THIRTEEN FOR DINNER

Chapter Twelve

TWELVE

       I feel like everyone is looking at me as we walk along the wooden sidewalks toward the hotel. Perhaps it’s because I stick out like a sore thumb, wobbling in these tiny little boots and tripping over the circus tent I’m wearing. Quillan slips his arm through mine, to steady me I’m sure, and then whispers in my ear that we were registered at the hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Quillan Robison. Forget my wobbling feet, now my knees buckle and my stomach takes a nose dive. I desperately wish he’d of cleared that bright idea with me first.  We stop at the stables and Quillan suggest I wait outside while he rents us a carriage for the evening. I’m more than happy to oblige because from where I’m standing I can already smell the manure.  A rustic bench draws my attention so I try to make my way over there as graceful as I can, all the while hoping it’s downwind of the horse dung. I take a seat and realize my dress is covering the entire bench. The fabric is heavy and I’ve worked up a sweat and now streams of perspiration are running down my legs, soaking my stockings and tickling the chigger bites. The air is hot and muggy and I don’t think I’ve felt a breeze all day. I can’t remember a time when I’ve been more miserable. With one hand I lean over and claw at my legs and with the other I open the satin purse Quillan bought for me and pull out my fan. I fan my heated face and tingling legs while I wait and watch the people on the street. I feel like I am on a movie set. A few years ago they filmed some scenes of a movie in Charleston. Momma suggested we drive over and watch. They were asking for locals to sign up as extras. She encouraged me to do it but of course I was too nervous so I just watched everybody else have all the fun and later hated myself for not having the balls to do it.

            The street is buzzing with activity and as far as I can pick up by the snippets of conversation I hear, everyone is excited about tonight’s garden party at the Faulkner Estate. A overhear a couple of women talking about the dresses they will be wearing, the heavier of the two mentions the amazing food they served last year.

            The humidity hanging in the air is unbearable and I find myself getting antsy as I stew in the sun. What’s taking him so long? I crane my neck hoping to see him emerging from the stables instead I gasp when I see the same muscular African American man from the tunnel coming out of the feed store next door with a heavy burlap bag flung over his shoulder. He’s a handsome guy, built to perfection. I watch him load the heavy bag of grain into the back of a wagon for an overweight gentleman leaning on an ornate walking cane and puffing on a big cigar. A very pregnant black woman, holding a couple of brown paper packages like the ones Quillan brought to the cave, appears from the stables. She’s waddling my way and stops by my bench. She looks exhausted as if she might faint any minute now. Beads of sweat trickle out from under a drenched scarf tied around her head, her eyes look heavy and she seems to be swaying back and forth as she attempts to balance the packages. One thing my momma always taught me was good manners, one being never sit when the elderly or pregnant women are standing.

            “Here mam’” I say as I manage to stand up on my throbbing feet. “Take my seat; you look like you can use it more than me.”

            She stares at me but says nothing and I’m thinking she might keel over any minute now.

            “Do you need some help?” I ask as I take the packages from her arms and lay them on the bench.  I help her sit and she’s still staring at me and I can’t tell if she’s grateful or having a heat stroke. With as hot as it is I figure it’s the latter of the three. Then I remember the flask of water Quillan brought me so I pull it out of my fancy silk bag and unscrew the cap. It’s when I put the container to her lips I realize we have an audience. A portly man, with a belly resembling a potbellied stove, begins is flapping his arms and ranting about something as he waddles over our way. At first I think he might be trying to stop me from giving a pregnant woman liquor, so I am quick to tell him there’s only water in the flask.

            “I don’t care what it is!” he yells at me and I can’t help but think his face resembles a stewed tomato. “She’s not supposed to sit on our benches let alone drink from a white person’s flask. He turns to the woman who looks terrified. “Get up! You know better than that!” Taking his walking cane he jabs her in the belly, prodding her to move. I’m appalled and without thinking I grab hold of his cane; an action he’s not expecting so I easily remove it from his chubby fingers.

            “How dare you!” his beady eyes flash in anger while he wags his finger in my face.

            “How dare you!” I yell right back at him and then use his cane to poke him in his belly. “How does that feel huh?  Not too good does it and you’re not even pregnant even though you look like you are bout ready to deliver any moment now.”

            “We have an audience now, and from my peripheral I see people starting to gather around, interested in what the commotion is all about. Quillan comes bolting out of the stables not looking any too happy, “Everything alright Avery?” he asks as he takes my hand.

            “Is this woman your wife?” Mr. Potbellied stove drawls out his question.

            “Yes, she is.” Quillan stares back, standing his ground.

            “Well it looks like your wife is a Negro sympathizer and I’ve half a mind to file a report with …”

            “You have half a mind alright,” I say and Quillan squeezes my hand so tight I think all my fingers just broke but it still doesn’t keep me quiet.

            “And I’ll file a report too saying you caused bodily harm to a pregnant woman, endangering her unborn child by jabbing her in the stomach with your walking stick!”

            I can hear the murmuring in the crowd that has gathered around us and I believe Mr. Potbelly must envision himself on a platform because he becomes over animated, no doubt striving to give the performance of a lifetime. He laughs and throws his hands in the air. “File a report with whom? That Negro is my property as well as the varmint growing inside her and if I want to jab a hole in it it’s my right to do so.”

            I’m aghast and Quillan knows it. He squeezes my hand in a warning to keep quiet but everything inside of me screams in protest.

            “What about her rights you dumb ass!” I say drawing a mixture of gasps and laughter from the crowd.

            “Her rights?” Potbelly bellows, joining the crowd in amusement. “She’s a Negro, she aint got no rights.”

            “Well that’s a damn shame I say,” and the women in the crowd cover their mouths and gasp. “I seriously can’t believe how ignorance runs rampant here. Every one of you should hang your head in shame. This isn’t right and the thing is you all know it, but none of you have the courage to do a damn thing about it.” Quillan’s had enough and begins pulling me away from the crowd. As I toss Potbelly’s walking stick in the dirt I notice the black guy who’d been loading the sacks of grain. His eyes are fierce, boring holes into me and the peculiar way he’s looking at me causes my skin to crawl.

             Mr. Potbelly grabs his walking stick and gives the woman a whack on her behind before climbing up in front of his wagon. I want to clobber Potbelly but Quillan has a solid hold of my arm and I can tell by his breathing he’s upset.

            “Take me home,” Potbelly says as he wiggles his lard ass into the seat.  His driver nods his head while the muscular black guy begins to help the woman in the back of the wagon. Before he can lift her inside however, Potbelly begins to protest. “I think she got your rest when she sat on that bench. She can walk home behind the wagon today.” I watch the guy momentarily drop his head and close his eyes. The side of his face pulsates as he his bites down hard on his jaw.  The young woman gives him a slight pat on the forearm, speaking volumes with her quiet gesture.

            “Leave her be Lunar!” Potbelly bellows as he eased back into his seat.

            As the wagon pulls away, Lunar Wilson turns his head towards me, throwing me one last unforgiving look.