In the Dreaming Hour

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Dell wiped at her eyes. “No,” she said. “Victory and I never spoke of it, not in all the years since. The only person who would know is Uncle Laveau. But… but maybe Dr. Latling would have known. He probably delivered the baby but I can’t be sure. He was the town’s doctor and I know that Uncle Laveau was his patient, so I’m sure he would have been there for the delivery.”

  Lucy knew, by Mamaw’s letter, that Dr. Latling had been at the delivery. She turned to look at Beau, who was gazing down at the two women with sorrow in his expression. When Lucy turned to look at him, he spoke quietly.

  “We’re going to Dr. Latling’s house this afternoon,” he said. “I thought maybe his son might help us. Maybe Dr. Latling kept a birth record somewhere.”

  Dell kept wiping at her eyes. “I wouldn’t know about that,” she said. “Lucy, even though I don’t know who the father was, I want you to know that your Mamaw wasn’t one of those girls. Something terrible must have happen to her.”

  Lucy thought about the words of Mamaw’s letter, about the rape she’d lied about to throw her father off of Lewis’ scent. Quite honestly, if Mamaw hadn’t told Dell who the father was, then she wouldn’t, either. Maybe some secrets were meant to stay buried.

  “Maybe,” Lucy said as she squeezed Dell’s hand. “Or maybe she was in love with someone you didn’t know about.”

  Dell shook her head firmly. “Victory and I had no secrets from each other,” she said firmly. “Well, not many, anyway. I would have known if she had a suitor.”

  Lucy didn’t comment on that. It was obvious that Mamaw had at least one secret from Dell. Kissing the old woman’s cheek as she stood up, she turned to Beau.

  “Maybe we’d better go,” she said quietly. “I think Aunt Dell has had enough conversation for one day.”

  Beau had to agree. They’d gotten the woman worked up enough. As Lucy went to collect her purse, he remained a few feet away from Dell, watching the woman sniffle.

  “Ms. Dell,” he said quietly, “for what it’s worth, I’m sorry if my great-granddaddy put you through anything. I know he was Laveau’s henchman, but like you said, I’m pretty sure he did it to protect his family. He knew what Laveau was capable of. I’m not making excuses for him, because he had a choice, but I do understand in a way.”

  Dell looked up at the man. “I see some of him in you,” she said. “You have his eyes. I never had much dealings with him but my daddy did. He and Terhune were friends.”

  Beau simply nodded; he didn’t have anything more to add. Lucy walked up to stand next to him at that point, digging in her purse for her sunglasses.

  “One more thing, Aunt Dell,” Lucy said. “While we’re on the subject. Sorry if this is another upsetting question, but someone told me that there were bodies buried all around Glory from the people that Laveau killed. Do you think that’s just an urban legend or do you think there’s some truth to it?”

  Dell nodded emphatically. “Oh, Lucy,” she sighed. “Your daddy needs to have that entire yard tilled. Rumors like that have been going on for years. You might even find the baby you’re looking for because I can’t imagine Uncle Laveau would have let it live. He was just that way.”

  It was a gruesome thought. Now, two older folks who had been living during the time of Laveau Hembree had both told Lucy about the bodies all around the yard. The more she thought about it, the more sickened she became. Troubled, Lucy bent over to hug the old woman.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you,” she whispered. “I really am. But I’m trying to do something for Mamaw and I need all of the information I can have. Please forgive me if I’ve upset you, okay?”

  Dell nodded, her old arms around Lucy. “You have Hembree blood in you,” she said. “I suppose you have the right to know everything. If it will keep our family from repeating the sins of the past, I’m happy to pass our history along. But… Lucy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful. You might not like what you find.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ~ No Blackness and No White ~

  The baby was so big now that she wasn’t moving much.

  Up until a couple of weeks ago, the baby had been very active and Victory had taken delight in feeling the child kick and roll. At night, she’d lay on her back with her hands on her stomach, feeling the movement and wishing Lewis could feel it, too.

  The past several months without him had been hell. There was no other way to describe it. She missed him more than a body had a right to miss someone, feeling that longing down to her bones. She missed his soothing voice, his laugh, and the way he looked at her, like there was no woman in the world but her. She missed his touch, his soft lips against hers, his smooth, dark skin against her white flesh.

  The baby she carried had resulted from the one and only time they’d come together as a man and woman should, a child conceived in the back seat of Mr. Franklin’s roadster one day last winter when the headmaster had been teaching class and Victory was supposed to be helping one of the ladies in the school’s office.

  It had been a quick encounter, but one that had clearly changed her life. Whenever Victory was feeling particularly sad or lonely, she’d go back to that time, a time she’d felt more love and attention than she’d ever felt in her life.

  That moment had been her Dreaming Hour.

  Now, in the days leading up to the birth, Lewis had been very heavy on her mind. Since Aldridge’s death, she’d stayed far away from Lewis, on the few occasions Laveau let her out of the house, fearful her daddy might catch on to who the real father was. She hadn’t tried to contact him in any way, purely to protect him. But as the birth drew near, her resolve to stay clear of him weakened.

  Victory soon came to the conclusion that she needed to send Lewis a message, to let him know that she was well and that the child was well. She was sure that the birth was going to kill her and she didn’t want to die without having made an attempt to reach out to him one last time. But there was some trick to that – she knew that the only way she could get him a message would be to use a messenger that her father wouldn’t pay attention to.

  Certainly, she couldn’t leave the house, but her mother’s maid, Lillian, lived in the Rose Cove shanty town at the bend of the Yalobusha River a couple of miles away. Lillian had been with the family for a few years and she was trusted. Every night, she gathered her things and walked about a half mile down the road where her husband would pick her up and take her home. Victory knew that Lewis lived in Rose Cove, too, and with that realization, a plan came to mind.

  The night she decided to write the note, Victory had slept fitfully, rising several times to compose her note to Lewis. She didn’t use his name for fear her father might discover what she’d done, so everything she said in the letter was vague. The final version wasn’t exactly as she had wanted, but it was good enough. She wasn’t the poet that Lewis was, but in the end, she was proud of it. She hoped it conveyed exactly what she wanted it to.

  My dearest Dreamer,

  So long, I’ve spent away from you.

  My heart aches for you.

  I still hope for a time for us,

  Maybe not in this lifetime, but in another.

  I am reminded daily of the love we shared,

  The joy of a life we two created.

  Though my days are dark, you are the light in the darkness for me.

  Never forget what you have meant to me.

  I hold you close to me still, even though we are not together.

  Someday, in the Dreaming Hour, we will be.

  I have faith.

  No blackness and no white.

  V

  Victory knew that if her daddy found the letter, he’d kill her. She had little doubt. So she kept it close to her, tucked inside her nightgown, and waited for the right moment to give it to Lillian.

  The following day went by just like any other. Her mother came to see how she was feeling, bringing her breakfast with Lillian following behind her carrying the tray. C
aroline wanted to speak of trivial things, like a local marriage and the church bazaar to raise money for the less fortunate. The white less fortunate, of course, but Caroline liked to feel she was somehow making up for the sins her husband committed on a daily basis. It was such a contrast, the two of them, and Victory listened with disinterest to her mother’s chatter until the woman grew weary of being ignored and left the bedroom.

  But that wasn’t the end of Caroline’s visits; they followed a pattern throughout the day. She’d come to her daughter every couple of hours with tea or magazines or talk, and Victory ignored her mother for the most part. She didn’t have anything to say to a woman who wouldn’t help her own child and grandchild. Dinner would come just after twelve noon and supper would come around six o’clock in the evening.

  By dinnertime, Caroline was usually seeing to Laveau’s meal. The man had a finicky stomach and she made sure to oversee his meals personally, directing the sweating cook as if the woman had never cooked a meal in her life. That was usually the time when Lillian would come up with a tray, alone, delivering dinner to the prisoner.

  Tonight, Victory waited for that moment she knew Lillian would come. It was the moment she had been waiting for. Nervous, she paced around her room, rubbing her swollen belly and hearing the sounds of the house down below. She could hear voices and plates clinking as the dining table was set.

  Victory wasn’t allowed at the dining table these days because the very sight of her upset her father’s digestion. He’d start drinking his favorite, bourbon, and talking about black bastards, which brought Victory to tears. No, it was safer if she simply remained in her room these days and out of his sight. It was better not to rile the man.

  Lingering over by the windows that looked over the front of the house, she was startled when her bedroom door abruptly opened and Lillian entered bearing a tray of food. The smell of pork filled the room immediately. The scent was something Victory wasn’t fond of these days. The smell made her gag. But she fought off the dry heaves as Lillian set the tray down on the table beside her bed.

  “Your mama says that you must eat everythin’ on the tray,” Lillian said. “She says she’ll be a-lookin’!”

  Victory ignored the command. She rushed to Lillian, a woman about her age with skin the color of coal. She grasped her by the arm.

  “Forget about the food,” she hissed. “Lillian, I need your help.”

  The smile on Lillian’s face weakened. “What help, Miss Victory?”

  Victory eased her grip, the expression on her face softening. “I need you to take a message to someone,” she said. “Mama mustn’t know and neither must Daddy. When you go home tonight, I want you to take a message with you.”

  Lillian was torn between puzzlement and fear. “What message, Miss Victory?” she asked. “Who I gonna give it to?”

  Already, Victory could see that the woman was vastly reluctant. Not that she blamed her. “Please, Lillian,” she said. “If you love me, you’ll do this for me. Please?”

  Lillian’s was wrought with alarm. “You knows I loves you, Miss Victory, but who am I givin’ this message to?”

  Victory had to tell her. How else could she get the message there? She took a deep breath before answering.

  “You have to promise me you won’t tell a soul. Will you do that?”

  Lillian nodded fearfully. “I promise,” she said. “But who’s it for?”

  Victory pulled the message out of her bodice, a little piece of paper sealed up in a small envelope. Before answering, she looked at it as if pondering the contents. “Do… do you know your neighbors where you live, Lillian?”

  The woman nodded. “Of course I does,” she said. “The Nixons, the Pickles, the Ragsdales, the….”

  “Ragsdale,” Victory interrupted her. “You know that family?”

  Lillian nodded reluctantly. “I knows of them,” she said. The distress on her features grew. “I knows what your pappy did… that poor Ragsdale boy….”

  Victory knew what she meant and she quickly silenced her. “Shush,” she muttered. “I know. Don’t say it. We’ve never talked about it and we never will, Lillian, but today I need to mention it because I need you to take this message to Lewis Ragsdale. Do you know him?”

  Lillian’s distress reverted back to confusion. “Lewis?” she repeated. “Is he one of the older boys?”

  Victory nodded. “Yes,” she said, putting the small note in Lillian’s hand. “This is for Lewis. Please give it to him, Lillian. I’ll give you everything I own if you’ll do this for me.”

  Lillian looked at the envelope, having no idea what to say. “I don’t know the boy, Miss Victory,” she said. “But I’m sure my husband does. Can I have him give it to Lewis?”

  Victory nodded sharply. “Yes, please,” she said. “So long as he gets it. Please, Lillian… you know what’s happened around here since that… that killing. You know how Mama and Daddy keep me locked up here. It’s not right. It’s horrible. But they don’t care; they don’t care anything about me. Please do me this one favor and I’ll never ask for another.”

  Lillian, indeed, knew how they treated their only daughter, a child who had shamed the family something terrible. Lillian also knew that not only did the white folks whisper about it, but the black folks did, too. They all whispered about poor Victory Hembree, shut up by her daddy like a prisoner, and there were all kinds of rumors as to why – she was crazy, she was a drug addict, she was a prostitute and her daddy found out. But only Laveau and Caroline and a few others, including Lillian, knew the truth. The truth of a young girl who had badly shamed her family.

  “I’ll have my husband give it to him, Miss Victory,” she said hesitantly. “But… but why you be sendin’ him a note?”

  Victory stared at the woman for a moment, fearful to tell her the truth. What Lillian didn’t know, she couldn’t tell if she was cornered. Victory wasn’t entirely certain the woman wouldn’t talk if she was confronted by Laveau.

  “I… I want to tell him I’m sorry about what happened to his brother,” she finally said. “It was terrible what happened. I want him to know I’m sorry.”

  Lillian believed her. She had no reason not to. With a nod, she slipped the note down into her bosom, keeping it tucked safely away just as Victory had done.

  After that, Victory ate most of her supper except for the pork, suffering through two more of her mother’s visits before she finally went to bed and Lillian left for the night.

  Bundled up against the cold, Lillian made her way down to the corner where her husband was waiting for her. He took her back to their neat little home in Rose Cove. Once they were home, Lillian pulled out the note from her bodice and explained to her husband what it was for.

  Terrified that Laveau Hembree would somehow find out about it, Lillian’s husband snatched the note from his wife and threw it into the fire.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Present

  The Latling lake house was a Victorian Gothic built in eighteen hundred and seventy, one of the most recognizable homes in all of Pea Ridge. It sat in an older section of town that was dotted with these big grand dames, Victorian homes built back at the turn of the last century, all of them perched on a rise above the town like crown jewels on a tiara. This particular house sat on a quarter of an acre on a corner of two small streets, the yard vast and the garden well-tended.

  In fact, it was a beautiful home. Painted the original white color with massive amounts of gingerbread around the windows, roofline, and porch, Lucy was very interested in the home as they pulled up to the curb and saw the thing looming before them. It was clear that the family that lived there loved it a great deal and, in that knowledge, she felt some sadness for her own family’s pathetic home.

  “Wow,” she said softly. “That’s quite a house.”

  Beau peered from the windshield as he put the car in park. “It sure is,” he agreed. “It’s pretty famous in these parts for its garden. It’s been in several books about the
State of Mississippi.”

  Lucy opened her door. “For good reason,” she said. “I’d always hoped that Glory would look like this house, loved and well-tended. Now it just looks like the house where The Munsters live.”

  Beau grinned as he climbed out of the car, adjusting his Sam Browne belt as he shut the door. “Maybe you’ll fix all that when you buy it from your folks and fix it up.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ve got a nine-year-old and a seven-year-old you can put to good use pulling out weeds and stuff.”

  She laughed softly. “Will they work for sour gummies and M & M’s?”

  “And grape soda.”

  “Sold.”

  Grinning at each other, they made their way up to the sidewalk and onto the great stone steps that led up from the street. The front yard was enormous and an old stone walkway led up to the great front porch.

  As they walked, Lucy admired the beautiful gardens and the fountain, but as she was admiring that, Beau was admiring her. He’d put off several radio calls this morning because of her and he wasn’t sorry about it in the least. He finally told dispatch he was on some personal business and not to bother him unless it was an emergency.

  Right now, he was just where he wanted to be, entrenched in something that had brought some excitement and purpose back into his life. Odd as it sounded, he felt like this was one of the most important things he’d ever done but that was, in part, due to the fact that he wanted to impress Lucy.

  There; he’d admitted it. He wanted her to be grateful to him for his help and a grateful woman might be willing to show her gratitude in many ways….

  So he watched Lucy as they walked up to the front porch, his attention moving between the house and her as she bent over rose bushes or peered at flower vines to see what species they were. They were just nearing the porch when the front door flew open and a man appeared.

  The man was older, maybe in his seventies, with white hair and bushy white eyebrows. He walked right out of the door, down the front steps, and held out a hand to them both.