I turn to see if Mr. Parrish’s wife and children are here. And there they are, nearly halfway back. His wife, Jenny, has the saddest face I have ever seen. Not torn with pain, like Arcola’s father or little Edmund Powers. Just sad. The resignation I have seen so often on the faces of my people, here intensified. Her face looks carved. Jenny Parrish sits with their four children, two on each side of her. The youngest are close to her sides.
It is a long way between me and where Jenny is. This was a four-room shotgun house, but all the walls have been removed, a few supports left standing. I look back the length of the house, with the dividing walls removed. From the platform, Mr. Parrish is signaling at me. He wants me to sit in one of the three chairs with him, close to Christine, who was my friend. But they were all my friends. He wanted Stella to sit up there, too, but she has said she can’t, that she doesn’t deserve to, so one chair will remain empty.
Stella sits close to her living friend, Nancy.
There is Sam West from school walking toward the front. He’s wearing a sports jacket and nice pants. He approaches Stella and kneels in front of her. “You doin’ all right?” he asks her, but he looks over her head and not into her eyes. Still, it’s remarkable that he’s gone down to greet her. I can’t hear what she says because she’s facing the front. He shows her a fan he has in his hand. “You get too hot”—he’s looking sideways—“give me the sign. I come fan you, Miss Silver.”
She holds out her hand to him. At first he doesn’t see it, then he jumps a little and shakes hands.
For the first time, he looks in her eyes. “We thank you for coming,” he says. “I don’t know what to say.” He shakes his head back and forth and looks down. “I so sad about all this. Charles was my bes’ friend.”
She nods, but he is looking at the floor. Then he straightens up and walks back to his seat.
One by one, Cat’s brother carries her friends to her coffin to say good-bye. Once, Cat told me, he carried her all the way up Vulcan to see the view.
I walk up the two steps and take my place on the platform.
Now I look out at a sea of faces, all black. Way in the back, I see Dee, Christine’s sister. I will her to come forward, but she doesn’t budge. I go down from the platform to fetch her. My mama and my four aunts, dressed in dark clothes, watch me, but my father’s hand covers his whole face. When Dee sees me coming, she shakes her head no. I stop. I glance at my mama, and with two motions of her head, she tells me to let Dee be and that after the service she will take care of Dee. I return to the platform.
The only white people here are the ones I know, clustered close to the front, and Cat’s white handicapped friends. No, here comes a white man I don’t know. He is extremely well dressed, in a light gray suit. It even has a matching vest and a fine gray silk tie. His hair is white, but it looks a little creamy, like butter frosting set off by the gray suit. He wears shiny glasses, and he has his mouth tucked tight and grim, as though he’s afraid of crying.
Everybody is looking at him as he makes his way down the aisle. But he doesn’t walk importantlike. He walks quickly, rather bravely, just to say “I’m here.”
Stella looks back, sees him, and is surprised. She scoots sideways, crowding the others, to make room, so he can sit next to her.
Later I find out that this is Mr. Fielding, who owns the big department store where Stella works at the switchboard. Later I learn what he is whispering into Stella’s ear: “I’m here to be with you, young lady. Like your father would be, if he could.”
Now Mr. Parrish rises to begin the service. He will speak, and we will answer, as in a responsive reading. He speaks quietly.
Six
Spirits in the Snow, January 1965
Stella Listening
Brothers and sisters. On the rock of God we stand. All other ground is sinking sand.
All other ground is sinking sand, the congregation intones. Stella is numb and silent.
And we come here today as sinners. Sinners. Believing in the Redeeming Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for us. There is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from Immanuel’s veins. And sinners
Sinners, the congregation repeats after him.
Sinners plunged beneath that flood—lose all the guilty stains. And we believe
Stella hears the first quaver of emotion; he quavers on the second syllable of be lieve.
in the resurrection of the body, and that these dead will rise again at the latter day. The corruptible will be made incorruptible
Here, Stella notices, is emphasis and vibrato on the first syllable of in corruptible, but immediately he drops the quaver. She will pay attention—to everything. If there’s any solace in his message for her, she wants it. Cat! Christine! Arcola! And Charles!
and the crooked straight, and
With falling emphasis.
the lame shall leap for joy.
And Stella can’t bear it. Oh, he cannot help but glance, just the quickest movement of his eyes, she knows she would, at Cat’s coffin, because she was the lame among us. The congregation audibly breathes together. In spite of herself, Stella thinks, We bond and become one in understanding. Mr. Fielding puts his arm across her shoulders.
I’ve seen you before, haven’t I, brothers and sisters? We saw each other when four little girls attending church on Sunday were killed by a bomb hidden in the church, here in Birmingham. And I seen you in Jackson, along the highway, didn’t I? When somebody started shooting from ambush—you were there, weren’t you? And I was there. We were there in Detroit, Michigan, and we were there in a place named of all things Liberty, Mississippi, when Herbert Lee was murdered for helping voter registration. We been here before, haven’t we, brothers and sisters. We know this place. Yes, we know it. This is the place of the skull.
Stella sees Gloria is out of her chair. She’s standing up, short and proud, and she’s singing in her own pure voice like a stab that pierces Stella’s heart and comes out the other side: “Were you there?”Was she? Was she? Stella’s heart accuses. I should have been. Guilt comes to knot itself with grief, and the two constrict and contend with each other, and the pain in Stella’s heart is excruciating. Gloria sings out and through and above and beneath the entire congregation, “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?” Gloria cannot stop herself till the room is full of her beautiful voice.
Were you there?
Lionel Parrish repeats.
He takes up her words and now his speaking voice has surrendered to the full grip of inspiration, soft, low, and trembling.
Yes, I think you was. But I’m here before you today for a very special reason. I’m here because one of these dead, dying in my arms at the White Palace, said to me, “I liked you from the beginning, Mr. Parrish. Preach it for me.” That’s what she, or he, asked: “Preach it for me.” No, it doesn’t matter which one. I’m not going to say which one asked it. That’s not the important thing.
We been together in grief before. Us here. We don’t have enough of anything else,
So quietly, he speaks.
but grief. That, we are well acquainted with. But brothers and sisters, it’s hard
His voice rises and will rise; Stella waits for it to lift her above the coffins of her family, of the four girls, of Kennedy’s bier, of these heart-dear friends coffined before her. Lift me!
it’s hard, it’s hard to see you again.
The congregation all stir in their seats; they are uncomfortable; they know what’s coming; the introduction is over. Even Mr. Fielding and the white people shift their weight. All try to prepare to face the facts here at the front of this church. He starts low and gentle, again. He must climb the hill again. Stella wonders How many times must we climb it? But she is thinking of the myth of Sisyphus, not Golgotha. Gloria seats herself.
Dearly beloved (his eyes circle the tabernacle: all are included; the walls disappear), we are gathered here at Joseph Coat-of-Many-Colors A.M.E. Church to mourn the passing of four young peop
le—and I name them in alphabetical order by last names—Miss Arcola Anderson, Miss Catherine Cartwright, Mr. Charles Powers, Mrs. Christine Taylor. Bless them.
Bless them, everyone says.
We standing at the skull. Crying.
Crying.
And as they say the word, people sob and thrash, and weep afresh.
Wishing we could have them back.
They groan with mourning.
And yet if we believe in Jesus, if we believe in Jesus, if we believe—
And the cadence falls, as Stella knows it must. One cannot build and build, one must fall back, then build again, lest somebody’s heart be left by the wayside. This is the rhythm that catches all in its net and none will be left behind alone. But does Stella believe? How can she?
He whispers his inevitable question, like a hiss.
—then how can we want ’em back?
How can we want them back? If we believe.
We want them back for their lives, for the living they ain’t done.
Yes, Stella agrees. She joins the church in its mourning. Cat, my precious Cat! Stella joins everyone present, in grief, if not in belief. Arcola! Charles! Christine! And with that last name the rafters of her mind ring. Four angels from four corners blast those names against her head, their trumpets pressed against her skull, and she is afraid of fainting and falling.
That’s why we mourn. (His quiet voice stills the ringing of her head.) That’s why our hearts is heavy. In spite of belief in Jesus, we got to mourn these four young people for the living that passed on. For Arcola Anderson—if you knew her, you loved her. Always having a joke, Arcola, always making things smooth and friendly. Also working hard at her studies, getting ready to go out in life well educated. That’s lost. That’s gone now. Her daddy and her mama—Jesus will comfort you. Jesus is with you. Christine Taylor, mother of these three young children here. She trusted those children, trusted ’em over, to Sister Agnes and Brother TJ that day. But Christine won’t get to play with ’em again or see them grow to be fine adults. But Christine did this! She made her statement. So that all children could grow up in a world that would be more fair. More equal. So white and black could sit down together. Like we are now.
And I mourn, I mourn for Catherine Cartwright. With all my heart. She was a natural teacher. She was dedicated to teaching. And she got to teach a little bit. But what a waste, what a waste, brothers and sisters, that we won’t have Cat. She had a great friend, Miss Stella Silver, who came out to Miles College to teach with her, and Miss Silver and her friend is here with us to mourn, and Cat’s brother and her father. And I know you’ll all want to extend the right hand of fellowship to them.
I mourn Charlie Powers. Mr. Charles Powers. A young man, making his way in the world. It was my privilege to see how he was changing, how he was becoming a steady man. And he didn’t forget his mother or his little sister or three little brothers, after he left home. He visited them, shared what he could, showed what it was to be a man. He was with Christine, in May 1963, when Bull Connor turned on the fire hoses and let loose the dogs. But Charles Powers valued education, just like these three young women, and he went on from protest to be a pupil in the night school.
But that’s over. That’s all over. For all of these. Black and white.
We’ll miss ’em.
We’ll miss ’em.
We miss ’em today; we miss ’em tomorrow; we miss ’em forever.
Stella catches his fearless allusion to George Wallace, who vowed, just so, that segregation would be unending. The congregation breaks up into separate utterances, shocked out of unity.
That’s right. Tell it. Lord. Lord, help us. Preach it. Preach it right.
George Wallace, he try to tell us ’bout yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Let him wave the flag of Old Dixie and the flag of segregation, but I tell you, I tell you, I tell you. Together today; together tomorrow; together forever. One world! God didn’t make but one world. And he didn’t send but one Son.
They are stirred, and he lets everyone settle. Stella knows:he wants us to settle again. He wants his people to settle once again. And again he drops back into his quiet voice; he is not a preacher who shouts all the time, instead he makes music of a sweet and low and startling trumpet blast. Lionel Parrish’s bandaged hand waves out wounded and white, but it is not the badge of surrender. Not now, not ever.
Let me explain about Time. There be eternity. God’s time. There be change. Our time.
I think I miss loved ones most at change of season. Then I think, if only they could see this. See the coming on of autumn, the way the leaves from the mighty oak trees fall down and curl on the ground. And then when we lift our faces, how blue the sky is through the bare branches. I don’t think white people realize sometimes what a comfort the mere blue of heaven is to poor folks. And then when the colors of spring come on. The many colors, bright and various as the colors in Joseph’s coat, the coat his brothers made him before they sold him into bondage—
When the colors of spring arrive and the dogwood blooms, I wish the dead could open their eyes, could open their eyes and see Nature, see what he’s gave us here on earth, to enjoy. Yes, I’m sad when the seasons change. Change. I think change is the essence of our lives here on earth.
I don’t want to stagnate. I want to develop myself, and I know they wanted to develop themselves—Charles and Catherine and Christine and Arcola. And it makes me sad to see any change in the season that those whom we love and who have passed on would have enjoyed.
But now summer is a-goin’ on. Without these dead. The robins still here; bluejays still screaming “Thief! Thief.” Up in the trees, the seed pods from wisteria hanging like grapes. Remember how we breathed in that wisteria aroma last spring? We’ll try to smell it in the air when we go out of here. Because we remember springtime and resurrection. If the fall comes, so, surely, will the spring. And let’s appreciate the beauty of the earth, and take comfort in it. Dahlias—so bright and cheerful—dahlias blooming in everybody’s yard, and zinnias so round and perfect you want to take ’em to the fair. Jesus loves us.
He lifts his arms and opens wide his hands, as though to embrace the four coffins and the dead within.
And where are they? Them? They lying in the coffin, you say?
And his preacher question comes to Stella, burrows into her secret mind, What can I believe? But it’s Gloria standing up and speaking out: “They with us. They in us,” and the question is irrelevant. Gloria opens her mouth wider, and her voice opens up, and she’s singing “Abide with Me.” And the piano so soft—Jonathan—knows her key, the piano comes to help her, and all sing, but Gloria’s voice leads clearest, and she becomes the leader she was born to be, and Stella sings, too, following the voice of her friend:
Abide with me: fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide!
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.
I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, the victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
Fora moment, Stella believes. She believes in love, the blessed community. In life, in death, there is love. Yes. That simple. And her heart overflows. She puts her hand and then her head on Nancy’s shoulder, and cries with complete abandon, cries down the years for those dear and lost. Nancy sobs with her.
I
tell you. Birmingham can’t hold them. They left this city. They walking in the heavenly city, and I can see them there.
I see them, the congregation intones.
They walking on the streets of gold. They’re holding hands, all of ’em, like us, healthy and happy, walking, walking, walking to the throne of God.
Cat’s brother bursts into tears.
Throne of God.
And heavenly hosts—
Heavenly hosts—
Agnes screams, and TJ buries his face in both hands. Christine’s children yelp in terror.
But there’s Gloria, standing, shouting it out: “Freedom walking!”
And Mr. Parrish tells her, “Sing it out!”
Gloria shouts, “Freedom gonna come. Freedom gonna come. Lift up your soul, brothers and sisters. Lift up your voices”—her voice is loud and angry; she can’t help it. Stella imagines flames darting from Gloria’s eyes and ears. But the piano is starting to play while Gloria ignites. She flashes the mahogany of her skin, the green of her eyes, the bone of her teeth. And what is that tune Stella hears? Jonathan is playing the whole orchestra on the piano for the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel. Stella leaps to her feet. She rises to shout “Hallelujah,” with no notion of the content of belief, and the congregation becomes a cacophony of cries, each heart opening. Jonathan is beating the music out of the piano, and people are not singing but shouting in anger, singing in anguish.
But piano doesn’t want this to continue too long. Piano looks for peace. Gloria’s singing voice comes back, but she has to stamp her feet for a while to finish the frenzy. Then Gloria opens from her deepest heart. Stella sees Gloria’s shining face open and change and her being empty itself of hate. Gloria rises up from that dragon darkness that reached up from hell to grab her, and she will not be swallowed by hate.