Chapter 35

“WELL , WHAT DO YOU THINK?” asks Auntie Leona, throwing her arms up in the air like she’s on The Price Is Right. She’s standing in her sequined red gown with them plumb-awful red feathers sticking up out her head. I s’pose I can’t talk none, seeing as I’m in this sexy bumblebee outfit.

Jesus said He’ll be there to help us out tonight, so we’re all in the middle of this field here in heaven, just a-waiting for the word to go on down to Charleston. Auntie Leona’s in charge tonight, seeing as she knows the most ’bout the hoodoo going on.

I twirl and look all around me. There’s Mama and Daddy looking real spiffy. Daddy’s in a nice white suit and tie and Mama’s wearing a tight-fitting green dress with a fur stole ’round her neck. She always did like that thing. I think it looks just like what it is though—a dead fox.

I’d say there’s maybe thirty folks here—most of ’em lived in Charleston at one time or ’nother. But there’s a handful of Africans that wanna come too. Like Bean-too, here. She’s wearing a real pretty purple batik wrapped ’round her. And I recognize some o’ them fellas from our Africa trip yesterday. Looks like they decided not to wear no shirts again. Lord have mercy!

“Well, we ready to go? Ready to go everybody?” Leona yells and waves her hand. We’re all hooting and hollering. “Well, come on!” I grab on to Daddy Jim’s arm, close my eyes and off we go.

So here’s our first surprise o’ the night. We was aiming for Hibernian Hall on Meeting Street, but we landed here on Chalmers Street. We ain’t too far away, but now we got us a group of fellas banging their hands and heads on the ground, crying and carrying on. Looks like the same folks who done it in Africa yesterday on the beach.

“They say, slave here,” says Bean-too. “Slave. Sold here.”

I look up and sure ’nough we landed right smack in front of the Old Slave Market. “Good heavens, Jim,” I say. “Should we ‘a put Leona in charge?”

“Oh, let her be,” says Jim, pulling up one of the Africans from off the ground. “Could ‘a happened to any one of us.”

I reckon so.

We finally get to walking and take a left onto Church Street. Over there’s the French Huguenot church where EJ and Felicia got married and St. Phillips in front o’ that.

“Uh, Leona?” I ask her, hurrying up to catch her arm. It ain’t easy running in heels. “Ain’t you takin’ us the wrong way? I thought Meetin’ Street was that-a-way.”

Leona gets a sly look on her face and says, “Yeah, it’s that way, but I thought we could take a short stroll this way—take the scenic route. I always did love these churches. And the Dock Street Theatre! Just look at that green ironwork, Essie Mae. Makes me feel like I’m right back in N’awlins.”

I open my mouth and Jim gives me a dirty look, so I button my lip. It is pretty here, I reckon. “I just don’t wanna miss anythin’ important, is all. Henrietta and them voodoo spirits is already there; I just know it.”

The air here in Charleston is heavy even in November. I might be in spirit form, but I can still feel the salty humid air just as plain as day. It presses in ’round me, making me feel solid.

We take a left on Queen Street and walk down ’bout a block, then turn left again onto Meeting Street where we see the Hibernian Hall standing there just as grand as it can be. It’s big and white and got them great big columns out front what make it look like a Greek temple. When we get closer, we pass a tour group riding in a buggy and pulled by a big black horse. It just clip-clops down the street but then gets to neighing and stomping its feet when it sees us. I reckon seeing thirty dead folks dressed in sequins and feathers would be ’nough to make anybody jump.

We head on in the big front doors and I watch Bean-too and the Africans looking all around as we climb up the spiral staircases. I know they ain’t never seen nothing like this. There’s a grand staircase on either side o’ the foyer that circles clear on up to the second floor. That’s where the party is. It’s already started. I can hear the Amen Singers already singing, “Over by the river, Lord, down by the river . . .” Sure sounds pretty.

When we first walk in there’s this little lane of sweetgrass basket ladies weaving on either side of us. There’s a couple o’ roadside stands too. Ain’t that cute? “Look Daddy, there’s Miss Georgia! Don’t she look pretty?” Georgia’s in a real nice dress and Nancy too. Miss Nancy come with her son, looks like. He’s standing behind her mighty handsome in a nice black tuxedo.

“You reckon they gonna make Nancy and Georgia work all night?”

“No, Mama,” says Jim. “It’s just for show.”

There’s sweetgrass baskets stacked up everywhere. Great big ones and little tiny ones lined up on a table by the door. They’re filled with benne wafers, so they must be party favors or something. And folks is dressed up just like Leona said they would be, sure ’nough. There’s Susanne Maybree with Clarice sticking real close by her side. And there’s Mister Victor. He’s trying to make eyes at Susanne but having a heck of a time not catching her big ol’ mama’s eyes instead.

Oh, there’s Mister Jeffrey, sweet thing. “Woo-hoo, Jeffrey!” I wave my hands at him, but he don’t hear me or see me. Sure is strange being dead. Oh, there’s Bertice Brown. “Reckon that’s the governor she’s talking to, Daddy?” He’s a real nice-looking fella—kinda younger than I’d pictured him.

“Reckon it is, Mama,” says Jim, moving me on through the crowd. The room in here is just beautiful. The floor is real shiny black-and-white checkers, and there’s great big long windows on either side o’ the room with long purple curtains that go right down and sweep the floor. There’s a bandstand down at the far end with them Amen Singers up on it.

And you ought to smell what I’m smelling, praise Jesus! “Let’s go on over near the food table, Leona. It’s a shame we can’t eat earthly food no more, but I got to see me some good Lowcountry fixin’s.” Our whole group moves on over. There’s fried flounder and hushpuppies in real nice silver dishes to keep ’em warm. And big piles o’ cheese grits, hoppin’ John, and tiny pecan pies to boot! Behind us, big round tables is covered in white tablecloths with napkins and real fine silver and dishes.

Next to the food table there’s a man in an apron pouring champagne into skinny tall glasses. And in front of him there’s all sorts of liquor—whiskey, rum, and things I ain’t never seen before.

“Leona, who’s that, you reckon?” I point to a mighty-fine-looking tall black man in front of the liquor table. He’s handsome as the dickens and dressed in a red suit with red shirt and tie to boot. He’s got this stinky ol’ cigar sending swirls of nasty smoke in the air. There’s a white man sipping champagne next to him who don’t even seem to notice.

“Lord ’a-mercy,” says Leona. Her jaw drops. “There he is. It’s Ogoun.”

“Ah-goon,” I say, mesmerized. Jim elbows me in the ribs.

Ah-goon grabs a big bottle o’ rum and just turns it up to his mouth. He takes a swig then pulls a cigar up to his lips, blowing fire clear up a foot or two in the air. There’s a shiny sword hanging over his shoulder.

“You don’t wanna mess with him,” says Leona.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I won’t.”

“No need to whisper, ladies,” says the man in a smooth sultry voice, “ ’cause I can see you plain as day. Long time no see, Leona.” He tips his red hat at her. “You sure are lookin’ gorgeous as ever—good enough to eat, I’d say.” He licks his lips and looks her up and down. “I see you brought a whole group with you. What y’all down here for? I thought you was up in heaven by now.”

“I am,” she says, looking right annoyed. “We’re here on business.”

“You’re here for Henrietta, ain’t you? Mighty fine lady,” he says, smiling. Leona stays quiet and looks uncomfortable. “Ain’t gonna do you no good, you know. She brought more than me here. Look over there.” Ah-goon pulls out his sword and swings it ’bove his head in the air.

We look around, and I see Leona fix her eyes on a real pretty lady. She’s wearing a fancy blue dress down to the floor with gold and pearl necklaces swinging ’round her neck when she sways to the music. She’s real elegant and looks mighty wealthy. There’s rings and bracelets all up and down her ebony arms, and her bosoms is poking out the top o’ her dress like two melons in the sunshine.

“Erzulie,” says Leona over her breath, “the spirit of beauty. Watch out for her, Essie Mae.” I look up at Jim and squeeze his arm with a warning.

“Don’t you be worryin’ ’bout me, Mama,” he says. “I can handle myself. She ain’t all that, anyway.”

We watch Erzulie come over and get to flirting up a storm with Ah-goon. Them voodoo spirits is just a-chit-chatting and laughing. Erzulie swishes her hips to the music and grabs Ah-goon’s hand, pulling a swig o’ his rum. Then she looks on over at me and winks at Daddy Jim. Can you believe that? Hussy. I push Jim away ’fore he gets a chance to stare back.

The mayor of Mount Pleasant and his wife walk in the front doors. Real sweet people. I met ’em once when they stopped at my stand few years back. Reverend Jefferson and his wife, Ethel, come on in too. She’s in a big red hat the size o’ China.

Jim and me are standing here just watching the folks pour in when Henrietta walks right up to us with Eddie at her side. “Retta,” I say, putting my hand out to her.

“She can’t hear you, Essie Mae. Leave her ’lone.” I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes.

“Mama, Dad, I’m so glad you made it.” I turn around and see my sweet grandbaby, EJ, with Felicia by his side. They’re right off the cover of one o’ them magazines, I tell you. EJ’s filled out some since I seen him last and Felicia’s pretty as a doll in a pale pink frilly dress. “You look beautiful,” EJ says, leaning in to kiss Henrietta on the cheek. And she does look beautiful in her long black gown with her hair swooped up real nice. Must ‘a gone to the beauty shop, I reckon, for that hairdo.

Eddie shakes EJ’s hand. “Son, we’re proud of you. You’re doing a real good thing here.” It’s a right touching moment, but then Eddie looks around for Henrietta. Sweet Jesus, she’s already disappeared.

“Get on her, Leona,” I say, pushing her away from me. Leona hurries off into the crowd to see if she can find Retta. There’s hundreds of people in here now, and all us from heaven just standing in a daze.

“Don’ you t’ink us should split up?” Mama asks me.

“Jim?”

“Yeah, Mama. Let’s split up.” He sends a group of Africans to stand at the front door. Mama and Daddy go over by the sweetgrass baskets, and Bean-too sticks close to the food and liquor tables.

“Everybody else, just keep your eyes wide open,” he says, shooing ’em off. “Mama, you go on toward the stage and I’ll keep a watch over here.” He walks on over to the left side of the room by the windows. As I head to the bandstand I pass that lady spirit, Erzulie, making a beeline over to Jim. Of all the nerve! It’s all I can do not to run and keep watch over him, but I know he’s all right. He can withstand the wiles o’ her, I reckon.

He better, anyway.

Oh, listen to that, would you? Music to my ears.

Swing low, sweet chariot

Comin’ for to carry me home

Swing low, sweet chariot

Comin’ for to carry me home

The Amen Singers finish up singing and Jackson Hemmingway hops up on stage. He’s looking real handsome tonight even with that big belly, and he grabs the microphone and taps it a few times.

“Ahem, uh, welcome everyone, to the first annual Sweetgrass Soiree!”

The room erupts, clapping and hollering, then quiets down again.

“It’s my special privilege to introduce you to a young man I’ve grown quite fond of this year. He’s a man of great character no doubt passed on to him by generations of strong Gullah and AfricanAmerican people, my personal favorite being his grandmother, Essie Mae Jenkins.”

More clapping and hollering. I feel my face blush and I look out into the crowd to see Miss Georgia and Nancy tearing up and patting their eyes with tissues.

“Thank you, Mr. Hemmingway,” EJ says, moving behind the microphone and shaking Jackson’s hand. “If my grandmother was alive today, she’d say, ‘Baby, I sure am proud.’ There’s one person who knew my grandmother and loved her as I do, and he’s done a terrific job pulling everything together for tonight. Jeffrey Lowes? The Grass Roots Society thanks you. Now come on up here.”

Everybody claps and lifts their hands in the air when Jeffrey walks up the steps, bowing as he goes. There’s Victor watching him with a sad look on his face. Miss Susanne’s next to him, the skin of her arm barely brushing the sleeve of his tux. And Henrietta’s behind ’em both, clutching her little black sequined purse like her life depends on it. She’s frowning to beat the band.

“Thank you,” says Jeffrey, holding his hands out for folks to simmer down. “I want to thank everyone who worked so hard to make tonight a success. And thank you to The Post and Courier, for agreeing to cover this event. I look forward to reading about all of you in tomorrow’s paper. Especially you, EJ.”

He grins and everybody laughs.

“My old friend Essie Mae left her mark on many of us here tonight. She’s the reason The Grass Roots Society exists, and it is my sincere wish that her memory and the memory of those who came before her will never be forgotten.”

I look around at our group scattered around the room. Everyone is paying attention, even the ones who don’t speak English.

Jeffrey goes on. “It’s because of support from people like you that these men and women continuing on in Gullah traditions will have a bright and glorious future to look forward to. Now go on, dance, eat, and have a great time. Oh, and I hope you didn’t forget your checkbooks, because we’ve got lots of treats for you on auction in just a little while. Enjoy.”

Jeffrey holds up his champagne glass to toast the crowd. The Beachin’ Groove starts playing “I Love Beach Music” right on the tail of his speech, and folks get to moving their feet. I got to say, I ain’t never felt this way. I swanny, it sure is something to look around and think that little ol’ me had something to do with making all this good stuff happen. I’m thinking maybe tonight ain’t gonna be so bad after all.