The Devil's Beating His Wife by Siobhán Béabhar Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Siobhán Béabhar
laughter and screams of children. I could see my wife standing at the oven, removing a pan of bread. A cool breeze would blast through the air, causing her to laugh with delight. I would then turn to her, place my hand on her hip, and kiss the bare, brown skin of her shoulder.
Spicey. This place was made for me and Spicey. It was time to quit dawdling and put my plan into action.
CHAPTER THREE
April 11, 1945, Twiggs County
"That white boy has been standing there for gosh darn near an hour, Ms. Della," said Rodney Felt, the unofficial mayor of the colored section. He liked to think that he knew everything about everyone even before they knew it themselves.
He was staring at me as I stood in front of Ms. Della's store, watching her movements. They were all aware of my presence. They talked loudly about me, not caring what I thought of their conversation.
She had aged quite a bit, Ms. Della. The last time I'd seen her was when they had buried her son. I had been there, following the march up to the Negro cemetery. I kept a respectful distance, not wanting anyone to know of my presence. I had stood in the shadow of trees and watched the funeral. By the end, I had talked myself into walking across the graves and offering my respects. I had been only a few feet from the grieving mother when a swarm of colored women blocked me. They had stared me down until I finally backed away, whispering my condolences, and left the cemetery.
Ms. Della's raven hair had turned to steel gray. Lines framed her mouth and nose. She was a decade younger than my mother, but she looked like she was damn near death. She said nothing to Rodney or me as she continued to sweep the walkway outside her small store.
Mother had hired Della the day she'd appeared at our house. For ten years, she worked for my family, cleaning and cooking day after day, night after night. She never missed a meal, except for Christmas dinner when my mother attempted to cook us a holiday meal. We might not have been her favorite people, but she had been loyal to my family until that damn night. She didn't come around after that. Rightly so, I guess, but it had shook Mother real bad.
For a time, Della and Spicey had taken odd jobs to put food on the table. But about fourteen months ago, they had inherited some money from a distant cousin. Ms. Della had used the money to purchase the corner store.
"You think he gonna stand there all day?" asked Ms. Betty Ray, an elderly widow who knew all of the gossip that Rodney didn't.
"Wait now," said Rodney, laughter lingering in his voice. "Give him a moment or two and he'll be fallin' over from the heat. Them white people ain't made for this type of weather."
Every morning, Ms. Betty and Rodney sat on the bench outside of Ms. Della's store. They did nothing but watch the comings and goings of everyone. I guess there ain't much else to do when you've lived to be five hundred years old.
Rodney spat into the dirt. His dark eyes pinned on me as I stood at a distance and stared at Ms. Della. She had been out there sweeping for the last thirty minutes. You'd think that she had swept all the dirt away by now.
Clenching the flowers in my hand, I took a deep breath and made my way across the street. Ms. Betty and Rodney watched my labored movements as I crossed from Wilkinson County into Twiggs County. The road and the railroad tracks not only divided the counties, they also separated the whites from the coloreds.
As I neared the front of her store, Ms. Della stopped sweeping and turned to stare at the hanging tree across from her store. I couldn't help but wonder if she had bought the place because of its proximity to that site. Perhaps it was some kind of shrine for her?
I stood at the bottom of the steps and removed my hat. Glancing up at Ms. Della, I said, "Good morning." She didn't look at me. She didn't acknowledge my existence. There was no give in her facial
Spicey. This place was made for me and Spicey. It was time to quit dawdling and put my plan into action.
CHAPTER THREE
April 11, 1945, Twiggs County
"That white boy has been standing there for gosh darn near an hour, Ms. Della," said Rodney Felt, the unofficial mayor of the colored section. He liked to think that he knew everything about everyone even before they knew it themselves.
He was staring at me as I stood in front of Ms. Della's store, watching her movements. They were all aware of my presence. They talked loudly about me, not caring what I thought of their conversation.
She had aged quite a bit, Ms. Della. The last time I'd seen her was when they had buried her son. I had been there, following the march up to the Negro cemetery. I kept a respectful distance, not wanting anyone to know of my presence. I had stood in the shadow of trees and watched the funeral. By the end, I had talked myself into walking across the graves and offering my respects. I had been only a few feet from the grieving mother when a swarm of colored women blocked me. They had stared me down until I finally backed away, whispering my condolences, and left the cemetery.
Ms. Della's raven hair had turned to steel gray. Lines framed her mouth and nose. She was a decade younger than my mother, but she looked like she was damn near death. She said nothing to Rodney or me as she continued to sweep the walkway outside her small store.
Mother had hired Della the day she'd appeared at our house. For ten years, she worked for my family, cleaning and cooking day after day, night after night. She never missed a meal, except for Christmas dinner when my mother attempted to cook us a holiday meal. We might not have been her favorite people, but she had been loyal to my family until that damn night. She didn't come around after that. Rightly so, I guess, but it had shook Mother real bad.
For a time, Della and Spicey had taken odd jobs to put food on the table. But about fourteen months ago, they had inherited some money from a distant cousin. Ms. Della had used the money to purchase the corner store.
"You think he gonna stand there all day?" asked Ms. Betty Ray, an elderly widow who knew all of the gossip that Rodney didn't.
"Wait now," said Rodney, laughter lingering in his voice. "Give him a moment or two and he'll be fallin' over from the heat. Them white people ain't made for this type of weather."
Every morning, Ms. Betty and Rodney sat on the bench outside of Ms. Della's store. They did nothing but watch the comings and goings of everyone. I guess there ain't much else to do when you've lived to be five hundred years old.
Rodney spat into the dirt. His dark eyes pinned on me as I stood at a distance and stared at Ms. Della. She had been out there sweeping for the last thirty minutes. You'd think that she had swept all the dirt away by now.
Clenching the flowers in my hand, I took a deep breath and made my way across the street. Ms. Betty and Rodney watched my labored movements as I crossed from Wilkinson County into Twiggs County. The road and the railroad tracks not only divided the counties, they also separated the whites from the coloreds.
As I neared the front of her store, Ms. Della stopped sweeping and turned to stare at the hanging tree across from her store. I couldn't help but wonder if she had bought the place because of its proximity to that site. Perhaps it was some kind of shrine for her?
I stood at the bottom of the steps and removed my hat. Glancing up at Ms. Della, I said, "Good morning." She didn't look at me. She didn't acknowledge my existence. There was no give in her facial
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