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Jilo shook her head. “No, nothing like that.” The site of the seemingly abandoned church worried her, leaving her in even less of a mood for conversation. “He and his wife rent out rooms.” She turned to face Poole. “Listen. You seem like a real nice fellow . . .” Poole straightened in his seat and smiled at her. “But I’m not in the mood to talk right now. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. I appreciate your kindness, and I do hope you have a good visit to Atlanta and a pleasant trip home, but . . .”
Without forcing her to finish, he nodded at her and stood. He hesitated an instant, his black eyes so full of empathy that for a mad moment Jilo felt that this total stranger did care about her church, about her pastor, about the things that mattered to her, and about her. As deeply as she did. A small rueful smile quivered on his lips, then faded. He moved a couple of seats back.
She stared out the window at the familiar landmarks that filled the mile and half between the church and the Joneses’ boarding house. When they got within a few blocks of the cross street that led to the house, she stood and tugged the case from the seat. Before she realized what was happening, Poole had grabbed ahold of the case and was maneuvering it with great care toward the exit.
The bus halted at the stop, and Poole hurried out to set the case on the ground. Jilo approached warily, hoping he hadn’t decided to accompany her to the boarding house. She already had enough to explain without arriving at the pastor’s door with a strange man. To her relief, he bounded back onto the bus after she passed him.
She gave him one quick and cautious look, not daring to smile for fear she might encourage him.
“Joseph,” he called out just before the doors closed behind her. “My name’s Joseph.” The doors muffled his voice. “But my friends all call me Tink . . .” His voice was drowned out by the bus’s engine as it pulled away.
She lifted the case and trudged down the road. The boarding house lay six blocks south and a block east from this point. Only now did she realize she should not have come here. She’d left the pastor’s house against his wishes, claiming she wanted to live closer to the hospital. But when she refused to allow Pastor Jones to check up on the apartment house for young single women where she was supposedly moving—a place she had visited only to provide a cover for her actual plan—he’d expressed both disappointment and dismay. She had promised him that she would continue as a member of his congregation, but she had never made it to a single service. At first it had been unintentional; she’d been asked to work a few Sundays, and she and Guy often stayed out late on Saturday nights, leading to late wake ups the next morning. After a while, it seemed as though she’d been too long gone to just show up with no kind of good explanation for her absence. If the pastor had ever discussed her lapse in attendance with her grandmother, Nana had never mentioned it, even though she insisted Jilo call her collect each Saturday afternoon.
None of that mattered now. She needed a place to spend the night, maybe a couple of days, while she figured out just what the hell she was going to do. No, she realized, she was lying to herself. She needed a couple of days to screw up her courage. She was seven weeks along. It was the last time they’d gone out for an evening together, the last time Guy had touched her. He had gotten drunk enough to believe he still loved her, and she’d been drunk enough to believe it was true.
At best, she might hide the pregnancy for a couple of months longer, but she’d lose her job as soon as anyone remarked on her condition. There was nothing left for her to do but go home to her grandmother’s place in Savannah, if Nana would still have her. What’s Nana gonna think of her smart girl now? The thought stopped her in her tracks. She drew a breath and walked on. She’d probably think Jilo hadn’t turned out so different from her mama, Betty, after all.
It surprised her how happy the sight of the wide front step leading up to the porch made her. Still, she took her time climbing those stairs, unsure of the reception she would receive. Even though the day was cool, she was sweating, somewhat from lugging the case, which she set at her feet, and somewhat from the changes going on in her body.
She smoothed down her skirt, managing to dry her palms with the same effort, and adjusted her blouse, making sure it was well buttoned. She curled her hand into a fist and rapped on the door. There didn’t seem to be any movement within, so she knocked again, louder. She leaned over to her right to try to catch a glimpse of any life showing through the lace curtain. A shadow moved in the hall.
“Jilo,” Mrs. Jones said as she swung the door open. “My dear girl, how I have missed you.”
Jilo was both taken aback and shamed by the sincerity in the woman’s voice. “I . . . I’ve missed you, you and the pastor, as well.” Mrs. Jones’s eyes drifted down to the case by her side. “It’s only, I’m hoping that you and the pastor might allow me to come back. Not permanently. Just for a day or so.” She lowered her eyes, not wanting to see the woman’s reaction. An eternity of awkward silence passed between them. “I know,” Jilo began, “I know I disappointed the pastor . . .”
“Of course you can stay,” Mrs. Jones interrupted her. “As long as you want”—then, seeming to read something in Jilo’s expression, she added—“or need.” She stepped back, making room for both Jilo and her case. Jilo moved quickly over the threshold, almost as if she feared the pastor’s wife might c
hange her mind. “You can have your old room back, if you’d like,” Mrs. Jones said. “It’s empty.” To Jilo’s surprise, tears brimmed in the woman’s eyes. “They all are. The girls, their parents took them out of here.”
Jilo stopped, confused. She realized quickly that the house was far more quiet than she’d ever experienced during her years there. Even though late afternoon was giving way to dusk, not a single light was burning. There were no smells of cooking from the kitchen. She reached out and grasped Mrs. Jones’s hand. “What’s wrong? What’s happened here?” She thought again of the boarded-up windows and padlock at Five Points Baptist. “And why is the church all locked up?”
“The church is closed,” Mrs. Jones said, her voice quavering as she spoke. “When Robert”—Jilo had never heard anyone refer to the pastor by his Christian name before—“began speaking publicly about the angels, the congregation turned against him. Some thought he’d gone mad. Others thought the devil had gotten in him. But they all thought he was blaspheming.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I know you know about the angels. He told me he shared his experiences with you . . .”
“Well, no, ma’am,” Jilo began, “not really. He said he’d been ‘taken up’ by them when he was a child, and maybe . . .”
“It wasn’t only as a child.” Mrs. Jones cut her off. “They’ve been visiting him all his life. All his life,” she said with emphasis. “He shielded me from the truth, but I knew I had married a special man. A holy man.” She raised her chin, and Jilo could see the pride glowing in her eyes. “It was right after you left. He started seeing them all over. All the time. He couldn’t protect me from the truth any longer.”
“Where is the pastor?” Jilo asked.
Mrs. Jones didn’t reply, she simply tightened her grasp on Jilo’s hand and led her deeper into the house and down the hall leading to the pastor’s study. When they reached the room, Mrs. Jones released her and crossed to the pastor’s desk, where she turned on the green-shaded brass lamp that sat there. The older woman stood there trembling as she stared down at her husband’s desk. She stifled a sob, raising her right hand to her mouth, then pointed at the wall. Stepping around the desk, she walked toward the defaced wall.
Jilo saw that “GEN 5:24” was scratched into the wall’s plaster in characters five or six inches long.
“He took a knife from the kitchen. Cut this into the plaster.” Mrs. Jones traced her finger along the jagged grooves. “The next day,” she said, turning back to Jilo, “he was gone. Just gone.” She crossed back to the desk and turned the opened Bible there around so that Jilo could read its words. “And Enoch walked with God: and he was not; for God took him.”
NINE
Savannah, Georgia—May 1954
“I want you to understand there are good men in this world, Jilo,” Nana said. “My Reuben, your grum’pa, he was a right good man. He took good care of me and his family. He bought your nana this here house. Your daddy, my Jesse, he was a good man, too.” A bright smile broke out on her aged face. “He sure loved his girls, he did,” she said and stroked the back of Jilo’s hand. “All three of you. He’d be proud of all his girls, he would.” She nodded. “Especially you.”
Jilo had to wonder if that were true, if her father would be proud of her now, with her dress tight around her breasts and middle. And without a man to claim the baby that was making it so.
Nana’s chair made a scuffing nose as she pushed it back. The table squeaked a bit as she leaned into it to help push herself up. “Pastor Jones, I think he’s a good man, too. Made a mistake here and there, and I sure got no idea what he’s gotten himself up to now, but at his root, I believe he is an honorable man.” She walked across the room, the floor creaking with each heavy step. Jilo noticed she was moving slower than she used to, her right hip seeming to catch every other step or so.
Jilo wasn’t sure where this conversation was heading, so she sat in silence as her grandmother crossed the room to the pantry. The old woman disappeared into the pantry for a few moments and emerged with three bottles, a cobalt-blue one like you might see hanging on a spirit tree, tucked beneath her left arm, and one small clear bottle in each gnarled hand. She crossed to the sink with no sign of hurry, then set the bottles down on the counter.
“Your nana’s afraid,” she said, reaching into a cabinet to retrieve a drinking glass, “that you done figured out all on your own that not all men are good.” She set the glass down beside the bottles and reached for one of the clear ones. She unscrewed its cap, then raised the bottle and the glass up to her eye level, and measured out a dram or so of dark brown liquid by sight. Jilo could tell by its scent that it contained creosote, but there were higher notes to it, too, one of them a bitter smell that reminded her of unripe tomatoes on the vine. Nana returned both to the counter, and though her joints seemed to protest the movement, screwed the cap back on the bottle. “Good men,” she said, turning her attention to the second clear bottle, this one with a ceramic stopper held in place by a metal bracket, “they deserve a loving woman, and children, if God sees fit to send them.” She flipped the metal lever that held the stopper in place, then took a spoon from a drawer and used it to measure out some of the clear orange liquid. Jilo rose and came to look over her grandmother’s shoulder. Her nana set the still-open bottle down on the counter. Jilo lifted it to her nose. The orange liquid, Jilo decided from the peppery scent that nearly brought tears to her eyes, was capsicum oil.
