The Dress Shop on King Street

by Ashley Clark

  Millie had half a mind to slap that fool clear out of his ignorance. She didn’t care a lick about his last name. But the anger pounding in her veins slowly gave way to grief, as she remembered that this man was Rosie’s husband, and this was the life Rosie had chosen to lead. After all, Rosie had grown up believing Franklin’s mother to be her own. So what say did Millie have, really? She had already made the heartbreaking choice to leave.

  She could only hope that despite all odds, her grandson would someday develop an interest in history.

  FORTY-NINE

  Charleston, Modern Day

  With a spatula, Peter pushed half the scrambled eggs onto Millie’s plate and the other half onto his own. Steam rose from their breakfast even as the electric kettle whistled.

  After a month of breakfast dates with Millie, Peter had picked up the habit of drinking hot tea, as if he were some kind of Englishman. The whole thing had started as a way to help Millie keep her routine, but now that he’d grown accustomed, he was actually starting to like it. He had picked up Millie’s discriminate taste for the expensive stuff.

  Peter put a tea bag into Millie’s favorite large, red mug and poured the boiling water in. He grabbed a spoon from the drawer and slid the sugar container over the bar toward her. No matter how hard he tried, he never seemed able to figure out just how much sugar she liked.

  Harper knew. But Harper wasn’t here, was she?

  Millie took the mug in her hands and dipped the tea bag up and down as it steeped. “You look nice.”

  Peter straightened the collar of his faded grey polo and reached for the ball cap with his personalized walking tour logo. “Thanks. I’ve got a tour in an hour.”

  Millie dunked half a spoonful of sugar into her tea and began to stir. “I don’t have any plans today, and with the racket those repair guys put on yesterday, I intend to stay as far away from this place as possible until the close of the workday.” She took a cautious sip of the boiling liquid. “Perhaps I’ll accompany you.”

  “If only I could be so lucky.” Peter poured water into his own mug for tea and plopped in some sugar. He was far less fussy about the amount so long as it tasted sweet. Then he handed a plate of eggs to Millie and jabbed a fork into his own. “But are you concerned about all the walking?”

  He winced a little hearing the words come from his mouth—she needn’t be reminded of her age, did she?—and yet he didn’t think it was a good idea. The walking tours were hours long, no matter the weather.

  Although the temperatures today were exceptionally pleasant.

  Gracefully, Millie took a forkful of her eggs. “You act as if I’m an invalid.”

  Peter shook his head as he chewed. “You know you’re always welcome. I just don’t want you to get tired, is all.”

  Millie sipped her tea. “The only thing I tire of, my dear Peter, is this conversation.”

  Peter kept his smile to himself. “You’ll at least wear comfortable shoes?”

  “You know, Harper was never this obnoxious.” Millie took a couple more bites of eggs. “But she also didn’t cook this well, so I guess you’re even.”

  Peter did laugh at that. “Is that a yes or no on the shoes?”

  An hour later, Peter and Millie stood at the Four Corners of the Law at the intersection of Broad and Meeting Streets. Peter wore his walking tour cap, polo, and khakis, and Millie wore a fashionable pink dress with her always-present cloche and one-inch heels that she no doubt dug out of her closet just to spite him.

  Two couples had already joined them for the tour, and a family with two teenage daughters looked right and left as they crossed Broad Street. Peter waved to them, then stretched out his hand to make introductions as they approached.

  He took a step backward to address the whole group. “I’m Peter Perkins. My family has lived in Charleston for generations, and I’m looking forward to sharing some of my favorite history with you. Happy to have you all along today.” He grinned at Millie. “So, let’s get started.”

  The quiet group simply stared at him in response. He could already tell he had his work cut out for him if he wanted to get them talking.

  Well, all except for the oldest teenager, who was currently looking at him as if he were Ed Sheeran. He had a hunch she wouldn’t mind talking.

  “Anyone know what this particular intersection is called?” Peter gestured toward the streetlamps at the corner as another tour group shuffled past.

  After a long hesitation, Millie cleared her throat. “I believe it’s referred to as the Four Corners of the Law.”

  “You are correct.” He pointed to Millie, then looked to the rest of the group. They appeared relieved someone else knew the answer. “We in Charleston use that term because here at this intersection, we see representation by a church, a courthouse, city hall, and the post office. We have God’s law, man’s law, and the ability to write home about each. We like to say that here, you can get married, divorced, taxed, and jailed all in one place.” Peter straightened his glasses at the bridge of his nose and nodded down the block. “Our next stop is going to be the Old Slave Mart, then Rainbow Row—which, if you can believe it, was not painted those vibrant colors until the 1930s and 1940s. The saying goes, folks before the preservation movement were too poor to paint but too proud to whitewash.”

  Peter turned and led his group across the street. Soon, they had reached the front of the Old Slave Mart building. Many people assumed that the City Market was where slaves were bought and sold, but in reality, that space was historically used as a marketplace, just as it still is today. Prior to the Civil War, the market gave some persons of color the opportunity to sell enough handmade goods that they could purchase their freedom.

  The dirt of decay washed the archways, the old bricks of the building that stood like an immovable blight upon the historic cobblestone street—barred gates that once held persons in slavery but now held the ugliest sort of history.

  An eeriness settled over Peter every time he made this stop of the tour, every time he considered the echo of the screams.

  But now, standing here beside Millie . . . he wanted to run to the next stop of the tour. He didn’t want to put Millie through the pain of seeing this building where Rose had passed, exchanged as if she were an item rather than a human being.

  And now, knowing she was his ancestor too. Though his skin was a different shade and his birth over a century later, this was his bloodline. This was his family.

  This was his origin story within this city.

  Peter took a deep breath, daring a glance over at Millie, who looked up at the building with one hand over her opposite elbow and her face awash with . . . was it memory?

  “What’s this building?” the teenage girl asked.

  “This is the Old Slave Mart.” Peter pointed up toward the archways. “Where people were bought and sold into slavery.”

  The young woman’s eyes widened. “In this building?”

  Peter nodded as a horse carriage ambled past. “I’d like for you to all take a moment and imagine what the scene must have looked like. Children taken from their families, the strongest among them auctioned to the highest bidder.” Peter shifted his feet and glanced down. “The struggle, the hope for a different sort of life that would never come to be. The screaming, the weeping, and the lifetime after spent wondering.”

  When he looked back up at the group, Millie was fixed on him. She stared at him in understanding, her mouth parted slightly.

  Yes, Millie, I know. I have known for months.

  “This landmark is particularly chilling for me, as I’ve recently learned my own ancestors were sold here. Among them, a little girl named Ashley. She was nine years old when she was sold, and she never saw her mother again.”

  Peter never broke Millie’s gaze. She stood steady, even as her hands began trembling. Her eyes spoke a thousand emotions, but her lips couldn’t seem to say a thing.

  It’s all right, he hoped his expression said. I understand why yo
u didn’t tell me.

  He could see now that she wouldn’t have visited Charleston for all those years if she didn’t care for his mother. And she wouldn’t have come now if she didn’t care for him too.

  Though Peter still didn’t know what had happened to his family generations prior or why, he did recognize one thing.

  Millie had lived her life stuck at the seams of the in-between.

  And he could only assume she had done so because she belonged a little too much to both to ever fully forsake the other.

  Someday, maybe she would explain it all, and he could tell her that she didn’t have to choose any longer. Her future, her history, were all important parts of her story.

  “Does anyone have any questions?” Peter asked.

  The teenage girl pointed to him and then Millie. “How do you know each other?”

  Before he could think of an answer, Millie reached for his shoulder.

  “Peter is my grandson, and I couldn’t be prouder of him.”

  FIFTY

  Charleston, 1967

  One Year Prior to Franklin’s Death

  With one hand on the worn stairwell, Franklin shuffled down the stairs of his mother’s house toward the kitchen in search of a glass of water. He had the most nagging cough but didn’t want to wake Millie or the girls.

  He made it to the kitchen and felt his way through the dark until he opened a cabinet and heard a glass clang.

  Strange, to be in a place so achingly familiar and yet to know it belongs to another time. The single house south of Broad Street had once belonged to his uncle William, back when Franklin and his mother still used an icebox.

  Well, just look at Mama now. Bright green fridge for an icebox.

  And for that matter, look at him too.

  He reached for the handle of the fridge to pour himself some water, and that’s when he saw her, sitting on a barstool and sipping from a bottle that, judging from the fridge contents, could only be Coca-Cola. It had better be Coca-Cola.

  “Rosie?” Franklin set the water pitcher down on the counter and blinked until she came into clearer focus. He couldn’t be sure, but the sixteen-year-old seemed to be smiling.

  “My dear brother.” The name stirred him with remorse every time. Couldn’t he have been more? Couldn’t he have been her world, at least for a while?

  Franklin poured the water in his glass, returned the pitcher, and sat on the stool beside her. He took a long slurp, which immediately soothed his cough.

  “It’s midnight, young lady.”

  “Midnight for you too, you know.” She took a sip of her Coke, then set it back down, completely unfazed by his reproach.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Franklin said.

  “Yeah, me neither.” Rosie shifted on her stool to face him. He noticed now that her hair was pinned up in curls. No wonder the child couldn’t rest, all those pins jabbing her head.

  “Any reason?” Franklin reached for her bottle and took a swig.

  Yes, definitely Coke.

  “Franklin!”

  “Consider it a tax for not ratting you out.”

  She put both hands back on the bottle and giggled. She wore button-down pajamas that looked far more comfortable than Millie’s dainty nightgowns. Yes, she was certainly his daughter.

  After a long pause, she looked back up at him. “There’s this guy.”

  “Uh oh.” Franklin held back his groan.

  “Forget it. You already hate him,” Rosie said.

  Franklin chuckled. “But you’ve hardly said a thing about him, dear one.”

  “I don’t need to. I can already tell you hate him.” She shook her head, and her curls didn’t budge one inch. “It’s not so much about him, anyway, as the dance tomorrow.” Rosie put her hand on Franklin’s arm and turned all her attention to him. “Oh, Franklin, it would be the dreamiest.”

  Then, of course, came her contented sigh.

  “Would be?” Franklin asked. Live with Millie long enough, and a man learned to read between the lines.

  Rosie reached for her Coca-Cola and took another long swing. “If I didn’t have two left feet. I dance like an elephant, honest to goodness.”

  Franklin rubbed his jaw. “Come now, that can’t be true.” He glanced behind his shoulder and scanned the room.

  “What are you looking for?” Rosie enjoyed the last sip from her bottle, then set it down on the table.

  “How loudly does sound carry through the house from this floor?”

  “Sound?” Rosie slid off the bar stool and stepped over to the basket they used to collect bottles for recycling. From the amount of soda he’d seen her consume, Franklin suspected a hefty portion of her weekly allowance came from bottle returns. Rosie looked up at the ceiling. “I’d say it’s insulated pretty well.”

  “Good.” Franklin took one more drink from his water and walked toward the radio. Took him long enough to find it. His mother had moved the thing to an opposite corner of the room since his last visit.

  But this way worked better for his plan. He always had a plan.

  Franklin opened the side door that led to a long and skinny porch, with a garden just beyond. What the house lacked in width, it made up for in height and charm.

  The place even smelled like home, from his mother’s constant baking and the little white flowers that trailed on the patio outside. One open window, and the fragrance of those flowers would fill up the room. And he was so glad to be sharing it with his daughter, even if he couldn’t tell her that.

  Franklin pushed the coffee table with the radio closer and closer toward the patio.

  “What are you planning to—”

  But Franklin turned on the radio before Rosie could finish.

  She rushed over to him even as he took two steps through the doorway.

  “Franklin!” Her whisper was louder than her speaking voice. “You can’t turn that on. Do you know the heap of trouble we will both be in should someone wake up?”

  She always called him and Millie by their first names, for as far as she was concerned, he was her much older brother. The imbedded deception tugged harder upon his heart, reached deeper inside of him with every year that passed—just as it did for Millie.

  The station on the dial was halfway through a jazzy tune, and Franklin reached out his hand to her. “Then let’s take care not to wake them.”

  Rosie laughed as softly as a teenager could manage, then quickly took his hand.

  “Dancing’s simple, really, Rosie. You’ve got to stop thinking so much and enjoy yourself.”

  “How am I to enjoy it when I very nearly make a fool of myself every time?” But despite her words, Rosie was rocking back and forth to the music with ease.

  “There you go. Keep at it.”

  The music slowed to a stop, and Franklin recognized the first beats of “Rockin’ Robin” before any words were sung.

  “I heard a song like this on American Bandstand yesterday! Rock and roll, right? But”—her sigh was so heavy, her shoulders slumped—“I haven’t the slightest idea how to swing-dance.”

  “Just follow my feet. Only a few steps to master if you’re the lady. The fella, on the other hand, has to learn the tricks and dips—and keep from getting distracted by how pretty his partner is. I’m sure your mystery guy will prove himself well.” Franklin took both Rosie’s hands and spun her into several moves Millie had insisted upon teaching him. Despite his resistance.

  Franklin smirked by the shadow of the night. Millie never paid much mind to his resistance, did she? One of the many things he loved about her.

  “Now the fun part,” Franklin said, “is when you hear that stop in the music. You’ve got to jump. Stomp. Do whatever you like, but make it count.”

  Rosie’s grip on his hands tightened. “But how will I know when?”

  “It’s like jumpin’ a train, Rosie. You can count it out and get it in your own head, but at some point you’ve just got to feel it when the moment comes.”

  Secon
ds later, the music broke, and Rosie jumped, perfectly in time. She burst into laughter, then glanced toward the stairwell and quickly quieted herself.

  Franklin smiled. “Now you see why we didn’t do this on those wooden floors inside.”

  Rosie soon found her stride, and three songs later, her yawns grew too persistent to ignore.

  “Better get some sleep if you want to feel good for that dance tomorrow.”

  Rosie simply stared up at him. He hadn’t seen her make that expression before and didn’t know what to make of it.

  “I was just thinking.” She blinked several times, then fiddled with the buttons of her pajamas. “Times like this make me wish I had a father. A real one, you know?”

  “You do.”

  Two words he hadn’t meant to say. He certainly didn’t have a plan now. Millie would be fit to be tied if he told her. He knew that much. But maybe . . .

  “What?”

  Frank Sinatra crooned in the background, filling the silence between them.

  “Rosie, I know this is going to be hard to get a hold of, but I’m your father, and Millie is your mother. Juliet is actually your sister.” He reached out to gently take her by both arms, hoping that the touch would somehow ground her beyond the shock.

  “But”—she shook her head—“I don’t understand. How?”

  “Let me put it like this. You ever notice how when we come to visit, we spend most of the time inside the house?”

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  “You’re plenty old enough to know what would happen if you were out on the town with Juliet, yes? You’ve heard the ugly stuff and know the laws about the theater, and the drinking fountains, and everything else.” He closed his eyes, the memory still fresh with regret and pain. “There was this one time when the two of you were much smaller . . . I hope you don’t remember. The four of us were walking down toward the Battery to play chase through those oak trees, and some men called your sister a horrible name. I stepped in, and Millie grabbed me—terrified those men would hurt me like the men who killed her father.”