WARNING: PLEASE READ THE WARNING! SERIOUSLY, READ IT! I'M NOT PUTTING IT HERE FOR MY HEALTH! IT'S FOR YOUR BENEFIT SO YOU DON'T GET YOUR HEART BROKEN.
The topic of this story may be sensitive to some readers. There are racial slurs and other such triggers. These things are necessary to convey the appropriate time period and meaning of the story. It does not in anyway reflex my views on certain people groups (especially since I belong to such a group). If you know you can't read stories of that nature, stop now!
THIS IS NOT A STORY ABOUT HAPPY GO LUCKY AMERICA AND I REFUSE TO APOLOGIZE ABOUT RUINING YOUR IMAGE OF HIM. THE FACT THAT YOU WOULD WANT ME TO IGNORE THIS DEPLORABLE PERIOD IN AMERICAN HISTORY SPEAKS VOLUMES TO ME. THE GENRE AND RATING OF THIS STORY SHOULD GIVE YOU SOME IDEA OF WHAT YOU'RE IN FOR.
DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU.
Strange Fruit:
The South is brutalized to a degree
not realized by its own inhabitants
and the very foundation of government, law and order, are imperiled.
America is divided.
There is, of course, the division between what is the North and South but both of those regions were safely encapsulated in the personification known as Alfred F. Jones.
There was a time not too long ago when his southern part sprung up one day, knocking on his door demanding independence. The man looked just like him with darker hair and darker eyes but America put a swift end to that fiasco. And while he inherited all of the traits of the southern States when that imposter disappeared, there was something his lookalike was hiding.
Yes, America is divided. Divided between what Alfred calls true Americans and then there is those other unworldly, sub-human things that he'd bought from Africa. He doesn't want them to be apart of him and she doesn't want to be apart of him either.
Not many countries know of this, of this other America. They know of his history and how he runs his country but even America didn't know she existed until 1861 when he and the troops from the Union took New Orleans at the beginning of the war. By then she was a full-grown entity with small rough hands and wild kinky hair. Alfred knew immediately when he saw her huddled around a group of pickaninnies that she was no ordinary citizen. When those dark eyes, as black as her hair and deep as the Mississippi looked at him, he knew she knew. Since the end of the Civil War, Alfred has been stuck with her ever since.
Seventy years ago, she, Josephine, Black America was a lot easier to handle. Nowadays, just as America is on the verge of war with Japan, Alfred finds himself having to deal with her more swiftly. She is getting a little too bold, too defiant but he knows how to put an end to her bout of activism. Dragging her to the South always works, Mississippi especially.
Oh how she cries and begs him, pulling at his trouser legs with water dripping from her eyes and snot from her nose. Alfred always feels different when he is in his southern States, colder toward her. Then again, she is always more submissive, especially after taking her to one of those infamous southern picnics. Josephine never wants to go because she feels the pain of it already but Alfred drags her out of the house, sometimes tossing her over his shoulder as they march down the street.
He has to keep her close because no human can handle her, not like he can. She is just as strong as him except in these instances.
He ignores her pleas to be let down, her declining his offer to join in this 'family affair' and she begs and begs until her arms stop beating against his back. Alfred knows it is because they are getting closer and when he drops her in the grass, Josephine curls herself as far away from him and refuses to look up at the tree. Around them, families, true American families, gather with food and drinks and entertainment for the little children. They greet him like family while his black counterpart balls up against the tree, covering her ears and squeezing her eyes shut as if she could hear the final cries and smell the burning flesh all over again.
America finds her a lot easier to deal with after that.
That's how America finds himself sitting in the front row of a famous New Orleans club. He's taken a small tour of his States before heading for Europe and Josephine is being a bit too unruly for his liking. She's calm down sense, enough for Alfred to get a good performance out of her. He invites the mayor and governor and other respectable citizens to join him. They share a table where cigars are passed with shots of bourbon and brandy. It's a semi private affair but if they have enough money, Alfred lets them in.
The place is small and packs easily. The people are loud and drunk and America laughs with them while the stage is being prepared. Someone asks him about the War and Alfred assures that he's gonna kick Kiku's ass. When asked about Germany, his laugh carries throughout the room. Ludwig and Gilbert lost their first little 'war', what makes them think they'll win this one? One man is eager to tell that his son will be in the Air Force. Alfred congratulates him and more drinks are ordered as the spotlight shines on the stage's wooden floor.
Alfred turns in his chair, a cigar in his mouth at the sound of heels clicking against the stage surface. They dress her well too; in a backless golden satin dress for Josephine is not a small woman. The dress clings to curves and dips low enough in the front for them to get the slightest glimpse of brown breast. It flares at the end and trails hazily behind her as she goes to the microphone.
Josephine looks less than pleased to perform but her lips are a pretty red and her cheeks were slightly tainted as well. Though Alfred utterly detests her hair, which reaches to about her shoulders now, the stylist pins it to the side and holds it there with an equally red set of flowers. She looks like a regular jazz singer and not the personification of America's other half. Alfred watches her through the haze of cigar smoke with slightly narrowed blue eyes behind clear glasses. She watches him too with eyes more distant than defiant.
He wants to laugh in her face.
The club settles to whispers as Josephine fiddles with the height of the microphone. She glances at Alfred then back down until it's an appropriate height. Alfred's heard her sing before, many times even but he doesn't know what she intends to perform tonight. She gives no introduction, just a glance at the pianist behind her and then a look to the side at the saxophonist before settling her dark placid glaze on him. The pianist, a black man of course, starts with a simple chord before the saxophonist starts a stream of woeful cadences.
The men at his table go silent but Alfred's been eyeing this woman for the last minute. Josephine didn't so much as flinch but he can't read her expression, because there is none on her face. And when her fingers wrap around the pole, she blinks once before opening her mouth.
"Southern trees bear a strange fruit," her voice is slow, haunting but not deep, "blood on the leaves and blood at the root."
Alfred knows the song as soon as the first line is sung. He narrows his eyes, unsure if he should be pissed off that she would choose such a song to sing. Yet it's befitting considering what they'd done earlier today.
"…Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze," Josephine carries the note anyway, no doubt aware of his displease, "strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees."
She takes a small step back from the microphone as the saxophonist does a brief solo. When she moves forward again, Alfred catches the slight twitch of her lip and the glisten in her eyes that doesn't come from the spotlight. Alfred grins and taps out the ashes on his cigar.
Josephine's eyes close for a second and when she opens them, she stares at Alfred before starting again.
"Pastoral scene of the gallant south, the bulging eyes and the twisted mouth," Her tears fall free but her expression doesn't change. Josephine just looks at him placidly and sings on, "Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh, then the sudden smell of burning flesh."
The piano keeps a haunting melody that resonates softly with her voice. Alfred is enjoying himself. He watches her with a bit of amusements and reaches for his drink sideways so as not to miss if and when she chokes.
Josephine sings the song straight through without missing a beat. One probably assumes she feels nothing with her blank stare but the tears staining brown cheeks give away more than her eyes can. The rest of the club is quiet rather in awe or distaste is debatable.
Alfred takes a sip of his brandy.
"Here is fruit for the crows to pluck, for the rain to gather, for the wind to suck, for the sun to rot, for the trees to drop." Josephine rattles on and America finds himself less irritated and more proud of the description of lynching. Perhaps it will keep her and her 'people' in their place.
"Here is a strange and bitter crop." She ends the song by stepping away from the mic. No smile, no bow not even a thank you as the piano plays one final key.
Alfred jumps to his feet and clumsily bumps the table in the process. He stands and claps, claps and grins, grins and takes a half step to the stage as he stares her down. His clap is the only noise throughout the place and he's the only one giving her such an ovation. For the first time that night, Josephine's eyes dance away from his eyes and around the club. Her red lips stretch thin with tears still tricking down her face. Yet she stands with her hands delicate folded in front of her, back straight and shoulders down.
"Josie, baby, you have to show me one day how do you sing like that." America mockingly slows his clap when she finally looks back to him. "If there were anymore niggers in here other than you three, I bet ya'll would be weeping together and probably start one of them 'negro spirituals' you love so much."
He's smiling but it doesn't reach those piercing blue eyes. Josephine is silent but her dark eyes are a storm of emotions. She has a lump in throat, Alfred can see it when she swallows and moves her hands to take hold of the sides of her dress. His clap progressively slows until she walks off stage, the two musicians following hastily behind her.
When America goes back to his seat, the mayor and governor look at him confused and uncertain. Alfred reaches into the open box of Cuba cigars and lights another. Josephine's embarrassed herself enough for right now. He'll deal with her properly later.
She hates him. She hates him so much that everyday Josephine's contemplated walking into the sea or a lake and letting the currents drag her body under. Perhaps walk into a fire so she can burn alive. But she knows it won't help. Personifications don't die that way. She knows this very well because she's tried with a piece of glass to her wrist. Several cuts later all she achieves is losing consciousness and freaking out a stable boy.
Nothing works. Josephine can't be free of this because they aren't free. As long as a black person exists within US borders, so will she. It's this thought that makes her sink a bit lower in the tub she sits in.
Alfred is the devil. A demon cloaked in white skin and every other American like him is his hell spawns. He's loud and arrogant, self assured and egotistic. Alfred is cruel. Yes he smiles big and his blue seem innocence. He plays dumb and makes stupid comments but she knows his cruelty. In every lash from a whip, every burned body, every raped woman and emasculated man, in every innocent lynching and institutionalized prejudice she knows. Alfred is evil.
Josephine sinks and sinks until the water fills her ears and nose. She sinks until all of her body is underwater and the whooshing sound competes with her thoughts. The water feels good in her loose curls.
She's still in her golden gown, still covered in red lipstick and rouge. The gown floats up a bit but not much because of its clingy fabric. She's been sitting in this tub so long that the water went cold but she likes it all the same.
Maybe this will not help. Maybe she will not die but this feeling, the feeling of her lungs burning with the absence of oxygen makes her feel more alive than she's felt all day. Her head is finally clear and her mind wonders to more pleasant things like what Africa is like. Surely it must be better than this. The people are freer maybe and they don't toil in cotton fields or have to use secondhand stuff because others feel something is wrong with them. Josephine thinks of summertime and fishing, which she likes. She thinks of cool lemonade on a hot day, sitting in an old rocking chair and watching magnolia's blow in the humid southern breeze.
Her thoughts go throw a number of scenarios, slowly at first but it speeds up as her mind scrambles with what little oxygen is left. The imagines blur and skip with moments of blackness. She is so close to passing out that Josephine pushes herself as close to the bottom of the tub as possible.
"Josie, baby!" No. No. No. No! She can feel the walls shake at the way he slams the front door. It reverberates through the whole of this tiny house. Alfred is so stupid and he doesn't even know his own strength. He's broken a many doors by slamming it like that.
She doesn't want him here. Why is he back so early? Josephine can't hear where he is but she hopes he's drunk and passes out on the sofa somewhere.
"Josie," Alfred yells. Yes, he's at least tipsy judging by is slur. "Josephine, come sing me a lullaby. Josephine!"
She presses her eyes closed before opening her mouth to guzzle in water. It attacks her lungs and she prays to God that it will choke her before he comes upstairs to the bathroom.
Alfred's made it up the stairs; she can hear the sound of his shoes stomping across the floor. "Josie, c'mon, sing me a lullaby," he coos. Please God. Please! "Josie, I'm back and I want a lullaby!" He repeats more loudly. His feet stop short of the door. "Josie, you in here? C'mon, since you like singin your nigger songs so much, why don't you sing me one now, huh?"
The doorknob jiggles and Josephine mentally curses her damn near immortal body. Alfred knocks, no ramps against the door and she can almost hear the wood splitting under his hand. "Josephine, open this god damn door right now. Josephine!"
So close, she's so close to going under, choking and being as close to death as a personified nation can be that Josephine can barely hear Alfred anymore. His knocks are more distant, so his yelling at her ears. She inhales sharper for more water to fill her lungs and it's just enough that everything starts to feel light and airy. The world around her fades and she lets go.
"Josephine!" And just like that, she's violently yanked from that sweet abyss by a strong white hand that clamps her forearm. The bathroom door swings, barely on its hinges. He must have broken the door down.
Alfred pulls her out of the tub and the water that's built in her lungs forces itself out in violent coughs as he drags her to the floor. Josephine wheezes and blinks at the stinging sensation in her chest and in her eyes. The dress is suddenly too heavy and she tries but fails to crawl away. Alfred pulls her to her feet before she can move an inch.
She struggles against him, feet slipping on the now soaked floor. She's a flaring fish out of water but he pulls her close to him.
The alcohol on his breath is almost tangible and Alfred makes a point to blow it in her face. He looks dishevelled, tie hanging loose, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. Alfred's hair is even somehow messy. And he's angry.
"Alfr—," a hand clenches her jaw so tight that teeth grinding against each other stops her pleading immediately.
"Josie, baby," and the way Alfred calls her pet name now, whispering, is cold and heartless. "What are you doing, huh? Did you get so drunk you feel in the tub?"
It's a stupid question. She knows he knows exactly what she was trying to do but Josephine is too terrified to glare at him. Alfred's anger is a force to be reckoned with. He's strong like her, resilient too. While those two traits in any other situation may be admirable, they are deadly when it comes to revenge. She can stand a lot, which meant Alfred could do a lot for extended periods of time.
She shivers involuntarily at the look in his eyes. Josephine knows that calculated look. She wants to apologize for everything but he has yet to let go of her face.
Alfred sighs, then huffs. Alcohol fills her senses. "It's a little late to regret your choice, Josie. Don't go be stupid and trying to off yourself." Then he smiles and icy dread zigzags up her spine. "I still have use for you and all of your people."
He shakes her face from side to side, mockingly. "Now, what am I going to do with you, huh? You embarrassed me down there with your little show. I bragged on you to the mayor, the governor. I told them you were a good nigger that you wouldn't start shit and what did you do, Josie?"
It has to be a rhetorical question. Alfred has yet to release her jaws so she can speak. Even still, blue eyes narrow in annoyance at the lack of a response as if it's her fault.
"You started shit," he supplies for her, "Do you know what happens to niggers that do that? They get whipped."
Josephine's brown eyes widen. Then she starts to struggle in his grip, trying to get away from him. This is bad; whippings are always bad. They can be done anywhere, in any space. Alfred has strong hands and a firm grip and he swings with purposeful intent. Knowing that he's tipsy and angry doesn't make her feel the slightest bit better that his aim may be off.
It just means he'll be even crueller. It means he's going to let that whip fall where it may and not just stick to striking her back. It means he's going to beat her longer. There will be losing of skin and blood and she's going to be aching for days as her immortal body tries to repair itself.
Josephine shakes violently, eyes clouding with beginning tears. As soon as Alfred's hand lets go of her face to drag her from the bathroom, she lets out a barrage of apologizes, trying to jerk away and digging her heels into the floor.
Alfred can hear her. He just doesn't care, and when it proves too troublesome to simply pull her along; he let's go. Josephine falls back on her butt from the sudden release. Then he grabs one of her legs and drags her down the hall.
"Alfred please, wait," Josephine cries and tugs at her dress that rides up against the wooden floor. "I'm sorry, Alfred listen."
He does no such thing. But he tightens his grip on her ankle. Josephine kicks out her free foot and wriggles in his hold. She manages to flip on her stomach and as they round a corner to his bedroom, she grasps the corner of wall, digging her nails into the drywall.
Alfred jerks violently and her shoulders tightened and pop in an effort to hang on.
"Let go, Josephine," he growls and tugs, "Take your punishment with some dignity, woman."
"No! Alfred, I'm sorry. I had a moment of weakness but please." She croaks and tries to scramble away, "don't do this…"
He drops her leg and it smacks the wooden floor. Josephine tries to catch her breath between frantic tears. She can barely see and refuses to look over her shoulder to see what Alfred is about to do. She's too afraid.
"Up we go!" he practically sings.
Strong arms grab her middle and it's an effortless yank. Her nails bend and she's forced to let go or break all ten of them. Alfred is hardly gentle as he hoists her up nearly over his shoulder and the bone practically digs into her spine.
"Alfred!" she yells.
Her thrashes comes more frequent. She tries to pry his hand away while they walk but it's no use. Alfred kicks the bedroom door open and, in one swift motion he tosses her on the bed like a ragdoll.
Josephine hits it hard and gasps as she's yanked again and forced on her stomach. Alfred uses his body weight to keep her pinned, one knee presses into the backs of each of her thighs. He takes her wrist and holds them on the side her head effectively stopping her from moving.
Alfred chuckles and presses his nose into her hair. "You're sorry when you get caught," he mocks, "but I'm going to make sure you stay sorry."
Josephine's eyes widen in amplified panic.
"Being wet will make sure the lashes stick this time."
She loses it. The thrashes start again. She bucks her hips and tries to pivot her weight to get him off. "That's not true. I'm sorry. I mean. I won't do that again."
He laughs at her attempts and digs his knees deeper into skin. It doesn't stop her from trying to get free. She wiggles, digs her nails into the bed and throws her weight around. She manages to get a leg free and tries to twist around. Alfred pulls back and glares blue daggers at her. He wipes his mouth and Josephine realizes that she must have headbutted him with all of her jerking and hit his lip.
The blood smears near the corner of his mouth. They stare at each other, her in panic and him in anger. Alfred lifts himself up from the bed almost painstakingly slow. The bed groans at the lack of weight.
"If niggers knew their place this wouldn't happen." Alfred moves for his chest of drawers.
Desperate, Josephine scrambles from the bed, falling on the floor in the process. He turns just in time to see her come towards him. Exhausted from the fight, she clings to his thighs. Alfred, perhaps mistaking her intentions, grabs a fist full of her hair and yanks. She clings to him anyway, like a lost child.
"You like it when I use my mouth, right?" She pants, trying to sound more calm and rational then she actually feels.
Alfred goes still. Josephine squeezes her eyes shut, grateful that he's stop pulling her hair from her scalp. "You want me to do that for you? I will, the best I've ever done! Wouldn't you like that instead? Wouldn't that be a better apology?"
His hold on her hair lessens. Josephine's head cranes up to look at him. He still seems angry, but there is a cold calculation in his eyes. Hers dart briefly to the leather whip in his other hand hanging by his side then back to his face.
"I'll do a really good job, you'll like it," she speaks more softly.
"I don't know," Alfred muses. His gaze reminds her of how men look at street women, as if she were a piece of trash.
Josephine tries again desperately. "Please, Master, let me do this for you instead of that," she whispers. Allowing herself one grimace, she rubs her face against his fly.
Alfred's grip goes from lethal to almost petting her like a dog and the whip drops to the floor like a heavy weight. She can feel him starting to response to her affections. "It'll feel really good, I promise."
His hips move as he presses her further against him. "No tricks," Alfred whispers "Or I'll break your spine and leave you a cripple on this floor."
"No tricks, no tricks!" She insists.
Josephine tries not to sigh in victory when he widens his stance just a little and gestures for her to proceed. It hardly counts as one.
Alfred waits patiently when her hands go for his belt buckle. It's a quick process to get it loose. Josephine wastes no time with undoing his pants, tugging them down to his knees then his drawers and pulls him out.
She swallows hard and begins to kiss him softly along his length. I can do this, she tells herself, I've done it before. Better this than the other.
Just before she takes him into her mouth, Alfred pulls her head back so she can see his face. His eyes are a deep blue, a mix of amusement and arousal as he grins. "Keep your eyes open, Josie, and look at me. I want to see those pretty eyes of yours." Josephine obeys, defeated.
When it was over, he steps away from her and moves to sit on the bed. Josephine still kneels, wiping her mouth with her wrist and fingers. She tries to lose herself in comforting thoughts like earlier. During the act, something strange happened to her; she had been there, yet not there. It's as if herself locked her into a small, dark room. Not really a prisoner, but kept hidden away, while something disturbing happened right outside the door. She heard his noises and glimpsed images, but it was as if it happened in another place, to another person.
And now she's back, trying to forget what just transpired a few minutes ago. She can still taste it and smell it.
"That was actually very good," Alfred sounds tired and pleased. "It really was the best you've done yet." He stands up. Josephine can't bring herself to turn and face him as she hears him walk to the door.
Her gaze stays on her fingers and hands sitting lifelessly in her lap. When something touches her head, she twitches and jerks her eyes up to see Alfred standing by her side. He touches her hair, this time affectionately. "Keep up these kinds of punishments and I might just let you sing those songs more often."
Josephine sways. She can barely hold herself up, but she refuses to collapse until he leaves.
"Mop that water you have trailing in the house," He speaks as if they just settled a satisfactory agreement "Then clean yourself up without falling in the tub this time. Shit Josie, you've work up an appetite in me." His hand lingers on her hair and then Alfred leaves, probably going to the kitchen.
As soon as she hears the last footfall on the noisy wooden stairs, Josephine drags her legs from under her, moving like dead weight. Wobbly she stands, gold dress still damp from her trying to drown herself. An involuntary shiver comes as she moves toward the hall closet to get the mop.
She starts in the bathroom first; releasing what water is left in the tub down the drain.
Her lower lip is swollen, her head, shoulders, wrists and ankles hurt, but no tears come. She is numb, she realizes. She feels nothing now as she beings to clean up the mess of her weakness. Alfred will say it's her fault. Deep down, Josephine knows that a small part of him is right. Not that her protest earlier was wrong, just her sheer cowardice at receiving the consequences of her actions.
Feelings and thoughts will come later though, when she is alone and defenseless. The shame, disgust, rage and grief will batter her, and she wonders if her walls could withstand it.
A/N: Context: It's true that lynchings and burning of bodies was a 'community' affair. People would gather, bring food and practically have a picnic while the bodies burned or suffocated. It's also true that, during this period, women of color were often forced into sexual situations with little to no consequences for the aggressor. Both situations are portrayed in Josephine and Alfred's interactions.
Racism, at the time, was heavier in Southern States than in Northern States, which is why Alfred is crueler when he goes further south. My head canon is that the mentality of personifications reflect (to a degree) the mindset of its citizens.
This was not a bash America story. This was not a 'let's show how awful white people were' story. This was not a 'black people are too weak to fight against the man' story. It's simply a reflection on a period in history.
Totally Irrelevant Facts:
Word Count: 4,632 without author's notes
Page Numbers: 8
Musical Inspiration: "Strange Fruit" by Billie Holiday
Peace, Love and Pasta!
-CeCe ^^