Zora and Me: The Summoner

by Victoria Bond

  Mrs. Calhoun freed my friend from the chain of her tape measure. “I’m done, Zora.” But getting fussed over was a gilded cage Zora seemed to be warming to.

  “Mrs. Calhoun,” she asked, “what colors do you think best suit me?”

  Mrs. Calhoun smiled. “All of them. What colors do you prefer?”

  Zora pondered the question, the answer to which was suddenly and surprisingly important. For Zora, who had eschewed appearances all her life, a burgeoning interest in clothes wasn’t about showing off. It was about revealing the color and tone of what she felt.

  “Pale purple,” Zora answered. “And ivory.”

  “I’ll be sure to remember that,” Mrs. Calhoun said as Mr. Calhoun stepped into the dining room with the bowl of stew, placed it in the center of the table beside a pitcher of grapefruit punch, then untied his apron and draped it over a chair.

  “Time to eat,” he announced. We all took our seats.

  “Bless the bounty of my husband’s hands,” Mrs. Calhoun prayed, “that it may nourish these two girls you have granted us the favor of welcoming into our home. Please, Lord, keep Zora safe in body and mind at school in Jacksonville and bring her home again to us all very, very soon. Amen.”

  Mr. Calhoun said amen, and I did, too. Zora sat silent.

  “You all right?” Mr. Calhoun lifted the bowl of chicken and dumplings and passed it to Zora. Zora passed it on to Mrs. Calhoun without serving herself. Mrs. Calhoun spooned a fluffy dumpling and some brown meat and gravy onto Zora’s plate anyways. Sadness had stripped away Zora’s appetite, as it had mine, I realized.

  “Mr. Calhoun,” Zora answered, “I’m grateful that I’ve been enrolled in school in Jacksonville. But I can’t help thinking that I got what I most wanted in the world because Mama died. Mama died!” Zora erupted into sobs, the dam of her grief broken by a flood of guilt.

  Mr. Calhoun looked at Zora with compassion and understanding. Folks are like locked chests. You can’t guess which key will open the lid on their experience, especially when you’re a child. Yet that’s just where the key to most reside: their childhoods.

  “Coping with grief isn’t about feeling better,” Mr. Calhoun said. “It’s about not feeling alone in your grief.” As he said this, Mrs. Calhoun gazed at the man with whom she had built a happy life. A life, I intimated, that was not free from any kind of agony. “My mama died when I was a little older than you,” Mr. Calhoun continued. “Afterward, some of her friends — all domestics — pooled portions of their savings and sent me to college in Pennsylvania. They gave me my start in the world. Those women let me know I wasn’t alone. Neither are you, Zora. You’re not alone with this.”

  Zora replied, “But I will be in Jacksonville.”

  “No, you won’t,” I jumped in, hoping against hope that I could stop my own heart from breaking. “Every night, I’ll sit down and write to tell you everything that’s happening here. It will feel like you’ve never left Eatonville. And you’ll do the same: You’ll write and tell me all ’bout Jacksonville, the school, the other girls, and your classes. Why, you’ll make it feel like I’m right there with you! We’ll only ever be a letter away from each other and neither of us will feel alone.” Everyone nodded and agreed and wiped tears, and we went on eating our chicken and dumpling stew, but I’m not sure I had managed to convince anyone, least of all Zora and myself.

  I hardly slept the night before Zora was set to catch the train for Jacksonville. The morning of her departure, I could hardly stop crying. I couldn’t bear to see Zora go, though she had to. Zora would always have Eatonville in her heart, but it was no longer home for her.

  Well-wishers gathered at the Calhoun house to say goodbye. The Calhouns, the Bakers, Mr. Clarke, Mama, and Old Lady Bronson drank coffee on the porch. Mr. Ambrose had offered to drive Zora to the station but hadn’t yet arrived. Teddy and I sat with Zora in the front room to sulk. “The streets in Jacksonville will be so busy,” I said in a dull attempt to make conversation. “Do be careful, Zora.” In Eatonville, everyone knew Zora. In Jacksonville, I was keenly aware, no one would. Anonymity could free white men from the consequences of their actions. Anonymity transformed women, coloreds, and especially colored women into prey.

  “Carrie,” Teddy countered, “don’t forget that our hometown isn’t exactly the paragon of safety. It’s a place where there’s been a grave robbery, not to mention a murder, and an attempted murder. I think Eatonville has prepared Zora to handle herself in the big city just fine.”

  Zora, who had been uncomfortably silent all morning, gave a little chuckle. Then another and another, until a full-on belly laugh filled the room with buoyancy enough to float Zora to Jacksonville. Teddy joined in. I wanted to laugh, too, and I was relieved that Zora could find it in herself to laugh at all. But I couldn’t. Teddy had reminded me of the litany of evil things that occurred in Eatonville. To me, Zora leaving was one more.

  “What you three in here hooting and hollering ’bout?” Mr. Baker boomed as he came into the front room, holding a cup of coffee.

  Zora said, “Your son here just made the case for how Eatonville has prepared me to survive in the big, scary world. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “Leave it to a future doctor to frighten the bejesus out of someone.” Mr. Baker held the screen door open for us as we filed out onto the porch in order to say our proper goodbyes.

  Mr. Calhoun addressed all three of us when he said, “You are well prepared to attend any high school in this state. You’re graduates of one of the best one-room schoolhouses in Florida. Every grown-up on that porch beamed proudly, like they were each a parent to every one of us. “For our people,” Mr. Calhoun continued, “there may be nothing more important than a formal education. At the same time, you have learned a great many lessons outside of my classroom. A lot of those lessons have been ugly, but they will be as valuable to you as your book learning.”

  “Sometimes more valuable,” Old Lady Bronson added. “I have a gift for you, Zora.” She reached deep into one of her giant apron pockets and pulled out a book. She handed it to Zora, who registered its weight in her palm. The title and the name of the author were embossed on the black cover in gold. Zora traced the lettering with her finger like it was the route on a treasure map. “History of Brazil, Volume I, by Robert Southey,” Zora read out loud.

  “In that book,” the old lady said, “you’ll discover how and when the word zombie came into the English language — and even how the idea of zombies has survived to this day.”

  Zora put the book to her chest and closed her eyes, as if allowing it to read her heart. Then she embraced the old woman.

  “Take it from someone who knows,” Old Lady Bronson said, squeezing Zora tight. “Some folks will try to take down and cast out a woman with a past. But I’m here to tell you that a woman with a past is a woman who has not let life pass her by. A woman with a past is a woman who has lived and dared and risked. And that’s the only kind of woman who can become immortal. So keep on living and daring and risking, Zora. Don’t let anyone take you down. Maybe you will achieve immortality yourself.”

  Mr. Ambrose’s horseless was approaching, which prompted Joe Clarke to chime in, “Lucia’s not the only one who has something for you.” He sprang down the stairs and knelt to retrieve something that was just out of sight. Mr. Clarke stood up, holding a beautiful pollard oak lap desk. He carried it back onto the porch and held it out to Zora. Zora ran her hand across the sloped writing surface. At the center, there was a large diamond shape inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and in the center of the diamond, a small circle inlaid with black onyx. She raised the lid of the desk. Inside she discovered paper, pens, and two corked crystal bottles for ink. Zora smiled more brightly than she had for months.

  “Do you like it?” Joe asked.

  “Oh, Mr. Clarke, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! I love it! Thank you.” Zora put her arms around Joe Clarke’s neck and kissed him on the cheek.

  “You’ll be fine,�
�� Joe murmured, still holding the desk in his arms. “You will.”

  By this time, Mr. Ambrose had parked his horseless. “Well, Snidlets,” he called from the driver’s seat, “I think it’s time we go. You’ve got a train to catch.”

  Mama went inside and retrieved Zora’s one small suitcase for her. “You have your sewing kit in here, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Zora said. “I packed it last night. Thank you.” Zora opened the suitcase and placed the book from Old Lady Bronson and the lap desk on top of her things, then closed it again. They both fit easily.

  Mama touched Zora’s shoulder, then came to her senses and pulled her in for a proper embrace. “Take care now, you hear? A mended sleeve can sometimes stand in for a mended heart.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Baker was next. “Just be yourself, girl, and you’ll climb high in the world,” she foretold, “mighty high.”

  Mr. Baker patted Zora on the back and nodded.

  The Calhouns embraced Zora together. “It’s been an honor to be your teacher,” Mr. Calhoun said. “Never stop being a student of the world, Zora. Never.”

  “I won’t,” Zora answered. “Thank you both for everything.”

  Old Lady Bronson kissed Zora on the forehead. “The world’s a harsh teacher, as you know. So be kind to yourself. That example will give others a lesson in how they should treat you.”

  “I love you all,” Zora said.

  Teddy opened the passenger-side door of the horseless, and Zora climbed in. Mama slid Zora’s suitcase into the back seat of the automobile. They were all set to go, but Mr. Ambrose was looking all around the car, like something was missing. Finally, he glared at me and Teddy. “You mean to say that you two aren’t coming to the station?”

  Mr. Baker guffawed, then cried, “Of course they are!” and shooed us toward the car. “Go on, you two!” everyone called, laughing, waving us along. So Teddy climbed into the back next to the suitcase and I piled in beside Zora. Mr. Ambrose started the engine, and we pulled away.

  The ride to the station felt long because I could feel myself already missing Zora. I could already feel the miles stretching between us.

  At the station, I got out first. Teddy climbed out next, holding Zora’s suitcase. Zora slid over to get out, too, but before she did, Mr. Ambrose placed an envelope in her hands.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Your ticket,” he answered, “and a little something besides to pick up a book or some candy when you feel like it.”

  The two shared a kindly embrace and then Zora got out of the car. “Aren’t you coming with us to the platform?” she asked. Mr. Ambrose hadn’t moved from the driver’s seat.

  “I think the job of seeing you off is covered.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done,” Zora said.

  “Well, you’ve lucked out, Snidlets. You don’t have to. Go on, now. I hear the train.”

  “I hear it, too,” Teddy said.

  The train whistle blew and the sound of it unnerved me. The three of us hustled over to the platform, where a few folks already stood waiting. Zora removed the ticket and the money from the envelope and quickly slipped the bills down into one of her socks. The train bellowed into the station in a plume of smoke and steam.

  The train screeched to a long, slow stop, and a mustachioed conductor disembarked. He wore a black hat and a dark jacket with two rows of sparkling gold buttons running down the front. He popped open a silver pocket watch. It seemed to glow, even in broad daylight, like a full moon. The man blazoned, “All aboard! All aboard! Eight forty-two to Jacksonville. All aboard!”

  “I guess this is it.” Zora reached for her suitcase.

  “I guess it is,” Teddy said, giving her a hug. “I’ll miss you,” he said with a sniffle.

  “I’ll miss you, too.”

  Then Zora turned to me. Her eyes filled and then spilled over. “Take good care of him, Carrie. And of yourself and Eatonville.” Her voice broke. “I’ll write as much as I can. I promise.”

  The conductor walked toward us. “Tickets, please.” Zora handed him the slip of paper. “Welcome aboard,” he said to her, then pointed to the car at the rear of the train.

  I threw my arms around Zora. “I love you,” I said. “You’ve meant everything to me and you always will.”

  “I love you, Carrie.”

  We watched Zora walk away from us, down the length of the train, all the way to the last car. There, she turned back to wave, then climbed the steps and disappeared. A moment later, the train pulled out, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Finally came the last car. We looked up and saw Zora, filling a window, waving and waving. Teddy and I waved back. We waved until we could no longer see the train. Long after the locomotive and its smoke and steam had vanished, Teddy and I still stood by the tracks, hand in hand, gazing at the empty horizon.

  I could already feel time moving differently. Once Zora found her place in this world, everyone and everything in it would have to start moving a little faster just to catch up.

  The months that followed Zora’s departure from Eatonville revealed a new perspective on the death of Chester Cools and on Teddy’s illness. Turns out that it may not have been a heart attack that killed Chester Cools but a fever, an illness, that got passed on to Teddy when Teddy helped Doc Brazzle prepare Mr. Cools’s body. In downtown Tallahassee, a few folks connected with the medical school came up sick, then a few more. Their symptoms all sounded a lot like Teddy’s. Because East had told us the ghastly truth about the fate of Chester Cools, it didn’t take long for us to put the pieces of the puzzle together. We all knew for sure now where the old man’s body had taken up final, grisly residence.

  White folks, on the other hand, were wringing their hands, wondering if God was delivering retribution on Eatonville’s behalf for the lynching of Terrace Side and the desecration of a grave that may or may not have belonged to a zombie. Joe Clarke’s proposal to expand our town had languished in the halls of state government for years, but Tallahassee was ready to wager that they could end their blight by giving us, the Negroes, permission to build a bigger town. The expansion wasn’t Mr. Clarke’s idea anymore. It was simply a good idea. Nevertheless, John Hurston sopped up all the credit for the turn in our fortunes, while he blithely shook off accountability in his private life.

  Zora had been living in Jacksonville for a year when Mr. Ambrose, who had been paying her school bills, died. The school began sending the bills to her father. John Hurston refused to pay. For a while, the school put Zora to work to cover her room and board, then they ran out of enough things for her to do to cover the costs. So then she took on a domestic job in Jacksonville to pay for school herself. With less time on her hands, Zora wrote to me less. Then her letters stopped altogether. Eventually my letters to her were returned, unopened. Zora had left school. Many years passed before I heard from Zora again or had any idea where she had gone.

  It wasn’t until she was a student again, at the famed Howard University in Washington, DC, that Zora renewed our correspondence. She filled me in on the missing years: She had worked as a maid for a beautiful, temperamental actress in a traveling theater company. More exotic yet, for a short time, she had been a domestic for the lady acrobats of a struggling circus. She confessed to having lied about her age in order to be allowed to finish high school in Maryland. In all the years I knew her growing up here in Eatonville, Zora had turned exaggeration into an art, but to the best of my knowledge, she never outright lied. In the larger world, it looked like lying was somewhat necessary for survival. I’ve since learned, of course, that she was not alone in that. Most women who got ahead then, who had ambition, likely had to do a fair bit of lying.

  A southern soul determined to become a northern star, after Howard University, Zora dropped anchor in New York City as a student at Barnard College. During that period, I stalked the post office in Atlanta where Teddy and I lived at the time, eag
er for one of Zora’s glorious updates detailing gin parties, rent parties, and book parties. She’d send news of friends, copies of her publications, and pictures of herself wearing stylish hats, dressed in long dresses, and draped to her waist in beads.

  As for Teddy and me, Teddy followed in Doc Brazzle’s footsteps, enrolling at the Meharry Medical College. I enrolled in the nursing program there and we had been married two years when I had my first baby. Alexander, your father, was born a month after I graduated. Teddy completed his residency in Atlanta where there were a whopping two colored hospitals. We stayed on there for many years with Alexander and your aunt Rebecca.

  One day, early in October, I was helping Teddy by delivering medicine to a patient. It was late afternoon, and Rebecca, who must have been four at the time, was with me. The neighborhood was entirely unfamiliar to me; it was lovely, old. Walking down that nice street, lined with big houses on that golden October afternoon, I got a chill. I was scared without knowing why. I must have been gripping Rebecca’s little hand hard because she squealed in pain and pulled away. Her reaction made me stop and try to get my bearings. I looked up to see that I was standing in front of a familiar house. The fence, the eaves, the porch, the ancient sycamore. I had seen this very house before, all those years ago in the pictures from Mr. Cools’s trunk.

  I never did deliver the medicine, and I never went to that neighborhood again.

  When things began to go bad up north for Zora — publishing troubles, folks saying mean and vicious things about what she wrote, crazy neighbors accusing her of things that made her sick in the heart — it took Zora an awfully long time to come back home, where she could be loved, where she could heal. Too long, and I had a hard time forgiving her for that.