Easter Sunday, short story, Althea Romeo Mark

By: aromaproductions on 9:13 PM

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                                                                 EASTER SUNDAY

 The mob occupying the church steps parted as swiftly as the red sea when two men in white coats, holding a stretcher, emerged from the United Methodist Church on Market Street.  Two sisters, Lilly and Gretta, gripped hands as they wrestled through the crowd, poked their heads between elbows and stretched to get a better view of Miss Myrtle being carried out.  Miss Myrtle's mouth, twisted on the left, gave the impression that she was sneering at the transfixed congregation.  

Miss Maude, who ran alongside the men, halted them briefly and struggled against the tropical wind to pull down Miss Myrtle's dress which had blown above her waist.   Everybody had seen the cinnamon-colored stockings held up by garters below the knee.  Her body, as if in protest, began to convulse and the men in white pushed Miss Maude to one side and sprinted to the waiting ambulance.

 

   Lilly, who still grasped her sister's hand, began to wail.  Gretta, conscious of curious stares, dragged her sister through the babbling crowd to her mother who stood near the opposite entrance of the church.

                   "Mammy, I had wish her dead," Lilly cried, "I had wish her dead."

                   "What stupidness you talking girl?" the mother laughed, "you all getting hysterical?"

      The blubbering continued and the mother stopped laughing.  She hadn't seen her girls so distressed since they had chopped off a lizard's tail and it chased them. 

                "What happened?" the mother asked, as she reached down and hugged her daughters.

                   Lilly nervously turned the brass ring on her swollen middle finger.  Words clogged her throat.

                 "This is Easter Sunday, ain't it?" cried Gretta, looking into her mother's eyes.

                "But yes, I don't have to tell you."

                   "We supposed to be God-fearing, ain't we?"

                   "Why you talking so Gretta?  Lilly what happened to you finger?"  Between fitful crying and the wiping of snotty noses, the mother heard a story that left her agitated.

 

                   Anyone passing by Myrtle Van Beverhout's house that morning had heard her favorite Sunday song, "Onward Christian Soldiers," blaring out her wooden window. It had become a part of the neighborhood character.  Inside the house Miss Myrtle sat on the side of her bed, before a termite-infested dressing table, powdering her face in front of a yellowing mirror.  

She sang loudly as she covered her neck and face in a cloud of lilac-scented powder. Her short gray hair, plaited in tiny braids, waited to be dressed in a black horse-hair wig. Satisfied that her face was ashy enough, she placed the wig, which fitted like a hat, on her head.  She examined her long thin face and hairy chin, wiped away the powder on her thick eyebrows, then reached for a new yellow and olive green dress that lay across her bed and stepped into it.  She wiggled rapidly as she tried to haul it up across her wide hips and thighs, then fought to pull up the zipper.  Her husband, who had died six months earlier, had always done this.  He had been her right arm.

 

                 Lilly and Gretta, who lived across town, sat at a dining table in panties and half-slips while they ate a breakfast of codfish, shrimp, and toast.  New Easter Sunday dresses decorated their bed.  The identical red silk dresses with white lace trimmings had been made by aunty Nellie, the seamstress, who lived down the road.  No one wore old dresses to church on Easter Sunday.  The girls, who were three years apart, looked forward to going to church.  The highlight of that Sunday was deciding which adult or child wore the most beautiful attire. On this day the church always looked like a big basket of flowers.

 

               After dressing and tying red, silk ribbons in their long braids, the sisters ran excitedly up Kronprindens Gade, a long, narrow, cobble-stoned street built by the Danes in the 1800s.  The heels of their black patent-leather shoes clattered gaily as matching handbags swung on their shoulders and glittered in the morning sun.  Despite beads of sweat, which had begun to trickle down their faces, they looked like two freshly plucked hibiscuses.

 

               

Miss Myrtle missed her husband, Joseph Van Beverhout.  The zipper was half-way up, but her right hand had become cramped and she rested on the bed momentarily.  She re-called Easter Sunday fifteen years ago. 

 

After marrying in the United Methodist, she had gone to the Dutch Reformed Church with her husband.  He had wanted his church members to welcome his new wife into their fold.  Her mouth quivered at the memory of that day.  Her husband, a mulatto of Danish descent, had proudly hooked her arm as they marched up the steps to the hostile stares of a small crowd of yellow, beige, and red faces.  

The ruffles, on the front of her yellow, taffeta dress, blew lightly in the wind of a forecasted storm.  There was no, "welcome sister," as they approached the vestibule.  She had followed her husband to the center pew and immediately knelt down to pray. Five minutes later she had seen the entire middle section of the church empty.  She had not returned.

 

               Maude Proudfoot, then a Dutch Reformed member, who taught at the same school as Miss Myrtle, had come by that afternoon just as they were having lunch.  She hinted to Myrtle that they go out onto the veranda, after the meal of boiled fish and fungi, to have a chat. Joseph always had a nap after lunch.

     "They say, if you come back, they goin' block the entrance to the church."

     "For what?  What I do to them?"

     "They say you make the man leave his wife of twenty years to marry you."

      "But, that's their business?"

      "They don't see how Joseph could leave his wife to marry you.  You know what they call you?"

       "What?"

       "Black, ugly long mouth.........."

       "Stop there." Myrtle, who had been sitting on a rocking chair, sucked in her cheeks, stretched her mouth, and pouted.  She looked like a shellfish in a tank.  "I teach the man book-keeping.  His business turn a profit.  He marry me."

        "They say you cook that soup and give him.  They don't want people who believe in those things in the church.  Man cannot worship God and Satan at the same time."

         "What Satan got to do with it? You know his wife never like the island.  She spend most of her time in Denmark with her children.  She only come to St. Thomas when she want money and when it's cold.   All of you in the church know that.   Tell them I say God will be the judge.  I ain't that hard up to see their red faces every Sunday.  They can keep their precious church."  Myrtle did not say another word.  Her chest burned and her head swooned. She closed her eyes and shut the world out.

       Maude Proudfoot had watched her fall asleep, and with no one to talk to, she left closing the iron gate behind her.

               While Miss Myrtle was held hostage by a bad memory, Lilly and Greta were already bulldozing their way through a throng of adults assembling before the church premises. There was a loud buzz of conversation and the spontaneous, sporadic cackles of men and women whose Sunday was sweetened by gossip from friends. Some, who visited the church only on special occasions, stood around without apparent urgency.  Being in close proximity to the church was good enough to receive God's blessings.  The girls were breathless but they had to get seats and save a place for their parents.  All pews were filled except for the last five rows at the back which had vacant spaces scattered here and there.  

Despite the wind outside, the air, compounded by assorted perfumes and the close proximity of sweating bodies, was stale.  A rapid swishing of paper fans competed with the low prattle of the congregation.  Lilly spotted a place among a row of elderly women and tugged at Gretta's dress to signal her discovery.  They clambered over knees and shoes politely muttering, "excuse me,"  "sorry," and settled into their place. They secured a space big enough to hold a small child by placing their handbags between them.  It was 10:45 a.m.

 

                 At home, Miss Myrtle snapped out of her regurgitation and looked at her watch.  "Oh Jesus,!" she shouted and immediately yanked at her zipper which miraculously made the journey up the back of her dress.  Her head, which felt like a stone, throbbed rapidly as she rushed around her bedroom stepping into her pumps, putting on her white pearl necklace, and securing her wide black hat with a pearl-studded hat pin. She grabbed her black handbag, thick leather-bound Bible, and hymn book and rushed out the door without looking at it.  Her head swirled as she tried to wave down taxis, but she had never missed a Sunday service and missing one on Easter Sunday was unthinkable.

 

 

                 At Church, she waded through a crowd of youths and late-comers and responded reluctantly to occasional howdy-dos.  No respectable church member came to church this late.

 

               

 Inside the church, she stared at her pew.  Her seat was occupied by two children.  Lily and Greta were playing with a white handkerchief when they heard a voice bleat.

    "Children, get up, that's my seat."

     They looked up to see the dull eyes of a woman with a hairy chin focused upon them.

     "She look like Mr. William's goat," whispered Greta to lilly.

     "Tis true," whispered back lilly, who had fixed her eyes on Myrtle's long chin.

     The voice bleated again. "Who sitting there?"  Miss Myrtle pointed at the narrow space between the children.

     "Mammy."

     "Where she?"

     "She coming."  Lilly glared at the grey face in the black hat.

     "Well let me tell you children, you mammy ain't here and I been sitting in this aisle and pew for the last ten years.  Have some respect for your elders and get up."  She mopped her perspiring face as she steadied herself between the benches.  "You people only come to church on Easter Sunday.  You can't come here and take my seat."  She set her mouth defiantly, pursed her lips and would not budge.

     "Her seat?" muttered Lilly to Gretta.  "Who own seat here?"  She had already turned her head away from Miss Myrtle.  Her light-skinned face reddened in tension as she clenched her left fist and rested it on the handbags.

       Lilly's red face further riled Miss Myrtle.  "Nobody going deny me a seat in my church. Nobody." 

 

                The congregation in nearby pews turned around to see what the commotion was all about. Maude Proudfoot, who sat several pews in front with her husband, got up and came to the back and quietly whispered.  "There's a seat here in front with me and Hubert, come now, stop causing confusion in the church. Tis Easter Sunday.  Don't bother with these young children.  They don't have training."

   

          "Maude Proudfoot, I been worshiping the Lord in this bench for ten years. I not moving. I not sitting anywhere else."

     "But you have to sit where you can."

     "I sorry".  Myrtle set her jaw and pushed through the pew, her large bottom bouncing off knees as she forced her way down the bench.  She squeezed herself into the small space, sitting on Lilly's hand.  Lilly's brass ring dug into her flesh as Mrytle shoved her hips right and left settling in to the discomfort of others on the bench.  Gretta and Lilly sat on their neighbor's hips.  The others in the pew grumbled as they constricted themselves further--arm bone pushing arm bone.

 

               Lilly bit her lips. She did not want to cry and give Miss Myrtle the satisfaction that she was causing her pain.  The ring sunk deeper into the flesh of her finger, the hand becoming dead after a while.  There was instant relief when Reverend Hodge announced the opening hymn.  "Christ the Lord is risen today, Hallelujah."  Miss Myrtle, one of the first to rise, brayed loudly above the others.   Lilly inspected her finger.  It was red and swollen. She blew on it to soothe the throbbing sensation which began with the circulation of blood in her hand.

   

      "I wish she drop dead," she whispered to Gretta.

     "Me too."

     "She should choke on communion."

     Gretta grabbed her throat, turned her eyes up, and quietly giggled.

 

         Sitting down was a game of musical chairs.  When the hymn ended, the children found to their embarrassment that they had no seats.  They looked around like two lost ships in a sea of adult faces.

     "God is good," exclaimed Miss Myrtle.  She pulled out her husband’s brown handkerchief and wiped her face.

     "Come Gretta." Lilly turned around and stuck her tongue out at Miss Myrtle, who sat smiling, as they maneuvered their way to the aisle.  They walked quickly to the back of the church and stood in the crowded vestibule for the rest of the service.

 

            

Miss Myrtle did not get up often throughout the rest of the service.  She sang loudly and shouted her hallelujahs when the Spirit hit her.  Her shouting was usual, but her sitting down wasn't.  She wobbled up to the front during the call for communion and knelt down along with others around the communion rail.   She did not get up again.

 

 

 

 

 ©  Althea Romeo-Mark

“Easter Sunday, “ Karibia Forteller:Karibiske Noveller, De norske Bokklubbene, A/S, Norway 2001 and The Caribbean Writer

 

Born in Antigua, West Indies, Althea Romeo-Mark is an educator and writer who grew up in St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands. She has lived and taught in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, USA, Liberia (1976-1990), London, England (1990-1991), and Switzerland since 1991. Recent Publications include the Short story “Wimmelskafts’ Hill,” published in Bookends, The Daily Observer, Jamaica, 30.01.22 Three poems, “Dopo Di Te..” ( After you..), “Un Pinguini Si Congeda,” (A Pinguin Takes Its Leave,” and “L’Ultima Traversata,”(The Final Crossing) published in Antologia di Poesia, Contemporanea Internazionale, Universalia, Trento, Italy, 2021.Three poems, “Carrying the Spirit of a Siafu,” “Nyam,” and “The Endless Tugging,” published in Letters from the Self to the World, Abrazos, DoveTales 10^th Anniversary anthology, A Writing for Peace Publication, 2021. Interview, Antigua-born Althea Romeo-Mark’s important and enduring works echo themes of “otherness,” by Jacqueline Bishop published Bookends, The Sunday Observer, # Caribbean Strong, June 6, 2021, p.47. www.jamaicaobserver.com, Althea Romeo-Mark is one of over one hundred international poets included in Musings During the Time the Time of Pandemic anthology, 2021. It is a Covid-19 inspired anthology, edited by Kenyan poet, Dr. Christopher Okemwa, from Kisi University. He is also the organizer of the Kisi International Poetry Festival; Personal Essay, “Sunrise in the Afternoon,” https://voxpopulisphere.com/2021/04/06/althea-romeo-mark-sunrise-in-the-afternoon/comment-page-1/#comment-127285