Crossings

By Willie Williams

With his upcoming marriage to Clayton, he felt, somewhat ironically, that he would be free. He no longer thought about the real reason he had originally come to Miami. It was his home now and he was no longer afraid. Besides, it all happened a long time ago, and he felt no need to tell anyone about it, not even his beloved Clayton. He thought of Christy Sharps and wondered what became of her. But the past was the past, right? One must simply move on.
He closed his dark eyes and slept, knowing that he was now safe, completely safe.
He could not have been more wrong.
By all accounts, the Crawfords are the perfect family. Privileged, attractive, and well-grounded, the Crawfords come from humble origins and embody the very essence of the American dream.

But within a year, the Crawfords are racked by past secrets, betrayal, deadly obsession, and blackmail, all of which threaten its very survival. Family patriarchs Amanda and Ross Crawford struggle to hold their family together. Throughout it all, they rely on the strength of their love to see them through. But will it be enough?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 19, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595803859

Willie Williams

Willie Williams graduated from Columbia University in 1988 and the University of Miami Law School in 1991. He lives in Miami where he practices law and where he is at work on his second novel.

Book preview

Contents

PROLOGUE

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

EPILOGUE

FOR MY PARENTS,

WHO LOVE ME WHEN I’M NOT SO LOVABLE

A little evil is often necessary for obtaining a great good

—Voltaire, Baron dOtranto

We learn only from those we love

—Johann Wolfgang Van Goethe, Conversation with Eckermann

It often requires more bravery to tell the simple truth than it does to win a battle

—JOSH BILLINGS

PROLOGUE

Chicago, May 1986

The intruder walked through the door of the familiar apartment. The two gentlemen who were there looked as if they had seen a ghost. The earlier scene in Miami was replaying itself.

What the fuck are you doing here? one of the gentlemen asked the intruder, the gentleman’s gun pointed at him. The intruder just smiled and said, I’m free. Free? the other gentleman asked, confused.

I hated the bitch. You didn’t know that, the intruder said and smiled again.

Come here, the first gentleman, now smiling also, said to the intruder.

The intruder remained. The first gentleman approached the intruder. The intruder was as good as dead.

Miami

Killing her was not going to be difficult for him. He was determined. He would eventually win.

He left the restaurant and walked toward the beautiful building. Armed and dangerous and purposeful, he entered the building’s lobby and took the elevator.

He spoke to the woman’s secretary, and she was very happy to finally meet him. He was important. You can go right in, she said. I don’t think she’s engaged.

The man opened the office door and saw his prey. The woman, engaged, didn’t notice or hear the door opening, but its closing got her attention. Confused, she froze. Nothing could save her now….

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1

Jeffersonville, Georgia, Early 1930s

The road had no name. At least there was no visible sign indicating one. It was an unpaved road of hard red Georgia clay which became a veritable nightmare when it rained. Peaceful haystacks lay in the field which ran adjacent to it. Across the lonely and inviting field was the town’s only hospital. The hospital employed only two doctors and three nurses, all of whom had given up possible lucrative medical careers in the big city to practice country medicine. The hospital looked like a funeral home and, suspiciously, smelled like one. It had an ambulance. None of the townspeople could remember the last time it was dispatched.

On the nameless road, there were very few houses. The Johnsons lived between the Morrises and the Stanleys. The Johnson house was white with black trimming around the windows. It was a modest house, a weathered wooden frame consisting of two small bedrooms, a comfortable living area, a small den. There was no bathroom, but a typical outhouse which stood ignominiously on the right side of the house. In the front yard, there were a large peach tree, an apple tree and a well. The apple and peach trees bore impressive fruit which the Johnsons neighborly shared with the other residents of the nameless road from time to time. In the back yard, there were three wrought-iron chairs which formed a semicircle around an octagon-shaped cement table. There was a large oak tree in the back of the table, to the left. One of its branches, which ran almost completely perpendicular to the tree’s bumpy trunk, served as the support for a large country swing. The rest of the backyard consisted of a variety of food crops: collard greens, corn, black-eyed peas, lima beans, tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers and watermelon. A railroad track, with the aid of a rusted wire fence, served as the border of the Johnson backyard. Trains didn’t run very often, but when they did, they caused a tremendous raucous which could be heard several miles away. When the trains approached, the kids of the nameless road would run to their respective backyards in childish anticipation of getting a glimpse of the awesome locomotives whose very fury they could feel beneath their naked feet. Often the kids would chunk white and light grey pieces of confiscated gravel at the trains as they made their approaches to the paper mill, in desperate hope that the oblivious conductors would miraculously stop the trains, allow them to board, and take them on a bucolic, whirlwind expedition.

Reginald and Cora Johnson had three kids—Earnest, Amanda and Sally. Psychologists who say that middle children tend to be a bit different from their other siblings must have centered their research around Amanda Lee Johnson. Even before she was born, Reginald and Cora knew that she was going to be a strong-willed child, for she kicked and moved restlessly in Cora’s belly. Judging by the amount of activity the unborn Amanda generated, Reginald and Cora came to the logical conclusion that they were going to have a proud, aggressive baby boy. They took pleasure in telling the then four-year-old Earnest that he wouldn’t have to play by himself much longer because soon he’ll have the company of a little baby brother. Thank God Cora had saved all of Earnest’s baby clothes so that they could be ceremoniously passed down to the expected. When Cora Johnson, a slender, poised woman of gentle waif-like beauty, ended her eighth month of pregnancy, the impatient boy apparently became tired of his damp and dark and cramped living conditions and decided that it was time to make his much-desired exit, his majestic entrance. Mary May Dickinson, one of the town’s three nurses, licensed midwife and, of course, family acquaintance, was summoned by foot to the Johnson home. It was a rainy, windy night and after a relatively easy labor, Reginald and Cora Johnson were astounded to discover that the little person who was guilty of all that male fracas was Amanda Lee Johnson, named after her paternal grandmother who had the misfortune of having been born into slavery.

Earnest hated Amanda. He didn’t appreciate the fact that this little creature had come into his home, invaded his space and had just about stolen all of his parents’ love and affection. He would make himself cry in order to draw his parents’ attention from Amanda. He wouldn’t let Amanda play with any of his toys and if he caught her with any of them, he would slap her round face authoritatively and snatch them away from her larcenous hands. Crying, Amanda would run to her mother, pull at her homemade dress, and demand that severe punishment be dispensed upon her heartless sibling. In such instances, Cora would gather both of her children together and express to them in delicate, gentle voice that brothers and sisters weren’t supposed to fight, but were supposed to protect each other and, above all, love each other. She would tell them that family strength and unity were always to be upheld and respected. After her speech, Amanda and her brother would look at their mother in a what-the-heck-is-she-talking-about? manner and then vociferously go back to blaming the other for the cause of the insurrection.

When Amanda turned ten in the early 1940s, she had her first big birthday party. Earnest was about to turn fifteen and thus thought that he was too mature to attend such a childish event. He pleaded with Cora to let him spend the day over at John’s house. John Wayman was his best friend and general partner-in-crime. John’s family lived in Spring Valley, located across the inviting field and a few roads behind the hospital. They were the same age and both were now hopelessly preoccupied with the fairer sex. They had their eyes set on the Jesserman twins who lived on the next road over from John. Tammy and Tara were their types: extremely light-skinned (or as people would say, high yella), with long Indian hair that any ordinary black girl supposedly would have died to have. At church on Sundays, Earnest and John would sit as close to them as the twins’ strict parents would allow, and after the long, boring service, the two would walk up to them and try to spark up a conversation. It never worked, however, because the twins’ martinet mother would rush her daughters along, claiming that dinner was waiting for them at home.

Defeated, John and Earnest would promise themselves that next Sunday they were going to be more aggressive. But still, they just couldn’t understand why the twins played so hard to get in a town whose population was less than one thousand.

"But Mama, I don’t wanna stay—will feel so out-of-place with all of Amanda stupid friends and all. Please, please, let me go ov’a yonda to John house. I promise I’ll be back fo’ sunset. I promise," Earnest begged with chapped hands extended. Mother and son were in the kitchen.

What did I say? I said no, didn’t I! Cora snapped. "You can go there some other time, now. And see, I know why you really wanna go there. Because you just want to see them Jesserman gals, don’t ya? I ain’t no fool, boy. I may be getting old, but I ain’t no fool."

Naw, naw, I don’t wanna see them. I just wanna talk to John. He the only friend I got, you know that, Earnest said pathetically, trying to get some sympathy out of his iron mother.

Cora snapped again. I don’t wanna hear another word out of you, young’un! Now go wash up and put yourself on some decent clothes fo’ folks start to arriving.

But—

What! Cora raised her voice, her patience now worn. Now don’t make me get ya father in here. So stop back talking to grown folks and do as I say!

The birthday party was wonderful. Amanda felt like a princess. She wore a pink and blue flowered dress, white knee-high socks and hard black shoes. Her thick black hair was parted down the middle and styled into two admirable ponytails tightly secured by two one-inch wide ribbons. Except when her impetuous five-year-old sister, Sally, nearly knocked over the card table atop which sat the chocolate-frosted birthday cake, Amanda was the center of attention. Everyone gathered closely around the little girl as she blew the ten candles out on her homemade cake. She was then kissed graciously by all the people who attended. Delores Stanley, the Johnsons’ next door neighbor (if such terminology lent itself to the Jeffer-sonville-type of communities) helped plan the party. She was a rather large woman with heavy hands, thick ankles and broad feet. Amanda, not being the nicest child and always seizing an opportunity to espouse her quick wit and sharp intelligence, would make fun of her and tell her quite bluntly that she was fat and needed to lose weight. Amanda often rudely referred to Mrs. Stanley as the Jeffersonville Jumbo. But when the Jeffersonville Jumbo gave her a beautiful brown doll with long, silky black hair that she’d made especially for her birthday, Amanda became so emotionally overwhelmed that she had to take momentary leave from her party, after giving the woman a big thank you and an I’m-sorry-for-all-the-terri-ble-things-I-said-about-you hug. Earnest, still somewhat miffed at the fact that Cora would not let him go to John’s house, sniggered deliciously under his breath.

Unfortunately, in the 1940s the life and times in Jeffersonville, Georgia, located a little more than one hundred miles southeast of Atlanta, weren’t as joyful and spirited as Amanda’s tenth birthday party. Most of the town’s residents were poor and received very little education. Being literate, for example, distinguished you from the general populace and entitled you to minor celebrity among those who could only wish to be. Remnants of the bitter economically-based racism which propelled America into a civil war were definitely still present, although many of the town’s white citizens were beginning to think of their Negro counterparts as whole persons (but nevertheless inferior whole persons), and not merely the infamous sixty percent of a person they were considered during slavery for political representation purposes. The white and black people in Jeffer-sonville moved from blind hatred and distrust of each other to a much commendable tolerance. Most of the white people lived (literally) on the other side of the tracks, in desirable houses tuck neatly behind tall, elegant Georgia pines. The women who took care of these homes were mostly black, while most of their husbands farmed or worked at the chalk mine in Milledgeville, located some thirty miles outside of Jeffersonville. In Jeffersonville, the white collar jobs were held by—you guessed it!—white people only. They were your racist town judge and his lawyers; policemen, overseen by the redneck, Big Daddy sheriff; large landowners, many of whom employed black women and children who broke their backs picking cotton for five cents a bagful; shopowners and their store clerks; post office workers; the town butcher. (And, of course, the Negroes, when they patronized his business, always got the worst that he had the gall to even sell in the first instance.) As a Negro living in Jim Crow Jeffersonville, you were expected to unquestionably accept things the way they were, and many did. Change was an evil that couldn’t (or wouldn’t) be tolerated. Whoever dared to dream of another place and another life away from Jef-fersonville society was seen as a misguided and hopeless idealist, although the aforementioned terms, of course, weren’t exactly used. Thus, in a strange sense, the Negro’s plight in this small Southern town was something not to be despised, but to be contended with or, indeed, perhaps even appreciated. This life shouldn’t mean anything to them; it was nothing to lament about. The problems which befell them, and the damnable social imbalances predicated upon an ill-conceived theory of Social Darwinism, were all things that were going to be redressed in the afterlife. Yes, God was going to take care of everything, and soon, too! (The old pie-in-the-sky theory.) Therefore, for example, you didn’t have to wish for the luxuries or extravagances of a big city life—the nightclubs, the exotic foodstuffs which aren’t killed or picked immediately before it was to be eaten, the sophisticated languages (no y’all’s, yonda’s, fixin’ to’s or cotton-pickin’s), the brick and/or stuccoed houses with proud chimneys, fine clothing not manufactured by mothers and passed down, and down, and down, art—but should merely concentrate on getting your life in tune with the Almighty, because he certainly preferred the simple, morally-decent country folk to the sinful, wealthy city folk, and the former would soon be in the more enviable position (at the pearly gates of Heaven), while the latter prepared themselves for yet another hot adventure.

But if dreaming meant going to hell, then Amanda was going to be the first one there. As Amanda entered her teens and began to mature, she became quietly sickened at what she saw around her—self-hating Negroes who all but passionately embraced a social system which demeaned them, exploited them, ridiculed them, raped them and sometimes even murdered them. No, Amanda knew she was born for more. Somewhere up in that black Georgia night sky, there was a star with her name on it and she was going to reach for it. She wasn’t going the typical route—born in Jef-fersonville, live in Jeffersonville and die in Jeffersonville. There was a whole world out there, for she had learned about it from the raggedly, outdated encyclopedia set that was given to her family by Mrs. Whitfield and her portly, tobacco-chewing husband, who lived quietly in one of those houses across the tracks, behind the tall, elegant pine trees. Amanda became an avid reader. She read everything she could get her hands on. She read with ease and incredible speed, attaining instant comprehension. In the encyclopedia, she read about New York City and Washington, D.C.; New England and Canada; the elegant and history-steeped capitals of Europe; China and Japan; and vowed one day that she would travel to these places, that their faces would one day meet hers. Earnest, now working at the chalk mine, would yell, Why you always got yo’ ugly face in dem der books, gal? And Amanda would look up at the big lug and respond, I’m not telling you, and it’s not like you can find out even if I gave them to you because you are an illiterate imbecile! He would then leave her alone because he knew that this was true but, nevertheless, a bitterly cruel and unfair statement because she knew he had to quit school and go to work in order to help Reginald and Cora make ends meet. At least, however, he could read and write his name.

One day during the spring term of Amanda’s eleventh grade year, Mrs. Leonora Simpson sent a message to Mr. Hicks, Amanda’s homeroom teacher, requesting Amanda pay a visit to her office immediately. When the penciled message was given to her, Amanda wondered what in the world Simpson could want with her. She hoped that it wasn’t anything bad. She was a good student who had only been disciplined once and that was for something which really wasn’t her fault. Amanda sat at her wooden desk, BerthaAnn Smith next to her, and kept opening and closing the piece of dull yellow paper, reading and rereading the note, hoping that it would offer some type of latent clue as to what Simpy (the students’ nickname for Simpson) had up her fashionable sleeve. When the bell of the small, two-story schoolhouse sounded, Amanda dashed out of the classroom and ran to the administrative office, one floor directly above her classroom. When she arrived at the door, she stood there a few seconds so that she could catch her breath and calm down. When she walked in, she was met by Miss Stollings, widow and meanest woman in Jeffersonville. She was wearing the same orange dress that she wore yesterday and the day before, along with her signature quirky frog broach above her left breast. An attractive woman of even features, her hair was neatly pulled back and upward into a quiet bun. Her blood-red lipstick had apparently been haphazardly applied; her nail polish of the same color, though, noticeably smooth and fresh.

May I assist you, Miss Johnson? Stollings asked in a surprisingly friendly voice.

Yes, you may, Amanda answered. I received a note from Mrs. Simpson. She wants to see me.

Oh, yes, Stollings said, recalling. That’s right, she’s expecting you. You can come back and just go right to her office. You know where it is, right? It’s the third door down, to your left. I’m sure she’s free.

Amanda walked behind the counter and went to Simpson’s office. The door was ajar and Amanda peeped in.

Mrs. Simpson? she said quietly.

Ah, yes, come in, Amanda, she said in a pleasant voice. Take a seat and try to get as comfortable as you can. We have some serious talking to do.

Amanda took a seat and relaxed. Judging by Simpson’s tone, she knew that it had to be something good. I received your message and I flew up here as soon as the bell rang.

Now tell me, Simpson began, leaning back in her squeaky chair that was torn, exposing some of its puffy white interiors, have you, my dear, given any thought as to what you want to do after graduation?

Well, somewhat. I want to do something. I thought that I could find a good job in some place like Macon or maybe Atlanta. All I know is that I don’t…really want to stay here in Jeffersonville.

Simpson leaned forward in her chair. She took a sip of lukewarm tea from a styrofoam cup and swallowed loudly. Have you ever thought about going to college?

Yeah, of course. But then I thought about the money it would cost and my mind changed really quickly. But I figure if I work very hard and save every penny I make, I just may be able to go one day….

Simpson shook her head slightly and looked down at her desk. It was a pathetic gesture. Amanda, you are a fantastic and gifted student. In fact, you are one of the best that I have seen come through here in a long time. I have a copy of your grades and they are all very good, tops. Amanda, what I called you up here for is to discuss with you a possible work-study academic scholarship. Times are changing now for us women, for us Negro women. We no longer have to be some maid in some white woman’s house. Have you ever heard of Spelman College in Atlanta?

Yes, ma’am.

Well, I’m quite sure that with your grades and your outgoing personality, you may just be able to get yourself a scholarship there.

But Amanda was still humble. You think so?

C’mon girl, don’t go pulling my leg! Both of us know that you are a very bright and gifted child and I don’t want to see a potential achiever…end up…here…in…this place. You know what I mean.

Well, what do I need to do? Amanda asked, now excited, game. She was looking at Simpy, but her mind was on one of those brilliant stars which shone fiercely above her house during the black Georgia nights.

Simpson moved a few papers to the left side of her desk. She lifted up a book and let it fall. She pushed back from the desk in her squeaky chair and pulled out the desk’s center drawer. Here, she said. "Fill these forms out and get them back to me; let’s say in a week or two. There is an essay—no!—there are two essays. Be sure you write them very carefully. Well, anyway, we’ll go over them together. Amanda, I know this is for you, I really do. Take the application home and discuss it with your folks."

Sure I will, Mrs. Simpson, Amanda said, near euphoria.

Simpson nodded to Amanda and Amanda got up from her chair and left the office. She walked by Stollings and smiled at her. Stollings smiled back and nodded, letting Amanda know that she had already known what Simpson was going to discuss with her. Amanda walked out of the door and began to walk to her class, relishing in the fact that in a little more than a year from then, she may be in Atlanta, a place close to her home and those she loved, and yet a place countless miles away.

Amanda sat speechlessly behind her dinner plate. Like always, Cora had prepared a fine, authentic country dinner. This evening, it was smothered chicken, corn-on-the-cob, collard greens seasoned with hamhock and a hint of vinegar, fried corn mill and fresh, although slightly over-sweetened, lemonade. Besides Amanda, the rectangular dinner table was occupied by Reginald, Cora and Sally; Earnest having not arrived home from the chalk mine yet. Amanda picked up her knife and fork and cut away a small piece from her gravy-topped chicken thigh. She put the food into her mouth and began to chew slowly, methodically. She looked at her father and then glanced over at her mother. They were both heartily engaged in their meals. As usual, Sally wasn’t too thrilled about her food, for she was looking down at something on the floor. Amanda took in another piece of chicken. It was delicious, but her mind was on the bomb she was about to drop. Maybe she should wait for Earnest, for he should be coming through the door anytime now, and he would definitely give her support. He was so proud of her now, and he loved her very much. He often bragged to his friends about how pretty and talented and smart she was. Long gone were the puerile skirmishes which seemed to rock the Johnson household nearly every day. But what the hell, she decided to just go for it.

Daddy…Ma, she began softly. Today, I met with a counselor at the schoolhouse.

Uh-huh, Reginald grunted, taking in another piece of the fried corn mill.

What about, Amanda? Cora asked, her tone eager.

"Well, you know that I have worked very hard in school. You know I love to learn, right? I’ve always tried to do my best, you know that, right? You know I love to learn, right?" Amanda began to feel her heart race, like when she ran up to Simpy’s office earlier that day.

That’s right, and we are very proud of you, Cora said properly.

Amanda took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Okay. Today, Mrs. Simpson called me to her office and told me that I could possibly receive a work-study college scholarship because my grades are very good and I’ve been very active in school activities and all. That’s good,.. .right?

Scholarship? Where at? Reginald asked.

Amanda didn’t like the tone of his voice. It was dry and devoid of emotion.

Well…well, she said to Spelman.

Where Spelman is? her father inquired.

It’s in Africa, Daddy, the twelve-year-old Sally blurted out.

Very funny, Amanda said, cutting her eyes at her. Daddy, it’s a college for Negro women, and it’s in Atlanta.

Yeah, I remember that school now, Cora said agreeably. "Edda Jane’s daughter went there. You remember Sara, Reggie. You know she now lives in Texas; Houston I wanna say, but I’m not sure. She met this nice boy there and I was told that he’s studying to be a doctor. Yeah, that Edda is sho’nough proud. She—"

How you gon’ get there, gal? We ain’t got no kinda money. That college stuff is fo’ dem rich folks, dem rich white folks, he said to Amanda. He had finished his second piece of chicken and was picking up some col-lard greens between his left thumb and index finger. He elegantly shook some juice out of them, pinched up a piece of bread with the same fingers and plopped it all into his greasy mouth. Class, pure Jeffersonville class.

Maybe, we could rob the bank in town, Sally opined.

Amanda eyed her smart-aleck sister with cold evil. Will you shut up, Sally! I’m not talking to you, you little—

Cora warned Amanda, "Now don’t go fighting with your sister at the dinner table. We never, ever, fight at the dinner table."

Look, it’s a scholarship. That means that I won’t have to pay for any school expenses and the like. But I’ll have personal expenses, but those shouldn’t be that much. Amanda hadn’t anticipated it would be this difficult. She was tense.

Where you gon’ get that money from? Reginald further interrogated his daughter.

Amanda ventured, I was thinking that we could all—

" We? Amanda, I told you, we ain’t got no money for you to go up there to no Atlanta. And anyway, I don’t like that place."

Well, what do you want me to do with my life? Do you want me to stay here and throw my life down the drain? There’s nothing here. They’re nobodies here. Amanda was speaking harshly and bitterly and she was visibly upset.

Her father interpreted her demeanor as disrespectful and gave her that stern look which signaled that she’d better back off, but Amanda pressed on.

It’s a stupendous opportunity that I honestly think I cannot possibly afford to forego, Amanda said in a most formal, most learned voice, purposefully trying to kill, softly, the spirit of this most uneducated man who unfortunately had to supply the spermatozoa which led to her conception.

Ma, what do ‘stupendous’ and ‘forego’ mean? Sally asked.

Look it up! Amanda blasted Sally in her best indignant teacher’s voice. She had reached into her mental vocabulary index and pulled out the words to prove a point: that she was smart and intelligent and that she had read many books and her going to college could only expand and further foster her giftedness. If they weren’t so thick, they could have figured out the meanings via the context in which the words were used.

We will talk about this sometime later, probably tomorrow, okay? Cora said in her typical peacekeeper voice. Now, y’all want some cake, I’m certain. I baked it this afternoon. It’s coconut.

Incensed, Amanda got up from the table and left. This was her future she was talking about and all Cora could think about was some stupid cake. Their eyes followed Amanda as she stormed out and into the adjoining room. Cora went over to the counter and brought the cake to the table. She cut two pieces, one for Sally and one for her husband; she, herself, didn’t care too much for sweets.

Sally picked up her piece of cake and bit into it heartedly. Mmm, she said. Mama, this is really good. It’s.stupendous!

* * * *

It was unseasonably warm that spring evening in Jeffersonville. There was no breeze, the trees refused to communicate with each other. All the windows in the Johnson house were lifted and were resting precariously on long, slender pieces of wood. Cora was clearing the table while her husband stood at the kitchen’s entrance smoking a cigarette. He took strong, masculine puffs on it and blew the smoke powerfully out of his mouth and nose. Reginald Johnson, a thick, bull of a man who stood five feet ten inches with a powerful neck and arms, broad shoulders and a slightly flared nose, didn’t appear to be upset or the least bit bothered at what just occurred at dinner, nor did Cora, although it was difficult to gage her emotions since she would sometimes repress them. Most of the time, however, she agreed with her husband, took his side, not because Reginald was often right, but because she genuinely feared him. Reginald was no different from the typical Jeffersonville male Negro. He spent nearly his entire day being oppressed by the white man and his emasculating social system and then came home to claim, or reclaim, his manhood. He didn’t have a sensitive bone in his body. He was unable to sympathize with anyone. He couldn’t feel anybody else’s pain because, in the name of manhood, he had denied his for so long. This made him a tyrant, and whatever Reginald Moses Johnson said in his house, went. Those who had the foolish temerity to challenge him (including Cora) were quickly silenced, by any means he saw fit. Earnest had the physical scars to prove this.

Reginald asked his wife, Where dat oldest daughter of yours?

I think she’s out in the back, probably trying to catch a breeze or something. Whew! It’s sure hot tonight, Cora said, not looking at him.

Earnest walked into the kitchen. His blue jeans and flannel shirt were nearly completely white. His tightly curled black hair looked as though it had been dyed platinum blond.

Cora said, Hi, pickles. You want me to fix you some dinner? Here, sit down and I’ll get you a glass of lemonade.

Ma, I’m gonna wash up first, Earnest said.

Okay, fine. Also, there is some cake here if you want any.

All right, Earnest said.

Reginald said, After you finish up, maybe you can have a talk wit’cha sister Amanda. She-a li’l mad wid ya Ma and me.

For what? What happened? Earnest was looking at his father seriously. Earnest was bigger and taller than he was now and therefore no longer felt so intimidated by him.

She-a tell ya, Reginald said. He extinguished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the trash Cora had prepared and walked out of the kitchen. Cora wiped her hands and followed.

Earnest chose to neither wash up nor eat dinner. Instead, he went to look for Amanda. He found her in the back yard sitting in one of the wrought-iron chairs which formed the semicircle around the octagon-shaped cement table. She sat facing the food crops and the railroad track, the rusted wire gate faintly visible to her. She seemed thoroughly engaged in thought.

Earnest let the back door slam a little in order to draw her attention, but she didn’t even flinch. Earnest descended the three porch steps and took a seat in one of the chairs next to her. Amanda still didn’t say anything.

Amanda, what is the problem with you and Reginald? he asked right out.

She didn’t answer.

Amanda, gal, I’m talking to you. What happened in there?

Still no answer.

Earnest exhaled loudly. All right then, have it your way. I’m gonna get me something to eat. He began to lift his body out of the chair.

Don’t leave, please stay, she finally said, although still disengaging.

Earnest removed his big hands from the arms of the chair, his buttocks slamming back down into it. He looked at her and waited for her to start.

"Your father…your father is so.damn ignorant," Amanda finally broke her silence.

What is this all about? Earnest asked, not wanting a speech.

Today at school, I was told that I could possibly receive a college scholarship to Spelman and he wasn’t too happy about that.

Hey, I’m proud of you. What is the old man’s problem? Earnest asked, scratching away some of the dusk from his hair.

The real problem is that he doesn’t want me to better myself, Amanda said assuredly, pointing a finger down on the table.

I just can’t reckon that, Earnest said.

Well, it’s true, Amanda said, turning her chair and facing her brother. I told him that a scholarship meant that everything was paid for—tuition, books and all, but that I’ll need, you know, money, a little money, for personal expenses, and that Sambo Negro nearly had a cow.

How much money you gon’ need? Earnest asked, surprising Amanda.

"I really don’t know, but it can’t be that much. I plan to work, of course. I would just need a little money here and there. Earnest, I want an education," she pleaded.

I’ll do what I can.

Thanks, but I—

No, I want to do this. I want to see you make it. He clawed her shoulder with a dusty hand.

Amanda didn’t know what to say. For the first time she was found without words. She felt guilty, like at her tenth birthday party when Mrs. Stanley gave her the doll.

You gonna have to understand that Reginald is from the old time, Earnest said.

What does that suppose to mean? she asked, although knowing exactly what it meant.

Women folks shouldn’t want to do things like you want to do. You know, like get yourself educated, challenge men folks and all that, he said ruefully, somewhat embarrassed at the truthfulness in his statement.

I want more than this, she said passionately, pointing around her. I want more! I know that I’m just a Negro girl from Jeffersonville and that expectations, you know, what people expect from me, aren’t all that great, but to hell with those people.

To hell with ‘em, her brother repeated with a comforting and sparkling white smile.

That’s exactly right, to hell with them, Amanda almost shouted. She wanted everybody to hear her in this poor excuse of a town, especially those white people who lived across the railroad tracks, behind the tall, elegant Georgia pines, in their nicer homes.

Earnest warmly touched his sister’s left hand and got up from his chair and left, leaving Amanda by herself. The crickets were singing loudly now, and the trees finally began to sway. She began to feel the cool approach of a thunderstorm, yet the valiant moon and its loyal starry subjects shone fearlessly in the dark and silky Georgia sky.

AMANDA STOOD UP AND WENT INTO THE HOUSE. SHE NEEDED TO FIND SALLY AND SOMEWHAT APOLOGIZE. AND GET STARTED ON THAT APPLICATION.

CHAPTER 2

By the time she was a junior at Spelman College in Atlanta, Georgia, Amanda Johnson had already developed into a beautiful and intelligent young woman. Tall and svelte, she carried much presence. She rarely made anything less than an A and, in all likelihood, was on her way to becoming class valedictorian like she had been in high school. She was repeating the techniques of success she used in high school: study, more studying, and even more studying. As the president of at least two clubs, Amanda was always doing something—planing meetings, organizing rallies, writing controversial editorials in the school newsletter. (Her latest, Food Update III: Dining in the Cafeteria—Are You Still Brave Enough?) For true recreation, she played team basketball with mammoth, short-haired girls of dubious sexual orientation. Basketball was the only thing at which Amanda Johnson, at best, was mediocre.

Amanda enjoyed a great deal of popularity. Many students knew of her, but not many students knew her personally. She was generally outgoing, but when it came to meeting people or getting to know them, she might as well have been a hermit. During her first year at Spelman, she developed a reputation for being a snob simply because she didn’t say much to anybody. The fact that she was pretty did not help things. A pretty girl who kept to herself was viewed as uppity. Of course, if a girl was unattractive or a regular bow-wow and kept to herself, she was just viewed as pathetic.

Amanda’s roommate was a down-to-earth, rather large black girl from Montgomery, Alabama comically named Lola Bell. She was loud and a bit crass, but no one seemed to mind. Especially Amanda. In Freudian nomenclature, Lola was mostly Id, very little Ego, and definitely not much Superego. She brought laughter and joy to Amanda’s otherwise dull and too-serious college life. They would sit together under campus trees and make wisecracks at nearly everyone who walked by, including the professors and the administrators. Amanda loved this big, bubbling, boisterous, bundle of buffoonery very much. Lola Bell was one of a kind.

I’m thinking about rushing a sorority, Amanda said to Lola. They were sitting on their respective lumpy beds in their small, cluttered dormitory room.

Go for it, Lola responded.

Amanda reclined, resting her head on an open palm and elevating her feet from the floor to the bed. I don’t know really, though. I want to, but then—I was thinking about rushing Alpha Kappa Alpha. I think they’re kinda neat. What do you think?

You’ll probably make it with no problem. You’re pretty and smart and most important, you’re light enough.

Oh, you hush, Amanda said dismissingly.

Really, Lola’s tone turned serious. Haven’t you ever heard of what is called the paper bag test? They actually hold up a paper bag against your face and if you are darker than that, then you won’t get selected.

Amanda didn’t believe her. You’re kidding me.

No, I’m telling you the truth. There are plenty of girls walking around here who didn’t get selected because they weren’t yellow enough.

What about Delta Sigma Theta? Amanda asked.

I hear they aren’t so bad. But you never know, Lola said, and then somehow maneuvered her elephantine body entirely onto her bed.

Why don’t you pledge with me?

Are you joking? Lola retorted. I’ll never make it. I’m not pretty enough and I would guess I’m not feminine enough, either.

Great way to meet eligible boys, Amanda said, trying to sell over the idea.

Noooo, thank you. Besides, all those girls—or nearly all of them—come from families of teachers and secretaries, and even doctors and lawyers.

Really? Amanda said, wondering what they would think of her