Faith and the Good Thing Read online

  Praise for Charles Johnson’s Faith and the Good Thing

  “It’s rare these days to find a truly intelligent, ambitious book, and far more rare to find one that’s also beautiful, innocent without ignorance, and deeply moving.”

  —John Gardner

  “This first novel is so original, so imaginative, and so exciting, in what it has to say about the black woman’s experience in America.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Mixes good black magic with down-hoe wisdom, describes people so clearly you’d swear you knew them, and weaves colorful words and phrases around you in such a fashion that they command the senses as well as the intellect to take part i n the experience.”

  —Essence

  “With the precision of Nathaniel Hawthorne in The Scarlet Letter and in Twice Told Tales, Charles Johnson spins a tale that moves from fact to fiction, from metaphysics to Black folklore, from side-bursting humor to wrenching pathos, from allegory to the one dimensional. Yet, subtlety rules the day . . . Faith and the Good Thing is unqualifyingly good and extraordinarily beautiful.”

  —Black World

  “Charles Johnson is a magician, a skillful weaver of spells for broken souls and sick spirits.”

  —Russell Banks

  “An exceptional book. I was so thrilled with Faith and the Good Thing that I read it i n one sitting. I loved it!”

  —George P. Elliot

  Thank you for downloading this Scribner eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Scribner and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  For Art Washington,

  friend and brother

  Fides ergo est, quod non vides credere.

  —St. Augustine

  Allah delights in many kinds of Truth and Truth in many degrees, but even Allah doesn’t like the entire Truth.

  —Arabian Saying

  1

  It is time to tell you of Faith and the Good Thing. People tell her tale in many ways—conjure men and old gimped grandmothers whisper it to make you smile—but always Faith Cross is a beauty, a brown-sugared soul sister seeking the Good Thing in the dark days when the Good Thing was lost or, if the bog-dwelling Swamp Woman did not lie, was hidden by the gods to torment mankind for sins long forgotten.

  Listen.

  The Devil was beating his wife on the day Faith’s mother, Lavidia, died her second death. The first, an hour-long beating of bedsheets pierced by grating breaths, had been the day before, but a country doctor, Leon Lynch, came to the farmhouse where they lived and massaged Lavidia’s heart. She returned from wherever it was she had been, both her legs pumping beneath the covers, her white eyes wide with terror. Lavidia raced like that the entire night, into the next day, and would have broken all long-distance records if she’d not been flat on her back. Finally she rested, counting her breaths. Faith, eighteen years old that day, stood at the window of her mother’s bedroom, staring at a red sun as flat and still against the sky as moonlight on pond water. Light at first, like the sprinkle of baptism, yet steadily building, the dissolution of the clouds drenched the twenty acres of land left to Lavidia by her husband. Todd Cross had died in an odd way, so odd no one had spoken of him in Hatten County, Georgia, for twelve years. And now Faith’s mother breathed her last.

  Lifting the hem of her dress, Faith dried her eyes and turned from the window. She walked barefoot along the uneven wooden floorboards, circled an openmouthed stove in the center of the room, and sat beside her mother’s bed on an old fiddleback chair. Judging from the photographs on her dresser, Lavidia Cross, during the Great Depression, had been a handsome woman. She once had worn back her long brown hair, her skin sparkled from homemade lard, and her limbs were strong and sturdy. But at fifty-five, her figure was gray, both her arms spindly, and her swollen legs, drawn beneath the covers and quilts close to her breasts, were as soft as those of a toad. On the wall above her head swung a dull cross beside a calendar no one had changed for months. To Faith’s right were Lavidia’s wig stand, her lamps made from vinegar bottles, and a heavy maple-framed mirror, her mother’s favorite heirloom. But Lavidia herself was slipping slowly out of time. Cockroaches lost their balance on the damp wall and fell along her face. These Faith quickly removed. Only light from the parted drapery of the room’s single window lit the room. Water dripped from a ceiling sagging at its center. And the walls shuddered with each crash of thunder, the time between thunder rolls freighted with waiting. With mourning. Faith placed her fingers under the heavy covers to touch her mother’s hand. It was cold.

  “Momma,” she said.

  Lavidia’s discolored eyes closed, her mouth sprang open, a web of spittle spread between her lips. “Don’t ask me no questions,” she said. “. . . Lord give me four hun’red million breaths to take, and I’m already on the three hun’red ninety-second millionth—I can’t waste none on foolish questions.”

  Faith began to cry. “I called for Reverend Brown. He’s outside. . . .”

  Lavidia’s eyes opened as though to drink in a vision. She stared sightlessly at Faith, and the blankets rose again with the kicking of her legs. Lavidia said, “Girl, you get yourself a good thing”; then she gulped once, whispered, “Four hun’red million,” and died.

  Behind her, Faith heard the bedroom door creak open. Through the doorway came the chubby preacher, Lucius Brown, and Oscar Lee Jackson, town mortician. Jackson, who wore a linty black suit and held his mottled hands folded in front of his paunch, stepped quietly inside the room and said, “Is she . . .?”

  Faith shook her head and quietly withdrew her hands from the covers. “Momma’s resting.”

  Brown and Jackson went right to work. Jackson covered the empty eyes and open mouth on Lavidia’s face with a bedsheet; Brown placed his arm around Faith’s shoulders to lead her into the kitchen, blew his flat nose, and said, “I know she’s gone to Glory. You believe that, Faith.”

  Faith, lowering her head to her hands, wept. “She couldn’t be going to Glory the way she was running. Momma must have got where she was going the first time, turned around scared, and run all the way back.”

  “And,” Brown said softly, “started runnin’ straight for Glory.”

  From the table, they could see through the kitchen window that Jackson and his two assistants had straightened out Lavidia’s legs and were carrying her on a stretcher to the open door of a hearse idling just yards from the front porch. Brown’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling; he said something pious in a deep voice, reached across the table, and stroked Faith’s hand. “What will you do now, child?”

  Do? Faith paused, squinting her eyes to clear her head. The kitchen had changed. You could locate nothing misplaced, nothing out of the ordinary, for as a housekeeper Lavidia was meticulous; but the kitchen’s former gloss of permanence was gone. Its smell was still that of the dry cotton fields just outside the open window above the sink, of browning bread Lavidia had baked just two nights before; yet Lavidia was gone. Though old, dissipated, sometimes evil, she had been the focus of the farmhouse since her husband’s death, its most crucial node, surely its mistress. Without her the kitchen, the house, the world beyond fell apart. Fruit cabinets on the wall still held sweet jellies preserved in the odd-shaped bottles Lavidia salvaged like a scavenger from house and yard and rummage sales; her stiff mops and silver pail still rested in the corner by brooms she’d assembled by hand. Then what had changed? Certainly not the things themselves. Studying Lavidia’s dresses heaped in a washtub by the door, her pipes in their dusty rack on the k
itchen table, and dry lifeless wigs, Faith felt her answer emerge from the contours of these objects: none of them was for her; they belonged, related to no one. Even Lavidia, perhaps, had not made them her own, because—with her death—they seemed suddenly freed to be as they were. Empty things, cold, without quality, distant. Without order—it was evident—there could be no life, no sense to things, no way to awake in the stillness of morning and move from the day to and through the terror of eveningtime.

  Her thoughts like wild animals fed upon themselves. Before her, out there, the wall stretched completely beyond all familiarity, possession, and warmth. She felt the urge to touch it, to reclaim it as the same wall against which Lavidia had measured her height across eighteen years. But if she touched it, might it not tumble away?

  Faith looked down at her hand lying brown and crablike on the checkered tablecloth. Was it her hand? There was grave doubt, yes, of even this. She let it rest on Reverend Brown’s blunt fingers, thought, “Spread your fingers,” and was amazed at the result. The fingers spread, but between the command and the movement only a vague parallel held sway. Things had only a tenuous connection. The unreality of life without Lavidia melted even the gloss of permanence she felt enveloped her own life. No longer was she Faith, only child of Todd and Lavidia Cross, no longer was she what she believed herself to be; only a self-conscious pressure drifting about the empty, changing, charged-with-otherness kitchen, drifting through a cold space filled with shadows.

  “Pray with me,” Brown said.

  Startled, she withdrew her hand. Brown’s words had not come from his lips; like smoke, they had risen from the room itself, flowing from silence, returning to it, at first everywhere—surrounding them both—then gone. Her eyes in desperation sought familiar details in the smooth grain of the kitchen door where as a child she could often see the faces of jinn, mermen, and fairy queens that filled her father’s make-believe world. Faith studied the room and held her breath (“You’ll live longer holding your breath,” Lavidia had often said). The kitchen remained beyond her: out there. Inaccessible to love, to need. Out there. Its chairs and tables appeared tiny, as though made for and by dwarfs. The walls receded from her, meeting at apexes a dizzy distance away.

  The reverend stroked his squared jaw with sharp, mechanical motions and laughed uneasily, perhaps frightened, for Faith was said to have funny ways like her father. “It’s always hard at first . . . always.”

  “Momma told me to get myself a good thing,” Faith said softly. Then she asked, “What do you think she meant?”

  Reverend Brown smiled as broad as a Halloween pumpkin and seemed to swell in her vision. He stepped around the table behind Faith, floorboards groaning against his weight, and placed both his hands on her shoulders. “Faith, you know what the good thing is. You’ve known ever since your father died.” His fingers tightened, holding her hunched over the table. “Don’t you remember what happened to you?”

  Brown’s hard calluses met her skin, the rough texture of his fingers squeezing from her the nightmare she had hidden from herself long ago. Faith closed her eyes against remembrance. But it ascended—the images, clear as crystal, hurtling before her mind, her ears filling with the words of the messenger: God called Todd Cross.

  She’d heard it first while playing during recess in the schoolyard. Children were everywhere, fighting, laughing, exchanging frogs and funny-shaped stones, and Faith had thought someone, perhaps Alpha Omega Jones, who’d said he cared about her, was trying to talk about her father in the cruel way of grown-ups. She turned toward the sound, expecting the next call to be about her mother’s virtue or her own eyes, which people said were uneven, or her legs, often mocked by some children as skinny. Over the heads of the other children Faith saw fat Eula May Jenkins, her mother’s neighbor, wheezing near her teacher in the doorway of the schoolhouse, her face drawn into itself like a prune, crying, “Death sneezed Todd Cross stiff as a board.” The woman’s huge frame shook, she wailed, she balled her fists. “Lavidia found him half an hour ago at the edge of the woods. Don’t it figure the way he acted and all? Didn’t I tell you them crazy ideas would catch up to him sooner or later?”

  Faith broke away from the other children and ran. Eula May Jenkins called after her, but she pressed her palms to her ears and hurried home. Fifteen minutes later she stood breathlessly watching the farmhouse from afar. People crowded the small front porch and spoke in excited voices. A strange woman called to her from the yard, but Faith turned, her shoes flying from her feet, and raced for the woods. When she reached the crowd at the border of the woods she was barefoot and breathless. She shoved her way through a maze of legs and stopped, aware of her father’s smell on the air: tobacco and sweat. Both his bare feet swung above from a pine tree. Caught from her waist from behind, Faith was carried away.

  She had been only six then, and by nightfall most of her fear was spent. What truly upset her after seeing her father’s dangling, ashy legs was that everyone now expected something from her. But no one said what it was. Many visitors came to the farmhouse and told her to be brave, to pray. Brave about what, pray to whom? Lavidia shaved her head and told her, “Your daddy sneezed his soul away—it’s just.” Faith accepted this without further questioning. It was believable, for life was filled with stranger things, as her father had repeatedly told her. She remembered his saying, “Everything that is is right, or it wouldn’t be.” During the wake Faith, thinking of this, even smiled.

  Concern for Faith’s peculiar reaction brought Reverend Brown, younger then and indefatigable, on regular visits to the farmhouse. He would park his old Plymouth close to the porch and sit late at night with Lavidia as she smoked and spit and rocked in the moonlight, telling her of the great spirit man who would soon speak to sinners in their county. Faith would sit close to her mother, dozing after a big dinner, thinking of her father and Alpha, who made her laugh, and only half hearing the plans for her salvation.

  The day after one such visit her mother dressed her in white and took her miles from home to an enormous tent in the fields behind town. Faith had been excited—it was a circus tent, tall as timber, with flaps that spread like wings. Big Todd, she remembered, had worked in a circus, had been part of its world and found what he called his calling there. Mightn’t she, too? Before they reached the entrance Faith could hear singing inside and the clash of tambourines. But it struck her as they entered that this place held no entertainment. Old men and wasted women she recognized as tireless sharecroppers and maids sang from chairs lining the interior of the tent; some spoke hurriedly, biting their tongues, in the lost language, while others spun like tops through the aisles. They had not come to see an event; they had come to be one.

  Faith pulled against Lavidia, who slapped her lightly and dragged her inside to the front row, where Eula May Jenkins—not a neighbor now, or a bearer of grief, or a whisperer of rumors, but a silent dancer—beat the soles of her bare feet against the ground. Beside her two women held Alpha Omega Jones in his chair. He, the boy who loved her even then, was almost unrecognizable. His face was crimson, twisted, his lips parted, screaming emptiness, and his limbs jerked in all directions, blurred like fluttering batwings. Down the row, deep in meditation, a cripple mashed an off-key accordion; leathery old men in barley-stained overalls bent forward in their seats to hear Reverend Alexander Magnus, the spirit man, at the front of the tent. He stood head and shoulders above the others in the tent, over seven feet tall if a foot, intimidating them with his size and deep sonorous voice. When he gestured—raising his big square hands into the air and pointing toward the sky or shoving them out with his fingers curled back like claws—they could catch their breaths and hold them for what seemed like an hour. Magnus paced and pointed at people in the front row, his face shut and sweating. “Children, you are crooked and ulcerous, you are cancerous and weak. You are damned from birth and distant from the source of all good. You are as dust and excrement to Him. You are as the groveling mole and eyeless maggot be
fore the power that pardons your trespasses and prevents your death. You are nothing! In due time, it is written, your feet shall slide and the unsteady floor of your life shall give way. Shall it be tonight?” He looked left, his eyebrows arched, toying with their fear. “Or tomorrow?”—looking right, his eyes wide, sly. “You are damned for delighting in this world. Your tongues savor fatback and burgoo, your flesh hungers for other flesh.” Magnus stopped to stare into the face of a farmer and his wife. They shrank back, silent, and he shouted, “Worms will be your supper soon!

  “Sinner, have you ever tortured a spider? Have you ever held it over a smoking fire on its silky web, sick of its slimy form, feeling—deep in your heart—that you’d let it drop and watch it burn? Have you ever stalked and cornered a fly for the trespass of buzzing in your car? Brother Spider,” he said to Alpha, “Sister Fly,” to Lavidia, “Sinners!” to everyone in the tent, “your life is supported by a perfect being who watches you with disgust, just like you watch chinches and waterbugs, slugs and lice, knowing that if you have the cheek to go too far, then—whop!” Magnus slapped his hands together like a cannon shot. “But He loves you still (I don’t know why!). Nothing else explains why you didn’t drop into hell in your pajamas last night. Nothing you have done, do now or will do shall save you. Not even innocence can save you.” (Herewith Faith shuddered and grabbed Lavidia’s clammy hand.) “Witness crib death and the diseases of childhood. Witness the fury of storms, floods, droughts, lightning, hail, the dangers of machinery, earthquakes, plagues, famines and poisoned food, senseless slaughter, recessions, depressions, bloodshed, revolutions, civil wars, and the eventual destruction that creeps closer and closer to your front door. It’s here now. Can you feel it—death moving ghoul-like in the dark? Maybe tonight when you put out your candles, close your eyes, and start to sleep lightly, maybe then you’ll feel death down your spine and come full awake with a start, sweat streaming in your clothes, your eyes searching the darkness of your bedroom until you see the red eyes of the Devil riveted on you; over there, brothers—in that far corner, tiny red eyes just to the right of your chamber pot.” Magnus laughed at the thought of it. No one else said a mumbling word. “He’ll shove his claw down your throat, fish up your soul and steal away, lame and hunchbacked, leaving no tracks for your family and friends to find you—the real you, brothers, because it’ll be shoved, gibbering and pale, into Satan’s big black traveling bag. Pay attention! My prayers can’t save you then. He’ll toss you like so much trash into rivers brimming with blood and burning corpses. All the filth and offal ever to pass through the bodies of birds and beasts and men will fill your mouths. The fire there is forever,” he said in a hushed voice. “It boils the blood in your veins and bakes your brain like a biscuit; it blackens your skin so you’d think you’re white right now. You’ll smell your hair burn, brothers—light a strand right now and see how it stinks; you’ll hear the howl of demons forever: ‘Were you not saved?’ And you will call on Him. Who will not hear. Torment for eternity, brothers—because you loved this illusion, this fire-wheel we call the world!”