Bathsheba Green the Desperation of Orchids: Bathsheba Green, #1

By Brett R. Hughes

Bathsheba Green is 15 years old, with a sponge like mind and a face that stirs only jealousy, a bad match for a housing project. Daniel Neely, an ambitious project drug dealer—spots her, hounds her, desires her to prove himself.But Bathsheba lives in her own clustered world, haunted by the death of her family. Her steady mental salvation is the voice of her talkative friend, Wanda Wesley, foul-mouthed but oddly religious.In the mist of the mundane, a gentle hurricane hits Garden city—a young, cultured, prophetic, visionary pastor—tearing Wanda's heart from her soul on first sight. But, to the scorn of Daniel and the anguish of Wanda, the Reverend Adam Davis spots the worst face for celibate eyes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brett R. Hughes
• Release date: May 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201037420

Book preview

Chapter One

Garden City Housing Project

It was the beginning of the summer of 1981, the last year of innocence. Bathsheba Green sat on her back-porch stoop filing her nails. Whispering children nearby claimed she was sharpening her claws. Her face, an agreement of Vietnamese and African American, peered down in concentration as her mind weltered in quiet anxieties. The dust from her nails danced, lifted, and fell to her braids, jeans, shoes, and onward. After filing them to their proper length, she coated them with nail-hardener, five times. Then she tested them, drumming them on the concrete, like a tiny horse galloping. She had finished. She swiped the air several times, imagining the nails raking across a pair of lips, drawing blood.

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As soon as she finished, she realized that she wouldn’t need these weapons. School was out for the summer. Her ritual of readiness had possessed her. Now she exhaled her dread as she looked to the swaying tops of the pines and oaks. They nodded majestically.

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All of her fights in school sprang from one of two sources: her need to defend herself, or her need to hit something or someone. Her scraps allowed the release of a lot of bad energy. The ignorant girls made things easy. They thought she wanted their boyfriends. All their accusations had a common denominator. None of the charges were true. Enticing their boyfriends occupied no space in her mind. Such thoughts belonged to another version of herself, maybe in a different time.

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But today change landed upon her like a fallen tree limb. Today she suddenly detested being a constant spectacle, a sideshow for the worst kinds of fools, the students who attended school just for the fights. School meant little to them, but learning meant everything to Bathsheba. Her fights saddened her teachers. They despaired because she had given in. Some were expecting her to become the school’s first well-known scholar, a person they could point to—a role model. Today she aspired to be that person. That’s what her parents would have wanted. She broke the emery board, flinging it into the grass. She was determined to change course when school started.

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Is that you Bath? asked her grandmother, reacting to the sound of the door.

Yes, Ma’am.

And what were you doing?

Porch.

Thinking?

Yes.

You know, you do that too much. Besides, you have the whole summer to listen to your brain grind.

Yes, Grandma, she said, half hearing.

Well, at least you’re not out roaming the woods like you used to be. Maybe you’re maturing. Maybe your brain’s finally catching up to your body. It’s about time.

Yes ma’am, Bathsheba agreed.

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She turned her head toward the woods and stared, remembering its many smells, the sharpness of pine, the heaviness of oak, the cleanness of red maple, the wet dog smell of the elms. They stretched out forever into a solid lime mass. She had once called them friends. Now she was indifferent to them. They waved in the wind as they always had. Today she didn’t wave back. She tried to recall why. Maybe her grandmother was right. Something had changed. A metamorphosis had occurred, pulling her away from her favorite place.

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To her grandmother’s dread, Bathsheba’s room reflected the woods she loved. Her collections rivaled those of the best amateur botanists. Her books of leaves and flowers, had over fifty pages each, all flattened, covered, and labeled with their common and Latin names. In one corner of the room she had a small pinned insect collection featuring butterflies, spiders, and bugs. She also had collections of feathers and small bones. Not having a camera, she sketched animals from memory. Though she was never satisfied with her artwork, she filed them away neatly and in order.

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Her very first discovery had defied collection. A field of wild wheat grew not more than two hundred yards from her unit. Earlier that day her daring nine-year-old feet had taken her through the dangerous underbrush that stood as high as her eyes. It changed color in the wind. Bathsheba plucked some, nibbling it, as she tested its texture. The field smelled like a mass of new brooms. She often amused herself, pretending ancient roaming farmers had planted the wild wheat for the poor everywhere.

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Other kids saw the woods only as a place to hide when sampling their parent’s beer and cigarettes. Bathsheba treated it as a sanctuary before she understood the word. She could’ve spent a week immersed in that world, but reality shoved that idea aside. Her wheelchair-bound, amputee grandmother needed her help. She was in constant pain.

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Although their daily routine was difficult, it pushed her in new directions. Because of her grandmother’s handicap, Bathsheba had absorbed the names of most bones and muscles below the hip. When she could touch her grandmother’s leg, and understand what was happening, she found it quite interesting.

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Bath, Grandmother called. Are you even listening? I’ve been talking, and you’ve been standing there staring outside. Child, you haven’t heard a word. If you want to think, read that new Bible they passed out. The Lord’s word is worth it.

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Bathsheba and her sister both had biblical names. Her sister was Delilah. Her grandmother told them how their freshly-converted Baptist mother had chosen names she recognized from Scripture. Their grandmother said it was divine inspiration. Bathsheba had read the stories. It pleased and relieved her to know that no one else had.

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You going to church? asked her grandmother. I hope so. Reverend Brown is retiring. There’s gonna be a new preacher, a Reverend Davis, or the like. So says Nadine. He’s gonna be the new one. Word going around singing that he’s only twenty years old. That’s too young. No burdens. You should have been through stuff before you can preach stuff. But I guess that’s the way now, learning how to swim from pages instead of water. But that’s my mind, and the world don’t care. She sighed. You and Wanda should represent us on the first Sunday. I’m not gonna be up to church. Too much pain. I need some different pills, ones that won’t make me so tired. I can’t tell Monday from Tuesday no more. Bath, you listening?

Yes Ma’am, go take over the church. Bathsheba said, piecing together fragments of what she heard while thinking about the woods.

Her grandmother threw up her hands. Lord have mercy, I give up.

Bathsheba retired to her room, spending hours studying her Latin book. She fell asleep, then awakened, and dragged herself to take a bath. Afterwards, she searched for the perfume samples left by the salesman. They had run out despite her adding water so they would last longer. Back to baby oil, she thought.

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While oiling herself, she recalled finding wild mint leaves, and tried to make her own perfume. Feeling proud of herself, Wanda sniffed her, saying, You smell like a giant stick of gum.

When her grandmother had smelled it, she’d remarked that it would make a good room fragrance. Bathsheba soaked various woods and leaves, mixing them with pine oil. They tied the sticks in bundles, wrapped them with cheap bows, put them in brown candy bags and sold them as air spirits, making a few dollars a week.

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Bathsheba’s bed faced the window, so she would awaken to see the woods in the morning. Seeing only the trees helped her forget where she lived.

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The Garden City Housing Project was its name. It had been built forty years before Bathsheba was born. The government billed it as the new hope for the city’s poor. The poor were to have decent apartments with modern features: hot water, spacious areas, regular garbage pickup, indoor bathrooms—everything the middle class took for granted.

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But they built it with no ambition. The legend circulated that the designer had said, Niggers don’t need beauty, just rooms. Upon seeing it, most could see that any child could have designed it with cardboard, glue, and scissors, spirited along with candy and giggles. The white trim was the only decoration that had required any effort. Each door had a number stenciled on the front, with a tiny rusty tin mail box between the door and the window. Each apartment had a tiny rectangular yard of three by ten feet.

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An outside water faucet spewed sulfur water, or rotten egg water as the children called it. It was intended for lawn care and gardening if you could stand the smell. Also, random plants were scattered throughout the complex like afterthoughts. Some were not plants, but weeds that sent children home with skin irritations. The streets were uneven, spreading wide, then squeezing narrow. Cars were always in danger of nicking each other’s side mirrors.

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Monday mornings were garbage collection days, if the truck came. The units sat close to giant dumpsters. When the trucks arrived, every dish and window shook, almost to shattering. When the men hoisted the teeming cans in the air, they spilled a lot, then they finished with a deafening boom, releasing a gag-inducing stench that lingered.

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As the years passed, conditions in the project created new reflexive features in the tenants’ bodies. Not only did the residents have their natural eyelids, but they gained nose-lids, tongue-lids, and ear-lids. Their nose-lids would snap shut whenever the sewage system failed, and a wave of feces and waste paper pulp bubbled up from the manhole covers. Their tongue-lids would snap shut at the strange flavor of the food that came in odd-colored government cans. And their ear-lids would snap shut at the sound of gun shots, violent arguments, breaking windows, and sick babies crying in the night.

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On weekend nights a certain brand of men arrived, by foot, bicycle, or car. They flew like moths to a light, and the light was sex. Most of the tenants were women. A man living with a woman meant no government check, no government services, and no housing. The government increased a woman’s monthly check with each new baby. Once the women caught on to this hustle, they often performed what they called a triple raise and then a trick ray: Raise your legs, raise your belly—raise your check.

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There was an order to these events: a car’s engine would cut off, a soft knock would come at the door, a candle would be lit in the window, and slow music with suggestive lyrics would cover the moans of women giving to their midnight lovers. Later these lovers would evaporate into the morning. Finally the men would brag to their friends.

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Nine months later, the men would deny they’d even been there. Nine years later a child wanted a father. Nine years later that child hated the father. Nine years after that the boy would be as bad as his father, or if it were a girl, she was pregnant by a man just like her father.

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The government check became the focus of life. The check became God. The government assistance office became church. The congregation met in the assistance office. They begged the government God for blessings, confessing their sins through the hole in the window, as the stoic priestess chewing gum on the other side evaluated their stories. The government God blessed them with each birth. Women no longer delivered babies; they delivered eighteen years of cash.

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Hey Bath, wake up, get up!

Bathsheba opened her eyes, first seeing the sun, then, as the glare lifted from her eyes, she saw Wanda’s face developing.

You sleep too late now. You used to beat up the universe. Now you sleep like a fairy tale.

So, why even get up?

Why? We’re young, supposed to be up. Sleep is for old people.

That’s not realistic, said Bathsheba. All human beings require four to eight hours of sleep. Jumping up just because we’re young isn’t practical.

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Bathsheba pulled herself up. As she dressed, Wanda watched her with a twinge of jealousy. If Wanda had the body of a goddess, she wouldn’t hide it. But Bathsheba hid hers, never highlighting anything. Her body highlighted itself, despite her baggy poor girl clothes.

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Wanda longed to ask Bathsheba if she knew she was beautiful, but Bathsheba lived bluntness. She often used the word reality. If Bathsheba were to say no, Wanda could deal with that, but if her answer was yes, Wanda would be devastated. If that happened the cold Bathsheba—the mathematical one—might recite Wanda’s faults, one-by-one, from head-to-toe, scoring each body part from one-to-ten. So for the thousandth time Wanda buried the question. This morning Wanda had high expectations. With her fire truck red miniskirt set on stun, and new thrift-store boots set on kill, she would draw attention.

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They told Mrs. Green they were leaving for a moment, and Bathsheba grabbed sodas from the refrigerator. Mrs. Green just waved her hand, unwilling to take her attention away from her game show on TV.

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As they stepped outside, Bathsheba shielded her eyes against the sunny rudeness of the morning. The sky was a monotonous blue. Both preferred morning trips because trouble slept late and heavy in the project.

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As they walked past guys Wanda noticed she was losing the attention battle. Although she understood their reaction, it still frustrated her. She often thought if she’d been a missing person no one would be able to describe her to the police sketch artist.

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After marching the sidewalks, and sorting news, rumors, and lies, Wanda guided them behind the rows of crepe myrtles across the street from the church. Bathsheba sat on an fallen oak while Wanda stood, peeking through the myrtles. They popped open their sodas, and watched the cans hiss, foam, and die.

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So, what’s going on here? Bathsheba wondered, glancing around.

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Nothing much, Wanda replied. I just told my mama I’d be here. But I would have said yes to doing anything today, just to leave all that noise, my dumb ass brothers fighting over socks, and my sisters wanting me to plait their nappy ass hair. Ain’t no damn way I’m gonna spend the first day of summer cramping my fingers for two hours straight.

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So, your mother just let you leave? asked Bathsheba.

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That new pastor is supposed to be moving into the church’s house today, said Wanda. All these women want a description. It don’t matter how old and tired they are; they still wanna trick Ray one more time. I’m like, damn, stop!

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Who’s Ray? asked Bathsheba. Wanda rolled her eyes. Bathsheba continued, Well I don’t think he’s what they want, anyway.

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Why?

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Grandmother said he was very young.

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That don’t matter to them nasty old heifers.

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Should you put people down like that? Maybe they want love.

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These dried up heifers don’t want no love; they want a check. And when you get old and dry, don’t nobody want your love, anyway. That’s how men are. They want fresh, she said, flaring her arms out like a bird. Men always want fresh. Even in the Bible, the kings wanted what? Hmm? Fresh! No throw-out-by-Tuesdays.

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They waited as the morning crawled along with little change. Bathsheba listened to Wanda talk about things she wanted from the thrift store. After the pointless gab, Wanda asked, out of the blue, Do you believe in God Bath? I mean really believe, because sometimes I don’t think you do. I only say because, one time, when everyone was praying, I peeked at you—and you weren’t. You looked—cold. It’s been a year since, and I still see it. I know you think about science a lot, but I was just worrying and—

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No. Bathsheba snapped, the word coming out so crisp, clear, and final that Wanda could hear the period behind the letter O.

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Don’t you want to see your family again? Your mama, daddy, and sister?

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They’re dead. That’s it. There is no waiting room in the sky for wings. Death is real. It’s more real than life. I saw it, in my face. Death rules life. Real death freezes the life in you. Then, you’re no different from a can, or a rock, or a bottle, or a shoe, or a black dirty piece of gum on the sidewalk. You are where you were before birth. You’re not a thing. You’re a no-thing, no pain, no joy, no love, no hate, no soda, no rain, no smell, no taste, no touch, no more, a no-thing. You are forever zero.

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A look of dread grew on Wanda’s face. She remembered why she didn’t like smart people; they scared her. They lived in a hard-cold world of scales, microscopes, and math with no numbers. They put everything on an operating table, even the Bible. They spoke with no fear of hell. She swelled up against Bathsheba’s frightening words. Then why do you go to church, if you don’t believe it?

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It’s something to do. It’s pretty, and it makes Grandmother happy. She needs to be happy; it’s good for her health, her mind, to have me come. Bathsheba said this as if she was broken, reciting a shopping list of mundane items.

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They said that you went away after that car thing happened, before you moved here. Where were you all of that time?

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Bathsheba looked at Wanda as if a knife had been pushed into her shoulder. She closed her eyes for a split-yet-visible second. It was as if she was having a painful flashback.

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I’m going home to check on Grandmother. I need to check her leg, make sure she takes her medicine, and clean the house.

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She walked away.

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Don’t go Bath! Damn! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ask that. You never tell me nothing about you. You’re like my unknown friend. Wanda shouted to no effect as Bathsheba continued walking. Wanda knew her plea was in vain, and that Bathsheba would go off alone and heal. It was her way. Wanda said a quick prayer, Please, God don’t let her do anything. Her ears caught a car door slamming but didn’t process the connection. It was a noise, a sound, a common thing, offering a common option, to look, or ignore.

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She saw him, and then she saw him. She didn’t know him, but knew she didn’t care. He was the new pastor or God come to preach. He was young, her style of man. He was imagination walking, designed for her eyes, neither tall nor short, with wavy hair, his body thin and elegant, draped in a beige suit. He had a cultivated, sporting walk, his face distinguished, too young to be so serious, its complexion light brown. His face’s surface seemed more like a flavor than skin.

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But it was his walk that tied her heart to him, a walk of purpose and certainty. He trekked back and forth, hauling his luggage from the trunk to the porch. He stopped at the door, trying different keys. She longed to enter that place with him, going in to purpose, to the issues that needed him, to the place that needed people like him. He found the correct key, then snatched up pieces of luggage, one by one. He then closed the door, leaving her with a sense of abandonment, like a beggar denied soup, who now must sleep hungry.

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She plopped down on the oak, exhaling. Each time she heard a noise, her body tensed, as her hands pulled open a spot between the crepe myrtles. After an hour, she gave up. It was embarrassing, but she was alone. The solitude saved her. For a second, she understood Bathsheba. Suffering alone had this advantage.

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Wanda walked home muttering to herself: "Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn! Why did I have to see him? I should have chased Bath. I shouldn’t have been there. I just murdered my own heart. It’s dying already. Nobody important needs me, not him. Who the hell needs me? I ain’t Bath. They’re all Bath chasers. They don’t want me… never me. And I got no talent. I don’t feel like praying. God gives me little things. I don’t need another dollar blowing on the ground or a coupon. I need him. I want my world to change, Lord. In a minute I’ll be eighteen and on the streets.

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A few minutes later, Wanda felt her control slipping away. Her face trembled as her eyes filled with tears. She saw them drop, sparkle in the sunlight, and splatter the ground. No! she coached herself. Be like Bath, hold it all in, suffer but don’t feel it; don’t feel it." Seeing the sky through the rain in her eyes defeated her. She clasped her hands, fell to her knees, and felt them bumping numb on the concrete.

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Please God, she prayed. I know I’m a small thing. Never expected nothing but tomorrow. I know I promise a lot; I act the fool; I say things. I still wanna ask. I wanna win this time. I wanna be the one. I want something to offer, Lord God. I want attention, Lord God, good attention. I want to exist, Lord God. I don’t want to be invisible, Lord God, not this time. I want someone important to see me for a change, as a flower, not a weed. I’ll do any kind of thing, walk any kind of way. Let them nail me like your son, Lord God. I’ll hang on until the nails pull through the meat of my hands, and I fall to my face in the dirt.

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Opening her eyes, she found people were staring at her. Cars had stopped, causing a backup; a mailman. She’d caught the attention of a shop owner opening for business, and a sleeping bum who had awakened. All watched as a girl in a red mini skirt and boots knelt on the sidewalk praying as if she was in a church.

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At the end of Wanda’s impromptu act, a smiling older woman walked over to her. Are you all right child?

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Wanda looked up. Yes, ma’am.

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I hope the Lord answers your prayers.

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So do I, ma’am. Wanda looked down, around her knees, and found three silver dollars. She picked them up. They were all new. Is that your answer, God? she asked. Little things forever? She stood up, dropped her hands to organize her clothes, wiped her knees, and walked home.

Chapter Two

Angels, Prophets, and Hustlers

The Reverend Davis awoke, realizing he’d drifted off for hours. He inhaled, exhaled, and felt his blood surge, and his energy returning. Although he had been careful to rest while driving, staring at the yellow line had drained him.

So, this is the life of a preacher, he thought, as he sat up and looked around his new residence. His job was to answer the alarms, like some strange fireman pointing his Bible at the flames of hell. Drawing himself off the sofa, the Reverend trudged into the bathroom. He paused, smiling at the large vanity mirror, complete with lights. In front sat a large, royal-embellished wooden chair. The sight of its engraved angels, crucifixes, and gold trim made him smile. I guess we’re all vain, afraid of our defects, he thought.

He toured the house, hands-in-pockets, hearing only his own footsteps. As he imagined the stories the house might hold, he thought: What is the association up to? Did the bishops direct me here for convenience? Was there some conflict with my distaste for around-the-clock tithing? Did they sense I was tired of wringing dry the poor they proclaimed to serve? Was it because I put the needs of the church ahead of buying a new car?

They had flicked him aside like lint from a lapel. What they didn’t know was that their casual mandate had sent a seed into fertile earth. I will erupt beneath them and implode their half holy ways, he thought, and the swipe of God’s great hand will swallow all their corruption! He slammed his hand against the wall.

Oh, he sighed out loud. Control! I can’t let emotions guide me. I must remember my vision. The Lord blessed the dream into my mind. The prophets direct me by signs. My eyes await the dropped bread to consume and track. Thus, I will dine on my journey. It wasn’t fools who positioned me here, it was God. Garden City is where the vision must manifest! I must obey the tow of faith, as humble metal obeys the pull of a magnet. I must bend my legs, loosen my muscles, and be drawn forward.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his notebook, reviewing his list; dinner with Reverend Brown and his wife; contact with everyone else connected to the church. If possible, note their enthusiasm level. There would be a tour of Garden City, dim lights and highlights, a visit to city hall, and a meeting with the community. He scribbled a dozen more items, then put his book away. As he opened the front door a quiet city greeted him. He stepped outside, craning his neck to see the steeple, painted white long ago, now flaking. The gold cross at the top pointed toward heaven.

Later that evening, before sunset, he pulled into the driveway of the Browns’ home, and parked behind their car. The house was modest but larger than most in the community. It was a wood frame two-story structure, recently painted white, with mint green trim. Sunflowers, marigolds, and petunias swept around and cuddled its base, centered in a one-acre yard surrounded by striped patterned grass and a new chain link fence.

He poked the doorbell twice. As he waited, he spied a neighbor peeking through curtain blinds. The blinds snapped shut, and he waved at the window. The Browns were in their seventies, so he had no expectation of a quick response.

Hello, a lifting friendly voice chimed before the door could open.

Hello, he returned. He presumed the woman who answered