The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [76]
I couldn’t hold back the tears.
“I’ll go get Daddy.”
I shook my head no.
“Please, Mama. We’ll make Jerseybell better. Sing. That makes everything better. Sing with me.”
The river is deep and the river is wide, Hallelu . . . jah.
Milk and honey on the other side, Hallelu . . . jah.
Michael row the boat ashore, Hallelu . . . jah!
Mary’s voice filled the barn. The music was so tender, and in my mind I saw the words drift out the barn door and float over the Badlands like a fine linen bedsheet, set loose and free. I began to say the words.
Jordan’s river is chilly and cold, Hallelu . . . jah.
Chills the body but not the soul, Hallelu . . . jah.
My tears easing up, we sang for Jerseybell. We sang for each other, and we sang for ourselves, the music comforting like a visit with an old friend. We sang the songs from my childhood when going to church was handy.
What a friend we have in Jesus,
all our sins and griefs to bear.
What a privilege to carry
everything to God in prayer.
Other songs came from the sugarcane fields of Louisiana.
I looked over Jordan, what did I see
Comin’ for to carry me home?
A band of angels comin’ after me
Comin’ for to carry me home.
I was the wife of a rancher and I had my own house, a wood house. But I wanted to leave. I was looking over Jordan. I wanted to go home, where everything was bound to be better. My people sang about it. Maybe they wanted to go back across the ocean to where they had come from. Or maybe they looked to heaven. Same thing, I thought, once homesickness takes root. A person wanted to be anywhere but where she was.
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Comin’ for to carry me home.
Mary and I rested our voices while Jerseybell’s breath came hard and raspy. Somewhere in the barn, crickets made their own kind of music and field mice rustled in the scattered straw.
“Mama, these songs are sad.”
“Well. They’re slave songs mostly. Nothing to be happy about when you’re a slave.”
“Oh.”
“But Mary, lots of music’s fun; lots of it cheers you up. You know that from school.”
“Miss Elliott doesn’t like us being overly happy.”
“And she’s right about that. School’s hard work. But there’s lots of music that perks you right up.”
“Like which ones?”
“I don’t know, honey. Lots of them.” I looked over toward the open doorway. It was dark, long past bedtime. Getting up in the morning would be harder than usual. But there was something about the eager look on Mary’s face that made me want to please her. I blew out some air. “All right,” I said. “One more, this time a toe-tapping song.”
Mary smiled.
“Let’s see if I can remember some of the dance tunes that were popular.”
“Dance tunes? You danced?”
“Of course I danced. Back when I was a girl. I never was all that good—it was Johnny what could dance. All the women, even the old married ones, waited in line for him. Course, he didn’t do all that much dancing; he was mostly at the piano.”
“Oh.” Mary ducked her head. “Mama?” she said, not looking at me.
“What?”
“Daddy let me read the letter. He said I was old enough to know.”
Isaac should’ve told me. And then I thought that he did this so Mary would think bad of big cities. He wanted her scared of places like East St. Louis. And Chicago.
Mary said, “Why’d they hurt him that way?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Some people carry hate, looks like. They don’t need a reason to hurt somebody; they see their chance and they take it.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I know it.”
All at once, I recalled what Mrs. Fills the Pipe had said about soldiers—buffalo soldiers—and what they had done to her and her people. I thought about the Indian squaw with the little boy and how Isaac had run them off. I took a ragged breath. “You’ve got Uncle Johnny’s eyelashes,” I said to Mary. “His eyes, too.”
“I do?”
“That’s right, and you can count your lucky stars.”
Mary felt her eyelashes with her fingertips and then batted her eyes a few times. I smiled to myself. She said, “Was Uncle Johnny handsome?”
“Well,” I said, doing my best to remember the particulars of his face. It had been