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  Yet her mother had become increasingly disgusted with him, finally driving him to the likes of Queen Marie—nasty, obnoxious Queen Marie—shameless wench with no more decency than to impose herself upon her lover’s family; and on what should have been a happy occasion, shared with their father.

  And where had he been, anyway, on the day of his son’s graduation? Prince Junior’s manner toward their father, much like his mother’s, had no doubt kept him away. With each birthday, holiday, or special occasion that Prince missed, the light of Lilly’s hope for a reunion of their family faded but slightly. She would not hand him over to that brazen slut without a fight. On this inclement graduation day, Queen Marie had unwittingly declared war.

  When Lilly cooked for her father, she felt the move of God within, a primal knowledge of calling and destiny. Everything turned out better when prepared for Prince. Fish fried firm and even-toned. Corn bread melted in one’s mouth. And the flavor of turnip greens retained its edge, delicately. Chitterlings satisfied. Shortbread delighted. Once, she made dumplings from three-day old bread, and Prince, having dropped by unexpectedly, made a meal of these and squash seasoned only with butter. They had known that he was coming, those dumplings, and Lilly swore that they had set themselves right for his consumption.

  “Girl, you needs you a man to cook fo’,” Prince had teased. But Lilly had seen his sadness and dread at the thought.

  “Oh, Daddy,” she had said, reassuringly. “What I need wit’ another man? I got you.” And she had hugged him around his waist, the way she had as a small child unable to reach higher. Now, she was becoming a young lady, and an artist of artifice and feminine wiles. If Sister did not know how to keep her husband happy, Lilly knew how to bring Prince home.

  “You don’t have to cook for him,” Sister once told her, breaking the silence of a still night as they had washed clothing in cast aluminum tubs, working side by side on their knees. She had meant that Prince loved his daughter, in his way, and would always return, albeit less frequently, to indulge himself in the smile of his baby girl, if not her cooking, a delight for which he lived. Recalling her mother’s words years later, Lilly would understand this. But now, she regarded her mother sullenly from the corners of her eyes, biting her tongue. After all, Sister had cooked for her father, each year at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She had baked yeast rolls and sweet potato pies, and yams candied with brown sugar and nutmeg. Her sisters, too, Lilly’s aunts, had prepared for days in advance all of his favorite dishes. And at those family gatherings, when Grandma had shushed all of the children and seated everyone around a plank that masqueraded as a banquet table, no one had spoken until Grandpa had blessed the table and taken his first bite of this, and then of that, turning his plate for easier access to each course. Then, having taken note of what was and was not on that heavily laden plate, the sisters would raise a cacophony:

  “Have some of these beans, Daddy.”

  “You didn’ get none o’ my puddin’? Try some o’ dis puddin.”

  And steaming cups and bowls of whatever and what not would surround his overflowing plate.

  Prince may not have been as righteous as his father-in-law, but Lilly understood and loved him every bit as much as Sister had loved her own now departed father. Lilly would resent her mother’s remark for years.

  But mostly, Lilly felt protective of her mother who, despite the cutting tongue and often caustic manner for which she had become known, had a vulnerability and despondency that shamed Lilly out of her sulking resentments and small youthful rebellions. Sister was an agonized woman, and the source of her pain was a knowledge personal, burdensome, and unutterable.

  Prince Junior felt this, too. They had not forgotten Sister’s excursions from reality when they were both small children. And Lilly, a solemn child and wise beyond her years, had learned to be attentive to Sister’s changes in disposition, watching with the tremulous expectancy of three small girls waiting for deliverance—not their own, but that of their mother held captive inside the barn.

  When Sister was “low,” Lilly picked up the laundry from her mother’s employers; saw that it was delivered clean, crisp, and on time. She fed Prince Junior and the chickens; kept the yard swept and tidy. She even kept visitors away, engaging in pleasant conversation the occasional stoppers-by, keeping them tactfully outdoors with an apologetic smile and an explanation: Sister was feeling poorly. Yes, she was sure Sister would be fine. Jes needed a lil’ res’, dass all. At night, she hummed pleasantly as she combed her mother’s hair before the dying embers in their darkened hut. She had learned the comforting effect of near-silence and touch; the soothing power of near-darkness—a reprieve from the stark clarity and ugliness that filled her mother’s days. She understood Sister’s need to be alone—almost, but not quite, alone—and to appreciate her own solace. And Lilly developed a special sensitivity to the pain of others. Pain reached out to Lilly. It spoke to her in a language understood by the truly discerning; and it brought forth the kindness of the sainted Black Woman. Mother sister burden-bearer. Counselor comforter. It evoked the quiet efficiency of a midwife; the strength and patience of a woman waiting for deliverance—not her own, but that of her mother, her father, brother, and sister human beings struggling for their own lives.

  She learned to control, gently, with the unassuming wisdom of one who knew what was best for others. Friends grew to rely on her. Young men saw in her a fine, Christian wife, a capable mother; and Lilly began to appreciate her own value, to understand her role. Somebody had to have some sense around here. Somebody had to hold things together.

  Somebody had to be strong.

  chapter 5

  INEZ, NORTH CAROLINA

  DECEMBER, 1880

  Christmas Eve. Parties erupted along the roads of Henderson and Warrenton, dotted the countryside in Nash and Vance counties, bringing a liveliness and cheer seldom seen among the colored of eastern North Carolina. Barrooms and billiard halls had lately been packed with merry-makers throughout the night and well into the mornings. The Feels Good Inn rocked. Queen Marie felt the jarring rhythm of the live band, and on her night off, she danced a jig naked before the one small window of her room above the bar. “Come on, Prince,” she cooed. “Pleeease”—turning toward him to wiggle her shoulders, her arms extended gracefully—“let’s go out dan-sing,” she sang, and began to chant, “A-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-dem bells, a-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring—”

  “Queen Marie,” Prince laughed, accepting her embrace. “You know you is a fool. But I got to go. Let go, now! I got to go.”

  “Go where,” Queen Marie whined. She sat pouting on the bed, crossing her thin bare legs at the ankles. “Not to go progin’ ’roun’ her house.” She paused, and when he did not deny this: “Priiince! You said you wouldn’t go dere no more. You said yo’ chirren didn’t wanna see you nohow—”

  Prince winced. “I said my boy didn’t wanna see me.” Queen Marie could see the pain of rejection on his face. It hurt her to see him hurt, and she was sorry that she had raised the issue of Prince’s children. But he recovered quickly. The rift between Prince and his son was an old one, and he had resolved to leave it unmended. Prince Junior was just as well off, Prince knew, without him.

  The girl, Lilly, was another matter. The holiday season always meant increased guilt for Prince. Lilly looked forward to his occasional visits. She wanted to spend time with him—like family, she had said, staring meaningfully into his eyes and grasping his hand. He had marveled at this cunning child as beautiful and manipulative as his mistress, yet, at times, as benign and full of gentle grace as her mother had once been.

  Sister barely tolerated Prince during these visits. Prince Junior was always conveniently absent, without explanation or apology. But Lilly freely forgave Prince his desertion, chattering as she moved about the little house, cooking, feeding, and fussing over him. Lilly’s absolution made these paternal visits endurable for Prince. “My girl—Lilly. She wants to see me.”

>   Queen Marie sucked her teeth and turned her head to stare at the

  wall. Prince continued. “She my baby girl. She don’ ask much. I be dere for her dis time.” Prince moved toward the door.

  Queen Marie sprang to her feet, her small breasts bouncing as she rushed toward the door and flung her back against it. “An’ nex’ time?” she asked. “Nex’ time I wanna do suh’m, you gon’ go runnin’ off to dem and leave me by my lonesome?”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, Queen Marie pouting and insolent, Prince realizing with a start, as he often did, that Queen Marie was, after all, still a child, albeit in a woman’s body. He lifted her gently and placed her beside the door. She looked up at him, sadly, but said nothing as he opened the door and bounded down the stairs.

  FISHING CREEK, WARREN COUNTY, NORTH CAROLINA

  CHRISTMAS EVE, 1880

  It was snowing when Queen Marie arrived at the roadhouse near Fishing Creek, her backside sore from the buckboard ride she had hitched with a stranger. The door was wide open despite the chill, and inside, Queen Marie could see sweating bodies flailing and spinning to the song of a local celebrity, who swung her great bulk from side to side as she belted out a half-angry, half-forlorn song. Squeezing into the small wooden structure, patched in several places with sheets of tin, Queen Marie removed her coat and shook it vigorously, holding it outside the door, and attracting the attention of several young men who stood in a cluster in the red mud outside. One of them whistled. Queen Marie frowned, squinting at them through the delicate curtain of snow that fell between her and her admirers. She did not notice the boy with the hazel, hooded eyes, younger than the rest, with a thinly veiled excitement and expectancy not possessed by his companions.

  She turned to navigate her way through the crowd, refulgent in a drop-shouldered dress she had appropriated from her mother, a relic of a years-ago past but still fashionable, more than conspicuous in this lackluster gathering of the county’s poorest and least refined. A young man offered to hold her coat. Another offered her his chair, and yet another brought her a drink, and another—151-proof whiskey with no ice.

  Queen Marie danced, her throat burning as she fought back tears. Her Prince was with Sister, at Sister’s house, probably in Sister’s arms. That wench and her daughter—that Lilly—had conspired to lure Prince from her. And Prince was cooperating with them, dim-witted in his wish to be near Sister under any pretense that his wife devised.

  And Queen Marie—childless after years of effort—was left alone on Christmas Eve, no child to even the score between Sister and herself, no family to entangle Prince in a web of loyalty and love and tradition during this holiday season. She whirled in the space on the dance floor that had opened for her, her eyes half-closed and her skirt billowing around her, giggling foolishly, not certain that she had a partner. She said this aloud—“Don’t know if I even got a partner”—although she was sure that no one could hear her above the din.

  But when she opened her eyes, miraculously, he appeared, standing just outside the door: a young man with wide, thin shoulders, and intriguing eyes; eyes that seemed to make love to her from across the room. Queen Marie blinked. This was not her Prince. Her Prince was heavier, more substantial. She began moving toward him, her eyes fixed on him, making him shift his weight nervously from one foot to the other. Delicate hairs darkened his chin, she saw as she came closer and stopped directly in front of him, staring up into his narrow face. His friends grinned at her, knowingly at Prince Junior and each other before wandering away to watch from a respectful distance.

  Queen Marie barely noticed them. Prince Junior. The angry, hurting little boy clutching his mother’s hand at the Feels Good Inn. The child she had wished could be hers. He swallowed but met her stare, uncertain of what he should say or do. She was flattered by his discomfort. It made her feel mature, worldly.

  She took his arm and strolled with him down the path that led to the road, forgetting her coat. The snow had stopped, and the sky was clear and blue, peopled by stars that seemed to crowd the sky. Queen Marie supposed that they were having a Christmas party of their own.

  “You gotta name?” she asked when they were far enough from the roadhouse to hear themselves speak.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he replied. Sister, Queen Marie noted, had raised a nice boy. “Prince—” he caught himself before saying Junior—“My name Prince.”

  Queen Marie hesitated, deciding what to call herself if he should ask her name. “Well, dass a fine name. For a fine fella,” she added, looking up at him. He blushed. She contemplated his age. Probably in his early teens, she guessed. Younger than Lilly. She took his hand and stopped walking as they reached the turn-off onto the road.

  “You ever been wit’ a woman, Prince?” she asked softly.

  His eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, as he tried to appear unruffled. “Yes, Ma’am.” Queen Marie was disappointed, and this must have showed, because he added, hastily, “I mean no, Ma’am. Not wit a lady, not like you.” She recalled the frantic groping that went on when fourteen-year-old boys were left alone with unsuspecting girls. She understood what he meant. Without a word, she led him into the dense woods beside the path, a shortcut to an abandoned supply shed where she and Prince had often made love.

  He was not as shy, or as unskilled, as she had expected. His hands moved along the length of her body, stopping at points of interest, exploring every inch of her in wonder and amazement. He had never seen a completely naked woman before, and he intended to exploit this opportunity for all that it was worth. And Queen Marie, content with her fantasy of Prince, allowed his son to stroke away the pain of his rejection.

  And as Prince Junior helped her into her dress, she turned to embrace him, discarding the dress again, pulling him with her to the floor, drawn to him by loneliness or vengeance or confusion as to his identity, or perhaps some combination of these. Queen Marie knew only that there was satisfaction of a sort in the uncertain embrace of this boy-man who had not asked her name.

  INEZ, NORTH CAROLINA

  MARCH, 1881

  Thus saith the Lords of hosts; Consider your ways.

  —Haggai 1:7

  Spring came early that year, melting the frost of winter, causing folks to accelerate the stowing and mothballing of overcoats, the consumption of canned goods, now overstocked, and the carrying out of spring cleaning: quilts hanging from clotheslines, rugs shaken vigorously in front yards. And with the warmth of spring and its attendant fever, churches began once again to compete with the forces of darkness that beckoned from juke joints and whorehouses, luring away young deacons-in-training and junior Willing Workers, emptying pews and choir stands as thoughts of a wintry and wrathful God gave way to shindigs and impromptu barbecues.

  Business began to pick up at the Feels Good Inn. Queen Marie worked tirelessly, the hours of labor in the solitude of the kitchen proving therapeutic. She had had several weeks to consider her ways, and to consider their consequence, the enormity of which had begun to sink in on a tepid evening in February when Prince, always cognizant of her menstrual cycle, had made inquiries as to her health. Queen Marie had smiled innocently, lowered her lashes, and hinted at maybe being in a family way.

  She had done this as he sat on the edge of her bed, shirtless and removing his shoes, the light from the gas street lantern outside the barroom, new and cosmopolitan, casting a yellowish glow on his profile. She had waited for a rejoinder, crouched behind him on the lumpy bed. For several moments he had not spoken. A chill, slight and barely stirring, had filled the room, causing Queen Marie to hunch her shoulders and pull a quilt around them. Prince had not moved a muscle.

  “Prince?” She had begun to move toward him, finally, touching his broad back.

  “You’s in a family way,” he had stated, his voice flat. Still, he had not turned to face her.

  “Maybe, I reckon,” she had replied softly, afraid of his posture and tone. She was not sure what she had expected. She had known that he
did not, had not wanted this. But that, Queen Marie had thought, was water under the bridge. She would have a baby now, a boy, like Sister; and Prince would love both her and their son. Like Sister. And her son.

  He had not touched Queen Marie that night. She had tried not to worry, and toyed with the idea of trying, once again, to elicit a response to her touch. But she had thought better of it. He was angry now. His contraceptive efforts had failed; but he would cool down in time.

  After that night, Prince had avoided Queen Marie. She saw him once in early March, at a general store in Warrenton, buying fatback and homemade “cracklin’” corn bread. He saw her, too, watching him from the candy counter, holding a bag of butterscotch stick candies, her favorite confection, and he had looked away. When she cornered him to ask him of his plans with respect to her, he had looked at her strangely, then looked away, above her head, past the rough wood door that led to the fields outside.

  “You’s in a family way,” he had said, and shuffled around her and toward the door.

  She stood frozen for a moment, wondering at his words, before the intended impact of his “you’s” dawned upon her, and a gathering began to assemble in Queen Marie’s heart.

  Disbelief arrived first. Then, the thought of Prince denying in this way his role in her pregnancy Shocked and Shamed Queen Marie.

  Then, Doubt made its appearance. Queen Marie had had sex with two men, only one of whom had the foresight to have made feckless, undisciplined attempts to protect himself from unintended paternity. She had taken for granted, irrationally, the identity of this child’s father, on no basis other than that she had wanted to; and Queen Marie had not been able to imagine things not working out, ultimately, in the way that she wanted them to.