A Sunday Story (Novelnovella Excerpt)
Piper Davenport

 

The End of the Road:

Somewhere in the center of everything was a mother without a child. A faceless black woman among a million faces he saw in everyday life---all of them the same: lonely, brown, and sweet. Hamilton as an adult could not remember what it was like to be slapped across the face in the dance of anger, the dance of love. Never known what it was like to have the taste of creamy, white milk on his lips. Late at night, he would wake up in a cold, shivering dream-state, longing to return to that one memory he had of Mrs. Delight: a black shadow that showed no tears, showed no pain. Just long, long shades of gray that awoke to rain pouring down, dropping down the window, facing the edge of the world. He lived inside the stream, and collected the high-pitched trill hum of the spring field insects in his ears because the sounds were too far away to be near. Prayed that MAN, that G-O-D would turn the farm dirt into water that would evaporate into his hand, and turn that predestined shakiness into a river but that did not happen either. Whenever he walked along the earth, dust would collect itself, and turn into sand pools in his eyes, and when they opened, there was hair, eyes, nose, and mouth to that shadow. That the children were wrong, that there was blackness to that wet light, and that black shadow was more than just a reflection. He had lived on both sides of that shadow with red skin. And somewhere out there, a voice whispered, "I have known a mother, not unlike yours." The sunlight came into the parlor room and down the silver spider webs to the bridge of the nose that bowed in silence and eyes that gently tipped to lips that quietly announced with red paint on the painting where they had been. He blotted his eyes on the white napkin, while the smile stayed frozen forever. "And what am I supposed to believe?" he had said to the painting. "Watch it now. You gettin' too mean, too soon," the painting said back. "I've been here for so long. Tryin' to figure things out." "Some things ain't worth verifyin.'" "What am I supposed to do?" But the answer never came because at the foot of the stairs, the painting started to yellow after that. That cryptic smile meant for him didn't look right, and if it didn't look right, it didn't feel right. However, his glance forward in the presence of others was agreeable, almost asexual. It was the only way that Hamilton could get his mind off being a cowboy, and dark, spiteful places, and form little puddles wherever he walked. He lived inside the creek, floating in and out of the water, aimlessly in two directions, looking for russet faces in fetal positions. The church folks would say, 'You are here,' to him, and then he'd turn his back on the cold, wet light, turn his back on the deep woods and kneel until they touched his shoulders, and pulled him back up again. Mrs. Pearce though kept coming for him, a ghostly figure speaking softly in his ear, and louder in everyone else's ears. He'd taken off his clothes, laid them down on quilt scraps, swallowed his spit and bitterness, and stayed there until the black church folks had pulled him back up. He was pushed under the water several times under he saw the light flashing through the reflection. He'd looked over at the soothe-soft faces and they'd floated away. A leaf floated in the thick layer of grime and pebbles at the lower bank of the creek. Hamilton had picked it up and carefully laid it in the pocket of his overalls, since he had no possessions left. He had relaxed a little after he had focused his thoughts to a better hiding spot, and slid the leaf down his overalls, and underneath his privates. The church folks thought he hid them there because he wanted to protect his privates from being touched. It was not even because he remembered at that moment that it was the exact same spot years ago after the fire where he had walked over to the wooden bridge, spread out his arms eagle-like, and attempted to jump off into the sparking, rocky waters from the bridge where her reflection was eagerly waiting beneath the rock shoals. Troy, who had followed him along the nature trail, picking wildflowers along the way, had grabbed his ankles, causing him to hit his head, and when he woke up again, he was alone. The curse that had saved him from the dark, lonely woods, the welcoming river banks, the water filled with salmon and other good-tasting fish, the curly black hair that smelled like wonder soap and fingers that had once played on an antique guitar, and defined the person that he would grow up to be, gone and disremembered. In the cottage had been two of them; a peach-colored woman, one deeply-wrinkled and the other, a darker shade of a plum that did not blanch easily even if kept out of the sun too long. They may have spoken of rivers, but the whites of the pupils shared a pale familiarity, and church figures with auburn faces swayed to the rhythm of Sunday morning. There is a mystery to life that walks between the trees at night, sick and haunted, that breathes the winter dark that breathes the summer light. The mystery would disappear in the morning, leaving behind a melancholy sound of death and death that rushed around the fear of morning and buried handsome and delicate clouds under the mysterious ardor of loving arms. He'd look under the center-stained spot of a featherless pillow, gone. Looked over into the edge of the woods where an old wooded bench made of rough planks had been abandoned long ago and looked under the sleepy movement of a standing-still house dress, but she was gone. A journey into seclusion had brought joy of an abandoned three-room farmhouse where they could roll around in gunny sacks and eat cornbread with molasses. For a second, the world stopped, and then the river fell into a ragged rhythm and dried up. They'd gathered up everyone and looked around for a place that the water could be. They'd lit candles at night and uplifted hands. But there was still no water. Had they any sense to have drunk more whiskey, everyone would have found the place incapable of presence. Instead, soles of ashy black feet walked and prayed the gentleness back into the earth. Then, there were two, him named Hamilton, and her named Madame who walked behind the rest, took a different road, and hid when the traveling men came. She was cruelty, for a long strand of coarse, curly hair found in a rust-colored washbasin behind the barn had brought him back to the abandoned house. The flame of their candle that night shrunk to a blue flicker, but they never looked in that direction. She opened up a garbage can and hid the baby inside. Ellis Delight saw her in his car doing this-He did not want a dead baby on his country road. There would be murmurs, and too many for him to name. She swore to get rid of his indiscretions but in that moment, he realized that God kept his promises.

The Small-Town Mayor:A letter on crisp, white paper arrived on the Governor of Michigan's oak-covered desk. The fatigued mayor had received a telephone call from the sheriff. The wrong man was in prison. Another man had confessed to the disappearance of the young woman. A sneer appeared on the sheriff's face when he said this. He did not like the fact that this new evidence became apparent during his tenure. A rare morning fog disappeared beneath the chill on the windowpanes that interrupted his coffee break. On a week this with the nation holding its breath. He fully intended for the prisoner's deliverance and the opportunity for him to start a new life in a new town. He read in The Detroit Free Press about layoffs but that like everything else was temporary. They'll be hiring again. A factory job was a chance for someone to start again. Benefits, middle-class, training, an envied trade-in voucher, a thumbs-up from car enthusiasts, those were words that brought respect to a man. Made you feel the American Dream was obtainable after all. Hell, he thought to himself, what do I need a secretary for besides appearances? That advertising degree worked for him after all. At first, the Governor upset him-Despite what the man was known for, the Governor wanted the state to have a reputation for fairness. The mayor placed a plastic death mask on his face. He thought about the big city to the north. "God, help them." Well if the prisoner does cause destruction, not in his town. He would personally make sure that would not happen in a few more days. He is a man of his word.
A Watcher Finds a Companion:

One little taste of sweet corn could send you straight to heaven. There is no need for the added pleasure of butter, salt, or even spring water for flavoring. Besides, the squish-easy For not even the sound of crickets could soothe the emptiness of your stomach quite like whole sweet corn. The woman's place in the right part of your eyes does not ease you; the faint sound of music coming from the woman's living room reminds you of a fiddler in a grassroots blues band that included Bessie Smith, and all the other famous blues players of that era, who, in your opinion, almost achieved greatness, but not quite. The breasts of the woman perish in the nighttime reflection of the fire you built; the tips of the woman's face roast themselves beyond recognition. A lot of breathless sighs from the back of your throat ease your tension from the rain that night. You walk over to the window; the bed is empty. That night, raindrops oil all senses out of your brain. You no longer desire to be outside but in. Your next conquest: to be God, better than you yourself.

At Noon:

Lord, look at the clock. I hope the Reverend is finished. I know that he has to leave soon to catch the train to up and get here. Just what the world needs-Another Delight. And they'll have to drive him because he's got that leg problem-Just like his father. What else? He met his bride through him through the newspaper. She read the story and wanted to know more about him-That's where it all started. Something about Sunday living? Rumor has it that he took the money from that dollhouse his Mama left him. I didn't know anyone still did that. But apparently their community is gettin' smaller so they feel the need to look outside the community but not outside the church for companionship. Lord, does that woman know what she's gettin' into? Does she know what she's marrying into. Of course, when she left that child here, I died that night. The Pearces and Delights. Livin' out there on that back country road, intermarrying like the animals. This is not Satan's Kingdom. Hell, they don't even come into town anymore. They keep to themselves-That's what this community has become: saints and sinners. Reverend says we all going to hell. I told Mrs. Pearce that it was a shame that her son changed his name. She just looked at me. So, I looked away.

Sleeping People Lie:

Knowing that somewhere out there, sleeping people secretly welcomed him into their lives with their unlocked doors, unlocked bedrooms and snoring smiles gave him his greatest pleasure. In the pre-dawn morning, he left the exact way he came in: through the square-open window into the
near-drowsiness of sweet-hot morning air. Like all good country boys, the Woodsman only wore shoes when he needed to change out of his dusty, cotton overalls and go into town or the rain-soaked mud on the ground felt squishy and cold. On those days, he longed for the mother-feeling of a plump, fluffy pillow. On those days, the ground behaved like brown sugar on the bottom of a cup of tea and his name was spoon. Twirling around, the Woodsman discovered a kind of joy that made even the trees envious. The children of the sleeping people's houses looked out their window and saw the ham man who liked to eat raw hen eggs, and once ate a hamster, droppings and all. Some of the little children of the sleeping people's houses looked out of their beds and cribs and thought the Scarecrow had come alive. The whispers of animal parts in between his legs; a hermit who moved to the sway of trees and not voices and for the very brave, they were the ones that relegated whispers of a crazy woman who had relations with a horse, and produced a child. Where else could a child develop into a man with nappy-straight curly hair and monkey eyes? A Reverend with the nickname Delight started the ultimate straight-from-the-Bible rumor, a rumor so powerful that God Himself wanted the message relegated to his parishioners on Sunday morning: only Ham's mother lies down on a straw bed and invited a blue-black horse to drink her love juices in front of other men, who laughed and threw coins. But he was half-black and because the black folks always prayed, even for those who weren't born yet, God only half-punished the crazy woman by making her child half-animal. That he was half-black symbolized the heavy-heart of a child. A locket around his neck with her photograph kept the Woodsman from sucking the pinkness off of his thumb, a suckling that was now known to him as Second Mother, whom he believed could remove harmful impurities from his marble-shaped heart. She appeared as an apparition that protected her son from the doppelgangers who threatened to remove him from his castle where he played with animals, surrounding him with a double-edged mirror with one side for reflection and the other side for destruction.

 

 

Copyright © 2008 Piper Davenport
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"