Page Three.

"No, you know how dem folks is - dey done even get up till most nigh noon an' Mis' Mary allus brings de clo'se husself."

For the time being there seemed nothing more about which to talk. Minerva, holding the csreen-door open with one hand and fanning her apron with the other, attempted to rid the room of flies while her mother put a plate of fried KEX salt pork and a bowl of hominy grits on the table. She broke off two pieces of corn-bread from the golden circle in the frying-pan and put a lid over the remainder so that it would keep warm. They sat down. Both heads were bowed reverently as the mother made this prayer:-

"Lawd, make us thankful fo' de food we's 'bout to receive and fo' all udder blessin's fo' Jesus' sake. Amen."

Minerva murmured and answering "Amen".

"It do look like yo' paw don' git no better."

"Po paw. How's de misery roun' his heart dis mawnin' ?"

"Jes do same. Look like he kinda choke up in de night. He ain' slep' a wink tell jes 'fore you went out dis mawnin to start de washin'. He's still sleepin'. Ef he keeps on sleepin' I reckon aw'll be able to hep you wid hang'n out de clo'se."

"Dat's all right. I'll be able to manage. Missus Yale's clo'se is so clean I don' reckon dey need no boilin' this week. I'll fetch Missus Yale's clo'se fron off du line and you kin damp um down fo' me an' den you won' have tu leave du house. Ahm goin' tu try to git her big pieces ironed off dis evenin'."

"Do look like it's a shame you Cain' go to Tavares wid Sally.an' them dis evenin' for to hear de singer deys goin' to have at Shiloh. Maybe you jes' oughta leave de clo'se an go anyhow."

"No'm I wouldn feel right leavin' you here by yoursef with paw so poorly. A change is lible to come any minute and I'd wanta be here, if it did."

"Minerva you sho' is a good chile. De Lawd's gonna bless you fo' lookin' out fo' your paw and me dis a way."

Page Four.

She reached over and laid her horny hand on Minerva's arm. There was
and embarrassed silence between them for a moment as though this tenderness
were out of place between them whose lives were filled with such everyday
things. Minerva squeezed together a piece of bread and holding it in all
her fingers mopped up the last of the bacon grease that was left on her plate.
She picked up her plate and knife and fork and carried it over to the dish-
pan that was on a large paking-box that served as a table. Lifting the news-
paper from the bucket near-by, she dipped up some water which she drank in one
long draught. She laid the dipper on the table and wiped her mouth on the
corner of her apron.

" I'll be goin' back to du clo'se now, ma."

" Aw right Minerva."

The Call - the funeral.

The heat snuggled oppressively around the ragged shanty's of Egypt.
Life seemed slowed down to an expectant quiet as noon blazed its way across
the sky: No children at play disturbed the blanket of silence that hung over
the hot sandy place. Birds were still; no people were astir.

Sister Mary Anderson sat fanning the flies from over the dead body of Pa Edwards as he lay in state in the tiny front room of the Edwards home. It wasn't respectful for the living to let flies disturb the sleep of the dead. Sweat trickled down the side of her face from her greasy hair. She stopped now and then to mop her forehead and to wipe the sweat from the many creases of her neck. In the kitchen Minerva and Sister Lucy Green were busy preparing food that was to be served later on the tables that were laid in the back-yard just beyond the wash-shed. As Sister Green turned about the kitchen she kept wondering at the calmness of Minerva. It didn't seem right for a person to be so quiet when her own pa lay dead in the front room. One of the other sisters of the church had volunteered to help with the cooking but Minerva had said that she would do it. Sister Green went about her work absent-mindedly as she kept thinking that it just wash't natural for Minerva to work with such a will. She ought to have been in the bed-room where Pa Edwards had died with her ma whose moans could be heard by the workers in the kitchen. Twice Minerva had left the kitchen to go into the front room where she had stood quietly beside her father's coffin. Each time she went to the coffin Sister Anderson had straightened herself expectantly, hoping that st last Minerva would break into the loud mourning that was characteristic of colored people at the time of death. When Minerva simply smiled tenderly down at her father, Sister Anderson settled disgustedly back to her fanning. After her se cond trip to the front room, Minerva remarked upon reentering the kitchen:

"Sis' Green, he do look beautiful laying in there. Jes lak he was
sleepin'."

Sister Green emitted a sound seriously new to a snort and stirred
the corn-bread she was mixing more vigorously. Minerva looked about quietly

The funereal 2.

about
to make sure everything was/ready for the funereal feast then turned to
prepare herself for the funereal.

" You goin' tu git ready now, Minerva?"

"Yes'm, Mis' Green."

"I holler cross de back fence fo' Mary Jones to hurry up wid de
black dress she's pressin' out fo' you to wear. She ain' wore it since her
Ma died come three years."

Minerva hesitated for a moment.

"You needn't bother Mis' Green. Thank you jes the same but I ain'
goin' to wear noblack dress."

"Ain' gonna wear no black dress?"

She leaned against the table for a moment, dumbfounded by such heresy.

"No'm, I ain' goin' to wear no black dress. Yestiddy I done washed
out my white usher dress fo' to wear. Pa allus liked me to dress in white."

"Gal, you cain' do dat, Evbody what has someun die wears balck.
Do look lak outa respect fo' de dead you would put on black."

She fought hard to keep back the other thoughts that were seething
in her brain. Minerva turned quickly around. Anger flashed beneath the faraway film in her eyes.

"Dont yawl go talkin' 'bout respect fo' de dead. Dat's my business
what I wears to my own pa's funereal. I done been a good daughter to him
and Ah cain' have no mo' respect fo' him den dat. When he gits to Heaven to-
night he ain' gonna be worrying his head bout whether ah's wearin' white o'
black. Yawl cain' tell me bout how to respect my own pa."

The look in Minerva's eyes and the sharpness of her words made Sister
Green turn again to the stirring of the bread she was making with a troubled,
"Laws a mercy."

Minerva turned sharply on her heel and walked quickly through the front
room to her bed-room beyond. Sister Anderson watched her until the door was

The funereal 3.

shut then rose from her seat beside the coffin and hurried to the kitchen
door.

" Ain' that awful, Sis' Green. Ah ain' never heared o' nobody goin'
to dere own pa's funereal widout wearin' black."

" Ummh, chile, don' say nothin'. That Minerva allus were a funny gal
walkin' roun' lak a ha'nt. She ain' never let out nary a cry since her pa
died. It ain' matchul."

A bustle at the front door made them both turn from their whispering.
Mary Jones was entering with a small child following her, carrying a large
parcel wrapped in newspaper. She was a large woman with skin so black
that there wasn't even a shine to it. Her large bosom was strained into a
black silk waist trimmed with ruffles of black lace. She wore a heavy black
skirt of woolen material. On her head she wore a black hat of stiff straw
that smelled faintly of shoe polish. Her large hand clasped tightly the handle
of a purple silk umbrella. As she billowed into the room she emitted the min-
gled odor of cinnamon, shoe polish and perspiration. Her face was wreathed in
a broad smile that betokened joy at setting out for a festival.

"Lawsy, yawl done lef' the dead to be et up by de flies."

The conference at the kitchen door broke up in a flurry. Sister Anderson scurried to the side of the doffin where she began fanning rapidly. Sister Green began to turn the batter into the waiting pan. Mary Jones stood in the middle of the front room just as a star might as she awaited the applause to die down after her entrance on the stage.

"I done brought de black dress fo' Minervie and de veil I wore when
Caleb died fo' Mis' Edwards. Come here, Jenny, gimme dat pa'cel."

Sister Green came back to the kitchen door.

"You done waste yo' time. Minerva ain' gonna where no black dress".

"Ain' gonna where no black dress?"

Sister Anderson stopped fanning.

The funereal. 4.

"No she shore ain'. She done tol' Sis' Green where tu git off when she tried tu tell dat it want respectful not to dress in black at her pa's funereal."

Soon the three women were together at the kitchen door whispering and gesticulating in the heat of their discussion. Flies swarmed, unheeded, about the dead man. Jenny stood, one bare foot upon the other, tracing circles on the side of the coffin with a grimy finger moistened with saliva. In her bedroom Minerva lay across the bed with her face buried in her pillow, her body shaken by great, dry sobs. In the next room her mother rocked to and fro with her arms tightly crossed over her bosom, moaning loudly. Outside the heat still hung like a thick cloak about the worn shoulders of the tiny shacks.

First visitation. 1.

The mocking bird suspended its song on one solitary minor note.
The night air seemed to drip with an eery silence. The moonlight was torn
by the ghostly fingers of Spanish moss that hung from dead Florida pines.
A something rushed through the stillness that surrounded Minerva as she
sat fanning herself on the porch. The rocking-chair in which she was seat-
ed was in the shadows of the porch so that her face could not be seen. The
chair creaked sharply as she sat stiffly upright, dropping her fan and clut-\ching the arms of the chair. She sat in the charged silence of fear for a
moment or two. Slowly the chair gave a creaky sigh as her muscles relaxed
themselves back into their former position. Her hands slowly released their
grasp. She sat for five or ten minutes with her entire being released into
the pregnant stillness about her. A shudder shone her as she clutched nerv-
ously at her bosom. In a hushed voice she murmured,

"Lawd, have mercy."

The night sounds surged back filling the void of silence. The mocking
bird flew to another bush and took up his song, where he had left off. A crick-
et began to fiddle away at his chirping tune. A frog croaked in the swamp
beyond the trees. Minerva arose suddenly and rushed into the house to her
mother's bed-room. She hurriedly reached the side of the bed, arousing Ma
Edwards from her first troubled doze.

"Ma, he done been here. He done talked to me..."

The hysteria in Minerva's voice jerked her mother from roughly from her
sleep. She sat bolt upright.

"Who done been here? What you holler'n so 'bout?"

"Paw - I done heared him... I done seen him."

"Hush, gal. It ain't fitt'n fo' you to talk lak dat when yo' paw ain'
even cole in his grave. You mus' be crazy."

"No'm ah ain' crazy. I tell you I done seen him. He done talked to
me."

Minerva was quieter now; her voice more insistant.

First Visitation. 2.

" Sho as I'se bawn to die I done seen him an' he done laid his hands
on me."

" You mus' be sick - you ain' et nothin' today."

Minerva's quiet insistance had touched her incredulity. More quietly
she said, said,

" But maybe you is done seen him. What he done say?"

" He done talk quiet lak he usted to when he was preachin' an' he said,
'Daughter, God done called you. You gots to go from here. De Lawd done choose
you fo' his band." Den he smiled at me an' put his han' on my shoulder an'
Ma, I felt sweetern I did when I got religion."

" What he mean when he say, 'go from here'? Dis his own house what
he build fo' us two wid his own hands."

"He don' mean dat. I'se sho he don' mean dat. Seem lak he was tellin'
me to go clean away from dese parts."

"You ain' gonna leave yo' ma, is you honey?"

Fear made her speak tenderly.

" No, ma, he gonna fix it somehow do dat evything's gonna be all right.
I fell it in ma soul. De ways gonna be showed to me."

Suddenly she fell tired as though she had been through some physical
struggle. Fatigue seemed to drug her very thoughts.

" Ma, I'se tired. I'm goin' to bed."

" Aw right Minerva. You ain' got to wash in the mawnin' so you kin
sleep till good sun-up."

" Yes'm. Goodnight, ma."

" Goodnight, chile."

The simple things of her life had reclaimed the one whom God had
chosen for his band. She tied a white head cloth around her head. With a re-
lieved, "ummmh", she took the black shoes from her unaccustomed feet.
She climbed into bed and pulled the covers tightly up to her chin for although
it was summer the night was cool. The air was filled with the quiet sym-
phony of night-sounds. Soon she fell asleep.

## Outline for a novel as per Rada and I.

Chapter One: Introducing Miss Edmunds in her home town in the South at the age of twenty. She receives a *call* to go to the city.

Chapter Two: She comes to the city- gets work in private family who upon death of the father split up and go traveling in several directions.

Chapter Three: Gets work in laundry and her reputation as a medium grows.

Chapter Four: Establishes herself as spiritualist.

Chapter Five: Success. Weave street singer in slightly through letter from home telling of strolling singer.

Six.

Chapter singer. Introducing the singer as a magnetic person. He hears a call to go to the city, leaves wife and child.

Chapter Seven . Meeting

Chapter Eight. She supports him. Their simple happiness. Schooling etc.

Chapter Nine: He becomes a drain, because of his intellectual friends.

Chapter Ten: She becomes a faker and he is taken up by the Van Vechten type of person.

Chapter Eleven. She loses hold of the confidence of her clientele and in vain efforts to get hold of the call cannot get in touch with the spirit.

Chapter twelve. He meets more white women....she sees change in him. He leaves her and goes to Europe.

Chapter thirteen: Concert - at which uninvited she attends, shabby, ticket bought with last penny, hears him....repetition of street incident ... polite applause until he sings classics....other woman....show contrast her and them....last call .......She is drawn to go back stage but does not go because she feels out of place. She goes out.

End.

Name of the book: The Call.

Page One.

## Chapter One.

### 1.

The sun cut in pitiless slashes of heat through the roof of the wash-shed, laying stripes of light on Minerva Edward's back as it bent backward and forard over the wash-tub. The steady rubbing across the wash-board seemed unstudied and without purpose in its monotony until she half-straightened herself at the bench and the pattern of her black hands upon the hard white twist of a garment showed that one more piece had passed the first stages of its cleansing. She scarcely turned her head as she dropped each piece of clothing into the large basket a few feet to her side. Occasionally stopped to wipe the perspiration from her forehead with the corner of her apron. The length of time and the ardor of her work could only be measured by the increasing frequency with which she wiped her forehead or the increase in the patch of dark dampness that showed between her shoulderblades on the blue dress she was wearing.

"You, Min-er-ervah!"

It was the call of her mother, rending the sunlit monotony that had made the pile of snowy garments that now reached the edge of the large basket. She stopped, leaning one dripping hand on the wash-board as she caught her breath before answering.

"Min-er-ervah! You'd better come in de house and get yo'self somep'n to eat."

"Aw right, ma."

She turned back to the wash-board and rubbed out two more pieces. She ran her hand in a circle around the water in the tub and caught up two handkerchiefs which she rubbed between her knuckles. Once more she reached down into the water to make shure she had washed everything. One sable arm was festooned with bracelets of soapsuds as she raised the wash-board from the water and rested it against the side of the shed. She picked up a large white rag from the bench beside the tub and spread it neatly across the clothes in the basket. Her preparations for leaving the wash-shed were unhurried; there

Page Two.

was about her every movement an undulating calm almost of detachment. As she stepped through the door of the shed, a lizzard that had been sunning itself in the path scuttled away into the grass.

As she walked across the long yard to the house she looked as a Millet peasant might look on a canvass darkened with age. Minerva had just turned twenty years but there was a womanly serenity about her that did not seem in keeping with her youth. The black satin of her skin was tightly drawn over large bones and strong muscles. Her blue cotton working dress was held to her rounded figure by a black and white checked apron. The hot Florida sand did not seem to burn her bare feet. The black wool of her hair was neatly wrapped with white cord and lay close to her head in an intricate pattern of criss-crosses. Her features were full but her eyes robbed them of their sensuality. They were the eyes of an old sea captain, clear and far-seeing. Her eyes did not seem trained to the ordinary things about her but gave the impression of looking through and beyond what other eyes saw. She turned from the path to walk down the row of/bush-beans that grew on one side of the yard. Stooping she picked one or two grub worms from the ground near the beans. She crushed them with a stick and rose with a sigh. She stopped several times on the way to the house; once to pick up a clothespin; once to pick up one or two pieces of paper that had blown into the yard from the road beyond the front of the house. She stopped in a strange moment of awareness on the step leading to the back-door of the house, then with a curious baffled feeling opened the twanging screen door and stepped into the kitchen.

Her mother turned from the small coal-stove where she was stirring grits.

"You mos' nearly done wid du washin', Minerva?"

"Yes'm. I got Mis' Crowley's clo'se through du first rubbin' and I reckon Missus Yale's clo'se is mos nigh hard enough fo' sprinklin' by now. I ain' been down du yard to feel 'em yet. Mis' Mairy ain' brought hern yet, have she?"

Page Three.

For the time being there seemed nothing more about which to talk.
Minerva, holding the osreen-door open with one hand and fanning her apron
with the other, attempted to rid the room of flies while her mother put a
plate of fried EEX salt pork and a bowl of hominy grits on the table. She
broke off two pieces of corn-bread from the golden circle in the frying-pan
and put a lid over the remainder so that it would keep warm. They sat down.
Both heads were bowed reverently as the mother made this prayer:-

"Jes do same. Look like he kinda choke up in de night. He ain' slep'
a wink tell jes 'fore you went out dis mawnin to start de washin'. Jes still
sleepin'. Ef he keeps on sleepin' I reckon aw'll be able to hep you wid hang'n
out de clo'se."

"Do look like it's a shame you cain' go to Tavares wid Sally an'
them dis evenin' for to hear de singer deys goin' to have at Shiloh. Maybe
you jes' oughta leave de clo'se an' go anyhow."

"No'm I wouldn' feel right leavin' you here by yourself with paw so
poorly. A change is lible to come any minute and I'd wanta be here, if it did."

Page Four.

She reached over and laid her horny hand on Minerva's arm. There was
and embarrassed silence between them for a moment as though this tenderness
were out of place between them whose lives were filled with such everyday
things. Minerva squeezed together a piece of bread and holding it in all
her fingers mopped up the last of the bacon grease that was left on her plate.
She picked up her plate and knife and fork and carried it over to the dish-
pan that was on a large packing-box that served as a table. Lifting the news-
paper from the bucket near-by, she dipped up some water which she drank in one
long draught. She laid the dipper on the table and wiped her mouth on the
corner of her apron.

"Aw right Minerva."

The Call - the funeral.

The heat snuggled oppressively around the ragged shanty's of Egypt.
Life seemed slowed down to an expectant quiet as noon blazed its way across
the sky. No children at play disturbed the blanket of silence that hung over
the hot sandy place. Birds were still; no people were astir.

Sister Green emitted a sound periously new to a snort and stirred
the corn-bread she was mixing more vigorously. Minerva looked about quietly

The funereal 2.

about

to make sure everything was ready for the funereal feast then turned to
prepare herself for the funereal.

"Yes'm, Mis' Green."

"No'm, I ain' goin' to wear no black dress. estiddy I done washed
out my white usher dress fo' to wear. Pa allus liked me to dress in white."

The funereal 3.

" Ummh, chile, don' say nothin'. That Minerva allus were a funny gal walkin' roun' lak a ha'nt. She ain' never let out nary a cry since her pa died. It ain' natchul."

A bustle at the front door made them both turn from their whispering. Mary Jones was entering with a small child following her, carrying a large parcel wrapped in mass newspaper. She was a large woman with skin so black that there wasn't even a shine to it. Her large bosom was strained into a black silk waist trimmed with ruffles of black lace. She wore a heavy black skirt of woolen material. On her head she wore a black hat of stiff straw that smelled faintly of shoe polish. Her large hand clasped tightly the handle of a purple silk umbrella. As she billowed into the room she emitted the mingled odor of cinnamon, shoe polish and perspiration. Her face was wreathed in a broad smile that betokened joy at setting out for a festival.

" Lawsy, yawl done lef' the dead to be et up by de flies."

" I done brought de black dress fo' Minervie and de veil I wore when Caleb died fo' Mis' Edwards. Come here, Jenny, gimme dat pa'cel."

" You done waste yo' time. Minerva ain' gonna where no black dress".

" Ain' gonna where no black dress?"

The funereal. 4.

Soon the three women were together at the kitchen door whispering and gesticulating in the heat of their discussion. Flies swarmed, unheeded, about the dead man. Jenny stood, one bare foot upon the other, tracing circles on the side of the coffin with a grimy finger moistened with saliva. In her bedroom Minerva lay across the bed with her face buried in her pillow, her body shaken by great, dry sobs. In the next room her mother rocked to-and fro with her arms tightly crossed over her bosom, moaning loudly. Outside the heat still hung like a thick cloak about the worn shoulders of the tiny shacks.

First visitation. 1.

The mocking bird suspended its song on one solitary minor note. The night air seemed to drip with an eery silence. The moonlight was torn by the ghostly fingers of Spanish moss that hung from dead Florida pines. A something rushed through the stillness that surrounded Minerva as she sat fanning herself on the porch. The rocking-chair in which she was seat ed was in the shadows of the porch so that her face could not be seen. The chair creaked sharply as she sat stiffly upright, dropping her fan and clut c hing the arms of the chair. She sat in the charged silence of fear for a moment or two. Slowly the chair gave a creaky sigh as her muscles relaxed themselves back into their former position. Her hands slowly released their grasp. She sat for five or ten minutes with her entire being released into the pregnant stillness about her. A shudder shool her as she clutched nerv ously at her bosom. In a hushed voice she murmured,

"Lawd, have mercy."

The night sounds surged back filling the void of silence. The mocking bird flew to another bush and took up his song where he had left off. A crick et began to fiddle away at his chirping tune. A frog croaked in the swamp beyond the trees. Minerva arose suddenly and rushed into the house to her mother's bed-room. She hurriedly reached the side of the bed, arousing Ma Edwards from her first troubled doze.

The hysteria in Minerva's voice jerked her mother from her sleep. She sat bolt upright.

"Hush, gal. It ain' fitt'n fo' you to talk lak dat when yo' paw ain' even cole in his grave. You mus' be crazy."

First Visitation. 2.

" You mus' be sick - you sin' et nothin' today."

Minerva's quiet insistence had touched her incredulity. More quietly she said,

" He done talk quiet lak he usted to when he was preachin' an' he said, 'Daughter, God done called you. You gots to go from here. De Lawd done choose you fo' his band.' Den he smiled at me an' put his han' on my shoulder an' Ma, I felt sweetern I did when I got religion."

" What he mean' when he say, 'go from here'? Dis his own house what he build fo' us two wid his own hands."

Fear made her speak tenderly.

" Yes'm. Goodnight, ma."

" Goodnight, chile."

The simple things of her life had reclaimed the one whom God had chosen for his band. She tied a white head cloth around her head. With a relieved, "ummmh", she took the shoes from her unaccustomed feet. She climbed into bed and pulled the covers tightly up to her chin for although it was summer the night was cool. The air was filled with the quiet symphony of night-sounds. Soon she fell asleep.