Chapter 13 ALBD

NOT LONG AFTER the second bell rang at the church, I heard Miss Eloise Bouie out in the

road, calling my aunt. I went onto the porch and told her that my aunt was in the back. Miss

Eloise, tall and thin, stood in the road, leaning on her bamboo walking stick. She wore a long

black overcoat and a black hat with a white band. She was looking up the quarter. She said she

thought there was a new chill in the air, and I agreed with her. While she waited for my aunt, she

continued to look up the quarter, toward the church. I didn’t feel like standing out on the porch,

but I thought it would be rude to go inside and leave her in the road with no one to talk to. I

heard my aunt come into the house from the backyard. She was in her room only a moment

before she walked out on the porch. She wore the black coat over a black dress, white

stockings, and lowheeled black shoes. “Hey, there, Elou,” she called. “Hey,” Miss Eloise called

back. She really stretched it out. “Haaaaaaaay.” “Ain’t been waiting too long, I hope,” my aunt

said. “Just getting here,” Miss Eloise said. “Be sure you shut them doors if you leave from here,”

my aunt said to me. She was already halfway down the steps when she said it. She had not

looked at me. Years ago, she had quit looking at me when she was on her way to church. When

I came back from the university, I told her that I didn’t believe anymore and I didn’t want her to

try forcing it on me. If she did, I told her, then I would have to look for some other place to live.

She didn’t want me to leave, so she let me alone. Only occasionally, when she had some other

church member at the house, would she bring it up. Even then she wouldn’t press it too far. She

and Miss Eloise started up the quarter, one tall and slim, the other short and much heavier.

They stopped in front of Miss Emma’s house, and I heard my aunt calling her. “Em-ma? Hey,

there, Em-ma?” Miss Emma came out of the house, and the three of them continued on up to

the church together. I went back inside. I had started correcting papers a couple of hours earlier,

but I hadn’t done very much. On Sunday, my aunt began getting ready for church as soon as

she woke up, which was around six o’clock. Until eleven o’clock, there was nothing I could do
but listen to her singing her ’Termination song. Determination Sunday was the third Sunday of

each month, when members of the church would stand and sing their favorite hymns and tell the

congregation where they were determined to spend eternity. My aunt started warming up at six

in the morning, whether it was ’Termination Sunday or not, and didn’t quit until eleven, when she

walked out of the house. So I would be forced to put away the work until after she had gone, or I

would go for a walk through the quarter and back into the field. I sat at my table trying to correct

papers, but my mind kept drifting back to Friday. It had been dark when I returned to the quarter

from Bayonne. It was colder too; I could see sparks of fire rising out of chimneys. When I

stopped in front of Miss Emma’s house, Farrell Jarreau, who lived across the road, told me she

had gone to my aunt’s house. I said good night to him and went down the quarter. I recognized

Reverend Ambrose’s car, parked before the door. Now I felt a little guilty for getting back so late.

The three of them were in the kitchen drinking coffee, Reverend Ambrose, Miss Emma, and my

aunt. They were quiet, sitting in semidarkness. The only light in the kitchen came from the open

door of the stove. No one looked around when I came in, and Reverend Ambrose and Miss

Emma barely answered when I spoke their names. My aunt was completely silent. I went to the

icebox and took out the pitcher of water, and while I poured a glassful, I looked at the three of

them at the table. They were quiet, not even drinking their coffee now. “I’ll be in my room,” I said

to my aunt. “That’s all you got to say?” she snapped at me. “I spoke, Tante Lou.” “You know

what I’m talking about.” “He was all right,” I said. “That’s all?” my aunt said. “Or did you forget to

go?” “I went, and he was all right,” I said. “You got more than that to say, Mr. Man,” my aunt

said. “Folks been setting here hours, waiting for you.” “I see you recovered from your cold, Miss

Emma. I’m glad it wasn’t too—” “Sit down,” my aunt said. I went around the table and pulled out

the fourth chair. “He was all right,” I said. My aunt looked at me. Reverend Ambrose and Miss

Emma stared out into the yard. “That’s not what she want to hear,” my aunt said. “How he was

when you got there, how he was when you left?” “He was all right both times,” I said. “You know

what I’m talking about,” my aunt said. She looked at me the way an inquisitor must have glared
at his poor victims. The only reason she didn’t put me on the rack was that she didn’t have one.

“We both ate some of the food, and we talked,” I said. All this time Miss Emma had been gazing

into the yard. Now she looked at me—no, toward me. Her thoughts were far distant. “He et?”

“Some,” I said. “Y’all talked?” Her mind was still far away. “A little,” I said. Now her focus

became closer, much closer. She was looking at me now. “What y’all talked about?” “Different

things. I told him you didn’t come to see him because you had a bad cold.” She looked at me,

waiting to hear his answer. But I couldn’t think of another lie, so I shifted to something else.

“Then I asked him how he was getting along. He said he was all right. The deputy had already

told me he was okay. Guidry was in the office today. He said that Jefferson was getting along

fine—didn’t cause any trouble. He is using that comb and brush I bought for him. And he was

wearing one of my shirts, the khaki one. I think he’s doing okay.” Miss Emma and my aunt both

studied me. Miss Emma wanted to believe what I was saying, but I could see she had doubts.

My aunt still wanted to put me on the rack. And Reverend Ambrose continued to look out into

the darkness. “What else y’all talked about?” my aunt said. “You left from here ’fore one-thirty.”

“I can’t remember everything we talked about,” I said. “We just talked.” “More than five hours,

and you can’t remember nothing else?” “I was with him about an hour, then I went back of town.

I have a girl back of town. I like to see her sometime.” “And maybe that’s where you spent all

your time?” “If you don’t think I went to the jail, you can always go up there and ask them.” “I

didn’t ask for none of your uppity, mister.” “I don’t mean to be uppity,” I told her. “I’m just telling

you the truth. I spent an hour with him. I had a drumstick and a biscuit, and he had something—I

can’t remember exactly what it was. Then we talked. Then I left and went back of town. Exactly

what I did.” “Deep in you, what you think?” Reverend Ambrose suddenly turned from looking out

into the darkness. “Deep in you?” “About what, Reverend?” “Him? What’s he thinking? What

he’s thinking deep in him? Deep in you, what you think?” “Who knows what somebody else is

thinking? They say one thing, they may be thinking about something else—who can tell?” “You

the teacher,” my aunt said, not so kindly. “Deep in you?” Reverend Ambrose said. “Deep in you,
you think he know, he done grasped the significance of what it’s all about? Deep in you?” “The

significance?” “The gravity.” “The gravity?” Reverend Mose Ambrose was a short, very dark

man whose face and bald head were always shining. He was the plantation church’s pastor. He

was not educated, hadn’t gone to any theological school; he had heard the voice and started

preaching. He was a simple, devoted believer. He christened babies, baptized youths, visited

those who were ill, counseled those who had trouble, preached, and buried the dead. All these

things could be simply accomplished. But when it came to a discussion with a teacher, though

he had known that teacher since his birth, then suddenly things were not so simple. “His soul,”

he said. “I don’t know anything about the soul, Reverend Ambrose.” “I baptized him,” Reverend

Ambrose said. “He was ’leven or twelve then. But like so many others, he didn’t keep the faith,

either. Like yourself.” He stared at me as though I was one of the worst of sinners. Maybe I was.

Backsliders were usually worse than those who had never been converted. At least that is what

people like him tried to make you believe. “Y’all talked about God?” he asked me. “No, sir. We

didn’t get around to that.” “Didn’t get around to God?” “No, sir.” He looked at me and nodded his

head. If we didn’t talk about God, then what else on earth was important enough to talk about to

someone who was about to meet God? “I figured that’s where you came in, Reverend. There’s

enough room for both of us, I can tell you that.” “Me, Sister Emma, Sister Lou, going up there

Monday,” he said. “Anything I ought to take him?” “Food, I suppose. Maybe some clean clothes.

I can’t think of anything else.” “I was thinking more about the Bible,” Reverend Ambrose said.

“That would be nice too,” I said. Reverend Ambrose did not have any more to say. He and my

aunt continued to stare at me until I excused myself and left the table. Now, on Sunday, as I sat

at the table, trying to do my work, I could hear them singing in the church. It seemed that I had

listened to this singing, and their praying, every Sunday of my life. No, I had done more than just

listened; I participated until my last year at the university. There was no one thing that changed

my faith. I suppose it was a combination of many things, but mostly it was just plain studying. I

did not have time for anything else. Many times I would not come home on weekends, and
when I did, I found that I cared less and less about the church. Of course, it pained my aunt to

see this change in me, and it saddened me to see the pain I was causing her. I thought many

times about leaving, as Professor Antoine had advised me to do. My mother and father also told

me that if I was not happy in Louisiana, I should come to California. After visiting them the

summer following my junior year at the university, I came back, which pleased my aunt. But I

had been running in place ever since, unable to accept what used to be my life, unable to leave

it. I pushed away the papers and listened to the singing. Miss Eloise was singing her

’Termination song, “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?” You could hear that high,

shrill voice all over the plantation. I had been hearing it all my life, all my life. After her there

would be someone else, then someone else. It would go on for three or four hours. And it was

impossible to do anything but listen to it or leave. I thought I heard a car stop before the door,

but I didn’t leave the table. Then I thought I heard someone come onto the porch, and when I

looked up I saw her standing in the doorway. But I did not believe it was she, because she had

never come here before. She wore a blue blazer and a maroon pleated skirt. A black patent-

leather purse hung from her right shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind.” “Only if I’m dreaming.” She

smiled and came into the room.