What The Land Remembers - Part II

[CW: Violence, Some Racial Slurs] [See My Profile to Read Part I]

I didn’t know what to say. She’d kept them inside, locked away, and I couldn’t imagine the loneliness she’d carried with their memory. Mama looked at me with that old knowing smile that I came to understand was sealing away her pain.

“Poppy always blamed himself for that, so no matter what, he kept that old wagon running from that day on, and you know it works like he’s still here. Even backfires like he used to after a plate of beans.”

We laughed for a time and watched the breeze play across the golden stalks of corn until she sighed, “Sometimes I still feel them around, and it's a comfort. Sometimes I even talk to them, and I’ll be damned if they don’t show me some sign they’re listening.”

I thought of Billy, and the nights when I felt unseen eyes on the back of my neck. “I guess the rumors are true then.”

Mama nodded, “In a way.”

“I don’t know if I like that Mama. I mean, are they safe? Are we?”

“Oh hell Jenna, the world ain’t safe, but at least here, on this land, it’s good.” She sighed, “Besides, they were just having some fun with that boy, maybe keeping an eye on you too. Things are changing so fast these days…having a touch of something eternal, keeps me grounded.”

She wasn’t wrong. The next few years were a blur of classes, high school rallies, and changes. I changed my hairstyle, clothes, and music almost daily, from mod tops to mini-skirts and Elvis to the Fab Four. Change was in the air, it was palpable, and I was swept up in its wave. And with every change, the constancy of Mama Rose remained. With each new movement that hit the news, every outrage and atrocity that blighted my view of our world, her garden philosophy of slow care remained like a stone in unsettled soil. Maybe that’s why I left.

Five months before graduation, I met a man I knew was the one. And at seventeen, I was sure I’d lived enough of life to know.

He sat in the back of a club my friends and I had snuck into and caught my gaze with intense brown eyes that held back an ocean of passion and a smile that reminded me of Poppy’s. It was an open mic, and after a mediocre set by a Stones cover band, he took center stage. His brown skin, leather jacket, and small afro glistened as he recited Langston Hughes and Emmery Evans, pumping his fist in the air. He was a ‘seeker of justice’ fighting for his place in the world. He was everything I wanted to be.

Elijah Korah spoke of the oppressed and the everyday oppressors who hid behind facile smiles, red lines, and political positions. His words were violent, provocative, and fascinating. He made me feel alive and worthy of attention. And after his performance, he made me feel like my voice mattered. He bought me drinks, and that morning, when I quietly crept up to my bedroom with a loose bra and whiplashed smile, I knew I was in love.

Mama Rose wasn’t having it and told me in no uncertain terms where my ‘seeker of justice’ could go if he kept me out that late again. Her dark silk hair now had streaks of silver and the skin on her hands felt thinner. Only her smile remained untouched by time until Elijah came to make amends. before driving us to a Detroit rally. Then her demeanor darkened.

“My sister, you too are suffering in this time,” He said with an easy smile as he took a framed picture of Poppy in hand, “white patriarchy has put a stranglehold on your mind. I’m planting a whole new level, a brave new world. In time the revolution will separate the wheat from the chaff.”

Mama grabbed the picture from him, “I ain’t your sister, boy. I’m old enough to be your mother. And that ‘patriarch’ helped build this place. So take your jive somewhere else.”

Mama was incensed, and I looked away from the scene, trying to reframe it in my mind as some careless misunderstanding we could all laugh about later. Elijah just shook his head.

“Well shit Jenna, you really do fit in here,” he laughed, “Yo Momma’s got plantation thinking beyond the pale. Come or go, but I’m leaving.”

I winced when he slammed open the screen door and stomped down the porch to his black Mustang. Mama noticed my fear, and I’d never seen her so angry. As she walked away, she mumbled, “planting a new level…I’ll plant my foot up his ass.”

“Mama, how can you be so rude? He’s fighting your battle. The same one you and Poppy had all those years ago, the same one that took Grace and Mercy!”

“Don’t bring them into this,” she held a finger to my face in warning. “He may claim to be fighting darkness, but you cant sew division without reaping hate.”

Elijah laid on the horn, and I cringed again before turning to follow him. I couldn’t stand to look in her eyes. I’d never seen her pass judgment on anyone before, and somehow she seemed smaller for it. I paused in the doorway, “I can cultivate love in him, just like you always say, Mama.”

“Not if he’s a weed,” she replied.

Elijah blared the horn once more, and I left. I didn’t return. I dodged my friends for the next few weeks and spent the nights in Elijah’s arms. Only in the mornings when he’d leave to meet with his comrades did I think of Mama Rose and the sadness I’d left on her face.

The rallies took up my nights, followed by drinking at clubs and parties in backroom venues, where revolution was the topic of every conversation. Once or twice Elijah came to blows with drunks who slurred an insult or nasty look our way, but I always felt protected. I knew there was some deep anger in him. I just needed time to weed it out.

At meetings, Elijah drove the discussion and was lauded for his ideas. My voice was sequestered at the back of the room. When I dared to share my thoughts and concerns to disinterested faces, Elijah would immediately step in, to better paraphrase.

He only chastised me in private. Sometimes with a look, or a word, sometimes with his hands.

But when he refused to take mine in front of his brothers and sisters, I knew I was nothing more than a trophy, to be used and forgotten, just like the Barbie I once owned.

I was already missing home when the riot broke out in the bar down the street from us on the night of July 23rd. Elijah had been drinking and snorting, as was his habit now, and he raced for the door when the brotherhood came knocking.

“Get on your coat, Jenna, the revolution starts tonight!” He yelled as he grabbed his jacket. And I followed, thinking maybe it would shake him from the bitterness I knew he felt when he looked at me after we made love.

Police were everywhere. Hoses dowsed young men against the walls of stores, and bricks went flying over my head, bashing other young men in uniforms. There was no controlling the chaos.

Elijah looked gleeful as he raced behind members of the mob, handing them pieces of glass, rocks, and anything else that could be used as a weapon. To my right, two of Elijah’s group hoisted a trash can through a store window before snatching the television displayed within.

“Take it all my brothers! Bleed them dry!” Elijah laughed until I reached for his arm. I needed to know it would stop.

“Don’t encourage them! We can’t let our struggle…” I started, but he slapped me away.

“Our struggle? There is no OUR struggle. Don’t you ever think you can understand our struggle!”

“I’m sorry…” I tried, and that same easy smile I first saw on his face had twisted into a snarl.

“You don’t know the first thing about anything we’re going through, and I’m tired of warning you.”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the car. I slapped him, and he replied with his fist until I stopped crying, until every inch of my face screamed with pain. Then he stumbled away, leaving me to bleed and think on my lesson. The weed in him was reaching to inflict more justice on anyone else in his way.

I remember leaving my purse with only two quarters in hand and drifting like a ghost through the crowds, fires, and screams to a phone booth. With shaking hands, I dialed my lifeline. Mama answered with my name as if she’d been waiting. I mumbled the cross streets and not much else.

“Hold on baby, I’m coming.” She said and hung up.

I spent the rest of that hour curled up in the phone booth. Sirens flashed, feet raced, blood flowed, and the world vomited its horror around me. Then, like Don Quixote atop his donkey, Mama slowly pulled up through the mob in Poppy’s blue and white station wagon and paused next to me. I reached for the door handle.

“Jenna, get your ass back here!” I turned to see Elijah stride toward me. I pulled away as he reached for my arm again.

“I didn’t say you could leave,” his hand became a fist but his knees buckled when Mama pinched him by the ear and yanked him back.

“Boy, you don’t get to say another damn thing. I’ve had enough of your foolishness!”

Two white officers approached us and laughed. “Good to see your Mama’s putting some sense into ya.”

“Back off pig!” Elijah slapped away Mama’s hand. “She ain’t my Mama, and I don’t have to do shit!”

I shook my head and pulled the door open. I slumped into the seat as I locked the door behind me. Mama got in and drove that old wagon right next to Elijah as he stared at Mama with contempt.

“That’s how you gonna play it then? Don’t think this is over!” He threw a bottle that smashed our back window, but Mama didn’t seem to mind. The officers tackled him to the ground, but Mama only hummed the Gospel and leaned forward on the wheel as we crept away.

The drive home was silent, I was waiting for her harsh words to fall on my head. At first, Mama didn’t say a thing. She only ran her fingers through my hair for a minute when I started crying.

“It’s okay honey. Sometimes weeds gotta come up before the world swallows them again.”

That night she drew me a bath, and I soaked for hours. The cuts on my face were dressed, but the black eyes deepened. I slept most of the next two days in my old bed and was only awakened by a breeze from the window Mama left open in my room. The sun was setting through Mr. Willow’s leaves, and I heard the faintest laughter fall across the corn. I wanted to bury the last year of my life in that patch, but I knew I’d have to wear it as loudly as the bruises on my face. Everything I thought I knew about the world and my place in it was broken. Only the sound of sparrows in the fields and the smell of Mama’s cooking made any sense.

Mama called me down for dinner, and I found a full spread of my favorite meal; cornflake potatoes, brisket, and cornbread waiting for me on her finest linen tablecloth.

“Glad you slept some. They say a storm’s coming in tonight,” she said and thunder rolled in the distance as if God heard.

“I don’t deserve this,” I whispered.

“Baby, you’re home. You always deserve this,” She drew me to the seat and took my hand as she sat next to me. “I’ll say grace.”

The screen door exploded open with a familiar kick. “Lord, thank you for the justice that your hand will enact!” Elijah’s voice called as he stomped in.

His face mirrored mine, with fresh bruises and a split lip, “Because your honky-ass daughter got me arrested.”

Mama faced him, “Get the hell out of my house, boy! You’ve got no call being here.”

Elijah looked her over once, like a falcon studying a sparrow, and then he struck her to the ground.

“Miss Oreo, I can be anywhere I damn well please,” he laughed, “And it looks like you prepared me quite the spread.”

In my eyes, Elijah had mutated into every snide comment, careless remark, and unkind face I’d hid myself away from. His eyes were broken mirrors that reflected how small and insignificant I was. And as I watched him stand over her, for the first time in my life, I felt my fists clenching with rage.

I launched myself at him, but his grip caught me at the throat and squeezed. I ratcheted my fingers around his, but the more I tried to pry at them, the tighter his grip became. I couldn’t breathe. I was desperate. I had unleashed evil into this place, and it would destroy everything I loved.

With the crystal clear voice I remember from my youth, Mama stood and commanded him to stop. “You want a meal, young man? Fine. Let her go and take a seat.”

Elijah instantly released me and air filled my burning lungs. I fell to my knees and scanned the room for something I could use to hold him at bay. Mama Rose knew my mind and put out her hand.

“Jenna honey, stay put. There’s a time for every season.”

The wind shook the panes of glass in the kitchen, and from the corner of my eye, I saw beyond the porch. The corn patch was stirring as if a giant was pulling itself from slumber.

Elijah took a knife from the table and speared a slice of roast into his mouth. As he gnashed away, he brought the knife to Mama’s throat. “You made me look a fool, and that’s something I can’t abide.”

The screen door rattled, and the house creaked in response. Elijah paused before staring down at me, “Now, before I finish saying grace, why don’t you ask for some mercy?”

“Honey, they’re already here,” Mama’s voice seethed, “Now I said sit down.”

Elijah’s hand twisted around until I heard a bone snap and his knife fell to the floor. His curled sneer dropped quicker than his legs as some unseen force shoved him into a dining chair.

“What in the hell?” he exclaimed and shot back up before the dining table flipped on end, smothering him with our meal, the table cloth, and the table itself. He screamed as the debris rolled around him like a python, and dragged him out the door, across the porch, and into the corn patch.

His screams were answered with crashing thunder as Mama Rose hummed and cleaned up the mess. Elijah’s curses became muffled as if the land was engulfing him, and I started for the door, but she stopped me.

“Now is a time of culling, child. Best stay in til it’s done.”

The rain pelted our roof through the night. Old Mr. Willow’s branches waved low to the ground, and the corn stalks responded in kind. The next morning was quiet. Birds sang. The storm had passed. Mama had returned the kitchen to its former state, and I wondered if the night before had been some fevered dream. I walked out to the corn patch and found a few ears had been broken, but no trace of Elijah was found.

I didn’t ask her anything more about that night. We both knew what had happened. After some years, when Mama passed, I buried her next to her babies under the willow tree. I knew she’d keep the twins at peace.

Time has changed my freckles into laugh lines, given me family to hold and a place on this Earth. Mama’s worldview makes more sense to me now. I can’t tend to the world’s overgrowth, but I can make a difference on my own soil.

Some things have changed, of course. The fields got smaller and the city grew, fiber optics replaced our telephone lines, but people and their problems stayed the same. And some things are eternal, like Mama’s voice laughing in the wind.

I’ve forgotten what Billy Dagget looks like; I can’t tell you the words to the songs I loved at seventeen. I can’t quite recall Poppy’s smile as I once did. I know I’ll never replace Mama Rose’s singing.

And in time, I’ll fade into the soil too.

But even if my face fades from every photograph and my name disappears from every record…

I know here, the land remembers.