The room fell silent as the reverend paced back and forth across the platform in front of the podium. Ibby was mesmerized. She didn’t understand half of what he was saying, but she liked the sound of his voice.
“There was a custom in those days, a custom to keep the passing plantation master alive as long as possible. They did this by propping him up in bed with many pillows. I remember hearing of a plantation owner who was dying for a whole two weeks, because of all the pillows propped around him. After all hope for survival was gone, the family held a caucus. You know why?”
“Why?” the congregation shouted.
Ibby glanced over at Birdelia, who was staring at the pastor as if he had cast a spell over her.
“They were debating when to pull the pillows out, and who should have the solemn task of doing it. You see, brothers and sisters, pulling the pillows out became a serious question! I tell you this because the remembrance of former times was forced upon us during the filibuster in Washington. When President Johnson decided that there would be a civil rights bill, it just became a matter of time before a decision had to be made about when to pull the pillow out from under the Old South. When the Senate voted for cloture to end the debate, that was the signal, brothers and sisters, that was the signal that the pillows had been pulled out, and with cloture came the demise of the Old South, which has been to the Negro such a grievous affliction. The filibuster had been an angel with a flaming sword, trying her best to keep the colored man from the gates of paradise of full citizenship. But led by our president, the Old South was beaten to its knees and had to surrender to shame!”
When Reverend Jeremiah stopped to wipe his brow, Ibby felt her face growing warm. She flicked the paper fan back and forth, but the heat in her face was rising. As it was, women were falling out into the aisle and collapsing, rolling around on the ground until male ushers picked them up and carried them out the front door like pieces of timber.
The rest of the congregation rose up and declared, “Free at last! Free at last!”
Reverend Jeremiah let this go on a few minutes before he raised his hand and called for calm. “That great man, Lyndon B. Johnson, who will go down in history as one of the men who could match and master Harry Flood Byrd, defeating his tactics designed to hold the Negro down. The Old South hath met its Waterloo, and may her dying groans be heard around the world to warn oppressors that God still lives and still moves in mysterious ways. The pillow has been pulled. Let it die! Let it die!”
The congregation jumped to their feet again. “Let it die, let it die!”
This time the reverend let them shout, and he yelled over them, “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men cannot make the oppressive and segregation-ridden Old South live again. Who would have believed that men of this generation would have lived to see the Old South on the run, beaten to its knees? Let it die! The pillow has been pulled out. Lady Liberty has shown her face. Give me liberty!”
“Give me liberty! Give me liberty!”
Ibby looked up when she heard her name, heard them calling for her to rise up and stand among them. Without giving it another thought, she got up and calmly walked over to where the reverend was standing. The congregation hushed.
The reverend bent over. “Yes, child?”
“I’m Liberty,” she declared, raising her hands in the air the way she’d seen other women in the church do.
A lone scream rang out. Ibby turned to find a flurry of horrified faces staring back at her as a handful of women fell into the aisle like toppled bowling pins. Ibby glanced back at the Reverend Jeremiah. He was trying to say something to her, but his voice was faint and garbled and seemed to float above her like a dream. That was the last thing she remembered before her eyes fell back into her head and she crumpled to the ground.
Chapter Nineteen
The True Love Baptist Church was evidently prepared for the throngs of women who succumbed to the spirit set forth by the mighty Reverend Jeremiah each Sunday, given the number of fainting cots set up under a large tent outside the church. When Ibby awoke, that’s where she found herself, surrounded by Queenie, Doll, Birdelia, and Reverend Jeremiah himself. Queenie and the reverend seemed to be in the middle of a conversation when Ibby opened her eyes.
“She’s Miss Fannie’s granddaughter. Miss Fannie got taken ill this morning, so I brought her along. Didn’t think she’d be no trouble.” Queenie was wringing her white gloves in her hands.
“Why didn’t you say so?” he said. “Any granddaughter of Miss Fannie’s is always welcome, you know that. But I’m confused as to her inclination to address me in the middle of my sermon.”
“She ain’t never been to church,” Doll piped up, “much less a colored church, Reverend. But I think the poor child was confused. You see, her name is Liberty—Liberty Bell. When she heard her name, she done thought you was calling her up there to the stage, that’s all.”