Delphia

The author submitted this story (circa 2002) while attending CCNY’s graduate creative writing program.

I am now old but remember my first love just like it was yesterday.

Early one summer morning, when I was a child, there was a frantic knock at our door. Old Miss Shelby stood on the porch soaked in sweat; blackface gleaming, hair matted slick against her head.

“Bessie’s gone,” our neighbor said.

“Where’s she?” Mama asked. 

“Still in bed. Ain’t moved none since I left her last night.”

“You sure she’s gone?”

“Yes Lord,” she wept.

When I heard them talking, I jumped from bed and spied through a crack in my bedroom door. Mama came upstairs to check on me and I played sleep under the covers. I heard the front door close and went to her room, watching them go out the gate and up the road. I hurriedly put on my day clothes and stayed a safe distance behind them.

The door to Miss Shelby’s house was unlocked. Inside was quiet, the air heavy. I walked upstairs on my toes. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom. I peeked into the first two bedrooms. Nothing. As I tipped down the hall, I heard whispering and ducked my head around a corner of the last doorway. Mama and Miss Shelby faced the bed with their backs to me.

“You should say goodbye now,” Mama said, smoothing out the sheets around the lump of dead woman.

Miss Shelby paused reverentially, then helped Mama with the bedding. “Did she hear me?”

“She know just like we do,” Mama said.

When they finished with the sheets, they again stood side-by-side next to the bed. They were quiet for a long while. It was then I got a respectful look at the body. When living Miss Bessie was a round-faced, stout, dark-skinned woman whose hair had gone gray. (She was always kind to me and used to bake my favorite dessert, pecan pie, and say “Junior’s such a sweet boy. He’s the son I never had.”) 

The person I saw could have been a younger version of Miss Bessie or someone else altogether. Relaxed, her face was joyful, her body thin, and jet black hair as straight as any Indian’s. Curiously, Mama and Miss Shelby didn’t seem to notice the change in her countenance. Death appeared to be sleep, and I thought she would wake up at any moment.

Mama offered a prayer. As she spoke Miss Shelby seemed to grow weary, finally slumping in a chair, her head resting in her palms. I had never seen anyone so sad. It was a deep sadness that it seemed God couldn’t even take away.

Two weeks later I was looking for snakes with Red Mike and Smith at the Old South Cemetery. Red Mike caught a one-footer and was threatening to win the bet of candy and soda. I wanted an all-or-nothing chance to even the score, so I suggested that we go over to the tall grass.

Before I could even start tipping headstones, I noticed a woman leaning against a tree. She was no more than twenty-five years old, slender, brown-skinned, and wore a long white dress spotted with mud and grass stains. Her eyes were closed, and she stood still. Strands of hair shrouded her face.

“She crazy,” Red Mike said as our feet rustled on the grass.

“I ain’t goin’ no closer,” whined Smith, a chubby boy. “Grandma told me all ‘bout people that live in graveyards.”

“What she say?” I asked.

“They ain’t right. God don’t want ‘em.”

“You scared,” Red Mike said, his light skin taking on a crimson hue in anger.

“I ain’t. It’s true what Grandma told me.”

“Your Grandma a lie. Ain’t nothin’ to fear from no dead people. They dead.”

“Don’t talk about my Grandma. You a lie!”

“Shhhh!” I said, turning their bickering into muted grumbles. “Ain’t good to shock sleepin’ people.”

“How she sleepin’ standin’ up?” Red Mike asked.

“She might just be thinkin’ and dozed off,” I said.

“She ain’t sleep or awake,” Smith added.

We inched forward.

“I’ll be right here,” Smith said stoically.

“Aw, you nothin’ but a big sissy,” Red Mike said.

“No matter. I’m alive one.”

Red Mike and I continued. The tall grass hissed under our feet as the sun, already scorching, seemed to grow even hotter. 

The heat made the thickness in my throat worse. I thought I would choke when I tried to swallow.

I had moved ahead of Red Mike and when I turned to check on him, I could see his step was heavy with doubt.

“You all right?” I asked.

“Yeah, jus’…”

“What?” 

“Ain’t like I believe all that stuff Smith was talkin’, but what if she’s a murderer or wanted?”

“If she’s wanted why she just standin’ there and not running away?”

“She crazy, that’s all.”

Red Mike feigned tired and when he bent over, he dropped his snake jar and the one-footer slithered free.

I didn’t feel any fear and for a moment I thought maybe I was crazy until I remembered what Mama said about helping people, that it was neighborly and decent.

“Miss. You all right?” I asked.

I moved in front of her. As I extended my hand, her eyes blinked. I took several quick steps back, almost falling. I turned to Red Mike and Smith for support. Gone, they were nowhere in sight.

“Can you help me?” She asked in a raspy whisper.

Her gaze was both vague and piercing. She seemed to look through me at some distant point.

“Are you all right?” I finally said. 

“Where’s this place?” She asked, ignoring my question. 

I looked around at the rows of headstones, stating the obvious. “The Old South Cemetery.”

She looked at me curiously.

“Ellis, Virginia, nineteen-twenty. Where you from?

“I don’t know,” she said pensively.

Maybe it was her vulnerability and innocence, but I felt comfortable with her. A faint sense of recognition replaced all my doubts.

I took her hand in mine and gently guided her through the tall grass. As we passed the markers one name stuck in my mind – “Delphia.”

Walking up the main road, I thought of Miss Shelby. She was alone and had an extra bedroom. Besides, she was a good Christian woman and wouldn’t turn away someone in need.

Sure enough. She greeted us with a broad smile and offered much-needed refreshment of cranberry juice and homemade raisin muffins. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get your name?” Miss Shelby asked as we sat in her living room.

“Delphia,” I interrupted.

“What a beautiful name,” she said, repeating it several times under her breath. “Are you from Ellis?”

“She’s new in town,” I cut in.

“Junior, I’m sure Delphia can speak for herself. Right, dear?”

Delphia nodded, then said, “I’m just visiting.”

“Oh, and where you staying?”

My tone was confessional. “That’s why I brought her to you, Ma’am. I thought maybe she could stay here awhile until she gets on her feet.”

Miss Shelby’s face grew serious, then brightened. “Of course she can. Now, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve got a spare room upstairs. Com’ on now,” Miss Shelby said encouragingly.

Delphia looked at me.

“It’s all right,” I whispered, watching the two ladies disappear into the hall.

I made it a habit of finishing my house chores by early afternoon so I could see Delphia. Miss Shelby had given her some new dresses and fixed her up real nice. She was beautiful. 

She still didn’t talk much, just silently going about her duties, washing dishes, or working outside in the garden. It was nice just to be near her, watch her. I felt like we were talking without words.

One day Red Mike and Smith came looking for me to go fishing. When I wouldn’t go, they teased me saying I was in love, that I’d gone soft. I denied everything and threatened to knock them both out. They continued their taunts while running into the woods, dodging dirt bombs I threw at them. 

I had to admit Delphia was special. She wasn’t like girls my age who were so silly and superficial. Delphia was nice. No complaints. She was open to life in a way that I felt I was losing. 

“It’s time to work hard,” Mama kept telling me to prepare for high school. I didn’t feel thirteen anymore, but thirty-five. Being with Delphia made me forget about all the pressure. 

Without words, I knew she felt what I was feeling. We would take long walks along the lake or get lost in Moose Park. I didn’t even mind that she kept looking at her reflection every chance she got. (I figured that’s how it is when you don’t know who you are.) I also knew that someday she would go away. I tried not to think about it. It hurt too much. I got angry at Red Mike and Smith all over again for saying I was in love. But Maybe I was.

Arriving home one evening we saw Miss Shelby sitting on the front steps shaking her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.  

 “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Everything of Bessie’s has been destroyed.”

“How, a robber?”

“Couldn’t be. I was downstairs the whole time. I ain’t see nobody. It’s like they were looking for something. Oh Lord, poor Bessie.”

Delphia and I went upstairs to Miss Bessie’s old room. The place was a mess. Emptied drawers, scattered clothes, broken windows, and the mattress turned on its side. 

She picked up a sliver of broken pottery. Pressing it to her heart, she rubbed the fractured clay, before dropping it and picking up another piece, then another. She became anxious. I pleaded with her to stop. Finally exhausted, she landed wearily on the floor. Hearing all the noise, Miss Shelby started upstairs.

I helped Delphia up, and she grabbed me tight. In that instant, I knew what she felt. I never wanted to let her go. A single piece of clay dug into her palm. I pried it loose. A thin line of blood ran down her wrist. I found a towel and dabbed at the wound. It wasn’t serious. 

Miss Shelby stood in the doorway.

“Are these all of Miss Bessie’s things?” I asked.

“Just about except for the box I took down to Haddock’s. I told him to sell them at the fair next weekend.”

When Delphia and I got to the store, it was closed. I figured old man Haddock was at the pool hall but didn’t want to get him because he would be full of questions. I peered through the enormous front window into darkness, trying to find anything that might signal extra items. 

We went around back. Four small window panes divided the top half of the locked door. 

In a dumpster near the alley, I found an old rag and rolled it around my right fist. I broke the window over the doorknob and reached inside, undoing the lock. 

We quickly passed through the small storage area into the showroom. Streetlights in the front and back of the store allowed some vision. The room was full of overpriced junk. I figured if Miss Shelby had just sent everything over, it should still be in the box. 

There were several boxes behind the counter. I started on one and told Delphia to take another. I wasn’t exactly sure of what I was looking for but trusted her instincts to let me know when I’d found it. 

I went through several boxes, then turned to Delphia after a few minutes. The door was open but no sign of her. 

I searched the store. There was no sign of her. On the floor near the back entrance was a decoratively painted bowl of African design. I looked into its center at a magnificent scene; the sky, a fiery orange, caressed the dark warmth of a sea that I imagined touched the fertile, burned-red shore with the rhythms of distant drums. 

I turned this treasure, this portal, around in my hands trying to find a way in. Gradually I became content with the inevitable. This was her time to go home, not mine.

Later I gave the bowl to Miss Shelby and made her promise to always keep it. She swore to me she would.

Over the next few weeks I went to the cemetery. I hoped for a miracle, that she would wait for me. One day I laid flowers by the marker bearing her name and never went back.

And now, all these years later, I’m at the doorstep of eternity and wonder if we’ll walk again in the warm July sun?