Eli: Evil Lies Inside

Copyright © 2014 Thomas H. Brown.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-0705-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0704-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014906787

Archway Publishing rev. date: 04/17/2014

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

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

This book is dedicated to my brother S.P. Brown Jr.,

December 12, 2009. I love you.

WE SHARED A TIME THAT CAN NEVER BE FORGOTTEN,

TIMES OF LAUGHTER, TIMES OF PAIN, TIMES OF SORROW, TIMES OF FAME.

WE LIVED A LIFE FULL OF COMPLICATIONS. BUT WITH FAITH WE MADE IT, WITHOUT RESERVATIONS.

YOU WERE MY JOY IN THE TIME OF NEED. I WAS YOUR HOPE, THOUGH BITTERNESS PROCEEDED. WE DIDN’T HAVE MUCH BUT WE HAD EACH OTHER. WE MADE THE EARTH OUR PLAYGROUND WITH IT’S WONDERFUL COLORS. WE LISTENED TO THE MUSIC WITH DIFFERENT EARS. WE CAPITALIZED ON LOVE WITHOUT FEARS.

WHAT IS THERE TO SAY WHEN YOU’VE SAID ALL THAT COULD BE HEARD, REMEMBER ME NOW. REMEMBER MY WORDS.

REMEMBER MY SOFTNESS ACCOMPANIED WITH THE CLOUDS

REMEMBER MY EYES THAT HELD YOU FOR AWHILE.

REMEMBER MY KISSES THAT I GAVE WHEN YOU WERE HURT.

REMEMBER MY STRUGGLE, AS I SHOWEDYOU YOUR WORTH.

REMEMBER MY HEART THAT BEATED FOR YOUR LIFE.

REMEMBER MY SOULTHAT MADE BAD THINGS ALRIGHT.

REMEMBER MY HANDS THAT STROKED YOUR HAIR.

REMEMBER MY SPIRIT, I’M STILL HERE.

REMEMBER THAT I LOVED YOU WITH MY HEART AND MY MIND.

REMEMBER YOUR BROTHER, THEN REMEMBER THE TIMES.

Chapter 1

There are those things that we want to know, things that we should know, things that should have been told to us, and things that we wished had never come into our lives.

A t the very moment of his birth he was known as a blessing, a sweet sound in his mother’s ears. He was her long-sought-after bequest, her melodic blessing. But to some he was a sinful abomination that should not come to pass. He was not supposed to be—at least not in this manner, at this time, at this moment. His birth marked an era of profound understanding, an ominous beginning for those already cradled in his unforeseen and unknowable life. Even as he formed in her womb, his mother, who caressed her belly, spoke secret whispers that only she and he would ever know—secrets that would one day shake the very foundation of our family, changing the balance of weakness and fear, love and commitment, hate and confusion, anger and spirituality. Nothing nor anyone would ever exist as he did. And never would there come a time when the word of God had ever been so misconstrued, tainted, or vile in the eyes and ears of a child.

In November 1961, an unseasonably warm morning resonated quiet. The change in the atmosphere could not begin to explain the approaching revelation; the future, as it slowly began to take its place in my reality. A group of anomalous, ill-omened occurrences during the previous nine months, inexplicable by ordinary standards, appeared as mere mishaps. In the midst of March, just as spring should have been awakening across the land, freezing rain and ice blanketed the town, causing farmers to delay preparing their fields. In April, relentless thunderstorms swept across the city. The Arkansas River flooded, breaking through the levies, destroying homes, and uprooting families. In May, three homes of old family friends were destroyed by unexplained fires. One of them killed my grandfather’s oldest and dearest friend. In June, seven expectant mothers, one after another, gave birth to stillborn children, all of them boys. Quiet pleas for mercy ascended from the mouths of those who under normal circumstances would never have beseeched Him, as speculations of an unknowing, falling upon an unknowing, scurried through homes, terrifying would-be mothers. In July, when crops should have been at their peak, summer heat all but scorched the fields, leaving very little to be harvested. Day after day, night after night, time after time, someone close to our family died. In that time, fallacies and superstitions were as real as the air we breathed, the water we drank, or the even more common racism.

On that day, the sounds that shrieked through our four-bedroom house pierced the very souls of those assembled. My five younger sisters had been hurried down the road to stay with my father’s mother, Grandmother Katie. No doubt if they been within hearing distance of the mother’s intense pain and the screeching from her mouth, they too would have pleaded for the death of this child. I, the eldest sister, for reasons I dare not understand, was ordered by my mother’s mother, Grandmother Maldonia, to stay and assist her. To this very day I believe that I was forced to bear witness to the horrific display of the spewing out of life. Although I had watched Mother give birth to my youngest sister, such a display of pain and wailing made me fearful of having children of my own.

Although I was immersed in fear, I did as my grandmother said without question. My grandmother was my one and only true friend. For some reason, the connection between us seemed much different than that between her and my sisters. Embodying and embracing the ancestral spirits of her Indian and African heritages, Grandmother Maldonia knelt at Mother’s bedside, chanting words that I had never heard, wiping the sweat from my mother’s drenched face. Grandmother was said to possess a soul even older than her own and the ability to reckon with the spirit realm and respect its power. I believed that she had foreseen this day and pleaded with the spirits to not allow it to come to pass. She was aware of what impious deed this day would bring. It was told to me that in her early years, life had been cruel to her. She had felt the bitterness of death, which had turned her once luminous white hair pallid. She continued to live on even after all her sisters died. And of the children she raised, all of them except for Mother, her firstborn, had been carried away at an early age.

Like Grandmother, this would have been Mother’s seventh time birthing life into this world, as it had been for her grandmother before her. It was known that our family lineage bore girl jewels and that the firstborn would outlive them all. A mother should not outlive her children, Grandmother once told me. Yet it was her curse, she believed, to outlive hers. With each passing of her children, as the earth covered them a diminutive piece of her was buried along with them. Never question his workings, child, Grandmother told me, "His will will be done. For as sure as you are born, you shall one day die."

Grandmother was aware of this child’s birth before the conception ever took place. She had seen it in her visions, the way she had been privy to visions of each birth of her grandchildren—and I believe our deaths as well. As clearly as one could see through a window, she had seen the faces and genders of each of us and had felt our spirits. Mother told me Grandmother would tell her where each of our birthmarks would be or the texture of our hair and the hue of our skin. However, the murky visions of this would-be male child were deceptive in appearance and left her mystified. Not once but several times did the visions appear to her, each of them elusive. I overheard Grandmother telling Mother that not one time had this child’s face been made clear to her. She knew it had to be, but she was not aware of what purpose, what reasoning, this anomaly had for reaching into the now. Months of incantations, prayers, and beseeching and burning incense and reading smokes continued without reply or clarity. Signs and abnormalities that were usually visible remained indefinable. And the secrets that escaped her tongue into Mother’s ear went unheeded. Although aware of Grandmother’s abilities, Mother was not receptive to her ways. She had for a long time past abandoned Grandmother’s premonitions.

Eagerly Grandmother prayed in an attempt to ward off the evil presence encamped about the room in an effort to ease and comfort her daughter’s labor pain. However, the early day was not willing to give way to Maldonia’s supplications.

I stood at the door holding torn rags, while Beulah, Mother’s one and only friend, and the midwife, an old woman, feeble only in appearance, who had assisted in the delivery of each of us and numerous other children up and down this rocky road, appeared baffled. I believe that they had never participated in a birth that seemed to wish not to be. I overheard Grandmother making the old lady swear never to repeat what she saw or heard on that day. "Whatever you see here this day will remain here. Whatever you hear this day is never to be uttered again. The day you do, you will be marked, and the spirits will fail to notice you." The midwife, was as old and as Grandmother but blessed to have been possess the spiritual wisdom as her old friend. Well aware of the Maldonia’s ability to connect with those beyond this life, the midwife had on several occasions made use of Maldonia’s power, her touch, and her wisdom.

Mother let out a screeching sound as pain ripped through her body. She gripped the hand of Ms. Beulah and looked her square in the face. Push, girl. You a ol’ pro at this. This ain’t ya first time. Just push, Ms. Beulah said as she attempted to encourage Mother. But the more Mother pushed, the more it appeared as if something was hindering the birth of this child, for there was no obvious reason why it had not yet felt the good nature of this world.

Fearing the worst would consume the life of her dearest friend, bewildered by the sight of this brutal display of bringing forth life, I heard Beulah say, Maldonia, does Satan want this child born, or is God trying to block it? During her teens, it was said that Ms. Beulah was maliciously beaten and raped by her mother’s male companion, a ruthless man who when drunk would transform into a subdued, kind, and cunning creature. It was during a stiff and relentless hot summer night when his forceful entry nearly killed her, causing irreparable damage not only to her body but to her spirit and her ability to be consoled by man. Since that night, her assailant had never been heard from again. In a town so small, idle talk can be as ruthless and damaging as the burning of fields during the planting season. It was rumored that her uncle and some of the men living on the road caught up with the man. They dragged him down to the muddy catfish hole, beat him beyond recognition, and cast his body into the murky waters. Though his death should have liberated her, it did no such thing. It only hurled her into a weaker state of being, where she was unable to find consolation. Yet she found a friend in my mother. Their friendship came at a time when they needed each other most. The two of them relied on each other for almost everything known under the sun. Beulah truly was Mother’s one and only true friend. It was she who watched after us when Mother went off to market or to help Grandmother can produce and make preserves.

In utter desperation, Ms. Beulah yelled out to the midwife to kill the child. Why in God’s name do ya’ll allow her to suffer in agony and give birth to something that wanted her dead? But Mother begged them not to. Even in her suffering, she pleaded to allow her child to be born, even if at the cost of her own demise. This is my child. This is my child, she screamed as she grasped her dearest friend’s hand. Take no matter in me, she said as she tightened her grasp. Take no matter in me.

Death was so near. Satan, along with his delegates and their defiant ways, lurked closely, watching and waiting.

The excruciating pain tearing through her body was inexplicable, unbearable, and relentless. Six times had she giving birth without any complications; never had she experienced such torment. Agonized and horrifying screams continued to rip from her fragile body and echo through the house. I made my way to the window and saw my father, Samuel Peters, SP or Pete to all who knew him, with his father, my grandfather Henry Wheaton, and his two brothers, Uncle Winston and Uncle Henry Jr., standing beside Father’s truck. Since the burden of birth has always fallen upon women, men of that time often gave little regard to such a spectacle. I recall watching them standing around the yard smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and laughing. It bothered me to see them enjoying themselves as Mother endured such agony. The only concern that Father maintained was his hope for a son, not the well-being of Mother. After fourteen years of marriage, the luster of what was considered love had all but faded. To him, she was no longer the pearl that filled his eyes. His impudent ways toward her were constant; he suffered little disregard for her feelings or emotions. To him, her responsibility and duty was to provide for his needs. She was his property and was treated in such manner most times. He instilled in her, as well as all of us, a sense of fear, and that fear that had in turn been converted; I detested him.

On Friday and Saturday nights he spent his time drinking and gambling at Ms. Odean’s place a few miles up the road. There he fornicated and decimated his vows to Mother. It was rumored that he had fathered other children by a woman who was once Mother’s best friend. Mother never made mention of it to him—she never uttered a word about it. She felt it was not her place to do so. He was a man and could do whatever he wanted to. In her mind, what could she do? To leave him was to deprive us of a future and a father who provided for our needs: a home, food on the table, a stable chance for an education that she never had. As for nurturing, Father was never the type to show us any special treatment. At one time, he used to laugh and play with us often, but as the years passed, his playful nature all but dissipated, just as the years had. He rarely spent quality time with us or even talked with us about anything. However, he was a strong and hardworking man. Usually the only time we heard anything from him was when we were working the fields or tending to other chores about the farm, and even during those times, we were chastised either by word or by the sting of the belt.

The white sheets on the bed were saturated with the blood that streamed from Mother’s body. Her soaring cries of My God, my God seemed to be pleas of forgiveness. Yet Mamma had nothing to be forgiven for. Her ways were as docile and unpolluted as ever. She remained a humble woman, a woman who suffered her life to God, her children, and her husband. So why did it seem as if God wanted to burn her soul, curse her child, and punish her by forsaking her.

Mamma! she screamed with great force as a contraction burrowed through her. She continued screaming, My God. My God. With piercing eyes, Grandmother gazed into hers as deeply as she could, as if she could see, smell, and touch her daughter’s very soul, and said, Hush. Now there will be no more pain. And as just as quickly as the pain came, the screeching cries ceased. A stale calm entered the room. As the midwife squatted at the end of bed, there emerged a male child with an almost transparent covering, a veil, Grandmother called it, over his face. The midwife picked up the child and handed him to Grandmother. Without speaking a word and not taking her eyes off the child, Grandmother closed her eyes and spoke. With that which the Lawd has allowed, it will be. With grace and meticulous motions, Grandmother removed the sheer veil from his face and softly blew into my brother’s mouth. Moments later the child began crying. She then handed my brother to the midwife, who took him over to the small washtub and began cleaning him. Once finished, she covered him in a blue blanket that had been passed down to Mother by Grandmother and that had six times warmed each of Mother’s children after their birth. Grandmother positioned herself closely to Mother and placed her head near her ear. In an almost slurred, chilling whisper, she spoke. What I have spoken to you, believe me, girl, will be. The midwife carried my brother to Mother and placed him in her arms. Mother, completely drained of all strength, somehow held my brother and with such tenderness caressed his tiny delicate body. As she held him, she spoke to him.

I called out to my God and he heard me. He eased my pain and spared you. You will be the joy of my life and the protector of my heart. You will be my Eli.

Chapter 2

S even years had passed since the birth of my brother. And during that time, he was like most children at this tender age. From what I noticed about him; there had been nothing out of the ordinary. As I watched him grow, I often recalled that the night of my brother’s birth had caused such discord throughout the town. I had heard rumors from neighboring friends that many of the women who had lost a child had deep resentment toward Mother for the healthy birth of my brother. Regardless of what was said, his presence was the freshness of morning dew, and with each passing season, I looked forward to the newness he’d bring each day. He resembled spring; rejuvenating the freshness of life. During spring, there always appeared a recurring mandate that, without thought, things just did that which came natural. The pastures’ green grasses sprang up time after time, providing for the new birth of calves and horses. Daily flocks of mallards, teals, pintail Canada geese, and other species of birds migrated to the ponds, lakes, and springs on the farm. The creamy white or dark pink or red blooms of the many dogwood trees planted by Grandfather throughout our land were vibrantly exploding. Yellow and white daffodils sprang up around the house and on the grounds of our family church that sat directly in front of our house. They lay as lakes of gold, lining the dirt road leading to our grandparents’ house. The smell of freshly plowed fields infused the night air as I lay in bed gazing out of the window. Even the stars and the moon in the night sky seemed to be reborn.

That particular spring not only brought a renewal of nature but new hope to black people, not just here but all across the country. Now, more than ever, blacks were climbing to new heights, glimpsing over murky mountains the hope of finally touching the dreams that once were morbid illusions. The swearing in of the first black Supreme Court justice a few years before brought forth a resounding triumph from every town, city and borough. Wherever you went, black people talked about how things were changing and how it was time for the country to recognize the power of the black man. Regardless how things appeared to have been changing, reality often reared its demented head, causing spring to lose its luster when the morose stench of racism once again appeared. This time it appeared in the form of the assassination of the black man’s great hope, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. With his death, even in this rural area blacks were plummeted back into the true reality, the reality that whites were not about to relinquish their strangling control. Even then the stench of prejudice, accompanied by fear, erased what some ventured to call black prosperity. Sometimes the seemingly forthcoming yield remained as it was, as here in this small, dusty farming town in Forrest City, Arkansas, a town named after former Confederate general Nathan Bedford Forrest, who was said to be a great man for constructing the final leg of the Memphis and Little Rock Railroad from the White River to the St. Francis River. The town had desegregated in the nineteen sixties and was said to have played a role in the civil rights movement as one of the Delta communities serving as headquarters for a civil rights organization. It was said that white business owners marched on Little Rock to protest the firing of a black teacher by the school board. Regardless of some white people’s attempts to acknowledge blacks as equals, there would always remain a concrete division of inequality. Poor blacks from around the area worked and sweated hourly to provide quick and easy transport of the cotton they chopped, picked, and loaded on wagons for nickels to feed and house their families.

Here, whites relied on the ignorance of blacks. Here, there were no outside windows to see the emerging newness spreading about the country. Keeping blacks in their place, as it were, continued to be the repetitive drumbeat for whites. Give ’em just enough to make ’em rely on us and never more than that. Keeping the nigga submissive, controlled, scared, begging, and poor was the relentless stigma of whites. For many blacks in this infested racist town, that was normal life. Often there were cross burnings that frightened many blacks folk into giving up their lands to white people, only to turn around and become the whites’ workers—boys, as Grandfather called them. Another gesture to prove that whites thought they had control, Grandfather often said.

During cotton seasons, we often sat on our front porch in the evening hours watching trucks piled with dust-covered, over-worked blacks going home after their long hours of chopping or picking cotton in the fields. Slaves is what Father called them. The irony behind Father’s words was that some, if not most, of those same blacks chopped and picked our cotton. The only difference, Father said, was that we were black, and blacks should work for blacks because we understood each other. But many black folks didn’t understand my family, the Wheatons. They didn’t understand why we were so fortunate to possess so much more than they. We owned hundreds of cattle, horses, and pigs, plus fields, farm equipment, apple orchards, persimmon and fig trees, houses and land that could be seen for miles. They couldn’t understand why we assembled at our family church established and built by Grandfather on Sunday mornings for worship and rarely ventured out to other churches. They couldn’t understand why our family buried our own in our family graveyard that lay at the top of the great hill that many people traveled to get to the paved road. For as long as I can remember, every descendent of the Wheatons, from my great-great-grandparents, great uncles, aunts, cousins, and family friends who passed were buried in the wooded graveyard. The earth of many of these graves had sank into the ground which left an even more eerie presence. However, in the midst of the woods lay the family plot, perfectly manicured, with hundreds of dogwood trees around the grounds. Directly in the center were three large gray tombstones belonging to my great-grandfather and grandmother and my great-grandfather’s slave master. Engraved above each of the tombs was the exact same inscription: FOR GOD WE LIVE AND FOR GOD WE DIE, TO LIVE, the very testament of our families’ strength and power.

More ironically, though, people couldn’t understand why our family lived not in fear of whites but in what they assumed to be harmony with them. What the black folks could not understand, they did not want to. For many, what is often seen to be the truth isn’t recognized. Nothing on this earth is ever given without a price, and my family was no exception to that rule. My grandfather’s father, who was born into slavery, obtained our land from his slave master.