Rhythms: A Novel - Softcover

Hill, Donna

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312300697 ISBN 13: 9780312300692

Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin, 2002

Synopsis

It all began in 1927, in the small town of Rudell, Mississippi, after the sudden and tragic death of Cora Harvey's parents. She has nothing left except her burning desire to become a singer. But her dream will never come true in Rudell, especially if she marries the man she adores, Dr. David Mackey. So when she sets out for Chicago, everyone in the close knit community, including David believes that the next time they see Cora, her name will be in lights. However, it's not long before Cora finds herself back in Rudell and back in David's arms harboring a secret she dare not reveal. . .A secret that will cause her daughter, Emma to flee Rudell with no intention of ever looking back. And even when Emma finds the perfect man and happiness at last, she is determined to do whatever it takes to keep her family's shameful past at bay. Then the dream that began with Cora comes full circle with her beloved granddaughter Parris whose melodic voice fills the dimly lit nightclubs of New York City. Yet, when tragedy strikes, opening a door to the past, Parris discovers the hidden truths that have ripped the family apart---but which may ultimately bind them together at last.

From the dusty roads of the Delta to the pulsing metropolis of New York City, Rhythms is a rich, unforgettable tale about loss and healing, redemption and love.

About this title

About the Author:

Donna Hill has fifteen published novels to her credit and has been featured in Essence, The Daily News, USA Today, Today's Black Woman, and Black Enterprise among many others. She has appeared on numerous radio and television station across the country and her work has appeared on several bestseller lists. She works full time as a Public Relations Associate for the Queens Borough Public Library system, and organizes author-centered events and workshops through her promotions and management company ImageNOIR.org. Donna lives with her family in Brooklyn, NY.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

BOOK I
CoraOne
Down in the Delta, somewhere just beyond Alligator, Mississippi, rests the colored section of Rudell, a community of less than five hundred, divided unequally by race, wealth, and religion by the Left Hand River. It was named such because from the top of the highest tree in Rudell the rippling river looks like a man’s left hand. Yes, it sure does.Well, today all the folks, black and white alike, moved heat-snake slow along the dusty, unpaved roads, pressed down by the heavy hand of the July sun.Towering yellow pines raised their angry fists toward the blinding white sky demanding a long, cool drink. Mosquitoes buzzed and bit, zealous in their hunt for sweet, moist flesh, especially the plump legs of little brown baby boys and girls. Good chewing grass, razor thin, glistened like emerald fire, fanning out as far as the eye could see.Funny how nature plays its tricks. Earlier that same year, the spring of 1927, the mighty Mississippi River rose higher than ever before in its history. Before its floods were over, the river had turned the Delta valley into lakes of despair. Dikes and levees crumbled, while the river swallowed whole towns and farms with an insatiable appetite that could not be stopped by man.The war between man and nature rode the ever-increasing tide. Still, months after the devastation, lost land and lost lives, recovery was a slow and painful process. The Father of Waters had spared no one, colored or white. But times being what they were, the colored who already had so little now had even less. Yet even the oppressive, relentless heat and untold tragedy couldn’t stop the parishioners of First Baptist Church from stomping and shouting on this Sunday morning just as on any other.The white clapboard building, put together plank by plank by the men of Rudell, offered them little refuge as the steam ascended from the momentum of the congregation bunched together along the crowded, wooden pews.The sun streamed in through the handblown windows casting rays of shimmering color across the wooly heads of the congregation to explode in a ball of brilliant light that gleamed off the ten-foot cross of Christ. The strongest members of First Baptist, male and female, had carried that cross in through the narrow door five years ago, piece by piece, nailing it together in silent reverence. It stood in proud testament of all they had endured. And they were grateful.Today, more than ever, they had much to be thankful for. They’d been spared.“We done seen the wrath of the Lord,” Reverend Joshua Harvey ebbed and flowed, his voice an instrument of persuasion. “His mighty hand swept the Mississippi from Arkansas to the Gulf of Mexico. Wiped out sinners and nonbelievers with a puff of his breath.”“Amen! Yes, Lord,” shouted the pulsing throng.“‘The great flood of ‘27’ we hear tell it called. I say it be the great cleanser. The Lord’s way of riddin’ this earth of those who continya ta do us harm.” He stretched out his arm and passed it over the packed room. “And y’all know who I’m talkin’’bout.”“Praise the Lord!”“But many of our innocent sistahs and brothas have suffered, too. They been left with even less than the nothin’ they had.”“That’s why we’s here t’day, Reverend,” shouted Deacon Earl, looking round to see the nods of assent.“Amen,” again came the response.“I knows y’all don’t have much,” the Reverend continued. “You works hard to feed yo’ families from sunrise till set. But it’s up to us who have little to share with those who have less.”Government relief had come to those stricken by the devastation of the flood. But it was slow coming, if at all, to some of the colored sections along the Delta.Joshua gazed out at his congregation, the beaten, the downtrodden. His dark, all-seeing eyes peered into their souls; his heart heard their prayers. He witnessed the unflinching pride in the bent backs, the clawed hands, and leatherlike faces. Sorrow shadowed their eyes, but hope hung on their lids. In each one he saw strength from a people who had seen much for any one lifetime. Still, he knew he could ask for more.“I knows what I’m askin’ is gon’ be hard for the lot of ya. But I needs ya to dig deeper than yo’ pockets. I needs ya to dig inta yo’ hearts to help those who cain’t help themselves. We here in Rudell gotta come together once again as a community and as a people.” He paused to let his words rest a spell. “The doors ta the church gon’ be open all day. Brang what chu kin. Deacon Earl gon’ be in charge of collectin’ whatever y’all kin brang.”Cora sat in the front line of the choir. The flick of her slender wrist moved the circular cardboard fan in a steady flow in front of her face. She gazed out at the rows of black bodies, a melody of color, size, and shape. They were hypnotized by the power of her daddy. Pride puffed her chest. Papa Daddy could do anything. He could make you believe the impossible, give you strength when you had none. He made it so easy for her to lift her voice in praise, as much for him as she did for the Lord. She wanted to do them both proud.Like so many colored communities, the heart and soul of Rudell could be found in the church. Reverend Joshua Harvey was the bedrock upon which Rudell was built. Their lightning rod. The calm during the storm. It was to him the white folks came when they had trouble with their coloreds, Cora thought. Daddy always found ways to make the peace. But, of course, he made them think it was their own doing. He knew white folks in a way few coloreds did in those parts. He spoke their language, knew the power of their words as well as those of his flock. Daddy carried the weight for all of Rudell on his back.While he was not seen as the equal of the whites, something in Daddy’s bearing made them tolerate his uppity ways. He was like the esteemed Booker T. Washington with the powerful white folks up north. Daddy was just like that. White folks feared as much as respected him and the quiet power he held over the town. His church was the visual symbol of that power.“I want y’all to stand now and join our choir in song.” Joshua turned briefly toward his daughter, a smile of pride on his thick lips. “Lift yo’ voices to the Almighty in thanks.”The choir stood in unison and Cora stepped forward.
David Mackey stood out on the dusty road, his starched white, high-button shirt clinging to his moist back. Even his sweat tried to find a place to hide from the beating sun, securing sanctuary beneath his stiff shirt collar.He whipped out a spotless white handkerchief from the pocket of his blue serge pants and mopped his brow, then set his straw hat squarely atop his close-cropped head.He’d fretted for hours about what to wear, wanting to make the best impression. His customary work pants and clean but frayed shirts were fine for visiting his sick and laid-low patients, but not today. Today was special.David drew up a deep breath and checked his scarred, gold pocket watch, a gift from his father.Service would be over directly, he calculated, and then he’d see her again. As a matter-o’-fact, if he shut his eyes he could see her face plain as the day is long, as he was sure it would appear while she led the choir through the strains of “Swing Low Sweet Chariot.” Her powerful contralto voice poured out of her tiny body, entered the soul, grabbed and shook it.The age-old cry of the weary souls seeped through the walls of the one-room building. But it was Cora Harvey’s rapturous voice that soared above them all.Cora Harvey. She was something else. A right pretty thing. He’d spotted her months ago, and upon discrete inquiries he’d found out who she was. That discovery compelled him to keep his distance as much as he wanted to do otherwise. Since then, they’d passed each other on several occasions when she made her monthly shopping trips into town. However, up until the other afternoon, she’d never paid him no never mind other than a passing wave or flashing that smile of hers. Then they’d run into each other at Sam’s market earlier that week, and she’d given him his first look of encouragement. Of course her daddy wasn’t looking. But he dared not approach her, not with the good reverend close at hand.David sighed. They came from different sides of town. Cora Harvey was a sharecropper’s daughter turned preacherman who worshipped in the Baptist Church. He, on the other hand, was the one and only colored doctor in Rudell, the surviving son of the now prosperous Mackey family, who paid his homage—at least some of the time—at the Episcopal Church on the other side of the dividing line.It shouldn’t matter none, he mused, but it did. The Baptists were considered common, while the Episcopals were made up of the few educated coloreds, those with a bit of money. As much as colored folk had endured since they were brought in chains from Africa and stuffed like garbage into the bowels of death ships, one would think that now they would band together. That was not to be. It wasn’t enough that the white folks made no secret of their disdain for the coloreds; the coloreds did it to themselves.David snapped out of his woolgathering at the sound of voices surging through the now opened church doors. He took a quick look at his...

About this edition

• Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
• Publication date: 2002
• ISBN 10: 0312300697
• ISBN 13: 9780312300692
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 336