This novel looks at marriage from the time it was infused
with religious meaning and principles to a gripping analysis
of convulsive upheaval, struggles, sacrifice, and abandonment.
It is a powerful novel that offers a deeper reason why black
men abandon and adhere to such vows. The novel highlights
the struggles of several families and at what point these
families struggle with hardships, faith, love, and peace.
Her
hair was a dirty brown that extended up from the roots of
her head and sprouted about as wild alfalfa in a distant field.
Her body bore all the woes that any woman could have. The
silhouette of her frame danced on and off the wall as she
moved ever so gently across one side of the small, squeaky,
antique bed.
She was beautiful, even though time had blessed her more generously
in certain spots. A number of dark rings dipped around and
under her eyes, camouflaging not one beauty mark.
Isley had seen her like this many times before, many times.
After a long time staring at the wall, she grabbed Irvin’s
poem. It was her poem that she wrote the first time they met.
“Dear
butterfly, my butterfly,
will you pass me by
or are we compatible
like you and the sky
in which you fly so high
my beautiful, colorful butterfly...”
Two
moves and a fire had effaced the rest of the poem. It was
amazing that the poem still existed, so old and wrinkled,
nothing but the ring of stain from years of dust and water
covered its lines. She folded the poem and stuffed it back
into an old box along with other wrinkled papers, and away
under the bed it went.
“JACQUE!!!” It was Irvin. His deep baritone voice
echoed throughout the house and searched her out, finding
Jacque on the bed, eyes closed as though she were dead, dead
and gone to God’s world where no pain exists. Isley
was in the closet watching her every move, trying to feel
what she was feeling.
“Where are you, Jacque?”
She didn’t answer, she just lay there with her eyes
tightly closed. Irvin always called her Jacque, short for
Jacqueline. Her grandmother named her, after First Lady Jacqueline
Kennedy. During that time, it was rare that blacks were taught
about black heroes or black role models, so it was an honor
to be named after the First Lady.
As he climbed the stairs, a roar of stomps accompanied his
loud baritone voice. Isley listened as Irvin’s heavy
feet struck each step. Usually the wood let off a soft squeak,
but this time it sounded hollow. Before Irvin reached the
top of the stairs, Isley had managed to crawl his way to the
front of the closet. He slowly pushed the door open, then
positioned himself behind a box of old clothes.
“Jacque, didn’t you hear me?” He waited
in the doorway for an answer.
The light from an old lamp, whose shade was filled with small
holes, lit a portion of the room. When she rose from the bed,
her body formed a silhouette upon the wall. Her eyes focused
on his image, but not completely.
Isley knew it was coming and began to whisper like many times
before. “Oh! Daddy, please don’t beat Momma. Please,
Daddy.” His eyes filled with tears as he looked on.
When they first got married, devoted to true love and sacred
to the vows they made to God, they wanted nothing less than
a perfect family, a family with two or three kids like the
ones seen in movies. It seemed so possible in the beginning.
Now Isley watched quietly from the closet. Unlike other wives
who stayed with their husbands for a sense of security, Jacque
stayed because she took an oath to her Lord and Savior and
her husband. “’Til death us do part.” Yet
an evenly powerful force that kept the two of them together
was her fear and his control.
She could feel the pain as she curled up along the bed rail,
even before he got there. It was only a moment later that
the blood and mucous tried to mix, entangled in confusion,
just like the vows of their marriage.
Isley screamed as his mother’s head collided with the
wall. Suddenly her silhouette was ruined when traces of blood
splattered upon her shadow. Isley’s eyes and shoulders
inched upward, tightening as each blow sounded louder and
louder. The struggle of their breaths clashed, one trying
to free herself as prey and the other to capture and kill
as predator. As she could do no more than grab a pillow to
protect herself from the other blows, Isley screamed again
and retreated quickly to the back of the closet behind other
boxes of old clothes. Nothing made him hate his father more.
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