For four months Celia had planned to wear her new Star-of-Bethlehem brooch to church this morning. Only members of the congregation with the proper discernment would see the dark-sky dress and the pear-cut rhinestone pin and know the symbology, the statement the dress was making. But when Celia stood in church to bear witness before the election, she would weave the brooch into her testimony, lay it out with such clarity that even Melonie Rankin, her opponent’s own daughter, would give one of her little sighs. May, the Pastor’s wife, would be moved to call out a strong “Hallelujah!” followed by echoes of “Preach on, Sister Jennings!” “Tell the truth and shame the Devil!” “Seraph,” and of course, “In His name!”
The fellowship often said that Celia bore witness to God better than her father, the Reverend Jennings, ever had. That it was a shame she hadn’t been born a man so that she could stand in the pulpit as preacher. Celia, who often watched as Pastor Joshua stumbled midsermon, due to his nearly conquered stuttering habit, never allowed herself the blasphemy of envy. She knew she was born exactly as God intended, to do the work He assigned her.
Celia looked at the clock once more. 9:07. She slammed the kitchen chair under the table, walked to her sitting room window and looked down the red road. Empty. Celia willed Ephram over the hill. The wind whipped up little dust devils on the road in response. Celia gnawed at the inside of her mouth and thought of the matching tri-cornered hat she planned to wear today. It was, she’d noticed when she first saw it in the Spiegel catalog, a holy trinity hat, complete with tall cream and navy feathers. Its illusion lace scooped around the circumference of the hat and her Page Boy wig in silver/black would shine under it bone straight.
Celia pushed the flat of her palm against the windowpane. The wig was waiting for Celia on one of her five foam wig heads. All of Celia’s good hair lived above her dresser mirror. Ephram had nailed up a perfect shelf for them a year ago, so that Celia could look in the mirror, then above at the selection of wigs to determine which one would be best for the garment she was wearing. Her Ephram had done that and so much more. He loved her wigs almost as much as she did. He knew, for instance, that the Charade in Fancy Black was her favorite — long bangs, hanging curls in the back — but that the Misty Page Boy would look best with her new hat.
Celia walked back into the kitchen. 9:15. The fixed frown line between her eyes deepened and she bit deeper into the soft flesh inside her cheeks. A question flashed through her mind: Had he somehow taken his Sunday clothes and planned to meet her there? Celia nearly ran into Ephram’s bedroom. The navy suit still hung where she’d left it yesterday afternoon. The white shirt, washed and ironed, with the blue tie she’d chosen for him, was still draped over the hanger. Celia sat down on Ephram’s bed, anger rising like steam from her wide sturdy body.
Monday through Friday Celia lived in head rags, her scalp oiled with Camber’s Hair Food each evening, then seasoned with a crisscross of bobby pins. She wore housedresses from the Salvation five-and-dime and slippers with the fluff mashed out of them. She cooked Ephram’s meals: breakfast, dinner and supper, plus a nighttime snack. Wrung the necks from chickens and cracked their fertile eggs. She made Ephram’s bed and sprinkled his sheets with rosewater to draw good dreams, then put epsom salts in the corners of his room to keep out haints. Gave him a teaspoon full of ipecac when he had fever and Bayer aspirin when his nerves shot through his arms and legs. Cod-liver oil every weekday morning. Celia scoured and Cloroxed and Lysoled the house at number 8 Abraham Road during the week, and managed the money Ephram earned from bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. Celia kept all of the tips he made taking the groceries to White ladies’ Buicks. Monday through Friday Celia did all this and more for her boy.
She sat on the bed, her heart knocking against her sternum, growing more enraged as she recounted her weeks upon years of service.
Saturday was upkeep and preparation. Cutting and chopping for Sunday supper. Making sweet potato pies and 7UP cake. Keeping the stove wood dry then lighting the fire. Ephram had bought her a Sears gas model ten years before but it added a funny aftertaste to her pies and she wouldn’t stand for it. Loading the washing machine. Then rewashing what the machine didn’t catch on her scrub board, using liberal amounts of bleach. Hanging everything out to dry on the line then taking it all in. Heating the iron on the stove and pressing the sheets, the pillowcases, then Ephram’s work and Sunday clothes. Only then would Celia attend to her own church attire. Take her hair out of the kerchief. Wash it. Oil it. Then pin it up again so that it would stay snug under the wig of choice. Once in bed she would read Deuteronomy, her favorite book of the Bible, until she fell quickly to sleep.
Sunday was Celia’s only day. Celia gnawed more rapidly at her left inner cheek. She bit down on the soft flesh until she tasted blood and she clutched at the quilt on Ephram’s bed. He must, must remember. He couldn’t forget that today was her day to share counsel with the most Holy. To teach others by example: by demeanor, testimony, by speaking in tongues, and certainly by her attire. What better way, Celia and Ephram had agreed, to glorify God than to wear a mantle worthy of him? They always wore matching colors to service. As a pair, thought Celia, they had always been exemplary. Today’s navy outfit had cost Ephram $55.68 of his tips, without the wig. But it was worth it. Her standard Sunday best would not have sufficed on this special day.
Celia stood in rage. For today—Celia ripped the quilt off the bed. Was the day—She ran to the cupboard and grabbed a handful of baking soda then dashed it on his sheets as a calling prayer. Celia Jennings would be voted in as Church Mother.
The white powder made a small cloud above the bed. Celia crossed herself and spat over it for luck. Ran back to the kitchen. 9:25. Then back to his bed. She spread her face and arms over his sheets. Holding the bed she began praying her boy home.
Celia had dreamed of holding her rightful position as Church Mother since she was a little girl. After her mother was taken to Dearing Mental, and the Reverend was lynched, she’d held on to the picture of herself seated in the Church Mother’s place, the corner pew with the white ribbon. Not the pews that faced the preacher where the general mass of the congregation sat, but one of the special two flanking the pulpit on either side like an open ended square. The ones people had to look past to see the minister, and the Church Mother’s seat was the most visible.
Celia stood from her prayer bristling. Baking powder on her cheek, neck, arms and breast. She picked up Ephram’s suit and walked into the kitchen. 9:40. The election was to be held after service so … If Ephram came home, if they made it to church before the end of service, if she won the election, she would be given the brilliant white sash to wear each Sunday with the words “Church Mother” written in silver glittering cursive.
Celia folded Ephram’s suit carefully, and put it in a Piggly Wiggly sack. She went into her bathroom and wiped the soda from her sturdy face, her body. She slipped off her housedress and wetted and soaped the washcloth in the sink and just like that she knew Ephram was not coming home this morning. Celia began to cry as she washed between her legs. She sat on the toilet and wondered if it was God’s will that she let this cup pass from her lips. Perhaps He was trying to spare her the responsibility and sacrifice that being Church Mother entailed.