FEATURED FICTION

I would’ve bolted right then. Except Ezekiel said, just as I tried to get away, “I hope it’s a nice time, Miss Winnie.”

Something about it—about that patient face of his—made me so mad. Mad in the way you get when someone elbows you in the eye but says it’s an accident. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that that stray brick had messed up Ezekiel’s ear. But that didn’t mean he was defunct.

And even if he was a Negro, it was still such a waste: that this man, whose family was “away” (dead), was about to just toss out his Easter.

Before I could even think to be scared I said, “Why don’t you just come sit with me and Daddy. We’re up real close so you shouldn’t have a problem hearing.”

His smile deflated. He eyed me like I’d told him you could light your lamp with apple tea. “That’s real nice, Miss Winnie, but I don’t think so.”

“Well.” I tried to stop my carriage as it flew down the hill. “Well, you know, the sermon has already started, so everybody will be paying attention to that. You won’t be taking anyone’s seat.” Thou shalt not lie.

“Miss Winnie, I’s not goin’ to rile anybody up today.”

“You wouldn’t be—you won’t!” Thou shalt not bear false witness. “And if even if you did upset your friends, my father wouldn’t have any of the Negroes talking.” My father would kill me. (Thou shalt not kill?)

Ezekiel’s eyes tapered. “It ain’t my friends that’d be upset.”

I rushed past the insult. “I think anyone would be upset if they knew you were out here, missing the service. You might not be real comfy in our pew. But only ’cause it’d be full. And that’s never hurt anyone. Right?”

I didn’t believe me. There was no way he did. And yet it was all his polite face could do not to quiver at the thought of refusing me. I could see it grinding through his head—how to serve the employer of his daughter if his employer’s daughter was disobeying his employer.

Ezekiel! I can’t go back there alone!

Stop it. Stop it, you coward. Let it go. For all our decencies.

But then Ezekiel said, “I won’t take somebody’s seat.”

Doubt bloomed in my chest. Like a big swallow of cordial.

“I ain’t goin’ to make somebody move. Am I?”

“No,” I could barely say. “Of course not.” He couldn’t really be considering it. Could he?

“I would only do it this one time.”

“Yes.” Oh, no.

“It would be such a fine thing, since it’s Easter and all.”

Now I could only nod.

Winnie. You have to stop this. You can’t let him do this. They’ll kill him.

Will they, though? Of course not. Wasn’t it a bunch of Northerners in there? Wasn’t this the sort of thing they loved?

It’s a good thing he took charge, directing my dazed hide to the doors. Otherwise I would’ve stood in the lobby for the rest of my life. Stunned by my great idiocy. The idiocy of rightdoing through wrongdoing.

He shook his head with a smile. “Our Lord is risen.” He was clutching the handles, mashing their cool to his palms. And then he was pulling.

The weighty oaks wrenched back. The congregation spilled into view: a vista of judgment. Ezekiel’s arms spread wide, arcing as they stretched to their tips. He turned his head and motioned me in.

My left knee gave out but he stayed put.

“You got it?”

“Yes.”

I stumbled as I snuck beneath his arm. Then I was using the hymnal to smooth my dress out.

He was next to me, watching me, serious. “Miss Winnie?” The doors drifted shut behind us.

“Yes, let’s go.”

I’d really tried to act right since Trent had died—if only for Daddy. And I think I’d made a fine stab at propriety. But as we took our first, doomed steps I couldn’t help thinking this was the last time: who would I visit after this? I was sure the Northerners hated me because I was a Southerner and now the Southerners would hate me because I was a Northerner.

“Miss Winnie,” Ezekiel whispered. “You don’t look right.”

“No, I just—I think I’m about to sneeze.” I stopped, took another breath, jammed my palms to the top of each cheek. Don’t you dare release a thing, eyes.

I nodded back at him. “I’m fine.”

“What’s ’at?”

“I’m fine.”

He leaned in.

Of course. His good ear was on the other side. Even this close he couldn’t hear. Then he bent in even more, just waiting for me to speak. Eyes wide. So patient.

He finally said, “We can sit with the Negroes if you want.”

“No.”

No, sir. You will hear Reverend Lewis’s sermon today. Even if it’s the rankest cow paddy that’s ever dropped out of a pulpit.

I waved him forward.

He waved me forward.

I said, “After you.”

He said, “You know where we’s goin’.”

Do I?

Yes. You have to. I took a breath. It wasn’t enough. I took another one!

Then I took off. I charged. If I slowed I would stop. I thought I heard Ezekiel, somewhere to my side, limping with doubt. But I kept to my stride. And soon he caught up.

It wasn’t long before we fell into some sort of rhythm. By the time we’d passed those first few pews, we’d agreed on a kind of swaying tack that shuffled us across the wood. The shuffling became a skimming and that gave me enough of a gliding feel to not slow when I heard, from the Negro section, some Hallelujahs and a Holy Deliverer. I’m sure the cries were cried for The Creator but Ezekiel seemed to think they could be for us, too. He turned to his people, just halfway, still not sure if he should smile or ask forgiveness.

Sooner than I’d’ve thought came jerks and pants from the white folks. Usually I’d feel them break after I’d passed, but a few times they’d bubble up in front of me: heads turning round to scowl and simmer. The rustling of these early birds soon joined up with the clamoring hiss behind us—a legion of cicadas, banging away on their timbals as they crept at our heels.

It’s a good thing I was getting numb. Because the din finally got so bad that Reverend Lewis stopped talking. It was just for a second, but he looked right at me, all the way from up on high. I was finally ready to faint. But Ezekiel kept going as the reverend looked back up and said “Please” to the congregation before continuing.

I got to the pew and saw Daddy turn. His face was healthy for one moment and then, just like the reverend’s, it went dead.

I stood there dumb. But Ezekiel was waiting. This was my domain.

I looked down at Old Man Grumpy. He turned slowly, like he was so enthralled with the sermon that my return was some big surprise. I tried to give him a look that would get him to scooch over. But he moved his body an inch then looked back to the pulpit.

A thousand eyes were watching me, and all he could do was make enough room for a piece of toast? Not many things could have pumped me from that horrible way I felt but this was one of them.

So I stepped from the aisle, tried to sit in that sliver, and then whacked the man with my hips until he and all his friends from Crotchety Incorporated moved it down. The racket had lost some of its heat by the time Ezekiel sat.

I was busy looking for the best place to vomit, to vomit for no other reason than to get rid of something I felt but didn’t really know—impatience? Was that impatience sloshing around in me? Yes, I felt a throw up coming on, but then something stabbed me. In the leg.

Was Old Man Grumpy jabbing me in the thigh? When I looked down I saw nothing. But I lifted my bottom just a smidge (not caring a flip now if I drew attention) and pulled up what was below me: my hymnal! I’d forgotten I’d even been carrying it.

Now I took it, clasped it tight with both hands. And as I looked up I couldn’t help smirking real big. The queasies let up some but they were still trotting around my insides. One of them stopped, though. Stopped real sudden. Stayed put right in my middle.

I felt a grin sprout up, and it kept on growing. And it was then I had to wonder if this nasty thing I felt wasn’t impatience but expectation.