Read Online A Matter of Souls by Denise Lewis Patrick - Free Book Online Page B

(though he was close to three score), and then the trips back and forth to fetch Worthy, whom he only spoke to behind closed doors. And then the dying, and the funeral, and the disposing of the shoemaker’s things … the one face-to-face conversation Markham’d had with Covington was minutes before his last breath: he had insisted that all his personal belongings, except the pine table and chairs, be sold at public auction two days after his funeral. And then he had said, as if Covington were not standing there beside him, “And to my son, I leave my business, tools, and good name.” Elizear’s chest hadrattled one last time, and his eyes rolled sideways. Worthy bowed his head briefly and then buckled up his case. Beesi produced two coins, which she placed on the dead man’s eyelids.
    Covington had turned away to the window, vowing—not against a dead man’s soul, but to the perfect rainbow of a setting sun and passing storm—vowing that he would never take the name of his father.
    That was two weeks and a lifetime ago. Covington leaned over his progress bench to examine the tag on the left shoe of a men’s pair. This was Worthy’s order. Covington set to work.
    He enjoyed the sounds of Beesi humming and moving in and out as she carried things off the wagon they’d driven over from their rented room yesterday. She never interrupted him, and he never interrupted her. When the sun fell in just the right place across the wood floor, Covington got up and went across the shop to flip over the “Open” sign and unlock the front door.
    He brought in a selection of tools to do finish work as he sat at the counter.
    Business was brisk; there were still condolences to receive (on the loss of his “master,” which he didn’t bother to correct, since the year on the great big calendar behind him clearly added up to five years past that day Lincoln had used the unbelievable word, “Emancipation”). There were old customers to reassure and curious new ones to entertain, including the silly young daughter of a localplantation owner who wanted dove-colored slippers for her wedding party of twelve.
    Covington remembered his uncle’s teaching well. He was clear, he was precise, he averted his eyes, and he never let them see him cipher.
    Near the end of his first day in business, Covington looked up as the bell on the door tinkled. “Sam!” Covington put down the shoe he was working on and got up to greet the giant of a man striding across the floor with the traces of Africa still proudly bred and borne across his nose and mouth and cheekbones.
    Sam was carrying a package wrapped in brown paper. “Cov! I come to give you business!”
    Covington smiled and shook his friend’s hand, shaking his own head at the same time. “Hard to believe, Sam. I waited, and I wouldn’t even let myself hope, but …”
    Sam slapped Covington lightly on the back.
    â€œQuit that nonsense talk. You a free man, done inherited your—” he paused, cocking his head to one side. “—your blood papa’s business. It’s what he readied you for, what’s by right any man’s. Now come on here, and measure these feets for me!”
    Sam lifted his pants leg. Covington looked down, then up. Sam jangled coins in his pocket.
    â€œI come to be your first Colored customer! You gonna do me right?”
    Covington was speechless, tongue-tied by joy and gratitude.
    â€œDo who right?” Beesi peeked through the curtain of the workroom. “Sam! Vi come with you?”
    â€œNaw. She want y’all to come Saturday night for some cake and good wishes on your fortune,” he said with a straight face. “And I come to get myself measured for some of Cov’s shoes!”
    Beesi clapped her hands together, then propped them on her broad hips. “Shop closed, Sam. Shop closed. Covie done worked a full day, and friends