The night Alice Preacher was killed began like most other nights. Dinner eaten, and her small, mismatched family was scattered about, working through the evening’s normal routine. Alice’s husband, Cecil, was at the sink, dutifully cleaning the dishes while son Carter was upstairs getting ready for bed, or-- more probably-- reading his comics. A typical night at the Preachers’ home.
After wiping down the stovetop, and organizing the spices in the rack--grouping them by use, turning the labels to face her--Alice sidled up beside Cecil to sneak a kiss. “You need to know I love you,” she whispered in his ear.
As his wife, Alice was keenly aware of her need to remind the man she loved that she, in fact, still did love him. Cecil, of course, knew this. “I know.” he answered, “And I, you, my lovely lady.”
“My Lovely Lady.” For Alice no other combination of words held so much emotion, so many memories. Even now, after all their years together, the emotion caused fluttering in her stomach.
She recalled that summer well. Summer of 1917. How many years had passed since then? A quick mental calculation answered her question. Forty-seven. It was forty seven years ago that Cecil had first called her “lovely lady”. His words had, at the time, fallen oddly on her ears, not only because she was not used to hearing them, but that they came from an older, handsome, white person. During that period, and even now, there had never been an acceptable time and place for white people to say such things to a black girl, unless, of course, he wanted something from her. In this instance, Alice sensed that the boy who uttered them wanted nothing more than for her to recognize him as he had her.
And it was that year, that year of war, that, while sitting on a boardwalk bench admiring the Atlantic ocean waves falling on the Cape May beach--her hometown at the very bottom of New Jersey--that the boy first spoke to her: “That’s wonderful clothing for such a lovely lady.”
“Excuse me Sir?” she asked deferentially.
“Cecil. My name is Cecil. And yours? ”
“Well it’s Alice, sir. Alice Johnson”
“Alice. A nice name. But please, Alice, forget the “sir”. I’ll bet I’m no more than a couple of years older than you are. How old? Sixteen? Seventeen?”
The boy was handsome, very handsome , she noted. In his khaki army uniform, trim and proper, she could see thick, strong arms straining against the thin fabric. His chest was plain, devoid of the colorful embellishments so many of the other boys wore. It was a sign, she recognized, that he hadn’t yet been overseas. And still, this wasn’t the only thing that made him somehow different.
She, like all of her peers, was thoroughly accustomed to the presence of soldiers, sailors, all the many branches of the military. It seemed that everyone around her was either leaving, scheduled to leave, or returning from the “Great War” in Europe. Curious by nature, she had read of President Wilson’s earnest pleas for the brave men of the USA to “step forward and fight for the freedom of the world.” She had noted the obvious sway over the hearts and minds of America’s young men that those words had had. The town’s boys had responded in droves. To fight for America! they said. To fight tyranny! To free the oppressed! So many brave boys had left-- how many of them would return?
She’d heard all the stories, the stories the boys told friends and girlfriends. Stories of courage and bravery; of fighting in fear; of freeing a tormented and enslaved land. Further, from their accounts, she was familiar with the hideous side of the war: the nightly gas raids, men clawing at their eyes in terror, men dying in pools of vomit and waste.
But there was another side to these men. Apart from their war stories, she had also learned that they were to be feared. People to be wary of; people to be avoided. Far too many times, one of her classmates, friends, or neighbors had fallen into the trap of a drunken soldier or sailor, either eager to be home, or enjoying a last few days stateside with a little too much zest. The stories her parents retold her in horrible detail: “Jungle Whore,” Mammy,” the names the warriors would call them as they took turns having their way with them. And all the while, these men acted with relative impunity, understanding that most times it was simply the word of a decorated war hero against a black girl.
Personally, she was lucky enough to have been spared these experiences. She had always given wide berth to most military men, keeping herself out of sight, out of their immediate presence. It was rare, as in this case, that she actually had contact with one of these people. But this one, this time, things seemed different. While her experience had taught her to be cautious around men like Mr. Cecil, to hold them at a safe distance, if not to approach them at all, she made an instantaneous decision against leaving. Why, she didn’t know.
“Actually, I’m fourteen Si-….I mean Mr. Cecil, Sir.”
“Just Cecil, please.” A broad reassuring smile crossed his face, “Fourteen, well I’ll be! I’m only a few years older. I’ll be eighteen in August.” It was now June, summer of 1917.
“How nice. Happy birthday.” The phrase just came out.
“Well, a bit early, but thank you. So what do folks do here for employment? Looks to me as though there’ s no industry around.”
“Sir…I mean, Cecil, I work at the Air Station, down the road, in West Cape May. I press clothes.” To demonstrate, she stood and twirled around, showing a neatly pressed outfit composed of a purple and brown knee-high knit skirt and a short-sleeved blouse, deep sea-blue, ruffled at each of the hems, the apparent mismatch of color announcing Alice’s colorblindness to the world.
“Interesting.” Cecil , standing, moved across the slatted boardwalk pausing to take in the ocean and their surroundings. The beach was a bustle of activity; the first vacationer‘s-wave of the summer influx had made its’ way to Cape May and was currently in full force. Families from Philadelphia and New York were scattered about, most sitting on blankets, the rest--generally the young folks--were located directly on the sand. Directly in front them, Cecil watched a few seagulls dancing beside an abandoned sand castle near the water, the waves crashing loudly, the smell of salt and sea filling the air. “Do you swim Alice?”
“No sir, I never was taught”
“Alice, please, it’s Cecil.”
“Sorry.” Embarrassed by the faux pas, she looked down, shuffled her feet and bit her bottom lip. She wanted to open up, accept his acceptance of her, but force of habit held her back.
“I assume you ‘d you like to learn. To swim, that is?”
“I guess.” She said shyly, “I never put much thought into it. But yes, yes I wouldn’t mind knowing how it’s done.”
“Well then, shall we?” Cecil hopped off the side of the walkway and took a few steps toward the swirling ocean, smiling as the seagulls took flight. Then, sensing her apprehension, he stopped to look back.
She stood wide eyed, a bit bewildered by Cecil’s forwardness and lack of tact. “Right now? Like this?” she asked.
“I leave for France in seven hours.” Cecil said, almost to himself, “My lovely lady, there’s never been a better time!”
And with that, they were off.
Stripping down to his BVDs, Cecil dove headlong into the surf, yelling something to her about the temperature. Cold, warm, it didn’t matter, she was too busy giggling with embarrassment as she hid behind the stilted foundation of Convention Hall, fumbling with the buttons on her blouse as she too stripped down to her under garments. What was she doing! What if someone saw her? What if her friends or family found out? Questions she would have normally been asking herself, guarding her against doing something so reckless were ignored. Oddly, at this moment, she had no reservations. Before long, she too was in the water, in his arms and soon to be in his heart.
“A lovely lady indeed” Cecil muttered in her ear.
She was totally perplexed: Who is this man?
* * *
Now, some forty-seven years later, Alice was still searching for the answer to that wonderful mystery. Standing across the kitchen from her mysterious husband, she tried to take in this wild man, this brave ex-soldier, who, at the moment, commanded a pile of dishes and hummed a tune, happily serving his family as he did each and every night. The man she loved, the man who loved her. Who is this wonderful man?
Swatting her hubby on the back side, she left the kitchen, leaving him to his work. The dining room was pretty well picked up, a few cups left about and a few of Carter’s books, comics, piled on a chair in the corner: Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, a comic series called “The Darkened Ones.” Alice smiled and sighed. Carter always leaned toward the other worldly, the secular, no matter how much of her pleading and cajoling she tried. If only she could get Carter to read Christian allegory like C.S. Lewis or “A Pilgrim’s Progress” by John Bunyan, she‘d be happy. Regardless, she had to admire the boy’s voracity for reading--given his condition, whatever thatwas, and his apparent lack of upbringing and education. To his mother, Carter‘s, intelligence was a deep and profound mystery.
Gathering up the books, she placed them in order on the shelf next to the radio, then put the comics under her arm to be delivered to Carter in his room. After collecting the cups, she wiped down the table, then walked into the kitchen to give them to her husband as he finished the last few items of silverware.
“Is this it dear?” Cecil asked.
“That’s the last of them. I’m going to see Carter off to sleep, and will be headed for bed myself. Anything I can do for you while I’m down here?” Alice toyed with the sleeve of Cecil’s shirt, rolling the fabric back and forth between her fingers.
“No thanks dear, I’ll finish here and, in a bit, be up myself.”
“You know. I may have a mind to get you a few new shirts, pants too if you’re not careful.” She eyed him critically, “The two outfits you’ve been rotating every few days have seen their fair share of washes, and I’m scared they’ll up and fall right off your shoulders one day soon.”
Cecil leaned over, kissed his wife on the forehead, saying nothing. With that, Alice made a mental note, First thing tomorrow: St Jude’s, 2 shirts, 2 pants. Candy for Carter.
Leaving the kitchen, she took final stock of the house before heading upstairs. The living room was in generally good order, Alice arranged the pillows on the couch and armchairs, ensuring that each had two of a different kind – yellow and blue. The windows were closed and locked. Her chores completed, she walked to the window to tug the blinds tight, and, out of habit, look out at the street.
The night was dark and apparently cold, as evidenced by the steam rising from the manhole in the street. Alice watched it curling in the light and then up into the darkness. A few cars were littered about but all-in-all a nice, quiet evening in Newburgh, NY.
Safe, safe for another night. She thought.
* * *
The Preacher’s home lay about a mile from the banks of the Hudson River, just north of the palatial grounds of the US Military Academy at West Point. Over the past few years the city had become a shell, resembling more a small town afterthought than the bustling hub of industry it had been.
Newburgh, New York, throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth century, was the port of choice for many ships wishing to bring goods and commodities north of New York City by navigating the Hudson River. Factories and small terminals had taken root along the town’s waterfront to support the booming commerce. As the century ended, the town’s economic potential was so promising that the Edison Company built its first power plant there, in the very heart of the city. In the years between 1910 and 1940, the town experienced an economic boom such that many publications touted it as the “Upstate Manhattan.”
It was when the United States emerged from the Second World War and the government altered the way of the Federal interstate transit system that Newburgh’s once vibrant economic flame, lit by huge commerce along the Hudson, began to flicker and die. Highways meant easily accessible interstate commerce, and with the ever increasing technology of bigger and more efficient vehicles, the antiquated shipping industry was hopeless in its’ competion. For Newburgh the once highly profitable Hudson River became simply a tourist attraction; at times, some called it a nuisance for east-west travel. Slowly the factories and terminals along the waterfront closed their doors and moved business out of Newburgh, if only to be closer to a major highway.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
As the town lost more and more business to the trucking industry the city officials began eagerly petitioning the Federal Government to route a highway annex along Newburgh’s western boundary. But their petitions fell on deaf ears; Newburgh continued to fall into obscurity and economic depression. Finally, in a last ditch effort to save the fledgling economy, the city elected to use what little money was left to fund the construction of the Newburgh-Beach bridge. The bridge, it was argued, by spanning the Hudson river, would give their federal petitions a competitive edge in bringing Interstate 84 closer to the city limits. To accomplish this, construction was proposed to begin within the following year. Upon completion, the bridge would almost certainly serve both as a usable monument to the new world of eighteen wheelers and mass transportation and to bring about the final death blow to the once mighty shipping industry on the Hudson River.
The decline of the Newburgh economy however, wasn’t only felt along the waterfront, the entire city seemed to recoil, then shut down. Lack of industry meant lack of jobs. Lack of jobs meant lack of income, and lack of income meant lack of consumers. One by one, the small businesses of Newburgh--clothing boutiques, pet shops, musical instrument vendors--just about everything-- were lost. Taking their places, saloons and consignment shops sprang up like weeds. Prostitution and drugs became rampant. Above all, crime throve amidst the squalor. The ethic of the city too, had declined.
The Preachers, as an interracial family, were all too familiar with the racial tension hanging over America. They had moved to Newburgh at the behest of many friends. Newburgh was so accepting, they said. People simply understand here. And Alice and Cecil, upon taking up residence, had found them to be right.
* * *
It had been during that war, the war now called World War 1, that the pair corresponded as best the sluggish mail system would allow. Routinely, each wrote the other daily, but neither received answers for long periods of time. Eventually, every few weeks, heaps of envelopes would show up, giving each of them a plethora of material to work through until the next delivery. Further, and most importantly, delivery days provided Alice with the relief that Cecil was still unharmed. Over the months, their relationship grew and ever deepened. It was at that time, on an especially bright and cheery spring morning, that Alice received a short note from Cecil: Marry Me, My Lovely Lady!
The soldier received his response some five weeks later. One word: Yes!
As the course of the war progressed, Alice continued her work at the Air Station in Cape May, while Cecil was stationed in Château-Thierry France. An infantryman, he entered the trenches as called upon. The various stages of these duties came and went, until finally Alice’s prayers were answered and Cecil was discharged and scheduled to come home.
On July 16, 1919, Cecil left the USS Radnor, the Navy ship now docked in New York harbor, and literally ran down the gangway into the eager arms of his fiancé.
Shortly thereafter, in a small ceremony only a stone’s throw from where they’d met, they were blissfully married in Cape May.
It was in the early spring of 1921, when, at the prompting of their friends, the Preachers moved to Newburgh, NY. For them, at that time, it was a wondrous town, a city with a booming economy and a picturesque setting in the Catskills. With it’s mountains and river, Newburgh was simply the American Dream come true.
And the people. The residents of Newburgh proved every bit as endearing as the Preacher’s friends made them out to be. The bi-racial couple was frequently approached by strangers on the street with a handshake for each, as if wanting to congratulate them for defying the American social customs. The people of Newburgh called themselves ‘Progressives’, Champion’s of Social Reform. For the enthralled couple, early life in Newburgh was a heady, wonderful time to be young and in love.
But. As the town’s prosperity waned so did the social make-up of the people. As industry found another home, it took with it the progressive people of Newburgh. As people moved out and housing prices plummeted, vagabonds and low income families seemed to take root throughout town. The Preachers outings in town or along the river were no longer the pleasant strolls that they had been. People would stop and stare at the two, as though they had just arrived from an alien planet. Mothers, mouths agape and fingers pointing, would shield the eyes of their children. On more than one occasion, Cecil had to protect Alice from being spat upon. The times had so changed and the minds of people so poisoned by bigots that the Preachers no longer felt safe in the town that once championed them.
Color. Skin color. Simply because of skin color, the mood of the town had changed from acceptance, to indifference, to suspicion, to all out hostility. All in a few short years. Rioting began. As a response to unfair treatment under newly established welfare programs in town, violence in the streets and across town became an almost daily occurrence.
Within weeks, the Preachers were awakened to a smoking cross, the grass blackened around its base where a fire had burned throughout the night. And there were the dolls. Dolls, strung up to portray a mass lynching, hanging by their necks, swaying under the great elm tree at the front of the house. On each occasion, Cecil quickly disposed of the offense before the rest of the family had the chance to see. Unbeknownst to him, however, Alice had seen and become deeply unnerved.
* * *
Now, peering out the window, Alice continued to watch the steam rise from the manhole cover, thinking about the place and time that they lived. Thinking of her own safety and that of her husband and little Carter. The dolls swinging in the tree, so small, just children really. Up and away, the smoke drifted out over the town, overhanging the city like a pall. There was an uneasiness about it all that she could feel in the pit of her stomach.
Alice pulled the curtains closed and tried to push the fear aside, burying the apprehension in the familiar place of her soul where she buried all such feelings. With one last sweeping glance across the living room, she was satisfied. All is tidy.
“I’m headed up” she called toward the kitchen.
“OK. Be up soon” the room replied.
Grabbing the laundry basket at the base of the stairs, she placed the comic books atop its’ piled contents, then made her way upward to the second floor hall. There, In passing, Alice could see the light still peeking out from the closed door to Carter’s bedroom. She opened the door to find him lying on his bed, still in the day’s clothes, fast asleep. Placing the comic books on the stack already on his bedside table, she dutifully removed his shoes.
As he slept, Alice noted a comic book, still in his hands, lying on his stomach. This boy! She pulled the thin book from his fingers, dog-eared the opened page, and placed it with the others.
Oh, Carter, she thought as she hovered over him stroking his hair, who are you, my mystery man?
Carter’s appearance in the Preacher family was one she pondered often. The circumstances surrounding the boy she had found in the street, so tattered and tired. What you do for the least of these…the Bible says. And in respecting those words, Alice and Cecil did do “for the least of these.”
You’re a blessing. A prayer, thought and unspoken. Short and to the point. Alice gave Carter a kiss on the cheek, mentally observing that his skin tasted like salt as if he’d spent the last few minutes crying or sweating--yet she had no explanation for either. Satisfied that all was well, she turned off the bedside lamp and left the room.
In a matter of minutes Alice had changed her clothing, brushed her hair, and retired. In an even shorter period she was asleep.
* * *
The forest was full of flashing lights causing a disorientation and a sense of swimming. Alice lifted her head skyward in an attempt to understand what was happening. The moon, larger than normal, had a reddish hue. At first, it was in crescent, but as she became more aware of its presence, it filled, waxing until gibbous, then waning to crescent and full, only to repeat the cycle again and again. The phenomena all seemed to indicate that everything was in hysteria: the earth and moon in orbit, their great rotations, all of it sprinting through the universe as if these great suspended bodies were desperately trying to flee something. What terror chased them around the sun and each other? In short spurts, as the moon passed through its phases, the light was adequate enough for Alice to see her surroundings.
She was standing in a wood. The night air was cold and wet. Dew collected on the grass and plants that were scattered about. Everything was slick and chilly. The forest scene, while unfamiliar, at the same time seemed to be a place she had once been. Anxiety filled her thoughts. She should know where she was but somehow couldn’t figure it out.
Made up of pine, spruce, and maple, the forest floor was a carpet of needles and composting foliage soft under her feet. A thick bed of royal fern covered most of what she could make out. The trees were so dense, not much could be seen beyond a hundred or so feet. For some reason the limited visual field made her uneasy, it was as if she had lost control of something she was supposed to command. The place was completely silent save the faintest sound of a brook in the distance. The smell of earth and peat filled her nose. At first, she was only mildly aware of the rabbit. The animal was simply on the periphery of the scene, and then, from her perspective, it became the scene itself; the only thing there. Moving silently beneath the protection of the brush and foliage, the hare found bits of things to put into its mouth, testing each for food and finding little success. The animal was small and for the most part gray, with dark feet and stone-black eyes. The wet leaves of the forest floor left spots of matted hair across its body, making it appear ragged and unkempt. The hare’s long gray ears were attentive and agitated, constantly shifting toward the slightest sounds, testing for danger.. Like everything else, the animal seemed uneasy and frightened of everything it could sense. Each cycle of the moon seemed to be synchronized to the hare’s nervous energy. Its’ response to the moon was a constant: in the orb’s full phase, the animal was completely still, all of its energy invested in stealth and awareness; at new moon, the rabbit freely foraged, and moved about. During all of this, the hare seemed totally unaware of Alice’s presence.
As the moon frantically coursed its phases, the shifting shadows of the forest made the whole scene seem to be alive and moving. It was as if the surface of the earth was running in panic to keep the pace set by the Earth’ satellite. Alice found the whole ordeal extremely frightening.
Casting her eyes about, fifty feet to her left, she perceived a void in the forest floor. Something appeared to occupy it. Staring, she watched the light pass through the area as the moon waxed and waned. From her vantage point she couldn’t quite make out what the object was. Her curiosity quickly gave way to action and she made a move to walk toward the thing, But her legs wouldn’t respond. Now she shifted her weight to turn but couldn’t move. It was as if she were trying to swim while using appendages that had long lost their blood. She felt lethargic and heavy. The fact of immobility intensified her uneasiness – the earth, moon, and forest in a desperate sprint, while she was hopelessly stationary, unable to keep up with the madness around her. She was drowning in the action of everything, locked down by her heavy limbs. Lost.
Suddenly, with the new moon overhead, the rabbit bounded about, each bound pulling it closer to the void. It seemed Alice and the animal shared the same interest in the object, mutually feeling the need to reach it but only the rabbit able to make the journey. Soon enough, Alice realized that as the hare closed the distance, the features of the void became increasingly distinguishable. Quickly she observed that it wasn’t a void at all but a large rock, a boulder of granite standing more than ten feet tall.
Before long, she could see the pale gray exterior of the rock, in places smooth, in others lumpy as the shifting light played with the stone’s rolling surface. Shadows moved about its exterior making it appear that creatures were scattering over it, moving underneath for refuge. The frenzied movements on the boulder piqued Alice and the rabbit’s interest all the more, pulling the hare closer to it with each passing of the new moon.
Finally as the rabbit neared ever closer to the object, she began to make out distinguishable features on the surface of the boulder: a slight ridge running along the top of the rock and around the backside, a spine; a protrusion from the underside and toward the back, a paw and a tail respectively. She soon realized the stone wasn’t just a stone; it was a carving, a statue.
At ten feet she could make out the image, a tiger, intricately carved into the pale gray granite. The detail incorporated in the granite statue was astounding. She found herself filled with both awe and terror as she observed the carving which, with the help of the sprinting light, seemed to be alive. The musculature of the animal was painstakingly evident. It was obvious that the artist responsible for the cat took considerable care in making it a statement of beauty and power. The feline seemed to be in a crouching position and yet still stood some ten feet tall at the ridge of the spine, the tail curling at the back and above the animal extended beyond this dimension. It was the face of a tiger, a tiger so real she thought she could see a flick in its jowl. Only the light, she reminded herself. The tiger’s mouth was agape, its brow furrowed above the open eyes which seemed to snap into action at the movement of the hare.
The rabbit was just a few feet into the tiger’s purview when it happened.
She first noticed the movement of the tail, curling up higher as the rabbit came on. The backside of the statue began to rise with the tail, and with it she was filled with dread. The sculpture had come to life! Instantly it lunged forward toward its chosen victim with paws outstretched and mouth and eyes wildly open. The rabbit’s reaction to the impossibly quick movement was to turn and attempt to flee, coursing over the forest floor toward her. The granite tiger’s speed was not quick enough to capture its prey on the first bound. The gray tiger came crashing down where the rabbit first sat and took another bound, this time in the direction of the animal’s escape route. The tiger’s leap defied it’s weight, the stony animal rising up over the forest floor and soaring overhead toward she and the rabbit. The light was racing so fast over the forest and tiger alike that everything became a blur. The world was spinning wildly out of control, and she was unable to react. The tiger soared through the air, its eyes no longer locked on the rabbit, the animal was now focused on Alice. The outcome was inevitable. She could do nothing but watch as the tiger neared. The rabbit had made a successful escape and now she wase its prey. Immediately everything disappeared. She was alone with the tiger, the cat still soaring through the air toward her. She leaned back and braced for the animal’s impact and the tearing of her flesh. She began to scream…
* * *
Sweating profusely, Alice awakened in panic. She felt behind her; Cecil was no longer in bed. The hallway light was on, and in her doorway she could make out the silhouette of Carter, standing in his wrinkled clothes and apparently crying. Alice glanced at the clock, 3:25 AM. Where was Cecil?
“Carter,” Alice managed, out of breath and nervous, “What is it?”
“It isn’t anything” an odd reply.
“You’re crying. Something is obviously wrong Carter”
“It’s nothing.” A casual reply from the silhouette, “I’m only here to stop the tiger.”
The comment left Alice aghast and without reply. Had she been talking in her sleep, yelling and waking up Carter? It was a possibility. In recent weeks her dreams had become more animated and realistic, often leaving her sweating and wide awake in the room with Cecil stroking her hair trying to console her. She must have been screaming about the tiger, scaring Carter who, like Cecil, only wanted to help. But where was Cecil?
Alice motioned to Carter to come join her in bed. Carter walked across the room and slipped under the covers sharing a pillow with Alice. Alice lay alongside the boy feeling the heat from his body, the presence of another person calming her from the dream. It was only a dream, she repeatedly reminded herself. As her heartbeat slowed she hummed a tune to Carter and stroked his hair. Soon enough the boy was asleep.
Delicately she pulled her arm out from under her pillow and rolled back the covers so as to not stir Carter. She exited the bed on its’ opposite side and swiftly pulled on her slippers. Giving Carter one last look and a kiss on the forehead, she headed down the hall and to the stairs to find her husband.
On the floor below, the tiger awaited her descent.