Free A Matter of Souls by Denise Lewis Patrick

don’t get special!”
    â€œBeesi!” Covington laughed.
    â€œYou got a tough biddy there, Cov!” Sam laughed too. “All right, I come reg’lar hours tomorrow, soon’s I get off my job.” He moved to tap the brown paper package.
    â€œMeantime, this here’s for you, Cov. Vi and me put our heads t’gether on it.”
    â€œOh, open it! Open it, Covie!”
    â€œBeesi!” Covington laughed again. Covington ripped the paper, and his eyes blurred for a minute as he read his name, painted in bright blue swirly script letters outlined in black. The sign itself was arched on top, sanded smooth and whitewashed.
    â€œOh!” Beesi breathed, tracing the letters with her fingers. “It’s mighty fine, Sam.”
    Beesi could neither read nor write, so Covington read out loud.
    â€œCovington’s Fine Shoes.”
    â€œYou hang your shingle out first thing,” Sam said over his shoulder, not waiting for thanks. “Else, I won’tbe able to find my way to my new shoes. Haveta go barefootin’!”
    Beesi giggled, and Sam’s chuckle rumbled down the street behind him.
    Pleased as he was over Sam’s gift, something inside Covington made him wait until darkness fell, wait until he and Beesi had eaten their cozy supper, to set up the tall ladder and remove the black bunting from Elizear Markham’s sign.
    Sam had drilled the holes just right, so that Covington’s new shingle fit easily on the big brass hooks attached to the sign pole.
    When Covington climbed down, a sudden breeze came from nowhere, swinging the shingle gently.
    â€œSome kinda sign that you gonna be all right.” Beesi leaned in the doorway, framed by the glow from the gas lamp inside. Covington froze that picture of her in his mind, because although he couldn’t see her features, her presence was strength, somehow … and that soft, pale light was like sun coming through night.

    Covington’s next day keeping shop was actually the end of his week, a Saturday, and since Sam and Vi were expecting them to make a party, he thought to work a little longer than usual. It wouldn’t do to show up early and set Vi into a tizzy, so he and Beesi had decided that around nine would be right.
    Saturday had been the busiest day he could remember in a long time, as word had spread about the wedding shoes, and the girl had actually been showing around the little drawing Covington had made. Beesi had to come keep order behind the counter as the steady stream of White folks poured in, along with a trickle of new Colored customers. Every now and then, in a lull between the commotion, Covington would hear her say, “Mr. Covington be right with you, please. Have a seat. Have some tea.”
    Tea?! Covington almost choked the first time he heard that one, but the people couldn’t get over it.
    Beesi had purloined Elizear Markham’s mother’s china tea set in all its gold-rimmed beauty before it went on the auction block.
    The time flew, and when the last customer left, Beesi went to put the china away and prepare for the party. Covington, caught up in the work he loved, stayed at his bench until he heard the muffled chimes of the clock upstairs as it struck eight. He began hurriedly clearing away, and dropped his hammer. As he bent to pick it up, he thought he heard a noise outside.
    Who in the world could that be? The closing sign had been hung since five.
    He took his time, picking up this and that, as he made his way to the front. The shades were drawn, so he would have to go to the door to see what was going on. Certainly, he now heard somebody—more than one somebody—outside.
    â€œCovington!” A rough voice that he did not recognize seemed to growl his name. Covington had never turned down a customer before, but he had seen Elizear do it, and he knew that there were some folk he would never work for, even for pay.
    He squared his shoulders back and