Читать книгу Journey of a Cotton Blossom - Jennifer Crocker-Villegas - Страница 14

7

The Rose Vine

Joseph’s life for the next few years was pretty normal, considering his circumstances. He worked, and then he worked some more. Joseph was also starting to physically develop into a handsome young man. His deepening voice sure sounded like that of a young man. Thanks to Berta, he had learned how to carry himself like a fine good one, too. He was very polite to everyone. Unlike most of the others around whom he had been raised, Joseph believed that all humans were equal; therefore, he treated them as such. He treated people politely. He clearly had no respect for those who treated him poorly, so saying he treated them with respect would be an overstatement, but polite would be the correct word.

As Joseph grew older, the anger inside him grew stronger, like a volcano waiting to erupt. He still lived with the Kingsleys, spending his days growing more resentful of how his life was turning out. His want for something better was incessant. He knew there was more out there for him, but it was as if all his desire and anger were festering, waiting for the perfect storm.

It was a beautiful spring day. The sun was warm, the birds were chirping, and all the flowers were in bloom. It’s as if all life comes back to the world during the spring. The sounds, the smells, the warm touch of the sun on your skin with sweet scents of honeysuckle tickling your nose; that is the essence of spring. Joseph appreciated all of this. Spring was his favorite time of year.

This perfect spring day, Joseph was out tending the garden. He didn’t mind this job. It got him outside to enjoy the weather on days that were this beautiful. He also liked to watch life come about. He lived through the plants. He watched them grow into everything they had been put on this earth for. He made sure they were healthy and got all the care needed to thrive. Likewise, he yearned to be able to grow into what he had been put on earth for without repression. He was almost jealous of the plants. There was nothing there to hold them back from their full potential. There was, however, one rose vine that was Joseph’s favorite. It was held back by rope and wooden lattice to force it to grow the way the Kingsleys desired. No matter how much they tried to train it to grow a certain way, it still pushed through that lattice and grew however it pleased. This rose vine reminded Joseph of himself.

Mr. Kingsley had been sick the last few days, so sometimes during the day he would sit and watch Joseph work. Joseph did not like this one bit. He enjoyed being out there alone, able to appreciate life and nature without being watched. Nature was one of the only things he was allowed to fully enjoy. No one could notice that he took pleasure in it, so they could not stop him.

Joseph did not like the way Mr. Kingsley stared down at him with judgment and disdain in his eyes. He felt a heaviness from Mr. Kingsley’s sinister energy. It was a dark gloom pushing down on him, his mood, and his spirit. He could feel the negativity clinging to his body and the poison slowly seeping into his pores. You could see his body slowly starting to slump from the cloud of darkness weighing down on him. His shoulders slouched inward, his back hunched over, and his head sunk straight down into his shoulders like a tortoise’s.

The vile presence lurking over him was one way to ruin a nice spring day that he was otherwise enjoying.

This is some kind of shit, Joseph thought to himself. The one thing I enjoy, and this drunk is out here staring at me like he wants nothing more than for me to mess up so he can scream at me.

Mr. Kingsley was an angry, miserable man. He loved nothing more than to force his misery on others. It is said that misery loves company, and on this day in particular, Mr. Kingsley was apparently very lonely. He just loved to assert his power and control over people. One could even claim that he used his privilege of power for evil.

Mr. Kingsley just sat there sipping on his stagnant glass of whiskey, warmed by the sun, while tiny beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. He took his fat tongue and licked the beads of sweat off his lip, believing it to be little drops of whiskey that had escaped his mouth.

He leaned forward and muttered, “Boy, what’s wrong with that bush?”

Joseph could not hear or understand his drunken mumbling. “Sir?” he politely responded.

Mr. Kingsley drunkenly hollered, “Ya def, boy, or ya just stupid? I said, what’s wrong with that bush? I told you and all the other ignorant niggers that this here bush should climb up the wall, as it is supposed to. You can’t get one damn thing right even if Jesus himself had taught ya how.

“If you want something done right you have to stand over somebody and make sure they do it nowadays with these lazy, damn niggers. Is that what ya tellin’ me, boy?”

It was no mind to Mr. Kingsley that it was a vine, not a bush, and Joseph was pretty positive the saying was “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.” He would not ever dare tell this to Mr. Kingsley, though. He just allowed the ignorant old drunk to think he was right. It was just a known understanding that the Kingsleys, and people of like minds, didn’t dare do anything themselves. God forbid they participate in manual labor. Joseph knew not to talk back, but at the time, he was also at a loss for words. What do you even say to a drunk who isn’t making any sense? Joseph sure didn’t know.

Mr. Kingsley stood up, a bit wobbly at first. He pulled up his slightly dirty khaki-colored pants so that his entire backside was again covered. He slowly stomped down the stairs of the porch and went around the corner of the house. He was headed toward the shed on the back side of the house.

Joseph was scared and confused. “Where is that drunk headed?” he uttered to himself. “Did he forget what he was doing?”

He wanted nothing more than to continue working, but he was paralyzed from the fear and anticipation of what Mr. Kingsley was up to. He could feel the intensity in the air. Even though the sky was cloudless, it was as if darkness had covered everything in sight. Mr. Kingsley rounded the corner of the house with nothing more than pruning shears.

What in the hell is he doing? Joseph thought. Is he coming to work? Surely he would not lift a finger in this yard.

He had never seen this man work in the yard in his full fourteen years on this earth.

Mr. Kingsley walked up and demanded, “Give me your gloves.” He snatched the gloves from Joseph and put them on his own hands. “Here, boy, this is how you do it.”

He started to hack at pieces of the rose vine, shredding all the beauty it once possessed and stripping it of its individuality and freedom. He was even slicing off the blooming rosebuds. There was no method or reason to his madness. He was just wildly shredding.

Joseph watched as Mr. Kingsley butchered everything beautiful about this oppressed but willfully strong-growing vine. Mr. Kingsley continued with his oh-so-helpful dictation.

“Now you grab it, boy, and pull these limbs off.”

“But I have no gloves,” Joseph said.

“Does it look like I care that you have no gloves? I don’t give a shit. You do what you’re told, boy,” Mr. Kingsley said.

Joseph started to tear at it vine by vine, ripping them off the main stem. His hands were bloody and torn from the thorns slicing into him as he yanked at these tough vines. Some of the vines would just rip through his hands and snap right back into place. Their strength and resilience shined through. It’s not known if Joseph was more upset by the pain or by the fact that this free-spirited living thing was being torn down in much the same way the Kingsleys had tried to tear him down his entire life.

Mr. Kingsley stumbled a bit as he reached to cut the thickest of the vines from the stem. Out of nowhere, he started to strike Joseph with that vine. He attacked Joseph like a rabid dog foaming at the mouth, consumed with delirium. The first strike hit Joseph in the face, just over his right eye. He winced and cowered down while raising up his hand and forearm to protect his face. Rageful, Mr. Kingsley just kept hitting him over and over with the vine, striking him all over his now bloody and shredded body.

“You and these goddamn plants will listen to me! No one disobeys Richard Kingsley! No one!”

Mr. Kingsley finally ceased his madness. What was only minutes had seemed like an eternity. For the first time in his life, Richard Kingsley had a look of confusion in his eyes. He was not sure what he had just done. After all, this was his son by blood. He sat down, slumped over, and placed his hands to rest on his knees. He sat there for a moment, out of breath and wheezing. That was the most exercise he had seen all year. Joseph stood there with his bloodied face and body, preparing for more while silently praying it was over. Mr. Kingsley uttered something that was barely audible. Joseph thought maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but he could have sworn that while Mr. Kingsley was slumped over there, through his wheezing, he’d uttered, “Sorry, boy.”

One can’t help but wonder what might have triggered Mr. Kingsley to lash out like this in the first place. Was it that he could just sense the dormant rebellion and strength in both Joseph and that rose vine? Mr. Kingsley’s character and personality were so weak that he could not handle anything that challenged his authority, whether it be a plant or a person. Neither Joseph nor the once-stunning rose vine was weak: both had a strong desire to grow however they pleased.

This was not just any spring day in Clarksville, Mississippi; no, this was the spring of Joseph Dove. This was the day he started to blossom into a strong, independent young man. This marked the day he started to allow himself to bloom into what he was always meant to be. All that anger and drive he had held within himself would someday help him to join one of history’s most noble struggles for civil rights and equality.

Joseph, for the first time, thought, I will be free!