221 North 7Th Street

© 2002 by charise baker ridley and marie baker mason

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press

an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

ISBN: 0-595-24349-5

ISBN: 978-1-469-71428-8 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

About the Author

To God

Arthur Lee Mason

Silas Baker

Lucille Baker

Ella Mae Humphrey

Ruby Humphrey

Pearlean Hawk

M. Frances Pinchon

A special young lady, Ivory Baker

Chuckie

Charlie Mae Whitsey

In memory of Dorothy Jean Dumas

To all the children

A special friend, Monika and Rainer

CHAPTER 1

On Friday evening, from the balcony at his home in Nashville, Pastor Grover T. Scott could see the sun setting behind the mountains, spread out before him like water colors reflected on the huge boulders.

At sixty, Grover was a handsome man. His face, under the crop of gray hair, was as neatly groomed as his body. His forehead was high with thick brown brows which were set above intelligent brown eyes framed with white lashes.

Glancing at his watch, Grover wondered what could be keeping JoMarie. She should have been here by now, he thought. There’s nothing to be concerned about, I’ll propose, and that will be that.

Jo Marie arrived just before dusk had faded into a blanket of blackness. The fading light flickered through the bare branches, casting reddish streaks in her brown hair. She was pretty, with large hazel eyes set on an oval face and a generous mouth. A navy blue Chaus suit complimented her petite body. Black suede pumps and a beaded Chanel bag showed her exquisite taste in clothing. She walked onto the balcony, a waft of Chanel No. 5 preceding her. She stiffly sat in the chair he offered her.

Tea?

She nodded. Grover busied himself with the task at hand, pouring two cups of hot tea into thick brown mugs. The autumn wind that blew against the awning carried the scent of rain. JoMarie shivered.

You’re cold? We can have tea in the library.

I’m fine. She gave her tea a desultory stir.

You’re probably wondering why I invited you here tonight .

Her hands were never still. She played with the diamonds in her ring and repeatedly adjusted her skirt.

Well…sort of…I mean…

JoMarie, we’ve been seeing each other for some time now…and…well… He stopped abruptly, his face turning bright red. He’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror for hours, rehearsing every word he would say. Now he felt naked, stripped to the soul.

Grover, don’t spoil our relationship.

He reached out and gently brushed a wisp of hair from her face. How can I convince you that we’re right for each other?

She sat silently, staring past the iron railing of the balcony. The mist rose over the mountains making them look like a volcano. JoMarie stirred the sugar in her warm tea and took another sip.

You’re wonderful, Grover, she began thoughtfully, but—

But you don’t trust men, JoMarie. We’ve been through this before.

I can’t put my trust in a man, Grover. She set her cup on the glass table, her slender hands trembled.

She was afraid of intimate relationships, she had been honest with him from the beginning. She had told Grover they could never be more than friends. If he insists on more than I can give then what? She wondered.

He gazed into her hazel eyes, his undying love for her obvious. Look at me and tell me you don’t love me.

She tried to pull away, but Grover persisted. Tell me, JoMarie.

Her silence answered him.

You can’t, can you? he asked after a few moments. Head resting on the back of the wicker chair, eyes closed, she nodded. The silence continued. Finally, he said, JoMarie, talk to me, tell me what you’re thinking.

Grover, I love you, but I can never marry you. She dabbed at tears that she had tried to hold in check since her arrival.

What? he asked, harshly. We can have a lifetime of happiness together, JoMarie! Don’t throw what we have away.

It isn’t you, Grover it’s… She dropped the heavy mug and jumped as it shattered into tiny pieces.

Grover seemed about to speak, then with a shrug, he pulled her into his arms and rested her head against his broad shoulder.

Finally, Grover broke the silence. Honey, you can talk about it if you want.

She tried not to cry, but he was so compassionate, and she couldn’t control the tears. He stood quietly, his strong arms around her. She wept inconsolably; he wept with her. There was silence, except for the weeping.

Grover, for a long time now I’ve wanted to tell you about my past, but I haven’t known how to begin.

There aren’t rules to govern how you relate events form your historic memory, JoMarie. Tell your story slowly, beginning with your childhood, seeing everything as if it’s happening right now.

When she began, she spoke slowly, leaning against Grover. My Dad woke me up before dawn—

He interrupted: What are your feelings about your Dad, JoMarie?

Startled she looked at him, Are you dumb? I don’t know?

He asked again, What are your feelings?

She looked at him for a long time. I used to hate him…but now I don’t know.

There was silence except for the melodious cry of a dove.

Images of my childhood drift past my mind when I go to visit my old neighborhood. I grew up at 221 North 7th Street, a predominantly black neighborhood on the east side of town. It was basically a quiet community, except on Friday and Saturday nights. Most fathers let off steam at one of the four bars on 7th street. My Dad spent evenings, either drinking or cheating with women.

How do you know your father cheated?

I’m getting to that, if you’d hold on, JoMarie snapped. Where was I? Yes. It was just before dawn, my favorite time of day, when everything is still, and the sun’s rays peek beneath the clouds, lighting the earth like red coals. Everyday I would run to the window to embrace the beauty as it unfolded before me. But not on this particular morning .

Dabbing at her eyes. Then she continued, telling her story as if it were unfolding around her.

CHAPTER 2

The Night Before It Happened, I could hear an argument coming from Mama and Daddy’s room, just off the kitchen. Their voices were muffled, but I sensed it was bad.

Daddy came into my room and shook me roughly.

Were you scared? asked Grover.

Of course I was afraid, wouldn’t you be? Anyway, I said, What’s wrong, Daddy?

He told me it was time to go. He had a new family, so me, Juliette, and my Mama have to find a place to live.

Just like that. No warning or anything.

Did you leave?

Mama was pregnant, so she begged daddy not to put us out until after the baby was born.

Did he? Let you, your Mama, and sister stay, I mean.

We stayed, Grover, but my life was miserable. Daddy made it plain that he didn’t love me or Mama. I don’t think a day passed without him reminding me that his illegitimate daughter was pretty and I wasn’t. I grew up feeling ugly, and I suppose I carried this into my marriage.

It’s getting cold out here, JoMarie. I’ll build a fire, then we’ll talk some more, OK?

He patted her knee and led her into the study. While he busied himself with building the fire, she walked around the mahogany paneled room, her eyes expertly sweeping over plush, burgundy carpet and rich, upholstered leather chairs. The ornate oak desk was flanked by framed portraits of an elderly, distinguished looking couple, whom JoMarie assumed were his parents. Built-in bookshelves boasted an assortment of Bibles and reference materials. Crossing the large room to the stained glass window, she could easily imagine the sounding of church bells.

JoMarie felt warm and welcome in the artistically decorated room. She allowed her mind to wander. Would it be so bad to be married to Grover T. Scott? She looked into Grover’s brown eyes.

Are you hungry, JoMarie? He asked so softly, she had to strain her ears to hear. Their eyes locked; she was the first to look away.

No, tea will be fine.

Grover smiled. You’re absolutely certain I can’t get you anything to eat? JoMarie shook her head. Are you ready to continue?

She carefully placed the heavy mug on the table. I’m not sure, she said, a note of anxiety in her voice. I don’t know if I can relive all the trauma.

Shhh…Listen to me, JoMarie. You can do it.

She was quiet for awhile.

I suppose it is possible to bare my soul, to make an attempt… she paused again, as if reflecting. Yes, I will make the attempt to purge my soul of years of resentment and bitterness.

Grover said nothing. It was quiet in the room, except for the gentle sound of rain and the logs sputtering in the fireplace, filling the air with the fragrant scent of pine.

Her hands were shaking as her soul cried: Ugly. Grover doesn’t love you. Look in the mirror, you’ll see.

She clenched her hands to stop the shaking.

I was happy. In two months I would be in junior high. I would be accepted for who I was, not how I looked. Megs, the new school that I would be attending, will be on the East side of town, away from the old schoolmates who teased and called me names. This year, everything will be better for me.

After school let out for the summer, Mama wrapped my hair. So it won’t break off, she said.

Wrapping as it was called in the South, was nothing more than parting hair into tiny sections and tying strips of socks around each section, three hours covering the entire head. Sitting on the hard, tiled floor for hours was exhausting.

Colored folks in Nashville are citified, Mama complained as she parted and greased my hair. They don’t know nothing about taking care of—

Ouch! I screamed, as Mama pulled the strings too tightly around my hair.

Oh for goodness sake, JoMarie, sit still. You’re behaving like a baby.

Mama, why do you wrap my hair and not Juliette’s?

Gimme, gimme, Mama said, pointing a plump finger at the pile of strips on the floor.

She scratched her head. Because you’ve got a different grade of hair, JoMarie. If it ain’t tended to like it should, it’ll break. And—

Not necessarily—

Hush up and listen, JoMarie. You’re always running your mouth! Now, where was I? Yes…. Your sisters have a good grade. They don’t need as much care as yours, no hot combing or nothing.

Mama, I’m in junior high now. I’m too old for this

Take your pick, gal: strings on your head, or short nappy hair?

But Mama, I—

JoMarie, you ain’t got looks going for you, so the least you can do is let me grow your hair!

Mama, somebody will think I’m beautiful someday, I know they will.

It was midnight; the chimes sounded from the church and JoMarie could hear their music playing. JoMarie suddenly got up and went to the narrow window that looked out over the mountains. She knew if she could stick her head out the window and look to the east, she’d probably be able to see the Tennessee River.

I don’t know if it’s a good idea to talk about my past, Grover. There was a note of sadness in JoMarie’s voice.

Healing comes when the wound is validated, JoMarie. This can happen through exposition—

What are you saying? You’re asking me to make my hurts public?

Calm down, JoMarie. Grover rose and held her in his arms. I’m not asking you to expose your life to the world.

I’m sorry, Grover. It’s just that…

No need for explanations, he said. After all, it’s tough talking about things you’ve tried to forget for years.

JoMarie hesitated for a moment. You’re right, of course, but I must continue for my children’s sake.

Grover nodded vigorously, his thick gray hair falling across his forehead. He pushed it back. Are you ready to continue?

She nodded. I had so many conflicts, but the main ones were internal.

You don’t have to do this if—

Shh don’t say anything, Grover. The only request I have is that you be here for me. JoMarie began to pace again. The logs in the fireplace had turned to embers. I noticed that Dad treated my siblings differently. She hesitated.

Honey, remember to tell your story as if it were happening now.

She began again, speaking, as if it were in the present.

Daddy, I need five dollars. I fearfully shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

What you need money for, gal? Daddy asked, a slight sneer in his voice.

I need a gym suit for school, Daddy.

Are you trying to tell me, he asked, wiping tobacco spittle from his chin with the back of his right hand, that you want money for a…whatever you call it?

Yes, but—

Daddy held up his hand to interrupt. No buts. He picked up a bag of feed, and began sprinkling it among the chickens. He was having trouble with the seed because of the brisk autumn wind. No sooner had he pulled a handful of grain out of his pouch, than it blew away, landing on the daffodils and honeysuckle.

Stop feeding the chickens, I said testily, and give me the money! I was sorry as soon as the words left my mouth; I wanted to retract them, but it was too late. I looked into Daddy’s brown eyes and saw pinpoints of ice, behind bushy lashes. He was a short man, maybe 5-foot-6 or so, but today he appeared tall.

I didn’t mean it, I said, flinching. I lowered my eyes and counted the spots on Daddy’s run-over work boots.

He cleared his throat and turned his back to stare out at the fields. It’s harvest time, need to pick the beans and bring in the corn. Ain’t got time for fussing and fighting.

Daddy, I—

Shut up! I ought to knock your ugly butt, clear across the fields! You is about the ugliest thing I ever seen. Within space the of a second, Daddy’s fist connected with my face. If you cry, I’ll kill you. Understand?

I nodded, shivering in fear. Daddy, please! I put my hand to my face and felt blood oozing down.

Daddy raised his hand to strike again, but stopped when he heard noises coming from the direction of the fields. Daddy stood, his hand in mid-air. Who’s there? he called into the dusk.

The noises stopped and Rollo, my cocker spaniel, came racing across the lawn. He leapt into my arms, and lapped the blood from my face.

Too late, did I realize what I had done. Daddy knocked Rollo out of my hands, and onto the ground, where he proceeded to kick the life out of Rollo. This was my punishment for speaking out-of-line.

I screamed, You’ve killed him, Daddy!

That’ll teach you a lesson, he said, his voice low and menacing. Don’t you ever talk back to me again.

The wind was really blowing now, and the rain fell, adding to the pool of blood where Rollo lay.

You’d better git up to the house, Daddy said, as if nothing had happened. It’s raining hard now.

I sat on the ground, holding Rollo in my arms. Why? Why? I couldn’t understand how anybody could be this cruel. As dusk faded into a blanket of blackness I didn’t move. The aroma of fried chicken wafted past, yet I sat.

What goes around, comes around, Daddy, I muttered.

CHAPTER 3

During the hot summer months, when my sister Juliette and I worked in the fields, Mama served a hearty breakfast that would hold us until lunchtime. She fried chicken and poured thick brown gravy over it. She also packed a basket full of goodies: green apples, fried potatoes and garlic, fresh yellow corn, and fried green tomatoes in white sauce. Her biscuits were hot and fluffy; We sopped them in maple syrup and butter, and gobbled them down.

With cold biscuits and fried potatoes packed in a tin bucket, Juliette and I would leave the big house before dawn lifted its dark veil to cast colorful magic on the green meadows. We walked hand in hand across 2 1/2 acres of cultivated bottom land. Like a shiny blue ribbon, a creek cut evenly through the earth. A lone bird dipped its beak into the water, as butterflies flitted here and there. Sunflowers grew abundantly, their tiny heads drawn toward the awakening sky. Honeysuckle and clusters of jasmine filled the air with a fragrance like the sachets in Mama’s chest of drawers.

Juliette and I worked hard, picking turnips and greens, pulling corn and okra. At noon, when the sun peeked behind the pine trees and reflected off boulders, we ate lunch. On this particular day we sat under one of the mulberry bushes, eating and fanning flies and bugs, wiping sweat away with the backs of our bleeding and sore hands.

It’s a shame that Daddy makes us work so hard, isn’t it? Juliette asked, waving corn shucks in front of her to stir the air. She had thick black hair, a fair complexion, and intelligent brown eyes. She was younger than me by almost four years.

I nodded. I know what you mean.

Another thing I noticed, Juliette said, leaning forward and brushing the hair out of her eyes, is how differently we are treated. Daddy doesn’t love us. She fell silent.

No, I don’t think he does, I said.

She paused again as if reflecting, then she added, JoMarie, I was hiding in the bushes that day Daddy beat you and killed Rollo. I saw everything. That’s why….

That’s why you know I’m not wanted. Is that what you’re trying to say, Juliette?

Juliette nodded vigorously, her hair again falling across her forehead. She raised her right hand and brushed it back. Sure. That’s what I’m saying.

I never mentioned it before, but I overheard Mama and Daddy talking.

Were they talking about me? Juliette asked, leaning forward.

I looked at Juliette. Her small face was pale, the color of ashes. Juliette, why don’t you lie down under the shade tree, and I’ll finish up.

Stop putting me off, JoMarie, she said testily, and answer my question.

Well, Mama told Daddy that she was pregnant again, and Daddy said he hoped the new baby wasn’t as ugly as JoMarie or as sickly as Juliette.

Juliette groaned. I had to ask.

Listen to me, Juliette: You’ll grow up to be strong and healthy. Then Daddy will choke on his words, you wait and see.

Juliette didn’t seem to hear me. She was staring into the sky, despite the intense sunlight.

Do you really believe I’ll be healthy someday? she asked.

Of course.

Promise?

I promise, and—

That’s enough, JoMarie. I’ll be fine, because of you.

Yes, Juliette. You’ll be fine.

Sipping lukewarm tea and munching on day-old bread, JoMarie and Grover sat listening to strains of gospel music coming from a nearby house. It was 4:00 in the morning and Grover was tired, but determination kept him awake.

I must keep JoMarie talking so she can gain insight into her problems. She’s the woman of my dreams, but I know we can never marry if she keeps this inside.

I’m not sure, Grover.

I’m sure enough for both of us. We’ve been drinking tea all night, should I make coffee?

JoMarie nodded.

Grover went into the kitchen and carefully measured the coffee. When he came back, JoMarie was staring out the window once again.

Interesting view, Grover said.

JoMarie’s jaw went slack as she stared vacantly at Grover.

Did I startle you? he asked sympathetically.

Oh, no. I’m fine.

Cream? he asked, pouring the thick liquid into mugs.

No, just black. JoMarie held tightly to the mug, as if it held healing powers.

Grover walked to the fireplace, turning his back on the room, staring into the ashes. The fire has died, he said. There’s nothing but ashes left.

I’m ready.

What? Grover said, looking back over his shoulder.

I’m ready to continue.

Grover stared at JoMarie, his eyes asking a silent question.

Don’t worry, she said, smoothing the wrinkled pleats of her wool skirt. I’ll be fine.

To really begin to understand how I happened to get in my uncle Lloyd’s car, you’ve got to try to picture how it was in the 50’s, an era of almost total trust in family members. If it sounds crazy, then I suppose things were a bit different then. If you were touched in places you shouldn’t be, we called it love and affection. We didn’t know any better, or at least I didn’t.

I was waiting on the bus the morning it happened. I had just landed a job as a maid on Saturdays and after school. Sixteen years old, making $1 an hour, I was feeling pretty good.

I glanced at the luminous dial on my watch: 8:30. I thought. What’s taking the bus so long? I’ll be late for work, if it doesn’t get here soon.

A man stepped onto the bus depot. He was tall and stood hunched forward as though suffering from back trauma. His deep-set green eyes held a menacing glare. A scar on his right cheek was like a sharp hook. He said, What time does the bus come?

I could feel tiny hairs rise on the nape of my neck. It’s due now.

You from around here? He pointed a stubby finger, with grime under the nails, in the air.

Why doesn’t the bus come, I wondered again. Yes, up the street. And you?

He cleared his throat. Naw, I’m from nowhere.

How do you spell that? I said, looking for the bus or anything to get me out of this situation.

Spell what? he asked.

Nowhere—the place you’re from.

He burst into laughter, which softened his hard features and made him look younger than I thought, maybe 40-ish. I’m from nowhere in particular.

A blue sedan pulled up to the curve. Lloyd Bakker stuck his head out the window. Hey, JoMarie, need a ride?

I’d never been so happy to see anybody. Sure, Uncle Lloyd, I said, sliding onto the velvet seat.

I saw that old dude trying to talk to you, Uncle Lloyd said. His voice was a strong one that didn’t seem to fit his small frame. He turned his head slightly and stared at me from gray eyes beneath rather sparse, almost colorless white lashes. His narrow features folded themselves into a lot of small wrinkles. His dark skin seemed to be thick and leathery. You can never be too careful these days.

I nodded. You don’t have to take me to work, Uncle Lloyd. It’s too far.

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he spoke quietly, probably in his best deacon’s fashion. No, I don’t, now do I?

Surprised I looked at him. What do you mean? Are you taking me to work?

Uncle Lloyd glanced at me and then looked back at the road. No, I’m not.

I didn’t speak, but he read the reaction on my face. I fumbled for the handle on the door, but I was too late. He reached across me. Move away from the door. His voice was low and threatening. This was a side of him I’d never seen before.

The sudden undercurrent of rage in Uncle Lloyd’s voice roared against my consciousness, causing me to shrink into the seat. Where’re you taking me, Uncle Lloyd? I was suspicious and scared. I’d heard tales about the Bakker boys, Daddy’s brothers, and their incestuous relationships but I had never thought it would happen to me. He had never ever paid me any attention when he’d come to the house. I was the ugliest one in the family, I was told. They would line us girls up every Sunday afternoon after dinner and my uncles and Dad would vote on who was the blackest, ugliest, and goofiest—I always won the ugly prize.

I felt