“So he killed Dexter,” Stella said.
“Not a bad motive,” Joel said.
There was a long heavy silence in which all three tried to focus. Joel stood, opened the door, walked to the courtyard, poured a glass of wine, and brought the bottle back with him. “Anyone?” he asked. Stella shook her head no. Florry appeared to be sleeping.
He sat down and took a sip, then another. Finally, he said, “And I guess there’s more to the story.”
“A lot more,” Florry whispered with her eyes closed. She coughed and cleared her throat, propped herself up again. “We all knew Jupe, Nineva’s grandson. He worked around the house and the gardens.”
“We grew up together, Florry, and played together,” Joel said.
“Right, he left home young, went to Chicago, came back. Pete taught him how to drive, let him run errands in his truck, treated him special. Pete was very fond of Jupe.”
She swallowed hard, took another deep breath. “And so was your mother.”
“No,” Joel grunted, too stunned to say anything else.
“It can’t be,” Stella said.
“It was so. When your father confronted your mother with the proof of the abortion, he demanded to know if it was Dexter Bell. At that awful moment, she had to make a decision. A choice. The truth or a lie. And your mother lied. She could not bring herself to admit she had carried on with Jupe. It was unthinkable, unimaginable.”
“How did it happen?” Joel asked.
“Did he force himself?” Stella asked.
“He did not. The night your mom died, she obviously knew what she was about to do. I did not. I was with her and she was at the end. She talked and talked and told me everything. At times she seemed lucid, at times out of it, but she never stopped talking. She said that Nineva got sick with something and stayed at home for a week. Jupe was working around the house. One day he was in the house, alone with Liza, and it just happened. It was a year after the news of Pete, and something just came over her. It wasn’t planned. There was no seduction, no forcing, all consensual. It just happened. And it happened again.”
Joel closed his eyes and exhaled mightily. Stella stared at the floor, mouth open, stunned.
Florry plowed ahead. “Your mother has always hated driving, so Jupe became her driver, and to get away from Nineva they would go to town. They had some hiding places along the way, around the county. It became a game and Liza frankly admitted to enjoying herself. It’s not unheard of, kids, the races have been mixing from day one. Again, she considered herself a widow, she was single, she was just having a little harmless fun, or so she thought.”
“Impossible,” Joel grunted.
“It doesn’t seem harmless,” Stella said.
“It happened; we can’t change any of it. I’m just telling you what your mother told me. Sure, she was out of her mind that last night, but what could she gain by fabricating such a tale? She wanted someone to know before she went to the grave. That’s why she told me.”
“You were there and you were never suspicious?” Joel asked.
“Never, not for a minute. I never suspected Dexter Bell, never suspected anyone. All of us were trying to get on with our lives after Pete. It never crossed my mind that Liza was carrying on with anybody.”
“Can we get through the rest of this god-awful story?” Stella asked.
“You’ve always wanted the truth,” Florry said.
“Now I’m not so sure,” Joel said.
“Please continue.”
“Okay, I’m trying, kids. This is not easy. Anyway, the frolicking came to an end when Liza realized she was pregnant. For a month or so she was in denial, but then she started to show and realized Nineva or someone else would get suspicious. She was in a panic, as you might guess. Her first idea was to do what white women have always done when they get caught — scream rape. That puts the blame somewhere else and makes it easier to take care of the pregnancy. She was at her wit’s end when she decided to confide in Dexter Bell, a man she could trust. He never touched her in a bad way. He was always the kind, compassionate pastor who provided comfort. Dexter convinced her not to go through with the rape story, and in doing so saved Jupe’s life. They would’ve strung the boy up in a heartbeat. At about the same time, word got to Nineva and Amos about the grandson and the boss lady carrying on. They were terrified and got him out of town.”
Joel and Stella were speechless. The door opened a few inches and Twyla looked in. “How are we doing?”
“We’re fine,” Florry whispered, and the door closed. They were anything but fine.
Joel eventually stood with his glass of wine and walked to the small window overlooking the courtyard. He asked, “Did Nineva know she was pregnant?”
“Liza was convinced that she did not. No one knew, not even Jupe. They got him out of town about the time she realized she was pregnant.”
“How did Nineva know they were doing it?”
Florry closed her eyes again and breathed as if waiting for a surge of energy. Without opening them, she coughed and continued. “A colored boy was fishing down by the creek and saw something. He ran home to his momma and told her. Word eventually got to Nineva and Amos, and they were horrified and appreciated the danger. Jupe was on the next bus to Chicago. I think he’s still there.”
A long, heavy pause settled over the room. Minutes passed and nothing was said. Florry opened her eyes but avoided eye contact. Joel returned to his seat, put his wineglass on the table, and ran his fingers through his thick hair. Finally, he said, “So, I guess Pete killed the wrong man, right, Florry?”
She did not answer his question. Instead, she said, “I’ve often thought about Liza in that awful moment when she was confronted with her abortion. She had to make a choice, one that she had not had time to prepare for. Pete assumed it was Dexter Bell, and it was much easier for her to say yes than to stop and think for a moment. One choice, made under extreme duress and confusion, and look at the consequences.”
Stella said, “True, but if she’d had the time, she would never have admitted to the truth. No white woman in her position could do that.”
Florry said, “Don’t make your mother a whore. If she had believed that there was even the slimmest chance your father was alive, she would never have carried on so. She was a fine woman who loved your father endlessly. I was with her the night she died, and she ached and ached and ached for her sins. She begged forgiveness. She longed for her old life back with her family. She was so broken, so pathetic. You must remember her as a good, kind, loving mother.”
Joel stood and left the room without a word. He crossed the courtyard, said nothing to Miss Twyla in her wicker rocker, and left the town house. He drifted down Chartres Street to Jackson Square where he sat on the steps of the cathedral and watched the circus of street performers, musicians, hucksters, con men, artists, pickpockets, pimps, and tourists. Every black man was Jupe up to no good. Every painted white woman was his mother with desire. Everything was a blur; nothing made sense. His breathing was labored, his eyes out of focus.