Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [282]
Finally, the hired white preacher came out of the big house, followed by the massas and Missis MacGregor and Lea. They stopped in the backyard, the preacher clutching his Bible like a shield, and the suddenly quiet crowd of black people grouped stiffly a respectful distance away. As Matilda’s missis had planned it, the wedding would combine some of the white Christian wedding service with jumping the broom afterward. Guiding her rapidly sobering groom by one yellow sleeve, Matilda positioned them before the preacher, who cleared his throat and proceeded to read a few solemn passages from his Bible. Then he asked, “Matilda and George, do you solemnly swear to take each other, for better or worse, the rest of your lives?”
“I does,” said Matilda softly.
“Yassuh!” said Chicken George, much too loudly.
Flinching, the preacher paused and then said, “I pronounce you man and wife!”
Among the black guests, someone sobbed.
“Now you may kiss the bride!”
Seizing Matilda, Chicken George crushed her in his arms and gave her a resounding smack. Amid the ensuing gasps and tongue-clucking, it occurred to him that he might not be making the best impression, and while they locked arms and jumped the broom, he racked his brains for something to say that would lend some dignity to the occasion, something that would placate his slave-row family and win over the rest of those Bible toters. He had it!
“De Lawd is my shepherd!” he proclaimed. “He done give me what I wants!”
When he saw the stares and glares that greeted this announcement, he decided to give up on them, and the first chance he got, he slipped the bottle from his pocket and drained it dry. The rest of the festivities—a wedding feast and reception—passed in a blur, and it was Uncle Pompey who drove the Lea plantation’s wagon homeward through the sunset. Grim and mortified, Mammy Kizzy, Miss Malizy, and Sister Sarah cast malevolent glances at the spectacle behind them: the bridegroom snoring soundly with his head in the lap of his tearful bride, his green scarf askew and most of his face concealed under his black derby.
Chicken George snorted awake when the wagon jerked to a stop alongside their new cabin. Sensing groggily that he should beg everyone’s forgiveness, he began to try, but the doors of three cabins slammed like gunshots. But he wouldn’t be denied a last courtly gesture. Picking up his bride, he pushed open the door with one foot and somehow maneuvered both of them inside without injury—only to stumble with her over the tub of bathwater that still stood in the middle of the room. It was the final humiliation—but all was forgotten and forgiven when Matilda, with a shriek of joy, caught sight of her special wedding present: the highly lacquered, eight-day-winding grandfather clock, as tall as herself, that Chicken George had purchased with the last of his hackfight savings and hauled in the back of the wagon all the way from Greensboro.
As he sat bleary-eyed on the floor where he’d fallen, bathwater soaking his brand-new orange shoes, Matilda went over to him and reached out her hand to help him up.
“You come wid me now, George. I’m gwine put you to bed.”
CHAPTER 95
By daybreak, Chicken George was gone back down the road to his gamefowl. Then, about an hour after breakfast, Miss Malizy heard someone calling her name and, going to the kitchen door, she was startled to see the new bride, whom she greeted and invited inside.
“No’m, thank you,” said Matilda. “I jes’ wanted to ax whichaway is de fiel’ dey’s workin’ in today, an’ wherebouts can I fin’ me a hoe?”
A few minutes later, Matilda simply appeared and joined Kizzy, Sister Sarah, and Uncle Pompey in the day’s field work. Late that evening they all gathered about her in slave row, keeping her company until her husband got home. In the course of conversation, Matilda asked if any slave-row prayer meetings were held regularly, and when she was told that none were, proposed that one be made a part of each Sunday afternoon.