Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands by Susan Carol McCarthy Read Free Book Online

stack, one by one, face up on her ledger book.
    Not there.
Even though last week’s packet gave notice that our registered letter had been duly delivered to F.B.I. headquarters, even though he’s had a whole seven days to respond, Mr. J. Edgar Hoover has not yet found time to reply.
    “Damn,” Ren says glumly. As the three females surrounding him look at him sharply, he levels his eyes, obviously feeling justified.
    “Double-wide Hoover dam,” Doto tosses the compliment to what she calls his
mettle
.
    “Triple-toed beaver dam,” he tosses back.
    “Daddy’s in the car barn.” Mother sighs, veiling her disappointment. Ren and I run to deliver the news.
    Easter Sunday, Miss Maybelle nabs me in the vestibule. “Marie Louise, I hope you haven’t forgotten our social plans?” she says, squeezing a face-crease in my direction. “My grandniece Maryvale will be here the second Saturday in May and I’m sure she can’t wait to play dolls with Miss Reesa McMahon!”
    “Dolls!” I grouse to Mother once we’re seated in the church pew. “You think Maryvale is some little bitty old biddy like Miz Maybelle?”
    “I doubt it, Roo. I’m sure the Good Lord broke the mold after He made Maybelle,” Mother murmurs. “Now, sit up straight, here comes Daddy and the choir.”

Chapter 7
    Easter night, Mother and I are peeling eggs when all of a sudden Buddy, asleep by the door, shoots to his feet and winds up his tail. At Luther’s tappety-tap-TAP, Mother calls, “Come in!”
    “Evenin’, MizLizbeth. Howdy-Doo-Roo,” Luther calls back. His over-bright smile’s a poor mask for the dark grief lines crisscrossing his face. “Y’all have a nice Easter?”
    “Okay, how about you?” Mother asks gently.
    “Good as could be, all things considered,” Luther says, dropping his eyes quickly to pat Buddy. My throat tightens at his sideways reference to Marvin, and following his lead, I swallow
hard
. After a moment, Luther looks up again. “How’d the program go?”
    Under Daddy’s direction, the choir performed an Easter cantata.
    “Came off well,” Mother says and leaves it at that.
    The Easter service had been agony for me. I’d gone unprepared for the effects of the familiar story—the bright young man, so kind and gentle, so gifted at storytelling, the murderous mob, the uncaring officials, the terrible sorrow of his family and friends. Of course, Jesus’ story turned out considerably better than Marvin’s. The rousing finale,
Up from the
grave He arose with a mighty triumph o’er His foes,
left me sobbing. Miz Sooky Turnbull, sitting in the pew behind us, reached up and patted me encouragingly, heartened, I’m sure, by the hope that I’d somehow blundered my way into salvation. It wasn’t that at all, of course. Jesus rose,
a victor o’er the
dark domain.
Marvin’s dead,
gone forever
.
    “How about yours?” Mother asks him.
    Few white people realize that besides being the best citrus pruner in the county, Luther’s choir director at St. John’s A.M.E. And nobody, outside our family and his choir members, knows that the choirs of both churches often perform similar programs, courtesy of sheet music passed between the two directors.
    “It was fine,” Luther says, his eyes appreciating Mother’s kindness.
    I watch the two of them, marveling at the way they tiptoe around each other’s pain, like the way your tongue probes yet protects a toothache.
    “Armetta do her solo?” Mother inquires.
    “Ah wish you could’ve heard her.” Luther’s smile is real this time. “Not even Paul Robeson hisself coulda sung ’bout the balm of Gilead any better. The whole church-house was lifted up, lifted right up.”
    “Wish we could’ve been there. Please tell Armetta I’m thinking of her,” Mother says, laying a soft hand briefly on his forearm. “Reesa, show Luther in to Daddy, please.”
    Luther trails me into the living room where Daddy sits at the piano working on his new piece.
    “Evenin’,