Amelda Louise Grey rushed through the streets of Rome, Georgia, hurrying for all she was worth to make it home before 5:30 PM. She had already heard the clock on the courthouse tower chime out the quarter hour, and was terrified that she would be late. He hated it when she was late.
A freshening early summer wind whipped at her clothes, and she almost lost her shawl as she ran headlong up the long bank of chipped and broken stone stairs leading up to the white house on the hill. Her red-gold hair shook loose from the hairpins, and flew all about her face, but she took no pains to fix it now. She had to make it into the house before 5:30!
Panting, she rushed around the corner of the house, and nearly tripped over the old beagle sleeping on the back steps. Bender would choose today to take his afternoon nap on the back stoop! Leaping over him, she jerked open the kitchen door, and almost fell into the warm, steamy kitchen.
Martha, the black serving woman and cook, whirled around with a ladle in her hand and was about to remonstrate with her for such a noisy entrance. But then she heard the big grandfather clock in the front hallway chime out the half hour. Her words died in her mouth, and she shook her head at the risk the young woman had taken.
Most of the anxiety drained out of Amelda, but she couldn't relax yet. "Martha, you saw me come in the door before 5:30! You will vouch for me, won't you, please?" There was pleading in her voice, even though she could have simply ordered the old woman to vouch for the time of her arrival.
Unconsciously, Martha glanced upwards toward where the master of the house would be sitting in his office, in the heavy horsehair-upholstered chair, looking over the accounts. "He been busy t'day, missy, an' that's th' truth! I ain't heard a word since I served him his lunch." She sighed. "So, I reckon you safe fo' today!"
Amelda rushed over and gave the woman a quick embrace, then tossed her shawl over a peg by the door. "Thank you, Martha! I'll help you get things ready for supper. What can I do?" She was rolling up her sleeves as she spoke.
"Laws, honey, you don't gotta help." But there was some relief in the old woman's voice at the offer, nonetheless. "I clean forgot to pick some o' them tomaters that he loves so much! Could you go and git some from th' garden, and then slice 'em up fo' me? That's a good child!"
Every spring that she could remember, they had planted a small garden. They moved to Rome in 1905, six months after her mother had disappeared. She was thirteen years old at the time. Now, for the last five years, she had helped with the garden here, especially the tending of the tomatoes that were her father's favorite. Mr. Grey loved tomatoes - fried when green, diced on a salad, cooked in a soup - just about any way, they were his favorite.
Amelda gathered up four or five of the ripest and prettiest tomatoes she could find, and took them inside. She washed them at the sink, and started slicing them for the meal.
Old Martha looked at her, and shook her head. "Laws, child, when I was a little 'un, we nevah ate them thangs! We alluz thought they was poison." She chuckled. "Well, if they is, th' old master, he is mo' poison than they is, so they don't bother him none!"
Smiling at her, Amelda picked up a bright-red slice, salted it, then popped it into her mouth. "They're good, Martha. Mama taught me all about herbs and plants when I was little, and eating a tomato is not going to kill anybody!" Her face clouded slightly as she remembered her mother, gone now these five years and none knew where.
Secretively, Martha marked a cross on her chest as she heard Amelda talk about her mother. "Well, honey, I reckon if a body knew about plants an' such, it was yo' mama. She come from Port au Prince, an' used to tell us what plants to use fo' th' colic, an' fix poultices fo' th' younguns when th' grippe would set in. That woman knew plants, an' that's a fact!"
She didn't mention that Amelda's mother also knew how to fix charms to make your man able to love you all night long, or make little dolls that could be used to get revenge on someone by thrusting a pin into the doll or grinding the doll under your heel.
Amelda had been busy slicing and preparing the tomatoes, so she had noticed neither the hidden marking of the cross, nor the furtive look of the cook. She finished the plate, and garnished it with a sprig of the parsley that grew in the pots in the window. "There, Martha! All pretty."
Martha turned and looked. "Sho nuff is!" Then she snorted. "Like he gonna notice or say thank you!"
Amelda excused herself, and went upstairs to change before supper. As she took off her undershift, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her skin was almost a light caramel in color, the heritage of her mother. Her mother had been light-skinned herself, so Amelda looked basically white, but tanned... almost Mediterranean. Since coming to Rome, she believed that no one knew that her mother had been a black woman from Haiti, nor would have suspected it. Amelda had been to school and spoke well, with none of the patois that Haitians used, and sounded like any other young Southern white woman. And none would ever suspect that old Mr. Grey was her father. He always told everyone that she was his niece from New Orleans, and that she was his only living relative.
She finished undressing, and washed up. The run up the hill from town had made her sweat, and she knew that Mr. Grey wanted her to smell sweet at the supper table. So she bathed and scented herself with rosewater. As she looked in the mirror again, she ran her hand over her belly. Her eyes widened with fear, and she turned sideways to look at herself in profile. My God, could it be?
She stood for a moment, petrified. When was her last time? Her last monthly... dear Lord, it was over ten weeks ago! She had been so busy that she had not even thought about it. She looked at herself again, tracing her fingertips over the swell of her lower belly. It had to be Simon.
She sat on the edge of her bed, remembering. Simon was the young black man who helped out at the mercantile downtown. He helped her with her bags many times, and they just started talking. He was amazed, and nervous, that a white woman would treat him so nicely, and with respect. That was several months ago. Over time, they spoke more and the bond of friendship had grown. Finally, she told him of her mother's origin and about her father, after swearing him to secrecy.
That sharing brought them closer by a leap, it seemed. Finally, back in late March, they both contrived to have an entire afternoon to themselves. They walked down to a little spot on the Coosa River that was shaded by sycamores and secluded from view. Martha had packed a picnic for her, and they sat there and ate, laughed and talked.
The afternoon had been warm, for March. They lay side by side, looking up at the clouds scudding by overhead. Slowly, their hands had wandered, seemingly of their own accord. They moved closer to one another, and with their first kiss, it was like a dam had burst inside Amelda. Hungrily, the two of them made love, and then lay in each other's arms, spent but happy. Simon had looked at the stripes on her back, but never asked who put them there. He just seemed to know.
Since that time, they found time and opportunity to make love twice more. She looked down at her belly. Well, your sins will find you out, the preacher at the Methodist church always said. What was she going to do? She laid both of her hands on her belly again, one hand sliding underneath the curve in a caressing, cradling motion. That was her baby in there, her's and Simon's.
She heard the clock downstairs chiming out the six o'clock hour, and hurriedly dressed. She dare not be late for supper. He was a hard man, her father. But he was all she knew, and how would she live if she left him? She knew no trade, had no money of her own. Even now, at the beginning of the twentieth century, it was hard for a single woman alone in the deep South to make a living – at least and stay decent.
She made her way downtown, and entered the dining room just before her father, Mr. Grey. The old man was gaunt and tall, but obviously had been a strikingly handsome man in his day. The last two years had seen his health steadily declining, with the doctor out to see him at least once a month because of chest pains. Still, he seemed to retain enough of his energy to see to "disciplining" Amelda whenever he felt it was necessary.
She stood by her chair until he was seated and nodded at her, and then she quietly took her seat. He rang the small bell by his plate, and Martha brought out a platter with a pork roast steaming in its juices, as well as a plate of yams, a bowl of green beans and the dish of tomatoes Amelda had sliced earlier. These she placed swiftly on the table, along with a basket of cut corn bread and a pitcher of tea. She stood back for a moment, waiting.
Mr. Grey looked over the table, and took in the scent with a long inhalation through his nose. He lifted the tea towel over the cornbread. Then his eyes quickly glanced over the table again.
"Martha, where is the butter?" His eyes flashed. "I've told you, time after time, that I like to butter the cornbread when it's still hot! Where IS the butter??" He pounded his fist once upon the table to punctuate his question, bouncing the plates.
If Martha could have gone pale, she would have done. "I was just 'bout to bring it out, Mister Grey. I had my hands full, sho' nuff did, and was afraid I'd drop it!" Sweat was beading on her forehead, and she looked down at the ground.
"Well, go and get it now, then, you old fool! The bread is getting cold!"
She rushed from the room, and in a second returned with the butter in a bowl. She held it out to him, and without taking it, he gouged out a sizable portion to put upon his own plate. She held it there for a moment, and then went around the table to place it beside Amelda. As the old man buttered his cornbread, Martha stood nervously waiting for any further instructions.
Finally, he looked up at her. "What are you waiting on, you stupid pickaninny? Get on out to the kitchen, and make sure dessert isn't ruined!" He waved a hand at her dismissively, and she left.
He served himself some of the pork roast, yams, green beans and several slices of the tomatoes, which he placed between sliced and buttered cornbread. These he ate without preamble or prayer, saying nothing to his daughter.
She, too, filled her plate, but was only picking at her food. Her earlier discovery, combined with her father's vented anger at Martha, had destroyed her appetite.
Finally, after he consumed two-thirds of what lay upon his plate, he looked up at her. She did not notice his gaze, so he continued to stare at her for some minutes. Finally he barked, "What is the matter? Not hungry? I won't have you wasting food, young lady! You will eat what you have dished up for yourself, or I'll know the reason why!"
She swallowed what was in her mouth, and looked in his direction, but not directly looking him in the eye. She knew he could not abide that.
"Father..."
"NO!" He pounded on the table again with his fist, and the color rose in his face, making his white beard stand out like coarse cotton. "I have told you - you are to address me as "Uncle Ezekiel", or "Sir". I will not have anyone finding out that I am your father. It would be a scandal." He glowered at her. "You know what I said would happen if you ever let it slip, don't you?"
She nodded, and said in almost a whisper, "Yes, sir." She had been warned that she would be whipped to within an inch of her life if she ever told anyone, and she believed that he would do it.
"Uncle Ezekiel," she began again, "I'm not feeling well. I thought I could eat all I served up, but I don't know if I can."
"What's the matter with you?" He peered more intensely at her, over his half-moon glasses.
She took a sip of water to cover her fright. “It… it’s just my stomach, that’s all. I feel queasy.” She tried another bite of yams, and managed to swallow it.
“Hmmph! Your mother was that way! Always complaining of this ailment, or that. But I stopped that, soon enough!” He pulled a flask out of his inside coat pocket, and dashed a dark coloring of amber liquid into his tea. He swallowed a sip and made a face, then poured twice as much more again into his glass.
She sat there in silence then, trying to eat more. She managed to force down another bite of the pork roast and some cornbread, but that was all. Her throat was tight, and her stomach in a turmoil.
Her father was spooning out some of the bread pudding that Martha had just brought in, and ladling some orange sauce over it. He spooned some into a small bowl, and shoved it over in front of Amelda.
“Here! If you can't stomach the regular food, then try some of the sweets. You need something in your stomach, if you are going to carry your part of the load around here!” He glared at her over the rim of his drink as he sipped it.
She took a small bite of the bread pudding, and got it down, but her stomach rebelled then. She clapped a hand to her mouth, and ran outside, but still managed to get some of her stomach’s contents on her dress. Martha followed her outside in a rush, and stood clucking her tongue at the sight.
“Here, come along, honey, and Martha will look to you. Come on, now,” and Martha took her by the arm. She led her through the dining room, past the disapproving eyes of her father, and up the stairs to her room. Martha started unfastening her dress, and almost unaware, Amelda let her continue.
Martha clucked her tongue again. “Land sakes, child! You done throwed up all that good dinner I made fo’ you and Mister Grey. But don't you worry none, Martha’ll fix you somethin’ you like, soon as you git to feelin’ better.” She stripped the dress away from Amelda, and then stood back, looking at her with a frown on her face.
Amelda became aware of her scrutiny, and turned quickly away. But that only served to pull her shift tighter, and emphasize the curve of her belly in profile. Martha gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand.
“Good Gawd above! Girl, you is preggunt!” Martha announced in a loud whisper.
Amelda dashed away, threw herself across her bed, and started to cry. Martha followed her, and sat down beside her with her wide brown hand on the small of Amelda’s back. The whole bed shook with Amelda’s sobs.
“Shhhhhh… child, child… don't you worry none. It’ll be alright. You is a fine, strong, girl, and birthin’ ought to be no problem fo' you.” She knew this was not what was worrying Amelda, but it was all she could think of to say. “Who the daddy, honey?”
Amelda’s sobs grew deeper, racking her even harder.
“Now, now, honey. Cryin’ ain’t gonna help nothin’. Come on an’ tell Martha who the daddy is.” Martha’s face was also wet with tears, for she had known Amelda since she was born. “If he won’t own up, you knows I’ll make him ‘fess!” There was fierceness in her voice then, for she knew personally what it was like to have a man deny fatherhood.
Neither of them had heard the creak of the old floorboards outside the room.
“It… it’s Simon, the boy from the Mercantile down in Rome,” Amelda managed to gulp out.
Martha’s shock was palpable. Though she was black, and though she knew of Amelda’s mother, she also knew all too well the reaction of Amelda’s father, and the rest of the white townfolks.
“Oh, Lord Gawd, honey… tell me you is wrong, or lyin’!” Martha pled with her. “Tell ol’ Martha you didn’t let that niggah get you preggunt!”
Amelda spun over, her face reddened with crying and anger. “Simon is not just a nigger, Martha! He is a very sweet boy, very smart too, and I love him!”
Martha’s heart broke within her then, for she realized the truth. She wrapped Amelda in her arms, and held her tightly to her ample person. “Oh, honey, honey! You know th’ truth – I is a niggah, Simon is a niggah, and yo’ mama was a niggah, too! Only thang is, you don't LOOK like no niggah!” She paused to wipe Amelda’s face with her apron. “And Mister Grey, he been passin’ you off as pure white ever since we move here five year ago. Nobody but us three knows th’ truth!”
Amelda’s sobs had grown softer now. She sat up and wiped her face with Martha’s apron again, her face stricken. “What do I do, Martha?” She put her hands on her belly. “This baby in here is ours, mine and Simon’s. But what will happen to us? What will people say and do? What will I do??”
Martha was silent for a moment. The floorboards creaked outside the door again, but they were too involved in their emotions to hear the sound. Then she sighed and spoke. “Child, I reckon I don't know. This here be yo’ firs’ baby, and sometimes th’ firs’ baby don't make it.” Inside, she was thinking that such a thing might be a blessing, but she didn’t say that, because the girl started sobbing again at what Martha had said.
“Hush, now – Hush!” Martha gave her a little shake. “You caint lose yo’ head ‘bout this here problem! We gots to think ‘bout what to do!” She looked about herself. “I tell you what, though – you got to wear yo’ clothes looser now, or Mister Grey will see! He sho' gonna know sometime, but not till we think it’s th’ right time. You hear me?” She took Amelda’s face in her hands, and Amelda nodded that she understood.
Martha heaved herself up from the bed, and brushed the front of her apron. “I’ll take this here dress you messed up an’ get all th’ spots outta it. Then, in a little while Martha’ll bring you up somethin’ soothin’ to eat, you hear?”
After Martha left, Amelda lay back on the bed and tried to sleep. Her mind was full of worry and after she drifted off to sleep, her father’s severe and angry face flew at her out of every corner of the darkness. Finally, sleep was deep enough to shut out his intrusion, and she lay still and quiet. When Martha came up later, she left without disturbing Amelda, for she felt the good sleep was better medicine than anything she could offer.
The next morning Amelda was roused by the sound of her father roaring at Martha, sending her out of the house and down into town to buy several things. Martha protested that it was too early, but he told her to sit outside the store and wait until they opened, if necessary. Amelda looked out the window of her room, and saw the ample figure of Martha stumping angrily down the steps toward the street into town.
In a few minutes she was up washing her face in the basin in her room. She was just drying her hands with the towel and putting the water pitcher back on the stand, when her door burst open. In the doorway was her father, his face flaring red, and his eyes almost glowing in anger. His string tie dangled loosely from his open collar. She froze where she was with fear.
“So, you little slut! You go off and bed some nigger boy, get yourself pregnant in your lusts, and then contrive to hide it from me, conspiring with Martha!” His voice was thick with anger and drink. He carried his strap gripped tightly in his right hand, and the veins stood out on the side of his neck and his forehead as he advanced.
Amelda was speechless, but his advance had at least unlocked her limbs. She backed away from him toward the bed, one arm raised to protect herself from the blow of the strap, the other cradling her belly. His eyes moved down to where her hand covered the life within her.
“So, you protect it, do you? That little bastard inside you!” He glared at her, closer now. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, and something snapped within her.
“Bastard? Is that what I am, then? Half-breed bastard girl! You never married my mother – my nigger mother,” she spat at him.
His eyes went wide, and with a lightning-fast move he slapped her so hard she fell back onto her bed. But she was up again, the rage of years of being stepped on and beaten flaming within her. Tears ran down her face, not of pain, but of anger.
“Oh, yes! Slap me, you coward! You stand there with that strap in your hand, ready to punish me for the same sin you committed! What a hypocrite you are!” She knew she had overstepped the bounds, but she couldn't control herself. Her contempt for him was open, and he couldn't bear it as she stared into his eyes.
His voice grew even hoarser, if possible. “You impudent little whore! I will not have my reputation ruined! I will not have the honor of this family soiled by your stupidity and uncontrolled lusts!” He grabbed her by the hair, and pulled her so close that she could feel his whiskey-sodden breath on her face. He hissed at her, his spittle spraying over her face, “You will not give birth to a little nigger brat!” And with that he struck her again.
But this time it was not a slap. He dropped the strap from his right hand and, balling it into a fist, slammed it into her belly. She cried out with pain and doubled over, but he jerked her upright, and struck her again and again. He seemed to go crazy with anger, hoarsely whispering profanities as he continued hitting her despite her cries. Finally, he released his hold on her hair and dropped her to the floor, finishing up with a kick to her stomach. By then she was past knowing, but the damage was done anyway. Turning, he stamped away out of the room, locking the door behind him.
She was unconscious when Martha returned from her market trip. She was still unconscious when Martha came looking for her for lunch. Martha tried Amelda’s door, and was frightened when she found it locked. Like any good servant, she knew where all the spare keys were, and she dashed off to find the one to this door. As she went by Mr. Grey’s room, she glanced in but he was not at his usual place. She had not seen him all morning, she reflected as she grabbed the extra key from its place in the downstairs cupboard.
Puffing back up the stairs, she pounded on Amelda’s door. “Honey, honey! You in there, honey?” Then, she placed her ear against the door and listened. She heard a moan, and the scrape as of something being dragged across the floor. Quickly, she unlocked the door and threw it open. In a puddle of blood that soaked her pantaloons and nightshirt, Amelda lay on the floor.
Martha lifted Amelda up onto the bed as though she were only a kitten, and prayed through her tears as she stripped and cleaned her. The miscarriage was complete. Martha found the bits of flesh and tissue that proved that. There were bruises on Amelda’s stomach, as well as one on her face. Her skin was sallow from shock and loss of blood.
Martha doctored her as best she could. She gave Amelda brandy as a restorative, and laid hot pans wrapped in towels all around her to keep her warm. At about 4:00 Martha noticed the clock downstairs chiming out the hour, and remembered supper for Mr. Grey. For a moment she gritted her teeth and thought, “Let th’ old devil eat whatever he can find!” But she knew that his anger would burn hotter then, and he might do further harm to Amelda.
She left Amelda on the bed, covered with quilts, and placed a glass of water on the bedside table. Then, she relocked the door and went downstairs to fix the master’s supper. She was not sure, but she thought she knew what had happened. Somehow, Mr. Grey had found out about the pregnancy, and had beaten Amelda until she miscarried.
The master of the house came in at about 6:15, late for supper for the first time in years. His face was flushed, and he smelled of liquor. His hair and coat were rumpled, and his tie was missing. The last time she had seen him come in like that was the day after Amelda’s mother had disappeared down in Louisiana.
Martha served him his dinner in silence, and he ate it the same way. Not a word passed between them for the whole meal, and then he went up to his room and shut the door. She walked by his door later, and smelled the scent of the strong cigars he always smoked when he was upset. Then she looked in on Amelda.
Amelda was just becoming conscious now, but she was groggy and weak. She tried to move, but cried out with the pain. Martha rushed to her side, and put a hand gently but firmly over her mouth, the bruises there almost as dark as Martha’s skin..
“Shush, child! Shhhhhh! You gonna bring yo' daddy in here, deed you will, iffen you make much noise!” Amelda’s eyes grew wide over Martha’s hand, and she shook her head, tears dribbling down over Martha’s fingers. Martha removed her hand then, and embraced Amelda.
“Honey, I got to know – did he do this to you? I ‘spect he did, but I gots to hear it from you.” Martha sat and held Amelda’s hands as she asked this.
Amelda nodded, and told Martha all that had happened. The old cook’s lips grew tight, and her forehead furrowed in anger. “I’ze so sorry, honey! He musta heard us from out in th’ hallway! Th’ ol’ Devil! He beat yo’ mama once or twice, too, but he stopped that after you was born.”
“I’ve got to get away, Martha! I’ve got to get away, so I can have my baby!” Amelda was twisting the sheets in her hands.
Martha’s eyes welled up with tears. “Honey, yo’ baby is already gone. He killed it, when he beat you so bad.” Amelda started to sob then; dry, quiet, racking sobs that made no noise but convulsed her body. Martha held tightly to her, then as time passed, she started to worry, and finally she had to slap Amelda to bring her out of it.
“Honey, I is so sorry, but I had to do it! You was havin’ a fit, and ‘bout to go into conflictions!”
Amelda gulped, and swallowed, nodding. “I understand, Martha. It’s alright.” She drew a deep sigh. “Can you somehow get word to Simon, and tell him,” she paused, her face twisted with the emotional and physical pain. She swallowed. “Can you tell him I am sick?” She looked stricken as she stared down at her hands playing with the sheet. “Don’t tell him what happened, exactly. Just tell him that I miscarried. I don’t want him doing anything foolish.”
Martha nodded. “I understand, Miss Amelda. Don't you worry none, y’ hear? I’ll let him know, an’ I’ll sho nuff say it right.”
For the next several days, Amelda stayed in her room, tended only by Martha. She saw nothing of her father, only sometimes hearing his heavy tread in the hallway. Martha said he came down only for supper, and never said a word.
“Child, he like a man with a haint ovah his shoulder! I nevah seen him lookin’ so pale and deathlike! I don't think he sleepin’ much a-tall!” Martha shook her head, but there was satisfaction in her voice. “His devils is a-keepin’ him awake of nights!”
Eventually, Amelda was well enough to be up and about. She never mentioned to her father, anything about what he had done to her. Life returned to its previous rhythm, the only apparent change being her father’s increased melancholy and drinking. The doctor visited more often now, and usually left shaking his head.
The fall passed, and winter arrived. In December, Martha found Amelda crying in her room a few days before Christmas.
“Honey! What is wrong with you?”
Amelda looked up at her. “Martha… my baby would have been born this month, like the Christ child! But now,” and her voice broke with a sob.
Martha took Amelda into her arms and held her until the tears passed, and left her room convinced that somehow, someday, Mister Grey would pay for what he had done.
The spring arrived, with all its Southern glory. Daffodils, azaleas and yellow bells blossomed all around the house. Amelda and Martha busied themselves in the garden, planting all the favorites. The old man came outside and stood on the lawn and watched them while leaning heavily on his cane, but never spoke to either of them. He had become an unspeaking and sullen resident of the house, like a ghost given substance by fear. Amelda liked to think that he was feeling guilt over what he had done, but he never once expressed remorse in any way.
The tomato plants were growing well, and had a few solid green fruit now. It was late May, and Amelda went out to gather some green tomatoes for Martha to fry up for supper. Amelda fixed a salad for him, too, with fresh greens from the garden and a tart, savory dressing.
That night, Amelda helped serve the meal. She brought in a dish of fried green tomatoes, and the salad for her father, to go with the fried chicken and mashed potatoes.
He looked at her with some suspicion, but ate the food she brought him. She offered him water to drink, and asked him if he needed anything else, but he merely shook his head and drank from his whiskey-darkened tea.
After dinner, Martha cleared away the plates, and he got up to leave the table. Amelda stood up and said, in a loud and clear voice, “Father! Why did you kill my baby?”
Mr. Grey stopped where he was, as though turned to stone by this question. Amelda repeated it, even more loudly. Her voice rang off the high ceiling and polished hardwood floor, an alarm bell given human tongue.
He turned slowly to look at her, his face flushed and his jaw working. She could see the old fire flashing in his eyes and color rising in his cheeks. “What did you say, Amelda?”
“I said, ‘Why did you kill my baby,’ Father. I want to know why you did it. I want to know what kind of man kills his own flesh and blood – his unborn grandson!” Amelda stood before him, a wingless avenging angel carved of living marble.
In the kitchen, Martha stood by the door and prayed.
He clenched his fists, and stepped toward Amelda. Strangely enough, she had no immediate fear. His voice quivered with rage. “You slut! You know why! I will not have this family disgraced by you and … and that nigger!”
Amelda looked at him with disgust. “What about the nigger you made love to, Father? The one who was my mother? What if they found out about that? What would all your friends say then? What would happen to your investments and business connections then, if you were branded a ‘nigger-lover’?”
His mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out. Coldly, implacably, Amelda went on. “And what about me, your little half-breed bastard daughter? What would they say about that? Could you hold your head up in town, then?”
She could see the blood had all but drained from his face. His eyes were rimmed with red, but set in a face that looked like white clay. He clawed at his collar and throat, pulling it open, fighting for breath. One hand shakily grasped the back of a chair.
Amelda slowly walked around the table, no fear in her at all now. “What’s the matter, Father?” She made the word a curse, an anathema, a byword.
He was clutching at his chest and wheezing. She stood in front of him, unmoved. “You loathsome, lying, hypocrite! Murderer!” And then she spat in his face.
His face was changing color now, almost a bluish purple. He reached out for her, but she stepped away. His grasp on the back of the chair failed and he toppled to the floor. The chair tipped, but righted itself without falling. She knelt beside him.
“What is wrong, Father,” she whispered in his ear. “Have you finally developed a heart, after all these years? Does it pain you? I know what happened to Mama, did you know that?”
It was a shot in the dark, but it reached him. His eyes widened, and he took in one last huge wheezing breath. Then, his whole body collapsed, and he lay there not moving, not breathing.
She cried then, quietly, hot bitter tears that dropped upon her father’s unresponsive face. Martha, still praying, slowly opened the door from the kitchen.
“Miss Amelda, is you alright?” She edged around the end of the table, and looked at Amelda sitting there by her father’s head.
“Yes, Martha,” she whispered. “I think you need to fetch the doctor.”
The doctor came, and declared that Mr. Ezekiel Grey had died of heart failure, brought on by a combination of bad living and high temper. He offered his condolences to Amelda, and said that someone would be by to pick up her uncle’s body for burial the next morning. Amelda said nothing, merely nodding, with the marks of the tears still on her face. “What a devoted niece,” the doctor thought as he rode his horse back down the hill.
The funeral was two days later, and much of the business community of the town was there. After her father’s coffin was covered with the red Georgia clay, Amelda knelt and planted something at the head of the grave.
One of the women standing nearby came over. “Amelda, dear, what is that you are planting? Why, it looks like a tomato plant!”
Amelda looked up with a small smile. “Yes, Mrs. Abernathy, it is a tomato plant. Tomatoes were my uncle’s favorite food, you know! He had them every time he could.”
Mrs. Abernathy smiled back at her, and nodded. “I understand, dear. It must be very hard for you to give him up.”
Amelda gave another brave smile. “You will never know how hard, Mrs. Abernathy.” And with that, she rose and went to join Martha waiting by the buggy. They got into it, Amelda took the reins in her hands and clucked to the team of horses. "We'll go home now, Martha."
The End
*** Author's note: Tomato, potato and eggplant are all members of the nightshade family. The fruit are safe to eat (most of the time) but the leaves and stems contain alkaloid poisons that can cause cardiac distress. This is especially problematic if the individual ingesting the leaves already has a weak heart.
Copyright ©2004, Mike Madoc All Rights Reserved