Church Folk - Michele Andrea Bowen [68]
Watching them go, Essie's anger ebbed and sadness crept in to replace it. Negroes had enough trouble in their lives— some, like the woman who had picked up the baby clothes, had trouble just keeping food on their tables. But even folks who were relatively comfortable like herself, her mother, Uncle Booker, Rose Neese, and Coral and D.S. Thomas, still had to fight just for their basic rights. Women like Mother Harold could draw all the lines they wanted to between who was worthy and who was not, but all of them were still just plain old coloreds to most white folk. The Klan didn't care if Mother Harold belonged to every Negro women's club in the South.
Essie felt too restless to get back to her sewing, so she decided to wash her hair. Something about washing her hair always made her feel better when she dealt with some mess. It felt like she was rubbing trouble right out of her brain.
Chapter Fifteen
SO WHAT ELSE BEEN GOING ON DOWN AT THE church, son?" Mr. Jarvis, a longtime member of Greater Hope, managed to say in between heavy spasms of coughing that drained his energy. He lay back on his pillows weakly but gestured for Theophilus to stay when he got up to call for the nurse. He reached for Theophilus's hand.
"Now what about that little fast gal you been counseling?" he asked.
"Who?"
"You . . . know . . ." Mr. Jarvis answered.
"Lillian Graves, Jr.?"
"Yeah, little Lillian," Mr. Jarvis said and drew a breath. "Lord, why did her crazy mama name her Lillian Graves, Jr.? The mama's name ain't no Lillian, it's Flossie Jean.
"Now, Theophilus," he continued. "Ain't nothing wrong with Flossie Jean's baby girl but she fast. Sixteen years old, smoking, drinking cheap liquor, staying out all night with some jive-time twenty-year-old boy who don't half work none, and then have the nerve to cuss out her mama . . ."
Mr. Jarvis sat up a bit. He knew he needed to stay quiet but he wanted to help Theophilus understand what he was dealing with, with some of those fools down at Greater Hope. He had been a part of that church all his life. And at eighty-eight, he knew what was up.
"See," he said, through a haggling cough. "Ahhhh . . . see . . . Theophilus, don't get all caught up in that mess with them peoples. Flossie Jean the one who really the trouble. See, she used to be something else, too. Man in, man out the bedroom. That's all that girl know. That's what the matter with her child. That Lillian."
He started coughing again, so shaken by the spasms that he had tears in his eyes. "This pain like some burning ache, running all which-a-way in my chest," he said, looking at Theophilus through watery eyes. "Reverend, start up a prayer and ask the Lord to give me some real relief . . ."
Theophilus took Mr. Jarvis's other hand in his and started praying. Before he got sick, Mr. Jarvis had been his top deacon in the church. It was he who had taught Theophilus how to minister to the sick and shut-ins, especially the members who were close to death. Seems like Mr. Jarvis had a gift for seeing a brother or sister to the doorway leading them home. Theophilus cleared his throat several times to hold back the tears. He knew Mr. Jarvis didn't have long, and he hated letting him go.
"Lord, this is the first time I have had to lead a prayer with Mr. Jarvis in tow. But this pain in him and this sickness got a hold on him, Lord, and he need for You to make it let go. He needs to be back on his feet, helping to cheer the sick and teaching those You are calling home not to be afraid. Give him the peace, O Lord, that he has brought to so many others. We thank you for your everlasting mercy, O God."
Theophilus expected Mr. Jarvis to say Amen. But Mr. Jarvis was lying back on his pillow with a look of utter contentment on his face. To his surprise, he noticed that Mr. Jarvis's hand was limp and let it go. How could Mr. Jarvis have slipped away from him so quickly and quietly? But then that was so like Mr. Jarvis—looking out for him,