like he did. “It ain't right, Bijou.” He said, “They took that girl’s innocence and walked away free. You stay close to home, ain't nobody coming out here. Keep that shotgun close. If one of them sons-a-bitches touch you, I'll burn this whole damn town to the ground.”
Daddy said it ain't they fault they're niggers. The white folks brought them here and whipped it into them. They stole strong black warriors and put them in chains. They took away his women, and made them housekeepers and whores. Sold off they children like animals, but kept the yellow ones around to serve. He said white folks are the devil. Some nights he sneaks out dressed in his one suit tugging on the neck. He leaves in the opposite direction of Nuke’s Place. I wonder where he goes. It ain't to see no woman, that’s for sure. Daddy don't chase women. He damn sure wouldn't bother with his funeral suit if he did. I think maybe he goes to the meetings, and it makes me proud. Them niggers in town laugh at him behind his back when he wears his suit with its short sleeves and bares his black socks. Not one of them has the sand to laugh in his face. The same niggers drive their white masters around in their shiny Fords, they shine their dusty headlights with the clean handkerchiefs right out of they own pockets like coons. How dare those dirty sharecroppers turn up their noses at him with their dirty feet and empty bellies. They ain’t nothin’ but new slaves.
Niggers got the nerve laugh at Daddy, while they on the way to shine floors on their knees, and love on white folks’ children all day. Cooking and a cleaning, and a yessuh, nawsuh, yessuh ma’am, like them white folks are they mommas and daddies or something. Dumb coons don’t know no better. Them sweaty niggers treat those fat, white-devils like Jesus. They treat them white-devils like they the kings and queens. The niggers don't even know they kings and queens. They call each other niggers, and nigras, and laugh all in them white folks’ ugly, pink faces. They be a shuckin’ and a jivin’, like they still in the big house. Hannibal Broadway don't shuck, and he sure as hell don't jive. Daddy don’t gotta jive because people want to hear what he got to say.
There are fine kings and queens in this sleepy old town. They have meetings to discuss what's going on around here. They’re church-folks, but they talk about getting shorted on cotton prices by the white’s and the rape, and the burnings. Daddy said they sing and thank white Jesus for saving them a lot, but at least they ain’t niggers. They can't take the cheatin’ and still feed they families. They talk about starting they own cotton weigh station and what to do about the nightriders hanging them boys. The niggers say, stay home and lock your doors. The kings and queens suggest they set bear traps in the fields and wire snares to lame their horses and digging pits that are sure to break a few necks. Maybe even starting their own patrol of armed men.
Lillith says they’re stirring up trouble with the white folks, holding secret meetings and talking about equal shares and fair pay. “Let Jesus take care of that”, she said, while she smoothed her silk dress, tugged on her newest satin gloves, and complained about the colors not matching up right in the sun. Lil is shallow like a rain puddle, and the second worst kind of nigger. Diving into her soul or into her mind, is sure to get your fool neck broke. Daddy says Lil is a good ally. It took me a while to understand what he meant by that. He said he don’t need allies because he got respect. Hannibal scares people. That’s why they respect him.
“Fear and respect come together like a married couple.” He told me. “You can be rich, or beat up on everybody you meet, but it don't mean folks is gonna respect you. When you walk down the street and folks you don’t know move they asses aside to let you pass because they know you, that's respect. When a mothafucka will sooner tangle with a bear than fuck with you, that’s respect. Money don't buy that, Bijou. Your fists ain’t gonna buy it either. It’s how you treat folks and love on your woman and younguns’. A man can be the biggest king around like me. That don't mean you go around beatin’ up on puny people to prove you tough. I hate niggers like that. They go around beatin’ up on everybody to prove they the best. It don’t make them the best. It means they ain't shit. If you the best, you know you the best and everybody else knows it too. Nobody challenges you. Ain't no reason to go around picking fights with people who can't fight. Them be the one's that’ll kill you dead. Another fighter will rumble with you. A mothafucka that don't wanna fight is scared for they life. They ain't gonna stand there and let you beat on ‘em. The scary folks are the ones cuttin’ mothafuckas down at Nuke’s. They gonna cut you bad too. Bad enough to put you down. They gonna cut you so bad, ain't no sewing it up. Then his folks will say, why he cut him? Why he had to cut him up like that? Why they dead kin didn't leave that other boy alone? He didn't even wanna fight to begin with. It's all fun ‘til the rabbit got the gun”
My daddy is a thinker. He picks cotton but he ain't a cotton picker. Work is work. He picks cotton for cash, not food and board like sharecroppers. He says slavery is over. Get your own land. Get you a good woman. Make a life of it. That's where he found Momma. Tiny was in a cotton field flirting, and batting her big, brown eyes at the white boss, who was also her lover. She was fifteen, and already ruined to local men. No decent man marries a used woman. Daddy told me he took one look at Tanina Maxwell, and stopped thinking with his smart head. My Goddess, he used to call her. Not Baby or Suga, like I hear the men call women down at Nuke’s, but Goddess. I hope one day my husband calls me his Goddess. Daddy got a heart as big as his fists. He sure did love him some Tiny. Said he couldn't resist her wide hips and bright, yellow skin. My skin is somewhere between midnight and black. My daddy said if I wasn't as black as a cast-iron skillet, he might doubt I was his. My hair is lighter than my skin. I never met none of the Jackson family, but Daddy said I got their good hair. It sure ain't Maxwell hair. They hair rolls up like a sheep's ass. I ain't never seen a sheep's ass, but daddy is very wise, so he must have seen plenty to say it. My dark hair don't curl at all. It waves like the river when the water is high and shines like silver. My hair grows and grows and it won't stop. I wear it knotted up tight and covered in a faded rag all the time. It collects bugs and twigs if I don't. The swamp ain’t no place for pretty hair. If a gator or a man catches hold of this hair, it could cost me my life. I’m tall like a freak, black as iron, and funny looking. I say my eyes are brown. Arty says it’s not brown. They’re the color of a jar of honey if you hold it up to the sun. My daddy never set me up for hurt by letting think I’d grow up to be beautiful. He told me when I was knee high.
“Bijou, I'm gonna to give it to you straight, baby girl. You ugly. You took after your momma’s side of the family in looks. Tiny got lucky, but she was the only one. Them Maxwell's are some ugly mothafuckas, I tell you. They short too. Like trolls. You tall like me. My whole family is tall. We good lookin’ folks, so tall looks good on us. You too tall for a girl. It makes you stand out. You look funny. Ain't nothin’ we can do about that. Don't matter if you're pretty or not, you still my baby and you got a good heart. I love you more than anything in this wicked world. You smart and sweet. You got all that long beautiful hair, and eyes like my Cherokee grand momma. She could comb her hair with her fingers. You know how to take care of yourself, and put food on the table, and you still a child. You keep yourself clean, and pure JuJu, and you’ll surely find you a husband. Maybe not right off like the pretty girls, but in time some lonely widower will come along, and need you to care for his house and children. Till then, you concentrate on them books, and yer learnin’. You already better than the niggers round here, cause’ you own land. You can read and write, and you pick that banjo like you was born to it. Knowin’ how to read and write got me farther than workin’ with my hands, and bendin’ my back.”
That was ‘the talk’. Keep myself pure and I’ll find me a husband. Daddy is wise. If he tells me not to let the boys diddle on me, ain't no boys diddling on me, and that is that. Not that boys at school ever look at me no way. If they do, it’s to point, and laugh or call me names and throw things. They don't touch me with hands no more because I can whip them all one-on-one and even two-on-one. The girls don't like me much better. They call me a swamp rat, a cane pole, and Maxwell trash. I ain't no Maxwell. I ain't no bastard. Imma Broadway.
Me and Arty met when he first came to our school. We got old ways that don't change down here. Whites stay with whites, and blacks stay with blacks. Even at the school for the coloreds and immigrants, people stick with their own kind. He was a puny boy. He was skinny and I knew he was hungry that morning. He was so hungry he couldn’t think straight when the teacher asked him his name. I felt sorry for him. His parents were white trash that didn’t feed their children. The boys jumped him on his first day. The colored bully’s pushed him around for being white trash. They bully everybody. Most of us ignored him. The white trash ganged up and beat him up for being Irish. Arty fought them boys hard, but there was just too many of them. So, I helped him.
Daddy taught me how to fight dirty. It’s a fight, Bijou. Not the Tango. I had them boys jumping back like I was on fire. I gave his sad-self half my lunch to stop his stomach from growling. He's been following me around ever since. He ain't scared of my daddy like everybody else. Arty ain't like other white folks. His daddy is a drunken, Irish sharecropper. Arty has orange hair and he’s white like paint on account of there ain't a lot of sunshine in Ireland. Just rain. He sunburns real easy, and his mosquito bites look like the pox if he don't smear on mud to keep ‘em off. When we grow up, we’re gonna steal a ship and go to Ireland. If daddy says I can. I ain't asked him yet. He didn’t like me playing with Arty at first. He said white folks might make trouble for me. But he always opens the door for Arty and Lillith when they come knocking. Arty’s worse than a nigger, and the worst kind of nigger lover. His family hates me. They tell him to stay away from me, but Arty doesn't listen. He comes over anyway. Even after they beat him up.
“Arty, yer gonna turn into a nigger iffin’ ye’ keep following ‘em around the way ye’ do. Yer even startin’ ta smell like ‘er.” Georgie mocked him at every turn. His brother George is the baddest, stupidest, and ugliest kid in the whole damn town. He’s the kid everybody watches like a thief. That's on account of him being a thief and all. He can steal your front teeth right outta your face, and you won't even know it until you go to eat something. He'll pitch a rock through your front window for fun. He’ll steal your newspaper and he can’t even read. His name is Kamden Kelly. Gorgeous George they call him, on account of him being so ugly. He hates whites, coloreds, other Irish, and just about everything else, saving his ugly self. He hangs around the school yard watchin’ and smokin’ and pickin’ out his next victim. That bastard is nothing like his brother. Arty you see, is a stone fool. He thinks folks are all the same. Just different colors. Poor, white-trash Artimus is stupid for thinking we’re all the same. Hell, everybody knows we ain't all the same. White people ain't worth the dirt they walk on. They don't do shit, except get fat and tell colored people what to do. Daddy said everything they got, and everything they know; they stole from dark-skinned people. Except they caveman ways. That’s all them. Arty was stupid and brave for speaking his mind aloud. But it got him beat up by the white trash.
Artimus don't know no better because he wasn't born in the deep with us. He was raised in a ghetto in cold, wet Limerick with drunks and boy-humping priests. To him, our town is paradise. He’s right. This is a good place to grow up. He says he's better off being hotter than hell than freezing ‘til his balls are blue and being humped by old, white men. At least he ain't living with rats, and lice. Well, not as many as before anyway. In Ireland, he lived in trash. They emptied piss, and shit right into the gutters, he said. Arty told me secret things. Bad things that happened in Ireland. He still loves his home country. Arty wants to make enough money to go back and build a castle in the country for Lillith. The way he describes the green land, and the way the mist hangs over the hills, almost makes me want to live there with them. But, why would I go clear to Ireland when I got everything I need right here? I don't think Arty’s gonna get Lillith to move to Ireland with him. I don't think he’ll ever get her to walk down the road hand-in-hand, let alone marry him.
End of sample
