Sister Katie

By Doris Hunt-Jorden

Sister
Katie is a well-written model of how Negroes lived during the post depression
era (1939), displaying the unity of the Negro people through ritual, religion,
myth, and struggle for survival. class=GramE>A story about people who show courage through their actions and
respect for other human beings.
Filled with historical context and events that lead the characters to
act and or react, it shows the subtle beginnings of a
developing race-relations.
Through a third person narrative with heavy internal perception given of
these amazing characters, the story shows the horrors of segregation,
specifically how acts of negligence, abuse, and discrimination infects the
mind, creating a environment for mayhem.

The
good versus evil theme in this story appeals to all ages, sexes and
cultures. The high-spirited characters
leave you exhilarated and excited. A
truly tremendous book with many benefits: entertainment, and or a model of
instruction for literature or a supplement for English and reading classes as
well. A book guaranteed to keep you
reading until... and dreading the inevitable ending.

This
is the book to curl up with, this is the book you will
read again and again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 15, 2004
• ISBN: 9781418458713

Doris Hunt-Jorden

Doris Hunt-Jorden, a graduate of Columbia College of Chicago and a certified Story Workshop Director, teaches English Composition, Literacy, and Fiction Writing classes and worked as a writing consultant for secondary education classes, teaching in tandem. Hunt-Jorden has published in various literary magazines in Chicago and New York. She is a winner of an Illinois Arts Council fellowship and two CAAP awards. Being born in Missouri is what she credits as inspirational fodder, the oral telling of everyday events, the richness of the land, and the warmth of the people. She has taught at Columbia College and Northeastern University, and currently teaches at Malcolm X College in Adult Education.

Book preview

Sister Katie

by

Doris Hunt-Jorden

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This is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

© 2004 Doris Hunt-Jorden. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission from the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/24/16

ISBN: 978-1-4184-4015-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4184-4016-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4184-5871-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2004105314

Contents

Acknowledgements

Praying

The Restaurant

The Incubated Chicken

Decisions

Back Doors

The Reading Of The Will

The Great Cry

All Things In Common

Dreams

Scatting

Housecleaning

Remove The Devil

Coloreds Only

Flight

Follow The Red Brick Road

The Sound Of Voices

Honeybees

Smart Niggers

Shadow Of The Valley Of Death

The Smell Of Oil Lamps

For my family

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks are due to Randy Albers, John Schultz, Betty Shiflett and the staff at Columbia College, Chicago who taught me as much about life as they did writing. To the Austin Branch Public Library staff for all the assistance they have given me with my research. To the Illinois Arts Council for its support, and to my loving family whose love and untiring morale boosting kept me afloat.

"Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves….

St. Matthew 10:16

PRAYING

It was said time after time when it rained and the sun still shone brightly in the sky that the devil was beating his wife. But there was no explanation known for the hail storm that suddenly descended on the town of Bennettsville one hot July afternoon, carrying balls of ice the size of hens’ eggs on its crest—ice pitched from clustered smoked-gray clouds, and plummeting to the ground with showering clatters of dread. Open doors slammed, windows banged, and people who only moments before had been casually strolling up and down the busy streets now desperately sought shelter of any kind. In a few seconds the streets were deserted except for a sleek, black sedan that cruised down Main Street and came to a halt in the front of Rosie’s Cafe.

A tall man in a light gray chauffeur’s uniform emerged and, like a trained soldier unaffected by the storm, pushing through the door of the cafe and staunchly presented himself to Rosie, the redheaded woman at the bar. He had come for Katie, he said in a voice that told Rosie he was not a man to be put off. Katie summoned from her kitchen duties and still garbed in the white baker’s apron and standard hair net, had no choice but to go with him. Even Rosie insisted that she leave. She was escorted through the white section of the cafe to the sedan and driven to the rambling split-level house on the hill to pray for a man that she had had dealings with two times in her life—each time when it was thought he was dying.

Harrison Townsend-king of Bennettsville County, builder of its schools, churches, and movie houses, owner of most of the land thereabouts, and supplier of jobs throughout the town—lay in his giant, four-poster bed, with only his trembling, silvery head visible above the covers, fighting for his life. The skin on his face was sheer—translucent, and alabaster white. His waxy, blue eyes roamed about the room, watching something that only he could see, and periodically he would clutch the covers to his chest and violently shake his head. Clara, his loving wife of thirty-five years, knelt facing him, her oval face filled with worry. She whispered words of encouragement, assuring him that Max would return shortly with Katie. His children, Junior and Dellie Kay, huddled outside the threshold that led to the master bedroom, their eyes wide. Dellie’s were struck with petrified terror over the possible loss of her father, while J.T.’s (as he was called) were filled with conspicuous anticipation of stepping into his daddy’s big shoes. J.T., a thin-faced young man in his early twenties, mechanically stroked his teenage sister’s long, auburn hair as she buried her head in his chest. He watched his father’s struggle with cold, black, unsympathetic eyes.

Downstairs, Earline Simpson, the Townsend’s maid, swung the front door open; her black silky face filled with sweat, and greeted Katie. Thanks the Lord you is here, Sister Katie.

Katie’s reputation as a faith-healer was known all over Bennettsville County and farther—God walked with her folks said—and the inside of Townsend’s house was not unfamiliar to her. She visualized the location of the master bedroom, nodded in Earline’s direction, indicating she could find her way, and climbed the thickly carpeted stairs; she remembered her surprise at its softness the first time she was brought to the house two years ago. Nothing seemed to have changed—the winding staircase lined with countless Creeping Myrtle sprigs rooting in crystal vases that sat on the floor at the top of the landing, and even Townsend’s children in the same spot they had been standing on her last visit. J.T. pulled Dellie back against the wall as Katie neared the door, allowing her entry into the bedroom, and Katie walked past them without saying a word. She entered the bedroom with a mental picture of J.T.’s dark eyes following her every move while he pretended to console a brown-haired snip of a girl in a loving embrace. A picture that did not, Katie thought, portray his true character, because everyone knew J.T. was selfish and uncaring; even his own father was once overheard to say that dealing with J.T. could be a bitter experience—like drinking rank water.

Although Katie knew what was expected of her on these visits to Townsend’s—something close to the resurrection of Lazarus—she never feared she would be threatened in any way should things not work out. Yet she wondered, if the situation were reversed, would Townsend come to her assistance? Probably not. But here she stood, the white nigger of Bennettsville, label so because of her mixed blood-line and her white skin, among them—the elite—at a time when only family members and loved ones should be present. Her black hair was disheveled from the hurried removal of the hair net. A white apron was folded and doubled around her tiny waist, stained with cake flour and butter smears, and her gray eyes slightly lowered in an effort to avoid making direct eye contact. She removed the apron, laid it on the chair near the door, and stepped into the large room, where the frail, gray-haired man lay wasted to the bone. His face was taut as a dried rubber band, his soul straining against its last fiber before snapping and flying away. A flicker of light registered in the old man’s eyes as soon as he saw Katie, a light that registered hope, and the shaking ceased. Perhaps a sign, perhaps not. It didn’t matter if they were all practically strangers, for all they really knew about each other were names and needs which were very similar—needs so similar it wasn’t necessary to discuss them. They all understood—except for J.T.—that they were gathered to fight for Townsend’s life until he had either drawn his last breath or had risen from the bed on his own.

At once Clara came to her feet, the blood rushing to her cheeks, her pale blue eyes shining with gratitude at the sight of the Negro cook who had come to their rescue again. Katie, she cried out, the urgency in her voice caused it to ring high, like that of a young girl.

Miss Clara, Katie replied and crossed the floor, stopping at the foot of the bed. Clara, a foot taller than Katie, looked down, wrung her hands, and then anxiously watched as Katie gazed about as though measuring the space. The room was what Katie imagined a small hospital would look like. Bottles of medicines lined the gleaming oaken-wood bed stand. Heating pads and numerous, exquisitely-designed quilts (probably from Europe) lay on the floor near the bed for extra warmth, should they be needed, along with a humidifier, equipment to assist in breathing, and needles filled with clear liquid solutions to kill the pain that constantly racked the frail man’s body. And the space behind her that stretched across the huge bay windows and on to the wall where his children stood within the recess of the door could surely accommodate fifty sick people lined side by side.

Clara stood rigidly, her back as straight as a board, her hands clasped and drawn up against her chest, as though movement or even small talk would somehow interfere with the process of Katie interacting with her God. And Katie, sensing the tenseness in the room, inhaled deeply to slow the racing of her heart. She stood, one hand pressed against her forehead, her gray eyes flitting back and forth, searching for the way to begin. Suddenly, she dropped her hands to her side, tilted her head to the right, and softly, as though to smooth the way to Jesus or ease heavy hearts, began humming the old spiritual, Jesus is Mine. The song had lain heavily on her mind all morning; from the moment she opened her eyes. And she now recalled that it was Townsend’s favorite hymn—Miss Clara had informed Katie on that hasty arrival last year about the song, stating how it gave her husband spiritual strength, especially when sung by Negroes. She moved slowly towards the huge bed, humming in a deep, vibrating contralto, and rocking her head to a beat as though a great band was hidden behind a heavenly backdrop. When she reached the bed stand, she stopped humming—the silence filling the room with a charged expectancy—and passed her hands over the syringes then moaned as if she had been stabbed. She could feel the anger rising from the needles and knew that Doc Smith had tossed them there, probably after Miss Clara had told him to go. This is what had happened in the past when Doc Smith had given up on Townsend. And everyone in town knew that Doc Smith was only allowed at the Townsend’s when the specialist from St. Louis could not be reached in time.

Standing with her back to Clara, Katie closed her eyes and sang out loud. Jee-zus is mine. Jee-zus is mine; all mine. Everywhere I go. Everywhere I be. Jee-eee-zus, so glad He’s mine. She turned slowly, glanced over at Clara and immediately Clara joined in; their voices blended, becoming comfortable as two old shoes. It affected Harrison so; he strained against the covers, attempting to rise, even though the death rattle thundered in his chest. Katie turned and looked across into Townsend’s radiant eyes—hope shone like a tiny beacon. She nodded her head indicating that she approved, for she had many times seen hope beat death. She had seen hope make death vanish at the end of a song or in the blink of an eye. She walked the few steps to the bed and gazed down on Harrison. Slowly, he dropped his head to the pillow and watching her, waited. Her eyes roamed over every blotch, every wrinkle in his skin, the white fuzz about his bony chin, the cracks in his lips, the hollowness of his eyes, the throbbing pulse in his temples, the broad forehead that pinched the tight skin together, making it pucker around the white stand-away eyebrows and rise like tiny hills, and finally rested there penetrating—as if they bore through his skull and into the tumors that lay behind his forehead. She moaned, her eyes rolling towards the ceiling and shook her head like she had seen the great beasts of hell. Flinging her hands in the air, she cried in a raspy, preachy voice, I said Jesus is mine! Beads of sweat lined the bridge of her thin nose and her eyes stared somewhere into the beyond. Clara eyed Katie curiously and slowly knelt at the foot of the bed. Suddenly, Katie laid her hand on Townsend’s forehead, snatched it away as if, she’d touched flame, and knelt quickly on the quilts by the bed. Taking her cue from Katie, Clara clasped her hands tightly, bowed her head, and waited for Katie to begin the dialogue with her God that had worked so effectively in the past. Everyone took the same cue. Harrison rocked his head from side to side, Dellie pulled away from J.T. and dropped to her knees at the door, J.T. sighed and rested his head against the frame of the door.

The sunlight leaned heavily against the windows, painting Katie’s face with a rosy glow and childlike innocence. Her breast rose and fell in a slow uneven rhythm. She clasped her hands together, propped her elbows on the edge of the bed, and rested her chin atop her hands. Time stood still for everyone as she sought courage to speak. Father, this is your faithful and devoted servant, Katie, calling on you this dark Monday afternoon…. She finally said, her voice strong and filled with powerful desperation. "I wouldn’t interrupt you while you is ’bout your work except it’s a matter of life and death, and you said anyone, no matter how small they think they might be, you said that all they had to do was to call on you in their hour of need. You said it didn’t matter what time of night or day it might be, all they had to do was call on you, and you would be there beside them. I know I don’t have to tell you who I am, ’cause my credentials have already been put in my file in heaven. I know it ain’t no surprise to you, the reason I’se here calling on you. I know I don’t have to tell you the reason. So I’se jest down here begging you to consider this plea for this man in Jesus’ name, ’cause I know you have always been partial where he was concerned. I know, before his coming home to be on high with you, he told his disciples that the only way to the Father, was through him. So I know that even if you turned a deaf ear to my request, if I call on Jesus long and hard enough, you will at least listen for his sake—this I know.

So I ask you in the name of Jesus to hear me out. Hear me out, Lord! she repeated in a thunderous voice, as though her knowledge of proper protocol gave her the right to demand an audience. She slumped back, rocking on her knees, then stretched her hand across Harrison’s body, moving it back and forth like a blind person searching for the door. Heal! The word echoed through the room and Clara, absorbing strength from Katie’s presence, raised her head and stared at her husband. J.T., infuriated with the scene before him turned a scarlet red and snatched his head away, wishing Doc Smith would return and pronounce the old man dead—he wanted these nigger rituals to end.

I’se asking you to consider this poor soul whose own flesh is his enemy, Katie continued. I’se asking you to consider this man called Harrison Townsend. A man whose commitments have been many to this here town, a man who has given much to this town, a man that practically built this town with his bare hands, a man whose education was wide and yet a man that still doubts the workings of the Lord, especially when death hovers near, though he has known only your goodness. Yes, Lord, he’s a man with many advantages, a man blessed with a humble and faithful wife and love from his fellowmen—and still, he was not satisfied. She emphasized the words and waved her hands in the air, gasping loudly as if she had swallowed a foreign substance. Regaining her voice, she continued, I’se asking you to consider this here town and the poor folks in it that needs him, the Negroes and the whites. I’se asking you to give him one more chance to redeem himself in your eyes, Lord, before you calls him home to judgment. I knows you said the sinner’s prayer would be mocked, that’s why I’se intervening Lord, this ain’t no sinner calling on you at this hour, Lord. This is your servant, Katie, a servant that would walk through the fires of hell to be by your side, a holy servant, father, filled with the Holy Ghost and the Fire of your spirit, a servant that ask nothing in return for herself except a home in heaven. I ask you to consider the shell of a man laying here at my side and spare him. I ask you this in Jesus’ name, the Holy Ghost and the Fire, amen. She removed her arms from the bed and rocked back and forth on her knees, mumbling, Heal, heal.

Suddenly the old man, blind with fever, tossed back the many quilts from his malnourished body and sitting up, grabbed the edge of the mattress and twisted his body around to the edge. His paper thin legs dangled over the side of the bed, his pajama bottoms twisted about his legs and his naked chest looked like a twelve year-old boy’s. He looked around at Katie who had pushed away from the bed, and remaining on her knees watched as he grabbed the bedpost, opened his mouth, and quite clearly and unmistakably, howled like a wolf. Katie, shivered, and advanced on her knees until she was beside him—her body slowly moving across the carpet. The hair on the back of her neck rose, prickling her skin and she cried out Jesus is mine. She reached Townsend, quickly placed her hands on his forehead, and in a voice filled with hate cried, Get thee behind me, Satan! There ain’t no room for you here in this house! Leave in the name of JESUS! Townsend seemed to become very agitated at this command, and his body began to shiver, even though perspiration rolled down his thin face. His eyes were almost black as he crawled away from Katie on now-steady knees heading for his wife. His mouth continually working up and down as though to say something urgent, he crossed the space and stopped a few feet from his wife. He continued to work his mouth, but no sound was audible. Suddenly, his eyes disappeared into the back of his head. His frail body jerked as though someone was shaking him, arched, and spilled out onto the carpet at his wife’s knees. Reaching him, Katie realized it was over. She touched his shoulder gently—he was dead.

Dellie rose from her knees, her eyes wide with fear as she rushed over to gaze down on her father’s body. She stood over her mother, breathing heavily with her hands pressed against her cheeks and her fingers covering her eyes. J.T. stood on Dellie’s right with his arms hanging loosely at his sides, looking down on the two women. Harrison’s body stretched across the floor where his wife, Clara knelt to its right, and Katie to its left. They stared at each other long and hard, neither saying a word. They both understood the meaning of Harrison’s death. With the exception of a few, the entire town would be subjected to a new king—J.T.—and the knowledge of this made them resist believing the evidence that lay sprawled between them, the body of Harrison Townsend.

Katie’s he’s gone, Clara said in a shaky voice.

It’s all over this time, Miss Clara, the Lord done called him to judgment, Katie replied with a solemn face.

J.T., trailing slowly behind Dellie, stopped two feet in front of the body. He watched the two women on the floor, and bending over his mother’s head, he could see the white hairs in his father’s nose. He watched his mother, with tears streaming down her face, push herself up, and wipe her eyes with her hands, and dash in the direction of the hall telephone to call Lloyd, the undertaker. He saw Katie, the last one to move from the floor, pull up by the mattress, with tears in her eyes, and head towards the chair for her apron. And he saw Dellie suddenly collapse to the floor near their father’s body, her black eyes glazed with fear, her head trembling.

The uncanny scene he had witnessed had a strange effect on him. He had never before seen a white man die; and though he felt no remorse for his father’s fate, he had chilled when his father threw back his head and howled. He had feared his father at that moment, even more than when the old man was up on his feet and in the prime of health. He couldn’t bring himself to turn his head for fear of meeting his mother’s eyes—afraid she would see the joy that lay behind them. That same feeling of elation had swept over him when he heard his father send Max to the restaurant for Katie—because she was never sent for unless there was no other recourse. And now that he was in control, now that the old man was finally out of his way, it was hard for him to pretend to be sad. How could he be sad, when doors that had been closed to him all his life would now be open? He would make decisions—major decisions—that would affect mostly all of the fifteen-hundred residents in Bennettsville County. He looked down at his sister sitting on the floor with her head buried in her hands, crying. He would even have control over her misguided life. He was king now. Gone were the days of sunshine and roses—the loving relationship that Dellie and his father had had—he would treat her differently, and he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of satisfaction spreading through his body. Now she would realize what it meant to be like him—isolated from his father’s warmth. He hated everything that his father had loved. Dellie, he called to her, git on out of here. Go on, I said. He glared at her until she feeling his authority pushed up from the floor and tore down the stairs, bawling.

Alone in the room, he listened to his mother and Katie who had now moved to the staircase. They spoke of the great man who lay on the floor, and of their concern for the future of Bennettsville. He walked over to the huge bed, removed the plush red quilt, and draped it across his father’s body. A tinge of pity passed through him as he stared at the shell of a man on the floor—a man he could barely recognize, but it was him—the long scar on the back of his hand was proof enough. He shook his head and wondered could this be the same man who had tossed him out of their fishing boat when he was eight years old to sink or swim? That ordeal had terrified him so much that he had hidden from his father’s sight for nearly a month. Could this be the same man who had sneered in disgust when Doc Smith informed him that his only son was an epileptic and would be having them fits. Could this be the same man who had to fight off three burly, black, angry levee men when he panicked and ran away? He had been seventeen and his father was teaching him how white men handled Negro whores when something went awry and she yelled out for help. He had seen the men approach with bottles and bricks and he had never been so afraid in his life. Jumping from the car, he had fled to the safety of his home. And after his father re-cooperated from the beating, there was nothing left between them but the pretense of family closeness for the sake of appearances, and the scar on his father’s hand which served as an almost daily reminder of his dastardly actions on the levee that night.

A car door slammed. He heard Max’s deep voice whispering to someone outside. He knew it had to be the undertaker, for Lloyd was known for his promptness.

THE RESTAURANT

No matter what occurred or how important the event might have been, there was no escaping the enclosed cubicle—the kitchen of Rosie’s Bar and Grill. Earlier this afternoon, a human being had drawn his last breath and fallen dead at her feet; yet here Katie stood back at work, slapping hamburgers on the sizzling black grill as though it had never happened. She flipped the meat automatically and mashed it with the heavy spatula until all the blood oozed out, her thoughts wandering back to Townsend crawling across the floor and wondering what was the significance of the blood-chilling howl. She only looked up when one of the white waitresses would burst through the swinging door with more orders to be filled.

Katie, born Kate Melissa Younger, had milk-white skin, and it wasn’t until you were standing in front of her that you realized she wasn’t all white. It wasn’t the startling, wide, gray eyes, or the long, thick black hair that gave it away; in fact, you just couldn’t put your finger on what it was. Up close, you could see a hint of thickness to her rounded lips and a minute flattening of the bridge of her nose, marking the African descent, but even then you still weren’t sure. She was thirty-five years old, five-feet-three in her stocking feet, but she always squared her shoulders, held her head high, and stepped down the street as if she were as tall as the trees. Katie’s mother, nee Sarah Sturdivant, was a tall, black, uneducated woman with an uncanny natural instinct for nursing the sick. She met Robert Younger, a tall, white man from Indiana, who had been traveling the river boat circuit—gambling—and who had decided, after winning big, to try his hand at farming, in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. They were married, had three children, Addie, Robert Jr., and Katie, then moved to New Hope at the turn of the century. Katie resembled both her parents: she had her mother’s high cheekbones and her father’s teacup-shaped ears, which some folks said was a sign of stinginess. When Katie was sixteen, her mother disappeared in the middle of the night; her sister married and moved to Tennessee; and after many lonely days and nights, she married James Dunson, a tall, jet-black man, who folks called Jabo. They remained together almost a year before Jabo deserted her—he was running from the High Sheriff the last time she saw him, and he never saw his daughter who was born two months after his flight. When Katie was eighteen, two significant events occurred—her brother married and moved away to Chicago, and her father was lynched. Although heartbroken, Katie stayed and raised her daughter who just recently turned eighteen. And during those years, she became a devout Christian; she joined the Sanctified Church of God in Christ whose tenets held that all their members were Saints, living without sin. It was during this time that she discovered the power to heal the sick through prayer and the laying on of hands. And for the past five years, Katie had worked at Rosie’s as head cook.

Katie scraped a clean area on the grill, lined it with hamburgers buns, and wiped her forehead with the tail of her apron. She wondered if she had dreamed going to Townsend’s house earlier. It seemed to her that she had just stepped outside the door for a moment and was now back in the kitchen—the place where she spent twelve hours a day, except on Sunday. The kitchen, the heart of the restaurant was always spotless. It was a squared-off area with gleaming floors, shining pots, a giant double oven, and various utensils necessary for Katie’s use as head cook. Katie and Alice, the short order cook, worked side by side preparing food, raking dirty dishes, washing them, stacking them again with mounds of food, and sticking them through bins in the wall for pick-up. To the left of the kitchen, facing the alley, was another boxed room, just as spotless, where the Negroes were served. A huge sign hung above the door: Coloreds Only. To the front of the kitchen, facing Frank Street was a much larger room, just as spotless, where the whites were served. An even larger sign hung above the door: Whites Only.

If old man Townsend hadn’t died earlier, it would have been the usual Monday routine—people coming in for the Blue Plate Special, fried catfish with okra, ham and eggs, ham butt sandwich with hot peppers, chicken platter, barbecue beef with mashed potatoes, hamburger with everything, or a side order of dumplings. But Townsend’s death had filled the town with the dread of dealing with J.T., anxiety over the possible loss of jobs, and excitement that normally follows the shock that no one lives forever.

On the day Townsend died, the talk around Bennettsville was pretty much the same as usual: cotton, beans, and re-grading the levee. Bennettsville was a flat stretch of land that extended out to and stopped at Highway 41. Its unique feature was the tall, man-made levee that twisted about the town like a humped-back snake. Although certain sections of the levee sloped and circled like the lip of a cup, creating a natural spillway, the land was rich and fertile—ideal for farming. And rumors that Bennettsville would boom attracted many. The only cultured characteristic it bore was its name, derived from the refined, grand old lady, Clarissa nee Bennett of Richmond Virginia—Harrison Townsend’s mother. Townsend had come to the area when it was called New Hope—a handwritten cardboard sign was tacked to the big oak tree on the outskirts of town. It was 1908; he was thirty years old, married, independent, and his pockets were filled with one hefty sum-his inheritance. He bought up most of the land thereabouts, and set out to make his name as big as the Bennett’s in Virginia. Under his guidance, the town had grown in importance and had begun supplying cotton, soybeans, pecans, and other produce to various southern states and southern Illinois. The gins hummed throughout the night; stores, churches, schools, and a movie show were opened.

And today, although the talk still centered around the activities of the town, it was with less enthusiasm, for if Katie did not pull Townsend through this time, they would all be under the thumbs of J.T.—Townsend’s inexperienced and power hungry son.

Off and on all afternoon, Rosie, caught up in the excitement, had been giving a blow-by-blow account of the events leading up to Townsend’s passing—her own version, of course. The only thing Rosie knew for sure was that he had died—for it was against Katie’s principles to discuss how, and in what manner the departed met his maker. She was a missionary of God, and that placed her above common gossip. How would it look, a missionary of God, using the afflictions of the sick and the dead to call attention to herself? It would be much worse than the funeral director who discusses with his friends the deformities of some poor soul’s body when he went to claim it. Much worse. And today—upon her return-even though Rosie had planted herself firmly by the grill and stood with plump arms folded across her chest and piercing brown eyes that searched Katie’s face for answers—Katie had held fast to her principles. But every now and then, Rosie’s crisp voice would rise above the usual chatter and the song on the jukebox in the white section and float back to the kitchen. Katie would hear Rosie talking about Townsend’s death as though she had first-hand knowledge. Yes, it’s true, died this afternoon. Is hell got fire, and heaven got angels? Sure I know what I’m talking about. I ought to, since it was me personally who sent Katie up to the house to pray for him…. Around one-thirty and, well, you know that’s my busiest time of day, but I told her to go. Hell, if it had been me, I would want somebody like her to be at my side. So, by God, I sent her, and it was terrible, just terrible.…

A coldness enveloped Katie’s body every time she heard Rosie repeat this story, for only she had heard the chilling wolf howl, and only she had seen those eyes—black as midnight when Townsend crossed over. Rosie had not seen Clara’s face filled with indecision. Katie thought to herself, one more hour of this and someone would have to come and pray for her, for she would surely lose her temper and lash out at anyone who happened to be near, especially Rosie. Only a slackening in the orders put her in a better frame of mind. She could now start the preparation of the apple pies for tomorrow’s special, a chore she welcomed, for this occupation always placed her outside the realm of Rosie’s sharp, droning voice—she lost herself in her work.

Big Jim Davis, Prosecuting Attorney of Bennettsville and its neighboring counties, pushed through the door at seven o’clock p.m., his usual time. His broad frame would fill the doorway, his khaki uniform crisp and official, his white straw hat pulled over his forehead, shading his eyes. He would stand in the doorway, his dark eyes scanning the back corners of the cafe until they adjusted to the bluish, smoky haze of cigarettes coming from the bar—the left side of the lunch counter—then he would cross the narrow aisle in three long strides, hang his hat on the silver pole by the table, and look about the room as if he were searching for a fugitive. He would sit in the center of the booth, facing the long dining tables, after making it known that he wanted to be alone—the noncommittal gestures, a not-too friendly wave suggesting tiredness, an almost cordial greeting, a half-smile. He would wait for Rosie, no one else, to take his order—one of those unspoken rules—his usual: a huge hamburger burnt on the edges and raw in the middle, mashed potatoes loaded with dark brown gravy, four slices of whole wheat toast, and plenty of creamy butter—afterwards, a slug of apple pie. He chose this spot by the window because it was the only booth on this side of the room, and because it gave him an overall view of everyone coming and going—it isolated him from the people inside, and yet he was close enough to hear most conversations, and those