The Revisioners. Margaret Wilkerson Sexton

that?” And he cups his ear like he can’t hear us. “Say what?” he asks again. “Three, including Mama? No, no, four? Including brother and sister who still at home? No, not that either, members, it’s just the two of you. And God, and let him be the sounding board, let him be the sole advisor. You tell Janie and Paul a secret about your woman and you go home and lay your head on your pillow and you sleep it away like a bad dream, but Janie still thinking about it, and every time your woman walking by, Paul envisioning your private pain and he breathing in it its own spark of life. No, member. Noooo,” and he allows that word to linger so it escapes halfway between a sigh and a moan. “Nooo. And who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. And virtue’s not something you can buy, is it? You either have it through the spirit of the Lord being implanted in you from birth or you spend your whole life searching. And Major,” he turns to my son wiping the sweat from his forehead, “Major, I think you got it, I think you might be one of the lucky souls on this Earth who found it.” He is nearly singing now, and he lifts his feet one by one into the air and pumps in slow heavy motion down the steps until he reaches the couple. “I think you got it, and when you got it, best to hold on to it with all your miiight.” And that last sentiment is so nearly a song that an ordinarily quiet woman who sang soprano in the choir with me starts clapping her hands and stomping her feet, shouting, “Yes,” slow at first, then faster and faster still. The preacher mingles his own words with her shouts, then he nods at the organist, and with everyone joining, even the children, belts out:

      Let Jesus lead you

      Let Jesus lead you

      Let Jesus lead you

      All the way

      All the way from

      Earth to Heaven

      Let Jesus lead you, all the way

      I stand too. I can hear my own voice, heavy but sweet, shining above the rest, and I’m keeping time with my feet, balancing on each alternately, and swinging my body when I can manage, singing all the while. Members behind me raise their rattles and tambourines and clamor down the aisle.

      He’s a mighty good leader

      He’s a mighty good leader

      He’s a mighty good leader

      All the way

      All the way from

      Earth to Heaven

      Let Jesus lead you all the way

      And some are down on their knees between the pews, their heads swaying to the front, then back again, and others are stomping in a circle around the pulpit, their words spewing out in tongues amid the chorus.

      Let Him lead you

      Let Him lead you

      Let Him lead you

      Let Him lead you

      Let Him lead you

      All down the highway

      Let Him lead you

      Just like He lead my mother

      Lead my father

      Let Him lead you

      Let Him lead you

      We all quiet down after a spell. Even before the dancing, it was hotter inside the church than outside it, and we sit and we fan the sweat glistening on our brows. I lift the cloth of my dress off my sticky skin. The preacher leans into Major and clears his throat. He asks him to make a vow to love Eliza until death does them part. The few times there was a wedding at neighboring plantations, the preacher would make the bride and groom promise devotion until distance, or white folks, intervened; it was different in other ways too. The groom wore patched pants, and sometimes Kentucky jeans. Major, though, is wearing his daddy’s old suit. With the white gloves and tall beaver, he could pass for my late husband. Same burnt orange skin, same tight red curls, same coal-black eyes, and I have to look away.

      Now it is time to jump the broom, backward while the preacher holds it a foot off the floor. Eliza scales it, but Major’s foot hitches, and we all know what that means. The crowd laughs: “She’s the boss, now.” “Better lend her those pants now, boy.” Hearing those sentiments, as I walk back down the aisle, I try not to wince.

      I can smell the food from the lip of the church, the sizzling fried pork and creamy custard pies, the greens, potato salad and yams, the spices I added to the meat and rice for boudin. I walk over to the grandest table and not too long after I sit, Jericho carries me a plate. I take a bite. Generally, I am hard on myself; my food in particular never seems to come out as good as my mama’s, but today it seems like she was leaning over my back shaking the salt for me, and instead of the Lord, I silently thank her. People approach as I eat. Sharecroppers from my own field; grown men and women I delivered and set in their new mothers’ arms; teachers who’d taught Major, and some work with Eliza now; Link, who reunited former slaves after the war. For the longest time, I’d push her to find my mama, and she traveled all over the state of Louisiana, in churches and white folk agencies too, but to no avail.

      She sits down with her plate touching mine. She is wearing a simple skirt and blouse, a bucket hat. I compliment her on it all. She has a strong gap between her teeth; she is as long as I am wide, but our skin is the same dark brown, and when our arms touch, they could be of the same body. The sun is setting, and the heat is thin enough for wind to pass through. People have pulled out banjos, fiddles and drums for dancing, the Buzzard Lope and the Cakewalk. Link and I watch them for a long time, not needing to say a word to read each other’s thoughts.

      “I had a dream about Henry last night.”

      “Oh?” I look up. It is like the sweetness of the day brought out Link’s secret pain.

      “He was standing right beside me; we were sipping lemonade on my own porch. But my heart was heavy. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

      I shake my head, no. What is there to say? “Whether he does or not it’s best to assume the worst, be ready for that outcome,” I say.

      She nods. She understands, but it is her son.

      “You think Eliza’s mama cared for that carrying-on from the preacher?” Link asks.

      I can tell she’s trying to get her mind in a good place, to allow herself to enjoy this day.

      “I could see her people in the front row,” she goes on, “holding their mouths like they were drinking lemonade that wasn’t cut with enough sugar.”

      “Whether they abide it or not, no way I would close a marriage ceremony without it.”

      “I know that, but do they? People like that more into silent prayer.”

      “Silent what?”

      And Link lifts her shoulders and shifts her chest out and starts moving her lips but no sound comes out, and we are steady laughing. Eliza’s people walk by and I shut up on the spot, straighten up my face. It is no use though. They seem to sense they interrupted something.

      “Was an awful nice ceremony,” I say with a smile.

      “Very nice, exceeded my expectations,” the mother, Cyrile, says, her face still scrunched up like her breakfast didn’t agree with her. “And the food, we have to get going but I can smell you really know your way around a kitchen.” She must mean it as a compliment, but the way her mouth is set, she could be saying, Sister, you know you stewed those beans in an outhouse.

      “You sure are missing out, Mama.” Louis is halfway through his plate, even standing up. There is a speck of barbecue sauce right under his chin, and I have an urge to wipe it off same way I’d do Major, but I hold my hand back. Anyway his mama does it for me.

      “Well, we ought to be going now,” she snaps at him when he’s done, and he gulps a cup of sweet lemonade. His hair is slick and soft and he leans over and kisses my cheek, rubbing his belly as he walks away.