Free The Rebel Wife by Taylor M. Polites Page B

guns to a funeral? It’s indecent. But they would line up in military formation, like in their army days, with a single gesture from Judge. They must be here for him. They are certainly not here for Eli.
    We reach the black fence that runs along Greene Street. I grab hold of the pointed finials and lean against the cast-iron palings. “Judge,” I call. “What’s the matter?”
    “See here, Augusta,” he says, approaching the fence. “You don’t need to be out here exposing yourself like this. You go on back into the house.”
    “What do they want?” I ask.
    “They say they want to pay their respects to Eli.” There are two dozen Negroes in the street. Some of the men wear suits, and some are dressed no better than field hands. Some wear black armbands and hold their derby hats in their hands. There are women, too, in black dresses and others in somber calicos and osnaburgs, dark colors like their dusky skin. They watch with stony faces, stubborn and resistant. “Augusta, you get on inside,” Judge repeats. “You don’t need to be bothered with this nonsense.” His face is red, and it makes his whiskers turn pink, like the skin of a white rabbit. He turns back to the gathering group. “If you don’t want any trouble,” he says to the crowd, “you’d better get going.”
    Emma eases closer to me. “Miss Gus,” she whispers low, so no one else can hear. “Ain’t they got a right to mourn Mr. Eli like anybody else?” She meets my eyes evenly. “Don’t you remember when Old Master died, didn’t we all—all his people—get to walk with him to his grave?”
    Mama and I rode in the carriage while Hill and Mike walked behind the hearse. Behind us, the whole town and virtually every servant in the neighborhood walked in silent mourning, such was the great love my father’s people felt for him. They came all the way from the farthest plantations in the county simply to walk him to his burial place.
    Emma watches the men and women in the street. “It ain’t no different here, Miss Gus,” she presses. “They just want to give him their respects for all the things he did for them.”
    “Judge, please,” I call. “Let them pay their respects.” My face is hot and everyone’s eyes are on me. “When Pa died, his people gave him his due. They want to do the same for Mr. Branson.”
    Judge looks hard at me, his nostrils flared. He is caught, though it is not my intention to trap him. He can hardly defy a widow’s request in front of the whole town. He knows too well how petty such behavior would seem.
    “Fine, then,” he mutters and turns back to the Negroes in the street. “You stay behind this fence and you keep your distance. You show your respect. You hear?” He sneers at them. The Negroes stand stonily silent. Everyone is silent. The men on the lawn have stopped their nattering and part for Emma and me. Simon is at the back of the hall, tall and somber. He nods to me, just as stony as the Negroes on the street.
    Pastor Peekum stands in the front parlor near the casket, rubbing his thin bony hands around a worn leather Bible.
    “We’re ready for the service, sir,” I whisper in his ear, and he nods coldly. Bama comes and sits beside me. Rachel has brought Henry from the nursery, and I squeeze him against me. He is mystified, awed by the people in the house and how they handle him. They squeeze his cheeks and his plump arms, declaring they see the Sedlaws or the Blackwoods in him yet.
    There is no eulogy. The idea is vulgar. The mourners will in no way appreciate a litany of Eli’s merits. There are no pallbearers, either. Mr. Weems has hired four men to serve in their place. Weems agreed with me that it was ill advised to ask a group of citizens to so distinguish themselves.
    Peekum gives a hellfire-and-brimstone service. He is from the Holy Blood of the Redeemer Baptist Church on the west side of town. It was Eli’s church before our marriage, and Peekum was Eli’s pastor. I never went