Excerpts of My Work

little girl

I done flew out my body.

The sheriff didn’t even get out the car.

I just got back home from going to meet Mosella up at the stop sign at the crossroads. But she wasn’t there. 

Only Rev. Nathan with the sheriff. 

Rev. Nathan say sit down. Patted my hand and tried to get me to sit on the church steps, but I shook my head. He say our Mosella is dead and gone.  

I just looked back and forth. 

Rev. Nathan stood there like he was waiting on me to say something and the sheriff sat there in patrol car with his hands on the steering wheel looking straight ahead like he didn’t know what to do.

I ain’t say nothing to either of them. Not a mumbling word.

How can Mosella be dead, Sister? She ain’t nothing but a little girl.

Just a little girl.

Mine and Mose little girl.

They ain’t even see who it was. 

They ain’t even see who did it. 

Ain’t nobody could stop it from happening?

Death and a little girl ain’t supposed to go together. Not in words in this letter. Not in real life words neither. 

Not like anything. 

Not Mosella.

Not the same Mosella God gave me and Mose when we wasn’t even supposed to be able to have a child in the first place. 

But since when is life like it’s supposed to be? 

This ain’t right. 

It’s too much on me. It’s too much on me. It’s too much on me.

Sister, all of this is just too much.

Mosella is just a little girl.

There wasn’t no signs. Wasn’t any blackbirds outside. Didn’t no rabbits cross the road in front of us when me and Mosella was walking up to the church. 

It done been storming all week, pouring down. But it stopped. The sun was finally out. No clouds in the sky. The day was supposed to be just like every other day. 

Me and Mosella got up, ate our grits and bacon, washed the dishes and then we walked up to the stop sign. She walked to the church in one direction and I walked to Mrs. Melba’s house in the other. 

You know Mosella had her sewing club meeting up at the church this morning. And Mrs. Melba had her bridge game brunch.

Mosella was supposed to go sew and I was supposed to go make finger sandwiches, sponge cake, and sweet tea with a little sneak of gin for Mrs. Melba and her friends.  

If that woman don’t do nothing else she gone play cards and drink her sneaky tea. 

That was supposed to be our day. Mosella sewing and me making sneaky tea.

We didn’t have nothing else to do after that except get ready for church tomorrow. Church is good. Mosella’s sewing is good.

How could something bad just show up and trick us like ths?

They say when Mosella was getting ready to cross the road this car just swerved around the corner and jumped the ditch and struck her down. 

Say the little tote bag she carried went one way and she went the other. They say nobody even saw the car coming and soon as that car saw they hit our Mosella they drove off fast as they could and didn’t stop. They say she never moved after that.

Ain’t nobody even see who it was. They was too busy watching Mosella fall down in the mud like a little puppy that ain’t know it can’t be in the road.

And that’s all they say.

All they say.

No pain. No sound. 

Nothing.

The doctor say to my face that Mosella probably didn’t realize anything was happening at all.  Not a thing.

Like that’s supposed to make it any better. 

Like that’s supposed to make up for the fact that car just mowed her down and kept going.

The sheriff finally got out that car and walked with me and Rev. Nathan the quarter mile up the road to the church.

Shole nuff Mosella was there stretched out. 

Nobody had even tried to move her body. 

In all my years, I done seen everything except between Jesus toes, but the sight of that baby laid out in the road like a torn up rag doll, closed up my throat and turned my stomach.

Just a little girl.

The tire marks made deep markings in the road. And Mosella was sunk down in them like she was supposed to be right there. Like she ain’t never been no place on earth, but right there in that mud. 

Right there in that mud.

Her eyes was wide open and shiny. Her dress was torn and twisted up, and one of her shoes was in the middle of the road. 

Can’t nobody say nothing to me. 

Can’t nobody tell me how to be right now.

Soon as I saw her, I snatched up that shoe, took off running and came and locked myself in the house before anybody could say anything else to me. 

Thought I did. 

I saw Mosella stretched out in the almost mud. I saw myself shaking her. I saw myself yelling over her to get up. 

I saw myself running with that shoe. 

Then I see myself laid out in the road with Mosella’s shoe in my hand.

I want you to come get me out the road, but you too far away from here to do that. 

You long gone away from here.  

Long gone. 

Did I hear somebody call out Mosella’s name?

Wait, was that Mosella?

Or was it mine?

Did they make a mistake?

Sister?

The sheriff came knocking but I ain’t answer. 

Rev. Nathan was with him. 

 I saw it all. Mosella dead. Me yelling over her. Me laid out in the road. The men from the church picking me up and bringing me in the house. The women putting me in the bed.

But I ain’t stay in the bed. 

The sheriff just laid Mosella’s other shoe and the little bag she made on the front steps and left. Rev. Nathan stayed a little longer and talked at me through the door. 

I just laid on the floor in front of the door listening to him say what he had to say.

Say they done already called up to the factory in Chicago where Mose is and they let him know what happened. Say he’s on his way back here and that the sheriff looking for the man that ran over our Mosella. 

When Mose do get back here, he or one of the men from the lodge will bring Mose to the house himself and for me not to worry about anything right now. 

He say they gonna pick Mosella up and take her to the Negro funeral parlor and leave her there so folks don’t come and stare and talk too much.

But the folks at the church must  already been standing out looking and talking when I got there. I can’t remember, but I must have seen them.

Mosella laid out. Me yelling at her. Me in the road. And around the church folks looking but not moving. At least they had sense enough to get the little kids out the way. 

Ain’t none of them see I don’t think. 

At least I ain’t see them.

 Even so and still with all that fabric up there to sew nobody even tried to cover Mosella up or show respect to her being out there dead. 

How could they just stand and stare with all that fabric in the church?

Calico. Silk strips in small pieces. Muslin. Burlap. Negro cloth.

And ain’t nobody think to cover her up.

Rev. Nathan left.

I went outside, and picked up Mosella’s shoe and her bag.

Mosella. Me laid out in the road. The men bringing me to the house. The women putting me in my bed.

Ain’t no telling when Mose gonna make it back here from Chicago. It could take days for all I know. And untelling what might happen to his job. My brain just ain’t ready to even think on it anymore. 

I would just rather be here by myself anyway, if y’all ain’t here.

Laid out again.

Can’t move off the floor.

Can’t finish.

I’m just holding Mosella’s bag in my lap. She made it from the little dress that she got too big for last year. The one with the flowers and the stripes that you got for her birthday when she was a little bitty girl. 

Remember?

I fold that bag one way then another. 

I’m just rubbing that fabric, smelling it, and counting the drops of blood I see on it.

One.Two. Three. Fourfivesixeseven. Wait. One. Okay. Two. Okay. Three.

 I stop. Some so little they ain’t even a drop. And I said I was only counting drops, not sprinkles.

How to decide what’s a drop or a sprinkle? 

Don’t need to keep count no way. I just keep starting over. 

I need to find something to do with myself. I have to do something else with my hands. 

I guess I should cry, but I ain’t got tears. My chest hurts and my mind keeps freezing up with pictures of Mosella from this morning. Her eating her grits. Her wiping her hands on the napkin after every bite of bacon. Her drinking her milk coffee with too much sugar. Her fixing her hair. Her waiting to me to hurry up.

I want to go and put her shoes in her closet. You know how neat she liked to keep her things. Then I thought I should get up and make something for Mose to eat but the chair is pulling me down and won’t let me up. 

I can’t fly to see everything like I did before. I can’t even lift my feet now.

I just keep repeating in my head, “Poor Mosella, my only child in this world, only 12. Now gone on a day that was just supposed to be a regular Saturday.”

Everybody sorry. So sorry for my loss. 

Sister, I been writing and writing and I ain’t heard from you. 

Now I am scared something may have happened to you, too.

Ain’t you around no more? You done left for good, too?

THE SERMON

I didn’t know why Mama was screaming and falling out at first. All I know is that I was scared. Daddy and John kept trying in vain to wake her up, but I knew something else was wrong. Mama used to have spells all the time. She would thrash on the floor for a few minutes before falling into a deep sleep. 

Mama hadn’t had one of those spells since Rev. James the Holy Baptist prayed over her during Revival last summer. All the Negro churches in the country got together and paid to bring him all the way down here to Mississippi from Chicago to speak for four nights in a row. Daddy never went to church, but Mama was on the committee that helped raise the money from our church for Rev. James the Holy Baptist to come. So Mama, John, and I got the seats closest to the pulpit. The middle row, second bench.

Even though he was about 60 years old, he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. He was small, but he had a muscular, fit body. I stared in amazement at the dark brown conk that remained perfectly coiffed, even when he removed his silk black and white hat. As he took off his hat, he shook his head, and his thick hair unfurled into waves that fell down his back. Each night, he wore a different pinstripe suit. Wednesday, he wore navy blue. Thursday, he wore burgundy. Friday, he wore black. 

Saturday, the day he healed Mama, he wore a bright white robe with gold brocade that dragged on the floor. “The BYE-bull tells us that there was a woman with an issue of blood,” he said, pacing the pulpit. “And she’d been bleeding for over 12 years. She spent all her money seeking healing from physicians across the land. Yet none of them could heal her. But as JEE-zus, who was on his way to heal the daughter of the leader of the synagogue, passed by her, the woman touched the hem of his garment and was immediately healed.

“Who touched me? JEEzus wanted to know, but no one could answer. So JEE-zus asked again. I felt some of my virtue leave my body, so I know somebody touched me. Who was it? The woman was afraid, but she threw herself at the feet of JEE-zus and admitted to JEE-zus that it was she who touched the hem of his garment and that just a touch, Woo! “ he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Just a touch healed her condition. Just a touch – Woo!

“And do you know what JEE-zus did next? He told her, ‘Daughter, be of good comfort: thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace.’ Who here tonight is in need of a healing? Who here tonight will step out on faith and lay their burdens on the altar of sacrifice? If you believe in the healing power of JEEz-us, let him heal you tonight.”

Rev. James the Holy Baptist looked directly into Mama’s face. “Won’t you trust him tonight, sister?” He held out his hand to her. “Won’t you trust him tonight?” 

Mama started to cry. I reached out to comfort her, but John pushed my hand back down and shook his head at me. Rev. James the Holy Baptist stepped down from the pulpit and walked over to Mama. “Trust him tonight, sister. You are a child of God. All it takes to be healed is just a touch.”

Mama stood up and walked toward Rev. James the Holy Baptist’s outstretched arms. Wailing and shaking, she fell forward into his embrace. “Thank you, Jesus,” she wept into his expensive suit. “Thank you, Lord.”

Rev. James the Holy Baptist gently put his hand on top of Mama’s head and pushed her down toward the floor. She knelt before him with her hands stretched up to God. 

“Just a touch, sister, is all it takes. Who here trusts JEE-zus to heal this woman tonight?”

Amens and loud weeping filled the sanctuary as the piano began to play “I Have Decided to Follow Jesus.”  Rev. James the Holy Baptist looked down at Mama, who was now rocking back and forth on her haunches, “Just a touch is all it takes. Touch the hem of this holy garment,” he held out the bottom of his robe for Mama to touch.

Mama reached out slowly. She was shaking so much I could see her quivering from where I sat forward on the edge of the church pew. She grabbed the robe, running her fingers along the hem back and forth. Rev. James the Holy Baptist then reached down and snatched Mama up to her feet. He pushed her down onto the front bench. “In the name of mighty JEE-zus, I declare this woman healed by the grace of God!”

Daddy said it was all a scam to get money from poor farmers and broken-hearted country folk who didn’t know any better. He said there was a white man doing the same thing to the Southern Baptists across town, except his name was Rev Jude the Holy Baptist. When Mama said she knew in her heart that God healed her, Daddy said the only thing that got healed was the two Reverend’s pockets. Still, Mama’s spells really did seem to stop. After getting healed, she went from having one or two a week to none at all. 

It was strange enough for this spell to come out of the blue, but this one was much different. In the past, when she had those spells, she slept soundly for about 5 minutes or so.

But not this time. This time, she sat straight up in bed and started fighting and punching the air like she was swatting away the wood wasps that sometimes tried to bite us when we were helping Daddy stack wood on the woodpile.

  “In the name of Jesus,” she yelled at us, “I bind thee in the name of Jesus.” She waved her arms. She fell back down on the bed, but she still didn’t wake up. Daddy again tried to shake her awake, but her eyes remained tightly closed.

  “The fool hath said in his heart there is no God, but I say unto all under that sound of my voice that God sees and hears us all. He sits high and looks low,” Mama raised up on her pillow, her eyes still closed. “Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked,” Falling back down on the bed, Mama beat her fists on the bed. “ He will NOT be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. No man is above this natural order.!” Mama’s mouth curled up into a smile. “Thank you, Jesus.” 

Before he went with John to the field, Daddy told me to watch her and to come get him if anything else happened, but Mama slept for the rest of the day.

  When it was time for dinner, she walked into the kitchen like nothing happened. She looked at me, “ Well, I was hoping to find the okra already washed, cut up, and ready to fry, but I guess I’ll just do it myself. Bithia, you feeling all right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I eyed Mama’s face, looking for signs of her spell. She looked the same with high cheekbones, a wide nose, and large almond-shaped eyes. Her skin, normally a deep brown the shade of pecan shells, was still flawless. She furrowed her thick brows and stared at me.

“I don’t even see the table set, Bithia. What have you been doing all day?”

I didn’t know what to say. I’d been sitting by her bed the whole time she slept, not even going to the bathroom, but the moment I got up to stretch my legs, she woke up.

Our house was small. We only had a front room that doubled as a kitchen, a small bedroom off the left side of the kitchen, and then a back bedroom with a door that led out into our backyard. Our backyard was full of pear, pecan peach, and wild apple trees. Beyond that was the outhouse and a ditch that led into the cotton field where Daddy and John worked the land for Mr. Shooks. 

Mama shook her head at me and went to the back door. I followed her, looking for any signs of the spell she just had. Mama still walked the same, slightly pigeon-toed and knock-kneed. She put her hand on her hips, looking out across the field. Daddy and John were finishing up the planting of a tiny vegetable garden just off to the side of the cotton.  It was just beginning to get dark earlier, and the evenings were growing cooler and cooler. That meant it was time to plant broccoli, potatoes, and cauliflower. 

It also meant that soon, Mr. Shooks would come to the house to settle up with Mama and Daddy. He was a tall man, but Daddy still towered over him. Mr. Shooks never went further than the front porch, but he always plopped down on the bench Mama and I sat on when we shelled peas or talked quietly to one another, discussing things that went on in the world. I didn’t like him sitting on our bench.

The original agreement was that after 15 years of planting, harvesting, and replenishing the soil, the small, almost-acre of land would be theirs. But that was almost ten years ago. Mama and Daddy had worked the land for 24 years, and next year, they would make 25. Each year, Mr. Shooks showed up with a pencil and a piece of paper, explaining to Daddy how the figures on it meant that he and Mama owed a little bit more than the crops they brought in were worth or that the cost of bringing in supplies from Greenwood had gone up. 

Even if Mama and Daddy did owe a little bit of money, it couldn’t have been that much that it would take an entire year to pay off. Mama worked as a cook and housemaid for Mrs. Shooks a few days out of the week, and Mrs. Shooks paid better than any of the other white people in town. Everybody said so.

“It’s really not fair,” Mr. Shooks would say, “but I don’t know what else to tell y’all. Truth is, y’all been real good to the land and are one of the few Nigra families that actually pays on time. But it can’t be helped. Maybe work one more year, and then the land can be yours. I don’t expect it will be that much over the way y’all been working, and I am not going to make a bother over just a few pennies.” 

Daddy always nodded at Mr. Shooks, but after the white man got back on his sway-back horse and clodded up the road, Daddy said the same thing to Mama, “That man would steal the air out his mama’s nose if he thought it would make it easier for him to breathe. And he stays at the church house.”

I studied Mr. Shooks’ face as he spoke to Daddy and cut his eyes at Mama. His hair was jet black, too black for his greying eyebrows, and his teeth jumbled in his mouth so that when he spoke, white spittle pooled in the corners of his mouth. His thin mustache was jet black, too. John said that was because he dyed his hair, trying to look like a movie star. But Mr. Shooks was far from a movie star. I’d never seen a movie, but to me, he looked like a mosquito dressed up as a human with his long, bony arms and pointy nose. Plus, he had six fingers on his left hand. When John was a little boy, he asked Mr. Shooks why he had that extra finger. He said, “That’s how God made me, and if he gave me that extra finger, he musta wanted me to have it.”

Of course, Mr. Shooks and his sixth finger must have looked pretty good to somebody. Mama and Miss Ellen delivered a baby near the county line a few weeks ago that surely could’ve been his. Miss Ellen usually came by and got Mama to help her when the baby came out breach, if the woman was expecting twins, or if there was otherwise trouble bringing the baby into the world. 

 On the way there, Miss Ellen told us the woman was Abigail, the maid for a family called Scoffield. The Scoffields had a daughter John’s age, and she was Mr. Shooks’ mistress. But even more scandalous was that Abigail’s baby had the exact same pointy nose as Mr. Shooks and six fingers on the left hand. Abigail was only 12, and her baby took a day and a half to come out bawling and kicking his legs. After that, Abigail fell sick with a fever that wouldn’t seem to break. Mama and Miss Ellen sat changing out bandages and keeping Abigail closed up under the blankets so that she could sweat out the fever. For hours, Mama kept Abigail under warm blankets and fed her sassafras tea while Miss Ellen tended to the six-finger baby. 

“Ain’t but one left hand like that in the county,” Miss Ellen said when we finally started on the way back home.

But for now, we had time to work the land in peace. 

Mama watched Daddy and John for a few more minutes. “We may as well make a quick dinner. I’ll fry up some okra, and you cut up the rest of the cheese. And I guess we can warm those biscuits,” she paused, smoothing her dress. “May as well fry a few apples, too. So much of the day got away from me, we will have to hurry.”

“Mama,” I ventured softly, “Do you remember what happened earlier today?”

Mama stopped chopping the okra and looked at me. “Yes, I told you to have the okra ready and the table set before you went to the shop to find materials for your school dress. But I don’t see the material or those chores done,” Mama walked to the front door and gazed at the porch through the screen door. “At least I see you swept.” 

I watched Mama as she cut the okra into small, perfect rounds while the grease heated on the stove. The stove was what kept the books off balance last year and got us another year working the land this time. 

Last year, after Mr. Shooks left and we all went to bed, John whispered to me across the room, “Now, I know my figures pretty good, and I kept a list of all the things Daddy and Mama got at the store,” he said. “Shooks is a lying old buzzard.”

“Did you tell Daddy?”

“Yeah, I told him. He told me to keep that to myself and to don’t say nothing to nobody about it. So, I told Mama, hoping she would talk some sense into Daddy. And you know what she told me?” John leaned over the side of his bed, his eyes shining in the moonlight. “She told me that when the time was right for us to have this land, that God would give it to us. She told me to go read Ecclesiastes 3.”