Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands Read Online Free PDF Page A

Marvin’s big-brother-like teasing our whole lives. But we are not friends.
    Maybe it’s her “Southern-ness” that gets in the way. The tendency to sort everything and everyone according to appearances. But maybe, just maybe, it’s my sense of “other-ness,” an in-the-blood inability to be a joiner. Like Doto says, our family runs long on being in, but not of, the places we call home.
    Outside, a row of orange trees lines the school play-ground. Six days ago today, I saw Marvin for the last time, standing by the trees that edge our backyard.
    “Looky here, Rootin’-Tootin’,” he’d called to me, “here go Mistuh Bee payin’ his respects to Miss Angel Blossom. You know the story, don’t yuh? ’Bout how Mistuh Bee got his stripes, and his wings, too?”
    “Tell it to me, Marvin,” I remember asking.
    “Well, it goes like this,” he said, sitting on an orange crate. “After God got done creatin’ the world and everythin’ in it, He was mighty proud of the way things turned out. ’Course, His angels was mighty curious ’bout what God done. So, God told ’em, ‘Y’all g’wan down there, angels, take a look-see.’ Now, angels, like humans, come in all different measures and band together with others they size. So, the band of littlest, tiniest, tee-ninchy angels flew down together and landed in a orange grove ’bout like this one, made it smell like heaven on earth. When those angels looked down on God’s new-made ground,
what
did they see? The first big ol’ fire ant, red as the devil, beatin’ up the first big ol’ black bee with a cat-o’-nine-tails, saying ‘
Ah’s
your Massa now, bee, get to work!’ Well, that whippin’ is what gave Mistuh Bee the stripes on his back. And what made the leader of the tee-ninchy angels fly down and cry, ‘You ol’ devil ant, get back underground where you belong ’fore Ah tell the Massa of the Universe what you done!’ Now, that fire ant high-tailed it into his hole right
quick
! Then, the angel no bigger than a blossom turned to poor Mistuh Bee and noticed God had forgotten to give him wings. ‘Here, Mistuh Bee,’ that angel say, ‘you take mah wings, Ah’ll grow some more. You take these wings and you fly ’way up high in them trees, make your home where they
ain’t
never no evil ants.’ That’s how Mistuh Bee got his stripes, and his wings, in a single day. And that’s why, ever since, when the groves grow blossoms that smell like heaven, Mistuh Bee flies back, pays his respects to the Angel Blossoms that set him free.”
    “Marie Louise!” Mrs. Beacham’s voice in my ear, her big brown shoes on the floor beside my feet, make me jump.
    “Shall I ask the school nurse to schedule a hearing check?” Her face is like a walrus, fleshy folds wobbling off her chin.
    “Pardon me?”
    “Here’s your worksheet: Transportation Systems of the Ancient Egyptians. There are others that we covered in your absence. Meet me at my desk, please. May Carol Garnet, you may as well come, too.”
    While the rest of the class works at their desks, we stand together in front of Mrs. Beacham. I notice with a shock May Carol’s fingernails. Usually shiny and shell pink, the polish is chipped, nails bitten to the quick. Her hair, normally braided, slips limply out of her ponytail. She’s a small thing, pink and pretty (unlike me who’s a medium everything— medium brown hair, middle-of-the-road size, looks I know are “fair to middlin’ ”). I’m surprised to hear May Carol’s missed as much school as I have; and to see that her eyes, like mine, are sunken and dark-circled.
    I’d like to ask what she’s upset about—Marvin’s death or Armetta’s absence?—and tell her things I’m
sure
she doesn’t know—about her daddy being there that night and all. But of course that’s not possible. She’s the daughter of a Klansman and I’m to keep my mouth closed.

Chapter 5
    It’s an ironclad tradition. On Palm Sunday, the congregation of