EIGHT
Jilo stood at the bus stop, forcing herself not to sob and make a scene like one of the fool women who used to wash up at her nana’s door—screaming, crying, begging Nana to help bring back the wrong man or make the right one love them. Nana would always try to talk the women out of going after a man whose heart lay elsewhere. The smart ones would return home with a bit of wisdom and with fuller pockets than the fools.
There had been two men in Jilo’s life now, and for a brief period of time with each of them, she had allowed herself to believe she was loved. Maybe they even had loved her in their own way, but they had only turned her away from her dreams and ambitions. They had only held her down. She could feel bitterness creep into her heart. What would it take to find a partner who would support her rather than belittle her and drag her down? Just once, she would like to find such a man. She shook her head. Frankly, she didn’t believe such an animal existed.
An electric sign on the storefront behind her short-circuited with a loud pop. She jumped and nearly dropped her suitcase as a spray of turquoise sparks showered down on her. She moved a couple of yards farther down the sidewalk, but she could see the bus drawing near the stop, so after casting a wary look at the now burned-out sign, she moved back to where she’d been.
She tried to shake it off, but something wasn’t right. The bus rolled to a far-too-slow stop before her, like the air around it had congealed, hindering its progress. Her own movements seemed impeded, like she was swimming in molasses. She heard another pop, but this one seemed to sound in her own head. The world returned to normal the next moment, and she found herself boarding the bus.
Jilo struggled down the bus’s narrow aisle, grasping the handle of her heavy suitcase in both hands, making sure that despite the movement of the bus, she wouldn’t jostle any of the other riders, especially the white folk near the front. A pleasant-looking man in army khakis hopped up from his seat and approached her. “Allow me to help you, ma’am.”
A part of Jilo wanted to take his head off for showing her kindness. She felt like her heart had been hollowed out with a wire brush. She was nauseated. She wanted to be left alone, and there wasn’t any place in her world for helpful hands and gracious smiles. The soldier beamed down at her as he placed one hand beneath the case, slipping the other over the hand that still clutched the handle. He tilted his head, a curious look coming to his eyes, when she didn’t release her grip.
“Thank you, I can manage.” The words came out with a sharper edge than she’d intended. At that very moment, the bus swung wide to avoid a careless pedestrian, and Jilo and her case toppled forward. The man caught hold of her shoulders and steadied her. She felt her jaw tighten and her tongue ready itself to lash out. Then she looked up into his warm eyes, so full of kindness. Unable to bear the sight of them, she looked away. “Thank you,” she said again, blunting her ingratitude.
Though she did not release her hold on the case, he helped her into a seat. She set the case on the seat next to her, then—still feeling the weight of the man’s stare on her—glanced back up at him. “Thank you,” she said once again, doing her best to add a tone of finality to her words.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” he said, plopping down across the aisle from her. “I’m just here in Atlanta for the day,” he said, turning sideways to face her. “Just got decommissioned last week. Wanted to get out a bit while I was here to see your fair city,” he added. She stared straight forward, but it didn’t stop him from talking. “Took the train all the way from San Francisco. Got to see pretty near the whole country through the window.” He stretched the words “all the way” out. At first she thought it was an act to try and impress her, but then she cast a sideways glance at him. There was true wonder in his eyes; he wasn’t trying to impress her at all. “I thought for sure when they sent me overseas I’d end up in Korea, but one of the officers in Tokyo took a liking to me, kept me on there.” His voice lowered a bit. “Came back to the states by carrier. Not much to see between Tokyo and San Francisco, other than a bunch of water.” He leaned in toward her. “The rest, though, well, that was something to see.” His shoulders relaxed as he sat back. “This here’s the last leg of the trip. Grew up just a bit outside Darien. Catching the Greyhound home from the terminal in town tonight.”
She turned in her seat so that she could get a good look at him, and scanned his shirt for the name she knew she would find embroidered on his uniform. “Listen,” she said, “PFC Poole . . .”
“No. Not Private First Class anymore, just a regular old civilian now.”
“Mister,” her voice rose loud enough for the two elderly women sitting on the seat in front of her to turn and stare. She dropped it to a near whisper. “Poole. I do appreciate the assistance you were so kind to offer me, but I wish you would just let me finish my trip in peace.”
His face fell, and the light went out of his eyes. She felt as if she’d just kicked a puppy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be short with you, but I’m not having a very good day.”
“No,” he said, lowering his chin and his voice in the same moment. “I’m the one who’s sorry, ma’am. It’s only with your suitcase, I thought you might be heading to the bus station yourself. I’d only meant to say that I could help you there with your case if you’d like, but then my fool mouth got started going and . . .” A shy smile came to his lips. “Well, there I go again. I’ll just shut up and leave you be.” He underscored his promise by turning forward on his seat, then turning his head away and facing left out the side window.
Jilo stared at the back of his head, and while she knew she should just keep her trap shut if she wanted peace and quiet, there was something so kind and gentle about this fellow. And he’d just arrived home, maybe not from the front, but her nana would skin her alive if she knew she’d given a friendly veteran a bad time. She rolled her eyes. “The bus station is in the opposite direction. If you’re looking for the station, you’re heading the wrong way. And stop calling me ma’am.”
He turned back to look at her, his expression cautious at first, his lips pulled tight together. Then that spark returned to his eyes. “Yes, ma—” His smiled widened. “Miss.”
“And I know where Darien is. I grew up in Savannah myself.” In spite of her decision to remain aloof, she felt herself relaxing into her seat. “Came here for school,” she said, “and stayed on . . .” Her attention was drawn away as Five Points Baptist came up on the right. She turned and bent over the case that sat between her and the window. From a block away she could see that the side windows had been boarded over.
Behind her PFC—no, Mister—Poole had begun going on about something, but she held her palm out behind her to quiet him. As the bus pulled before Five Points Baptist, her heart sunk in her chest. The doors had been secured with a heavy chain and lock. She sensed someone hovering over her and glanced back to see Poole standing in the aisle, craning his neck to see what had so distracted her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning back to the window. “But that’s my church.” She felt a bit like she was lying. “Well it was.”
“Why they got it all shut up like that?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but I’m on my way to the pastor’s house now.” She continued to turn in her seat so she could keep her eye on the house of worship’s receding steeple.
“You family?” Poole asked.
Jilo turned away from the window. “Family?”
“Yes, you and your pastor.”
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 change 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.”