Still Waters

Still Waters

Still Waters

Jenna Caldwell

New Degree Press

Copyright © 2022 Jenna Caldwell

All rights reserved.

Still Waters

ISBN

979-8-88504-561-2 Paperback

979-8-88504-887-3 Kindle Ebook

979-8-88504-678-7 Ebook

Still Waters is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously.

Contents

Wake Up, Daddy!

This Shit Right Here Don’t Make No Kind of Sense.

What Do You Have to Be Sorry For?

Oh My!

Like Flying Cars and Life on Mars?

It’s a Shame What They Did to You.

Help!

Look, It Says Maypop Purple!

So He Has No Idea Who He Is?

But You Confessed.

I Had My Hopes for That One.

Why Are You So Sad?

There’s No End in Sight. Is There?

The Story of George Stinney Jr.

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Appendix

For my mother, Jennifer.

For all the children who only knew what it meant to be a child.

It’s a miracle to realize that somebody loves you.

James Baldwin, If Beale Street Could Talk

One

Wake Up, Daddy!

He didn’t have to open his eyes to know. The sun was shining so brightly, George could feel the warmth of its rays dancing up and down his deep, black skin. He could see the red of his lids and feel the dried, crusting drool in the corner of his mouth. The sheets underneath him were softer than he remembered. Warmer, too, now that he thought of it. He’d slept a good, deep sleep, the kind you get once a year or even once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky—a merciful sleep. He knew if he opened his eyes, he would feel like a new man. Rested, sure. But new, too.

Just another minute.

George was wombed to the bed. His large frame, left foot dangling off of the mattress, gave the room a modest appearance. Without George, it was a room—a fine room, in fact. Its decorative eggshell wallpaper, once visible, was covered with artwork, varying in size and technique. Watercolors to the left, acrylics to the right. In between, sitting squarely above the bed, was a small, framed black-and-white sketch of a woman. Later that night, when George was well-rested, he would squint at that same sketch, making out the faded, graying cursive in the corner: To my Hen.

With George, six-foot-three and broad-shouldered, the bedroom was a meager space, at best.

Just a few paces from the bed were the two, large windows, responsible for the room’s warmth. The light danced off George’s skin and across the framed artwork. With nowhere else to go, it sprinted through the open door, skipped down the corridor, and looped around the corner, out of sight.

It was like God himself was shining a light in the room that day, George would think later on.

For now, all George could think about was the warmth, those sheets, and just one more minute. Please. But, as he would soon learn, life wouldn’t dare be so fair. Not to a Black man, like him, anyway.

That’s when he heard them, the sound of wood creaking, nearly splintering. The old floors gave to the weight of someone, someones, running toward him. The footsteps became increasingly loud and swift. So did the yelling. His fingers found themselves gripped around the bedsheets, the white of bone daring to pierce through his muscle and skin—a pain that did little to ground him.

Drifting between sleep and world, world and sleep, George’s lids, once red, basked in the sun’s warmth, were now dark and cool.

The footsteps had halted.

Someone was standing over him.

He lay still, his eyes brimming with tears. One more minute.

He fixed his mouth to say, please, once more, but he wasn’t even sure what he was begging for. Maybe if he said it aloud this time, things would be different. What things? He wasn’t sure of that either, but all he knew was that he wanted things to be okay. He wanted to be okay. Safe. But before he could make a sound, his eyelids were pulled back, pushed up to his brows by two small hands, masquerading a look of surprise to match his very own.

Wake up, Daddy! a small, round-faced girl yelled. Wake up! George instantly recognized her eyes as his own—dark-brown, almond-shaped. Innocent. Her hair, twisted into two neat pigtails, was decorated with what seemed to be one-too-many bows.

C’mon, Daddy, Mama said we can’t eat until you get up. Another, smaller, somehow rounder-faced, girl tugged on his pajama pants. We’re hungry, she moaned.

A third child, a boy, pulled on George’s arm. C’mon, Dad!

What? George asked, confused.

We’re going to starve! the children whined in poor unison.

And that’s when George felt it. He wasn’t sure what he felt or why he was feeling it, but he felt it. Warmth. Not the kind coming from the window that danced up and down his skin or from those sheets—that he admittedly still had a difficult job peeling himself from—but a warmth, bubbling up from the inside of him.

Dad.

George allowed his children to pull him from the bed. He followed their lead, through the open door, down the corridor, around the corner, and toward the kitchen. It occurred to him, in the bustling movement—flurries of his life appearing before him in photo frames—that he didn’t know where he was or how he’d gotten here. But it also occurred to him that he didn’t necessarily care. He felt the giddiness of a child who managed to sneak away from detention and onto the school field trip completely undetected. He wasn’t where he should be but where he belonged. Free. Oohing and ahhing at the scenes before him with all the other children.

From the kitchen, drifting through the air, was the smell of eggs, bacon, and, What was that?

Coffee, sleepy head? A woman turned to him. He recognized her from the wedding photo he brushed past in the hallway—a black-and-white image of the two of them, smiling, cake streaked across his face yet her beautiful one unsmeared. Later that evening, George would remove the image from its frame, reading a handwriting he recognized as his own scrawled on the back. Hopewell Baptist Church, Newark, New Jersey, May 5th, 1958.

His wife, Henrietta he would come to learn, stood at five-foot-four, maybe five-foot-five, her face round and babylike. She reminded him of a porcelain doll he had once seen somewhere some years long ago. She had a button nose and full, round lips with large, brown, dewy eyes to match. Her velvety, black curls swept her shoulders, and her thin, red headband melted into her mahogany skin. Even with the aroma of breakfast foods around him, he could smell her sweet scent. Sweet Potato, he thought. Pumpkin, maybe.

Looks like someone’s still dreaming. She laughed. Drink this. She pushed a cup of coffee into his hands.

George laughed as he shyly took a sip of the drink, its hot, bitter taste foreign to him.

"Lord, I know we’re out of milk, but it can’t be that bad." His wife rolled her eyes at him. His face was completely twisted—the taste of the black coffee lingering in his mouth.

I can pick up some milk from the store, he offered.

She hit his chest, playfully, and he caught her hand, unable to resist the urge to touch her and make sure she was real. She looked at him curiously. Embarrassed by the small gesture, he dropped her hand nearly as quickly as he caught it.

He wasn’t sure if it was the heat of the kitchen, the warmth of her hand, or the blood now swelling his cheeks, but he had that feeling again.

I’m sorry, he mumbled. He had never felt this nervous around a woman, a girl, before. Though Henrietta was significantly smaller than him, he couldn’t help but feel as though he was looking up at her. Whenever her eyes met his, whenever she grinned, everything inside him seemed to move.

I’m sorry you’re just going to have to drink your coffee black. She laughed. There’s no time for milk. You’re going to be late for work, she warned him.

Work? he asked, still thinking of her touch. The only work he’d ever known was the farm. Sunrise to sunset when he wasn’t at school, his body beat to a drum of clucks and swung to a chorus of neighs. George glanced down at his hands, and to his surprise, the calluses that danced up and down his palms were gone. His knuckles, swollen and scarred for as long as he could remember, were no longer. Are these my hands? He could feel the question almost slip from his lips before he stopped himself.

I mean, I’d happily play teacher for the day if you want to switch places. You carry around this big ol’ head baby of yours. She laughed, rubbing her rounded stomach. Clean up after these children and that not-so-little painting you called yourself starting last night.

You’re having a baby, he said, an unspoken question mark lingering in the air between them.

She hit him again. Well I hope so, or you best believe I’m putting this entire family on a diet. Let’s see how awake you are with nothing but a couple of twigs and berries in ya. Now, finish that coffee before you’re late. You need to make a good impression on Principal Griffith if you want that promotion.

Griffith? He wanted to ask. He looked past her and out of the small, open window above the sink. The walls around him suddenly began to feel a lot tighter, the ceiling a lot shorter. Outside was a city. He had never seen one so large, at least not up close like this. He didn’t yet recognize the buildings, noises, or sounds. He watched as something tall, industrial-like, exhaled pillowy smoke. He’d seen a movie once where the characters lived in a city. When he was younger, his mother had brought him to the home of an affluent family she cleaned for and, as long he promised to not touch anything, let alone think about it, he was left to his own devices most afternoons.

He didn’t remember much about those days except one thing. That family had a television, which was all he could talk about, dream about, until everyone tired of him and his babbling. He had never seen so many consecutive eye rolls from a room of people after he described in every last detail those black-and-white scenes that seemed to live inside of him. And so, with time, he learned to shut up about cities—he learned to shut up about a lot of things—but he didn’t outright abandon them. He couldn’t. At night, he would whisper about them to himself, to God. He prayed to live in a city, anywhere that didn’t leave him sun-crisped or back-bent. Anywhere that didn’t leave his body aching at the end of a long day. Butterflies weaved through his stomach, fluttering so fast and feverishly they dared to carry him away right then and there. His toes tingled as his fingers trembled faster than he could think. He squared his feet and gripped the kitchen counter—just in case. He was excited, to say the least, but scared too. If memory served him right, that movie hadn’t ended so well for its characters.

Henrietta stared at him, waiting.

George obliged by taking another sip of coffee, sure to swallow it quickly and taste it as little as he could. He sat with his children, who were now scraping their plates.

You better get some sausage before Junior eats it all, the older of the two girls told George.

Shut up, Cynthia, Junior spat back, pieces of chewed sausage daring to escape his lips.

Dad, look! He can’t even speak, Cynthia pleaded.

Dad, look! He can’t even speak, Junior, attempted to mock her. But with a face full of sausage, it was, in fact, difficult for him to speak.

Maybe you should slow down, Junior. George turned to his son. With so many siblings, he had become accustomed to parenting—to a degree. He eyed his son, and to his hope, Junior sighed and moved on to his eggs.

Cynthia shot him a self-satisfying grin, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

To the chorus of knives and forks, George finished his coffee, ate what remained of the breakfast meats, and under the watchful eye of his wife, made his way upstairs to change for work.

There, in the stillness of the room—a rare moment of quiet he was yet to appreciate—he looked at himself in the mirror, leaning in as closely as he could and watched as a stranger stared back at him.

Two

This Shit Right Here Don’t Make No Kind of Sense.

God, the sun hadn’t lied. It was hot, sweltering hot. This-shit-right-here-don’t-make-no-kind-of-sense kind of hot. Or at least that’s what the mailman had mumbled under his breath when he passed George on the street.

This shit right here don’t make no kind of sense.

Yeah, it’s a hot one today, George offered up a smile. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was expected to wear to work, so he had settled on a