Chapter 1 - Sixth Installment -

As Deborah strolled towards the front door, she bent to pull a few weeds from the flowerbed that lined her small patio. She didn’t have much, but what she did have, she took great pride in. She loved her yard and found peace while tending to it. So, while her house was small and her car was old, she had a yard that many envied.
“Going to do some yard work today dear?” a sweet and familiar voice called from the yard to the left.
“Good morning Mrs. Pierce. Yes I am, but in the back.” Mrs. Pierce and her husband were a kind elderly couple that had been living in the house next door for over fifty years. They were never intrusive, and always had kind things to say. “I’m afraid I have neglected it for a couple of weeks now.”
“Well, dear, I am sure it looks just beautiful. You are not one to let Mother Nature go unappreciated. You have the touch that makes her glow.” Mrs. Pierce complemented with a genuine smile.
“Well, I guess you would call my work today a facial then.” Deborah laughed and turned as another voice joined the conversation from behind her.
“Deborah, did you have any burning planned for today?” Mr. Mapleton asked in a strong but gentle voice. Deborah had known the large man nearly all her life and thought of him with deep affection. She usually welcomed his presence with a smile, but his inquiry caused fear to stir deep inside her. Maybe he saw her this morning after all.
“Yes I was, why?” she almost whispered.
“Because I have a barrel full of shrub to burn, and my permit just expired. Can’t see driving all the way to the dump for one barrel of shrub that can easily be burned.”
Mr. Mapleton was a man of reason and logic. One of only seven black men in the community, he found it better to do things quietly and simply.
Although Willsonville was a peaceful town, it was not with out its faults. The color of Mr. Mapleton's skin pre-determined his role in the community, and he was often forced to make a decision between making a living and taking a stand. Being the only son of a widowed mother of five, he took on the role of provider at the age of thirteen. Barely finishing the eighth grade, he worked hard to give his sisters and mother everything they needed.
He was a talented wood craftsman and did well in the small community. And even though he faced a passive aggressive form of bigotry on a daily basis, he chose to stay where he knew he could continue to provide for his family.
Deborah had always been drawn to the man. As a child, she would sit outside his woodshop at the end of Main Street, and listen to the gospel music coming from his beat up radio. At the age of ten, she spent an entire summer on his stoop, listening to sermons and soul music. As she got braver, Deborah would ask questions about the people and topics she heard mentioned. She wanted to understand the topics the voices seemed focused on. Things like repression, racism, bigotry, and equality. Mr. Mapleton always answered her with kindness and honesty. And, although he appreciated her desire to understand, being twenty years her senior, he knew he had to be careful what he said in this small town, especially to a young white girl.
But Deborah’s parents never objected to her time spent outside the shop, and after her father left, she came around much more often. Mr. Mapleton gave her a job sweeping saw dust and washing windows. She would have done it for free, just to get away from her hysterical mother, but Mr. Mapleton insisted on paying her for her labor. As the years went by, their friendship grew stronger. And with out either one realizing, he took on a father like role in her life.
One of her favorite childhood memories was the first time she heard him laugh out loud. Because of his disposition, his chuckles were often quiet and controlled. But late one afternoon at the age of eleven, Deborah made Mr. Mapleton release the restraints he held on his emotions.
Sitting on his stoop, with her feet tapping to the rhythm of the Jazz music humming in the shop, Deborah could not help but thinking out loud.
“Once, I heard Mr. Cross say that a black man’s blood may run red, but it is still different from ours. Now I know what he meant.” Mr. Mapleton looked curiously at Deborah waiting for her to finish. “You all got music in your veins.” Mr. Mapleton chuckled, just as he always did when she was around. But then she added, “Do you think you could give our Choir leader some of yours?”
With that, Mr. Mapleton threw his head back and laughed. He had a hearty laugh that caused his shoulders to jump and his knees to bend. And although she was not sure why he was laughing, she thought it was the greatest sound in the world.
“Lord child,” he had wheezed, “I have often thought that myself!” and he went on laughing, his dark eyes full of tears.
Deborah sat gleefully and listened. Never had she felt so pleased with herself. And to this day she glows when she hears him laugh.
But this morning he did not appear to be in a laughing mood. Deborah was curious as to why.
“Well, I am sure that one more barrel full won’t be to much trouble Mr. Mapleton. Just wheel it on over and I will get to it later.”
“Thank you. I will just leave it by the gate. But I have a lot to do today, and will be needing the wheel barrel back right away, so if you wouldn’t mind starting off with it this morning.”
His request struck Deborah as odd. He was not usually pushy, especially with favors.
“Of course, first thing.” Deborah tried to smile at him, but it felt awkward and out of place.
“Good, I’ll be right back then.” Mr. Mapleton did not smile back as he turned and crossed the yard. He was built like the tree his name represented. With broad shoulders, strong physical build, and the determination in his movements and face, he could be very intimidating.

- posted by Cindy @ 10:44 AM |