Far from giving disapproval, Holcomb nodded enthusiastically. He advised that the congregation should elect her as a mother of the church, because Meema had surely been called by God, as those of the Old Testament had been called through blood and battle and burning bush. He urged the men to do the same, to bring their shotguns every Sunday. To get ready for what was coming in the days ahead, but to not be discouraged: though it was true that the Devil didn’t sleep, neither did King Jesus.
And after the sanctuary was rebuilt, the Franklins didn’t dare come back, for there had been hell to pay. When Victor Pinchard had learned of the devastation that Sunday, he’d ridden his horse out to Jeremiah’s cabin. He’d talked down to the man, because he had not climbed off his animal. He told Jeremiah not to ever mess with Wood Place sharecroppers again, not unless he received permission. For it was one thing to lynch a few troublemaking niggers. That was all fine and dandy, but to show up on a Sunday when the well behaved were praying, and then to set fire to a church with an old darky inside? Only a redneck cracker would do a thing like that.
When he arrived back at his big, white house, Victor told this story to Venie James, who told the story to Meema. In this way, Meema understood that she should consider herself blessed to be a yard nigger for him. That Victor was supposed to be “good white folks.” Like other lords of the manor, he would expect many displays of gratitude for his protection. And Meema obliged, smiling broadly whenever she encountered her landlord and former master. Repeatedly, she thanked him every year, when he gifted her that new hog that resided in the pen behind her cabin. She sent a few nice cuts of pig meat to his kitchen, too. On holidays she sent bottles of her homemade wine, so her landlord would know that her gratitude was certain.
But Meema Freeman didn’t like Victor Pinchard, not at all. Nor had she liked his ill-mannered children, Thomas and Petunia, back when she had been their mammy. But she figured she’d use Victor, in order to protect her family and the Black sharecroppers of Wood Place. As Victor had used those same folks to make himself a rich white man, perched far above somebody like Jeremiah Franklin.
*
After the service, my mother and I lifted Uncle Root from his wheelchair, while David softly offered help. No, we had it, we told him. I was cranky, my tone brisk, but David wasn’t bothered. He kissed my forehead and told me he’d been protective about Mr. J.W., too.
Usually Mama and I would push the wheelchair together across the field to the cemetery, where the old man liked to visit. But that afternoon, it was too much for Mama, it made her too sad: her husband and her child were buried in that place. So I told her I could push the old man by myself. Uncle Root kept both hands on the flowers piled high in his lap, bouquets for every woman in his family who was buried in that graveyard.
In the cemetery I put the brake on the chair and kneeled to begin the work of pulling weeds. I started with my father’s grave, then moved to Lydia’s. Before I’d moved to Chicasetta, I’d never done this work. As girls, Coco and I had reclined in the grass, her bossing me around in whatever game she thought up. The elders and Lydia had cleaned the graves in the cemetery, talking in cheerful voices. The only indication of the work’s importance had been the short prayer after the cleaning was done, the squeeze from each hand holding mine.
After I shared my research with her, my mother had purchased a stone for Judith Hutchinson and placed it in a space beside that of Eliza Two and her only child, Sheba. She’d had the carver chisel both names—Judith Hutchinson and Rabbit Pinchard—along with BELOVED SISTER OF ELIZA TWO FREEMAN AND FORMER SLAVE. For a long time, we’d considered the last phrase. Did anyone want to be called “slave” on her tombstone? But what about the generations of our family to come? They needed to know the history, in case someone else was born as curious as I was.
There were markers for Ahgayuh—Mama Gee—and Tess, her daughter, but my mother hadn’t bought those. Someone else had made sure that stones had been placed for them. Lil’ May’s was the most elaborate marker. A few family stories and some stones in a cemetery. These were the stingy remains of over two hundred years of family history. After I plucked the weeds, I placed the old man’s flowers, unsure of whether to walk away to give him privacy. I’d made up my mind to leave when his voice stopped me.
“This was my mother,” Uncle Root said. “This was my wife. This was my sister. That one was my great-great-niece.” His voice caught, and I knew why. On grave-cleaning days, Mama and the others had not talked about the ones who had gone before, not until they’d left the cemetery behind. If you start to weep over the dead, you might never stop. “Why am I here when all my women are dead?”