Free A Matter of Souls by Denise Lewis Patrick Page A

set his jaw as he unlatched the door and opened it, pulling it shut tight behind him.
    The glare of torches almost blinded him and completely hid the faces of the small group huddled a few feet away.
    Covington tried to shield his eyes so he could make out the figures, but the flames waved back and forth. As if these people did not want to be known.
    â€œStore’s closed, folks. Come back first thing Monday morning.” Covington did not use his Colored voice.
    â€œWho you think you are?” demanded a high-pitched, youngish voice.
    Covington squinted, but the torches moved again. “Unless you’re new around here, you know who I am. Covington. Born and raised here, learned my trade here.”
    â€œWhat you doin’ running a White man’s business like it’s yours?” Another growl. Mutters rippled through the crowd. Covington felt them begin to move.
    â€œI think you made some kind of mistake,” he said calmly. “This is my shop. My property.”
    A stone flew over Covington’s head and crashed through the store window. He jerked around, but it wasfollowed by another, which caught him on his temple. He felt blood trickle into his eye. He clenched his fists, but didn’t move. “Get off my property!” he called out.
    â€œThe problem is you niggers all a sudden think you good as us!” The high pitch was a nasty squeak now. In his mind, Covington knew he was better, always had been.
    Covington raised his hands in an attempt at conciliation. “I don’t know what your quarrel is, but if you would just leave me and my wife—”
    â€œYour wife? You mean that half-wit from Dawson’s place?”
    Covington’s blood quickened inside him, and he stepped forward.
    A fist as hard a stone knocked him down, and he felt the blows all over him, heard more glass, heard snapping, splitting wood.
    He twisted his neck, wincing as a boot tip landed in his ribs. He could see his shingle flapping in two parts, cracked raggedly from top to bottom.
    WHAM! BAM! They were trying to ram the door. Covington managed to elbow away a body and get up onto his knees. Through the legs and in the flickering light, he spied a dropped club on the ground. He crawled toward it, his fingers taking hold just as somebody grabbed one of his legs, twisting it until the pop and the pain exploded in his thigh. But Covington swung the club up, landing a hit.
    â€œBEESI!” he yelled blindly as fresh blood from somenew head wound ran into his eyes. He heard the heart-stopping crash of the front door, and he dragged himself, pulled himself toward the step.
    The attackers had all but forgotten about Covington now. They swarmed past him, swinging the clubs, catching shelves and sending shoes flying.
    Covington tried to look at the upstairs windows, but couldn’t see.
    He prayed that they didn’t have guns.
    Then an ear-bursting howl broke through the men’s cursing terror, and Covington blinked to see Beesi in the doorway of the workroom, her eyes wide and angry, her black hair waving like a dark crown.
    Covington closed his eyes. “Lord, don’t let one of them have a gun,” he prayed, then watched Beesi’s arms swinging, flashing the blade of her garden machete in one hand and a heavy brass poker in the other.
    â€œCOVIE!!!” she screamed and ran forward, wearing her best dress, wearing her fancy Covington-made shoes.
    â€œLook out!” somebody yelled.
    Covington slumped. They didn’t have guns.
    â€œTold you! That Black bitch is crazy! Look out!” They were falling back, Beesi was flying toward them, and Covington was cheek-down in the dust.
    High-Pitch was hanging over him again, his sour whiskey breath whispering. Covington willed his broken body not to flinch.
    â€œLookit you, crawlin’ in the dirt … You ain’t nothin’,nigger,” High-Pitch said before he aimed one last kick to Covington’s side.
    All