River Jordan

By Augusta Trobaugh

"[The] South blooms again in Augusta Trobaugh's River Jordan." -The Atlanta Journal-Constitution)

Sometimes a family grows from the most unlikely of friends.

A lonely little girl living with a strict stepfather and mother. A woman just released from prison, seeking a job and a new purpose for her life. An aging matriarch with a sense of humor and a compassionate heart. Sit a spell by the gentle river of their merged lives.

By the acclaimed author of Sophie and the Rising Sun (available in unabridged audiobook narrated by the late Rue McClanahan) and other Southern novels. Her next novel is Music From Beyond The Moon.

Augusta Trobaugh has been nominated for Georgia Author of the Year, among many other honors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: Feb 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781611941098

Book preview

Sometimes a family grows from the most unlikely of friends.

A lonely little girl living with a strict stepfather and mother; a woman just released from prison, seeking a job and a new purpose for her life. An aging matriarch with a sense of humor and a compassionate heart. Sit a spell by the gentle river of their merged lives.

By the acclaimed author of Sophie and the Rising Sun and other Southern novels.

Augusta Trobaugh’s voice is from and for the South, as complex and resonant as the region itself.

—Anne Rivers Siddons

Augusta Trobaugh streamlines her rich Southern style and creates a narrative as delicate as a line drawing.

—USA Today

Family secrets, redemption, and the power of love are Trobaugh’s themes in this affecting novel.

—Booklist

"With innocent, heartfelt humor, River Jordan provides gentle escape for Southern readers of all generations."

—Southern Living

[The] South blooms again in Augusta Trobaugh’s River Jordan.

—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution)

Other Augusta Trobaugh Titles From Bell Bridge Books

Praise Jerusalem!

Resting in the Bosom of the Lamb

Sophie and the Rising Sun

River Jordan

The Tea-Olive Bird Watching Society

Swan Place

Coming Soon: Music From Beyond The Moon

River Jordan

by

Augusta Trobaugh

Bell Bridge Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-109-8

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-094-7

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2004 by Augusta Trobaugh

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

A mass market edition of this book was published by

Dutton Adult in 2004

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo credits:

Photo (manipulated) © Sandra Cunningham | Dreamstime.com

:Ejr:01:

Dedication

For Dwight Abraham Hurless Crumbecker, my father. I was born late in your life, and you died too soon. But I remember our conversations—not the exact words themselves, but exactly how they lifted me on wings of thought. Thank you, Daddy.

Prologue

I remember exactly how long and dark the nights were for me when I was in prison, and I also remember how I used to try to lie real still and keep my eyes closed, so that sooner or later—usually later—I would be able to fall into a bit of sleep.

But there was one particular night when sleep didn’t come. My parole hearing was only a few weeks away, and it was all I could think about. Lately, I’d become even more aware of the night sounds and the night silences, and I wondered what it would be like to sleep once again in a regular bed in a regular house and not hear keys jingling or the sad yelping of someone having a nightmare a few cells away. Not hear one woman call another woman’s name in the dark.

I knew all the phantom sounds, as well—the ones that weren’t real. Like hearing my cell door opening and some silent voice telling me that I could go. Be free. I knew for sure that was just a being-in-prison dream. And when I heard my sweet mama’s voice, I knew it was just another homesick-dream.

But when I heard a man’s voice that long, dark night—and it so close that he had to be right there in the cell with me—I couldn’t figure out what kind of a dream that could be! And why on earth would I dream something like that at all? I certainly wasn’t interested in any man, not after what I’d gone through with Earlie. And while I was trying to think what kind of a dream sound it was, I heard it again.

Pansy?

Who on earth could that be? I was thinking. And just then, I heard Lizzie, in the cell next to mine, snorting as she turned over in her sleep.

Pansy? Pansy Jordan?

Who is it? I whispered. Whutchu want? Whutchu doing in here? And how’d you get in here at all?

Pansy? Who you talking to? Lizzie’s sleepy, scratchy voice. But I didn’t answer her. All I could think about was that if there really was a man in my cell, I might not get paroled, because nobody would believe that I didn’t invite him in! Didn’t break all the rules just to have him there. But how could any man get into my cell anyway? Even if I wanted him there, which I certainly did not!

Whutchu want? Who are you? I whispered again, this time with what I hoped sounded like a growl in my voice.

This is Jesus speaking to you.

Why, I was never so surprised in all my life! That voice was deep and sweet, and the breath that came drifting across my cell had a fragrance to it, like the perfume of blooming tea-olive and something else—orange blossoms, maybe. And honeysuckle, the way its aroma is sizzled out on a hot summer noontime. All so sweet a perfume that I thought I might just faint from the beauty of breathing it!

Whutchu say?

Pansy? Who you talking to? Lizzie called.

Nobody. Shut up, Lizzie! And I listened again for the voice. Listened so hard that my ears seemed to grow, reach out for the sound.

Pansy, this is Jesus.

Go on with you! I whispered. You think I’m some fool who’d believe that? I waited, with my heart hammering in my ears, and when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I sat up and craned my neck to look all around the dark cell. A soft, wavering glow appeared in the far corner. A corner where no light should be. And while I watched, a hand appeared in the glow. A soft, bloodless hand with a nail hole in the very center of the palm.

Maybe it was just a dream. Or maybe it really was Jesus.

And then, all at once, I got things figured out. I laughed—a short, nervous laugh. Oh! It’s probably Lizzie you’re looking for, I said simply. She’s right next door. You’ve just come visiting the wrong cell. Because everyone knew about Lizzie and her personal Savior. So what would be so strange about Him coming to see her, in person? Lizzie talked to Jesus all the time, and she even said that sometimes, He talked right back to her. Maybe He was just visiting with her. Sure would take more than prison walls and iron bars to keep Him out, anyway.

Lizzie? I called. I think there’s somebody here looking for you.

What? Lizzie asked. But before I could say anything else, the voice came again.

Lizzie is my child, but tonight, it’s you I’m talking to, Pansy, and once again, the fragrance of the breath drifted sweetly across my cell.

Me? I asked.

You, He said. Get yourself washed clean in the River Jordan, Pansy, and come to Me. With those words, the glow and the voice and the fragrance and the image of the hand all disappeared. But for the briefest possible moment, I could see another something or someone in the last glimmer of the light. It was a big woman. Black woman. Smiling at me. Showing a gold tooth right in the middle of the smile. An angel? Yes, of course!

Lizzie called to me again. Who was looking for me? What on earth are you talking about?

Nothing, Lizzie. And nobody. Just me having the strangest dream I ever had, I answered, rubbing my eyes and wondering what I had eaten that could make a dream like that! And what was all that about getting myself washed clean in the River Jordan? I’d certainly heard of such a river, because my mama dragged me to church every single Sunday when I was little. But where was it, I wondered. Then I remembered that I didn’t need to wonder. After all, it was probably only a dream. Even the big, black woman angel was nothing more than a dream.

I sort of fell back on my cot with a huff that sent all of the air out of my lungs. Whoever heard of such a thing! Me a woman in prison for killing a man, and somebody like me dreams about getting a visit from Jesus Christ Himself? And one of His angels?

‘Night, Pansy, Lizzie said. Try not to dream no more, you hear? We got a long day tomorrow.

Yes, I answered. But I stayed awake for the rest of that long, dark night, wondering what such a dream could possibly mean.

AT BREAKFAST the next morning, Lizzie clumped her metal tray down beside mine.

Now tell me about that dream you was having last night, Lizzie said, putting a spoonful of sugar into her coffee.

Guess I forgot, I said. Guess I forgot what all it was about. I didn’t look into Lizzie’s eyes, but just kept on drawing my spoon through the congealed grits on my plate. Lizzie stopped stirring her coffee and gave me a piercing glance.

You didn’t forget, she pronounced.

I was silent.

Why don’t you want to tell me? Lizzie pressed. And I felt the ire rising up inside of me, so I decided to tell the truth. ‘Cause I know if I tell you, you’ll go off on one of your tirades about Jesus being your personal Savior and about trying to get me saved, and I just don’t want to hear that.

You dreamed about Jesus? Lizzie’s interest visibly heightened.

Oh, Lord! I muttered, because I knew that even though I’d tried hard not to get Lizzie started, I’d already done it. Already walked across a barnyard inside of myself and gone right along and stepped in something!

You dreamed about Jesus? Lizzie repeated.

Yes! I slapped my palm on the table and attracted the glances of several other women sitting near us. I looked around at the guard, who was studying me from across the room with a placid expression on her face.

S-h-h-h! Lizzie warned, and then she asked the very same question yet again. You dreamed about Jesus?

I did that, I whispered. And one of His angels, too.

Tell me about it, Lizzie urged, and I figured I’d already gone and said too much anyway, so I might as well walk right into Lizzie’s Holy Ghost lair with my head held high!

I dreamed Jesus came to my cell in the night. I figured it was you He was looking for, and He called you His Child, but He said he was talking to me. Just think of that! Him wanting this old prisoner woman! Well, that’s a dream, sure enough! And right after He left, I saw an angel.

I’m a prisoner woman too, Lizzie reminded me. And I know for sure that He loves me. And maybe He’s going to send an angel to help you.

Here we go! I was thinking. Might as well lay it all out on the table, else I’ll never have me any peace: He said for me to get myself washed clean in the River Jordan and go to Him, but I sure don’t know what that means.

Lizzie remained quiet, obviously thinking hard.

Well, whatever He said for you to do, you just go ahead and do it. That’s all. You just do it and don’t ask any questions, she advised.

Where is the River Jordan anyway? I asked.

Blamed if I know. But what you gotta do right now is invite Jesus into your heart.

What? I sputtered, but at the same time, I wasn’t really surprised at all. It was only what Lizzie did all the time, going around and telling everybody to do that very same thing. Lizzie got some black eyes and missing teeth from some of the prisoners, but she just kept on doing it anyway. So I tried to speak real softly to Lizzie, whispering, Lizzie, He already came into my cell, I think. Or else I just dreamed it. So why do I have to ask Him to come into my heart?

Lizzie hesitated, and then she said, You just do, that’s all. Just do it!

Something in Lizzie’s pleading eyes put a pain in my stomach.

And I was thinking, why not just do it? Make her happy and keep me from having her pester me to death! But then another thought crowded into my mind: maybe it would help me get paroled! Maybe if I told the parole board that I had asked Jesus to come into my heart, they would think more kindly of me. But I better not say nothing about that angel. Why, if I told them I saw an angel who was a big black woman, they’d think I’d lost my mind.

So I closed my eyes and whispered, Come into my heart, Lord Jesus. And if You are sending an angel to help me, I sure do appreciate that. When I opened my eyes, I saw Lizzie’s face glowing like a flame. Across the room, the guard blew a whistle, and Lizzie and I and all the other women began getting up from the tables and taking our trays to the big, stainless steel table where the kitchen prisoners would scrape the plates clean and get them ready for washing.

Lizzie said, Just you be sure and remember that dream. You are blessed to have such a dream, and to have Jesus living in your heart! But I do so wonder where the River Jordan is, myself!

Could be just about anywhere I guess. But I know one thing for sure.

What’s that? Lizzie was hanging on to my every word, just as if I had suddenly become someone famous to her.

I know it ain’t here in this prison! I said.

Maybe not, Lizzie agreed. But that big laundry is here, and it’s just waiting for us.

Yes, Lord! I said.

Chapter One

Only a few days after Pansy’s nocturnal visit by the Lord Jesus, Peony—Pansy’s baby sister—was doing what she had been doing six days a week for many years—working in the kitchen of the big white house on Lakeview Drive and taking care of the white family she worked for: Mr. Franklin, president of the only bank in town, and now Miss Alice, Mr. Franklin’s new wife and Jordan, his new stepdaughter.

Peony was a large woman who wore a starched, white uniform that contrasted starkly with her black velvet skin, and she was slicing fresh tomatoes onto a platter. But her nose was running and her eyes were filled with tears, as if she were slicing pungent onions instead of mild tomatoes. On several occasions, she stopped, pulled a towel rag from the waist of her dress, and wiped her eyes.

Peony had sent Jordan to feed the fish in the pool out in front of the house, because she knew that Jordan would be sure to notice and ask about her tears.

Nothing gets past that one! Peony thought. That strange, quiet little girl with the darting eyes that see everything, maybe even what folks are thinking! Something always going on behind those eyes!

Likewise, Peony knew that neither Miss Alice nor Mr. Franklin would notice at all—because to them both, Peony was an invisible presence in the house—a nonperson who did the cooking and the serving and the cleaning up, but who was not supposed to cause any unfortunate ripples in the mirror-calm surface of the family home. So Peony went back to slicing the tomatoes and wiping her eyes, and all because of what she had in her apron pocket—a letter from her big sister, Pansy. From her sister in prison.

AND PEONY HAD BEEN RIGHT about Jordan, because Jordan already knew that something was wrong—in that uncanny way some children have of knowing things like that. She thought that maybe it was because of Peony sending her to feed the fish in the pool. But maybe it was more—a thing she hadn’t quite figured out yet, so that she simply felt a vague uneasiness that deepened the shadows near the front porch and put something lonely in the perfume of the fresh-turned earth in the kitchen garden out back.

Late spring—and the azalea bushes in the yard were showing slits of too-bright crimson and purple and fuchsia through the first cracks in the swollen green casings. Her mama said that the flowers were going to be absolutely beautiful, but Jordan knew better. Because to her, the dwarf azaleas were always far more beautiful than the big ones, and they were already in full bloom. Tiny, softest-pink flowers on little bushes planted all around the fish pool below the driveway. The flowers reflecting themselves in the dark, still water, and mirror clouds moving across a blue sky behind them, and deeper down, the fish sparkling their gold and red and pearl sequin-scales against the old black leaves at the very bottom of the pool.

Because the flowers were one thing and the satin surface of the water another thing and the clouds looking like they were below the surface, not on it, and finally, at the bottom, all the soggy brown ones that used to be red and yellow and orange. The ones Miss Amylee liked so much last fall.

That’s what Jordan was thinking about that spring morning when once again, she knew that something was getting ready to happen. But there was nothing to do but wait for it to come out of the dark corners of the garden at twilight, ready to burst out like crimson and purple and fuchsia too-big flowers. Wait for the images of her father and taste the bittersweet memories of sitting in his lap, opening her mouth like a baby bird as he fed her choice bits of tender chicken from his own plate. Breathe the aroma memory of him, the sunshine smell of the warm earth he worked every day and the fresh wind and the warm perfume of his flesh.

It all seemed so long ago and far away, living with her mother and her father on the small farm set out from town, enjoying a free childhood that she hadn’t even known how to appreciate, until it was gone. Until her father sickened and finally died, and her mother wringing her hands and crying. But her crying stopped the day

Reviews for River Jordan

[quiltinfun06 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

What a wonderful book river Jordan is. I enjoyed it as much as I did Praise Jerusalem. Trobaugh does a wonderful job on this story about a dysfunctional southern family. The characters are engaging and the novel is well written. It delivers an uplifting wonderful message about finding oneself in spite of difficulties and toxic people in our lives. I highly recommend this wonderful story.