Angels Make Their Hope Here Read online

  In frustration, Pet hollered at her, and Dossie jumped. “Tell her to pull the wagon dammit!” The donkey raised her ears in alarm.

  “Shut it, Pet!” Jan had said. “You’re spooking the animal. Please, Dossie, tell her to take these cigars uphill for us, won’t you? They’re for Uncle. Tell yer donkey she’s doing a favor for Uncle, not for us,” Jan had said sweetly and stroked the animal’s head. “Don’t mind Pet, Dossie. He’s drunk on whiskey. It makes him irritable. What mus’ we do to please your donkey?”

  “Even the load. You got the crates goin’ crosswise and sloppy. Donkeys don’t like things in a mess. One way or the other—all of them crates. Then the donkey will pull that wagon to hell and back,” Dossie said. She’d laughed then, delighted with herself for saying one of Uncle’s bold and dangerous sayings and saying “hell.”

  Jan had laughed, too. It seemed like the three of them had stood for a long time just laughing at her saying “hell” and sounding like Uncle.

  They reloaded the wagon with care for the feelings of the intractable animal. Pet remembered that he’d done twice as much of the hauling work because Jan capered, spoke to the donkey with humor, and paused to gaze at Dossie each time he stood straight with a crate.

  6

  THE WOMEN FROM RUSSELL’S Knob set themselves apart from other colored women and the white women who came to Paterson to sell at market. There was a proud manner in the way they brought their wagons into town. They arrived together. They sat high up in the seats. Their shawls were not tattered nor were their dresses. Though they went to the colored area, they set up together and kept to themselves. They had regular, staunch customers amongst the white matrons as well as the better-situated free blacks. They were singular in treating all of their customers with courtesy. They were typically not harassed by other market women of any color, for they were believed to be great knife fighters. And it was known that the men of Russell’s Knob were protective of their women and vengeful in extreme ways.

  Paterson’s professional women frequented the market also. And, of course, those with allowances spent freely. Hat watched one dolly-mop with particular interest. Very pretty, very young. She had money for embroidered handkerchiefs and candies for her friends and hot corn. Arminty was what she was called, Hat learned from Mattie Ricks, the corn seller she’d paid to find out. Hat never lied when she told Ernst Wilhelm that she knew what went on in town. Though the girl was painted up like a fancy, she seemed a little shy, a little uncertain of herself. No doubt dropped into the circumstance. But the little whore was spending Ernst Wilhelm’s money. And him pawing over his wife like he was a sweet old tomcat. All the while he was having cake. It was a bad example for his son. This is what Hat had told Noelle was the reason for accomplishing the thing they’d done. But most of it was her anger at Ernst Wilhelm and his audacity.

  Hat had her mind on this thing when the boys arrived.

  “Why should it be only a whore that has a frolic—that has fun?” Hat muttered. Dossie looked up with a startle. What had Hat said?

  Hat smiled when she saw Jan and Pet. They were, for grown men, beautiful and unmarred. They had both their arms and legs and all of their eyes and teeth. They were handsome.

  “An’ Hat,” Jan called out. “An’ Hat, there’s a contes’. You ought to come. There’s a dancin’ contes’ and I’m takin’ ’em up and gonna beat ’em!” Jan spoke loudly. Hat squelched his voice by frowning. She disliked tipsy behavior in town.

  “Jan Smoot! Arrest yourself!” Hat cried out. She noticed Pet and wondered at his quiet, thoughtful demeanor. She followed the line of his gaze to where it settled on the little doxy, Arminty. Did he know about this girl and his father? Or was it that he was cut from the same bolt as his father?

  “An’ Hat, you got the chance to see me dance,” Jan trilled. He gabbed Hat’s hands and pecked them with his lips while peeping at Dossie. “Come see me dance.” His voice became quieter and seductive.

  “Jan, I ain’ goin’ in a tavern to watch you dance,” Hat answered and pushed him away.

  “Aw, why not?” He frowned mockingly at her.

  “I got too much to do for frolickin’, Jan. Hush,” she said.

  “Come, Dossie,” Jan said suddenly. “You can come and sit and watch me beat ’em all,” he bragged. Her teeth were so white when she smiled at him, and they shone brilliantly in contrast to her dark skin. Her lips no longer had a childish pink line caused by furious licking, and now they were wholly dark and smooth and set her teeth off beautifully. Jan thought she must be using a tonic. He thought he must, one day, put his lips on hers. “Please, Dossie, please come.”

  “No!” Hat answered. “We do not frolic in taverns in this town, Jan.”

  “Why can’t Dossie come if she wanna?” he said suddenly like cracking a sharp leather strap. Pet, standing behind Jan, jerked at the words.

  “She’s workin’, Jan,” Hat said after a long silence. She wanted to fuss and send him off but was always less successful at chastising Jan than she wished.

  “Aw, she won’t be long. She can come for a little bit.” Jan turned to good-natured wheedling. “It ain’t really a frolic. It’s a contes’. I could win a prize!”

  Dossie stood still and listened. At first it seemed that Hat would keep answering for her. Hat would certainly be able to tell Jan the reasons that Dossie must not go into the tavern to see him dance. Though she was a matron, she was also under the guidance of her husband’s sister.

  “Gwan off, Jan, Dossie cannot go to no tavern.”

  “Jan, I ain’ goin’ in a tavern to see dancin’,” Dossie said for herself.

  “Why not?” Jan quickly challenged. “Pet’ll take you on his arm the same as if it was Uncle took you. You can sit and watch me dance.” He came very close and looked directly into her face impudently. Dossie smelled his naughty mischief, the degree of his drunk. He was not so sweet when he drank as he once was.

  “I don’ wanna go.” Dossie looked back at Jan directly—eye to beautiful eye.

  “Yes, you do. You wish you could see me go at it. You want to see me dance, Dossie Bird.” He spoke back her name with his uncle’s call—as if usurping Duncan’s advantage with her.

  “No,” Dossie said quickly. Jan’s familiarity rattled her. But truth to tell, she did long to see him dancing. His performance at the wedding had been a sheer wonder. And she imagined the atmosphere in the tavern would be exhilarating. Why, she’d been in Minnie Stewart’s place with Duncan. There’d been no harm in the tavern badinage and the laughter and the capering. Duncan had enjoyed it.

  “Yeah, you do. You want to see me turn. You say you don’t wan’ to go ’cause you scared of Uncle. You think An’ Hat will tell on you. You won’t tell, will you An’ Hat?”

  “Hush up, Jan.” Hat tried to busy herself.

  “No,” Dossie said. She wanted to be firm without being angry. Jan was trying her, and he knew it.

  “He ain’ such a big old monster, is he, An’ Hat? Uncle won’t be mad, will he?” Jan taunted. “Why, Uncle spends a fair amount of time in taverns himself. He won’t be mad if you come just to see me dance. He’s let you come in town. He mus’ think you’re grown. Please.” Jan chucked Dossie under her chin in a gesture that, even though they’d been raised as cousins and were allowed to be familiar, was immodest, indecent. “Come on, Dossie Blossom. No drinkin’—jus’ dancin. I promise. No drinkin’, Pet?”

  “No drinkin’,” Pet answered sullenly.

  “Even if Uncle get mad, he won’t stay mad at you. Why, a wife has got a certain freedom because she can’t be put away so easy.”

  “Hush!” Hat’s voice got a bristle.

  Dossie realized that it might be disloyal to Duncan to behave as if she were afraid of him. It began to seem unfriendly to her sweet cousins not to go along. It was like a tempest had boiled up for no cause, and she could quell it by going. Jan might sober some if she agreed, and she wanted to keep him well behaved. When Pet offered his arm gallan
tly, Dossie strolled off between the two young men.

  The place was not at all like Minnie Stewart’s. The street they went to was not any street Dossie had ever been to. She knew immediately that she ought not to be on this street or in this establishment. She realized too late that Jan was flat drunk on ale and his own exuberance for dancing. Pet seemed only to be following along behind the piper. And they were doing the thing that Duncan had warned Dossie never to do. Never go into the white-only places.

  The tavern had mostly men inside—sports and workingmen—with a smattering of tough-looking, hard-drinking women. At the back were several colored fellows. One of them was August Vander, Sally’s big brother. In this place, Dossie was the fly in the milk.

  Jan would not have that they would sit at the back. He wanted Dossie and Pet to be center and near the front so as to see him vanquish the other jiggers. They did so to please him, and Jan’s dancing won the audience. He had no trouble beating the reigning Irish-jig dancer, for he’d added some haughty flourishes that caused wild enthusiasm in the crowd. But the room exploded suddenly just after Jan had finished performing. Something got let loose, and everybody in the place seemed in a roil. A crude man grabbed at Dossie’s breast, and Pet smashed him in the mouth and called him a stinking Irish bastard. This set off a brawl, and the sound of thumps, screams, clattering bowls, and shattering glass filled the place.

  Pet was on his back when several of the Irish boor’s confederates leaped on him. He was encircled and kicked and pummeled on the floor. Jan came off the stage, grabbed Dossie, and pushed her out the back door into the alley. He returned to rescue Pet and saw that August Vander and some other colored men had waded in on Pet’s behalf. Shortly the room began to fall into one-on-one contests.

  In the alley a sheriff walked up soundlessly and took hold of Dossie’s upper arm, hoisting her off the ground.

  “You the cause of this trouble, gal?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Dossie stammered without raising her eyes to his face. When the man let go of her arm, he tore the sleeve of her dress.

  The sheriff entered the tavern from the rear and watched. He exerted no authority in the brawl, calculating that the bogtrotters could trounce the niggers and save him the trouble.

  The colored fellows and Jan eventually pulled Pet out of the tavern and spirited him to a colored doctor on the other side of town. When Pet was patched up so that he could be taken home, Jan and Dossie returned to the market and found Hat and Sally Vander waiting. Hat exclaimed at the sight of Pet and put him into her wagon with his head in her lap. Jan drove Hat’s wagon, and Dossie and Sally followed.

  Dossie’s torn sleeve was the first thing Duncan noticed when the bedraggled group reached the Wilhelm place. Hat called out directives and made the others rush and fetch. She sent Jan to bring Noelle on the run.

  Dossie’s relief at reaching Duncan’s protective sphere was immediately replaced with cold fear. His face was not soft. He demanded to know where her shawl was and acted affronted that Dossie was confused and could not recall. He looked at her like he thought she’d done something wrong when surely he ought to have been comforting her. Where was her shawl? Duncan was called to help with lifting Pet into the house, and his attention was diverted to the crisis. But Dossie had felt herself nearly singed from the heat of his glance.

  When Pet was put into his bed and Noelle had arrived, Duncan directed Jan to take Sally Vander home.

  “See that she reaches her porch safely. I won’t have her people say the Smoots harmed her or let her be harmed.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Duncan…,” Sally tried to speak, but Duncan turned away and faced Dossie.

  “You better sit and collect yourself, woman. I wanna know what went on in town,” he said to her.

  “It was my fault,” Jan said quickly. “Don’t be mad at her, Uncle. She isn’t the one who was wrong. I talked her into coming in. I wasn’t thinkin’.”

  “You better take the little girl home like I told you and leave my wife to me, Jan,” Duncan said with a twist of his lips.

  Later when Jan returned, Duncan pinned him. “Yeah, you the one who’s at fault for this. I know it. What make you bring my wife into a place like that? You tryin’ to take advantage of her? You tryin’ to get her hurt bringin’ her in a place like that?”

  “No—was to see me dance in the contes’. She wa’n’t drinkin’. She was sittin’ with Pet,” Jan stammered.

  “Poor Pet got the shit kicked out o’ him to see you dancin’! His life is hangin’ by a thread, boy. You brought my wife in there to see you dancin’ and cavortin’? Dossie ain’t no cheap gal like the ones you like. She ain’t no Charity Toynton! You tryin’ to throw dirt on her by bringin’ her in that tavern? You wan’ her to see you jumpin’ an’ preenin’ an’ let them bogtrottin’ bastards look at her and grab on her?”

  Jan had meant no harm—no disrespect. It had seemed like a harmless thing for Dossie and Pet to sit at the back and watch him vanquish the Irish braggarts. Then Jan recalled that, in his drunk state, he’d cajoled Pet to sit up front where they had a good seat and he could see Dossie’s face from the stage and note her delight. He didn’t figure they’d toss the place if he won. He had only wanted to see that look of wonder and worship of his dancing that had played on Dossie’s face at the wedding fest. It was a small thing he wanted, a small smile. Why should all of her smiles belong to Uncle only now?

  “I could beat you down, and no man would criticize me for what you done to my wife, boy! The women would cry, though. Hat and Noelle would harangue me if I killed you. It’s only this that keeps me from it.”

  “Don’t punish her, Uncle, please. It’s my fault,” Jan cut in and put his hand on Duncan’s arm. It was a restraining gesture, as if he thought the man meant to beat his wife right then and he could stop him. His uncle chuckled at his desperation.

  Ernst Wilhelm debated going for another doctor, but absent any knife wound or bullet hole, he deferred to the women’s decision that Pet had had enough questionable doctoring. Noelle swung in beside Hat, and the two began addressing Pet’s wounds.

  Duncan took Dossie home so that he could yell at her the more and more loudly.

  “You know better than go in a Irishman’s drinkin’ place, don’t you?” he cried out as if he’d been stuck with a poker. How could she not know how foolhardy it was? How could she be so careless and foolish? Had she become so willful that she wanted to preen before a room full of bogtrotters? Had he spoiled her so? His face was thunderous—so twisted in fury that she could not recognize the man who had coddled her and protected her. She tried to answer him.

  “No. No,” she stammered. Then, in a simple, complete, violent repudiation of her words, Duncan struck her face. She cried out and leaned away. His open hand slammed her temple, her eye, her cheek, her jaw, and she fell to the floor.

  The bilious contents of Duncan’s stomach rose up and sickened him to realize he had done this. Duncan had seen Dossie’s torn dress and imagined a ravishment. He got beside himself that his jewel had let herself be carried into this place. It was Jan’s fault. He was the culprit above all. Yet Duncan had wanted to slap her. All of the wagon ride from poor Pet’s bedside he’d wanted to punish her for having been there and wanting something that he was not there to give her, for being out of his light and needing help and him not there to help her. Didn’t she know it? Didn’t she know that now she was a wife in his pocket she shouldn’t be gallivanting with the boys into taverns? Ah, with Dossie Bird it is innocence above all. It is ignorance of what all goes on in places like that. He had to slap her so that she would not ever go in such a place again. It was the only way to discharge the intense longing to go out and gut the white sonofabitch who had touched her.

  That a lout had grabbed at her in the tavern, that Pet had taken him down with a punch, and that a brawl had then started was what August Vander had told him. August had reached Russell’s Knob ahead of the others, carrying the story directly, first to Duncan. And s
o it was known about that Dossie had been grossly insulted by a drunk in an Irishman’s tavern in Paterson. Duncan knew all this by the time the wagon approached and Hat was shouting out orders and Duncan saw Dossie’s ripped dress. It was a flag, a bait, a poke in the eye.

  Dossie was onto her knees like a dropped sack after he hit her. All because another man had touched her? Duncan demanded that she take off the torn dress. It offended him so deeply that her clothes were disheveled. She removed the dress and looked up at him. He’d seen the look before in women who had been slaves or girls who’d grown up in bondage. Submission. Fear of punishment and resignation that it is inevitable. Dossie seemed very small in her chemise. Grandmother showed him a picture of himself then, and he stopped.

  You cannot do it. You must not. Dossie Bird cannot be punished like a child and she must not be slapped and flogged like a slave.

  Later Duncan whispered in her ear, sobbing onto her face, “Pardon, pardon, pardon me.”

  Her jaw became hot. Her face swelled and was painful. She had expected him to embrace her and be only slightly put out that she’d disobeyed. Her ears had not rung this way since she’d come with him. He had slapped her. He, who had taken pains to convince her that the days of ill treatment were over, had struck her. She had not, in truth, considered the implications of her ripped dress. She had heard the sound of the cloth tearing when the sheriff grabbed her arm, but all the fighting and yelling had drowned out any further thought of it. There had been a frightening amount of blood on Pet’s clothes, and Jan’s nose had run blood. But Duncan’s eyes locked on her torn dress even before he looked at her face, her frightened, tearstained face that itched with dried tears already spent for Pet.

  He could not see past it. Duncan had been gripped in a fit of anger so fierce that Dossie saw the gesture—the strike—as it seeded and germinated in the few seconds before he raised his hand. The slap burst from him. He was so suddenly aflame with indignation. She was at fault, though she could not figure out how. Why was Duncan so angry with her?