Africaville
Page 34
“You don’t have to look,” Warner says with a hand on Zera’s elbow, “if you don’t want to.”
“No, sir,” Zera says. “I came here to see the remains, so I intend to see them.”
Zera steps toward the container with her hands crossed at her chest, her jaw sagging. Her palms feel coated with the talcum she rubbed on her son’s bottom during the weeks after she brought him home from the hospital. Her nose recoils at the stout scent of the camphor jelly she rubbed on his feet at bedtime. She can hear Omar’s heavy breathing as she leads him down Farish Street on his first day at the elementary school. Those are memories she wanted to enjoy in her forties, when she was sad about being beyond childbearing age. But in prison, whenever she had tried to sit and think deeply about her son, the attempt only brought pain.
The gathered bones seem strange to look at, an odd ash-gray color. She studies them a long while, wanting to recognize them. Does she? She reaches inside and touches a few of the bones. They feel dry and brittle, like a bit of old house paint.
The employee steps to the shelf, looking as if he wants to chastise Zera for reaching into the container. But he lets her step away unbothered, as he zips up the bag.
Zera returns to a spot near Warner. “Do you think it might be possible to locate a bit of spring water?” she asks.
“What for, Great-granny?”
“To douse the bones.”
The employee shakes his head. “Only staff is allowed to clean the remains,” he says.
“I don’t plan to clean them,” Zera says. “Not even give them a full rinse. Just a douse.”
“How much water?” Warner asks.
“They used to say a handful was all you need,” Zera says.
The employee thinks a moment. After returning the lid to the container, he steps close to Warner. “We cannot allow any interference with the remains,” he says, his voice low. “I imagine there will be a pouring of libations at the graves. That’s allowed.”
“But that is not how we handle a reinterment in the place where I have folks buried,” Zera says.
The employee shakes his head. “I apologize. But we could get into trouble with the law.”
Warner steps to the container again and reads his grandfather’s name on the lid. Though he is not sure why, the employee’s denial of Zera’s request angers him. He waits a moment to calm down before he responds.
“But it means so much to my great-grandmother,” he tells the employee, hearing the exasperation in his voice. He is about to speak again when Zera pulls at the sleeve of his shirt.
“I heard the man,” she says. “If there is one thing I do nowadays, it is obey the law.”
Of the three caskets that went missing after remains were removed from the Africaville cemetery because of sinkholes, only one has been found. On Friday afternoon Warner, Yancy Platt, and four young men have nine graves to redig. The reinterment ceremony will happen tomorrow, Saturday, June 13, at noon. A few hours later the annual Africaville Remembrance Picnic will commence.
For the pouring of libations, each family will bring their own water in a container with some family history. Former Africaville residents insist the pouring must be done with clean spring water from the bluff. Only that will do.
It won’t be easy, as both underground springs in the former Centervillage area have dried up. “A spring still runs in the former Hindquarter,” Marcelina tells Warner, after the graves have been dug and he has wandered over to Nobody’s Acre. “But you have to beat back the weeds to get to it.”
Marcelina smiles broadly as she directs the crew bringing in long tables and large trash cans, to be left overnight for the remembrance picnic. She still looks pleased that the city council has, since rebuking the mayor, issued a proclamation declaring the Africaville cemetery a Halifax landmark. “The councillors didn’t help the cemetery out of love for it,” Marcelina says to Warner. “They only did it because they did not want to look bad in the newspapers.”
Marcelina has also been chatting with Zera, who rode with her to the bluff today. Zera sits in a folding chair. Warner stands near her, trying to sort out his thoughts about being on the bluff again. He is happy that his uncle Yancy Platt and his family will join him and Zera for the festivities tomorrow. It also pleases him to see Zera and Marcelina ignore him as they continue talking like old sisters. He wishes his great-aunt Luela had lived long enough to meet Zera. Luela and Zera might well have gotten along.
“Why is it that you haven’t taken your great-grandmother to the cemetery yet?” Marcelina asks Warner.
“I haven’t wanted to go yet,” Zera says. “I will see it tomorrow morning. Soon enough.”
Marcelina looks at Warner’s hand, and he raises it to show a metal container. “One of the relatives gave me this,” he says. “It’s an old field-engineer’s canteen. I heard Granddaddy Omar used to wear it as a kid, hanging from a rope tied around his waist.”
“We’d better get to finding the spring,” Zera says. “Before the early evening catches us.”
One of Marcelina’s helpers approaches with a tall stack of plastic tablecloths. After telling the helper to take the cloths back to the truck, Marcelina is quiet a moment. “May I have a word with you, Zera?” she asks.
Warner stands a moment, confused, and then walks off, leaving the women alone.
“Where will you be buried?” Marcelina asks Zera.
Zera shrugs. “The space near my husband, Matthew, has been taken. The cemetery where my mother and father are buried is full.”
“I suppose this is what happens when you live a long life,” Marcelina says.
“Especially when you’ve lived too much of your life apart from family.”
“There are spaces up here in Halifax,” Marcelina says.
“Where?”
Marcelina points in the direction of the cemetery. “We could put you there,” she says, “next to your son.”
Zera remains quiet and looks over at Warner, who stands at the edge of Dempsey Road. He seems to be staring off in the direction where they’ve been told the spring runs. Marcelina does not seem inclined to rush Zera to answer, as if she knows why the words will not come.
“Take your time if you need it,” Marcelina says. “There is no rush.”
Zera nods at Marcelina, rises, and heads over to join Warner. During the slow car ride to the old Hindquarter, she glances about. Behind her is the place where she has been offered a space to spend eternity beside her son. In front, Zera imagines she can see the land where the Sebolt house had once sat. Omar and the girl from the bluff had produced her grandson, Etienne, who was born in that house. Kath Ella? Yes, that was her name. What a shame that she was buried in Montreal and not here on the bluff beside Omar.
Even before getting out of the car, Zera can tell that the path to the spring has been well trod already today. As they approach the path, Zera takes the container from Warner. “No need for you to come,” she says. “I can fill it myself. But I would like you to pour.”
Warner gives in to her, but as Zera picks her way down the path a short distance, he begins to follow. Then he stops and turns back to the road.
With no weeds to brush back, the trip is short, and she soon reaches a small hill. Out of a crack in the jagged rock at the base of the hill, a thin stream of water trickles. After filling the container, Zera can see that someone has beaten the path farther through a line of tall bushes. She recalls Marcelina saying that the spring was a short walk from a clearing with a wonderful view over the basin.
Beyond the bushes the weeds give way to low tufts of grass. People say Zera is spry for her age. The container feels heavy and she is tiring; still, she keeps walking. In earlier times she might have lifted her dress hem, picked a spot along a far tree line—perhaps a silver hemlock, a needle-thin ash, or a showy birch—and raced toward it, laughing at some happy news or merely for fun.
The air is different here in Halifax. Perhaps it is the height of the bluff, or perhaps it’s the south-fl
owing winds bringing clean arctic air, not yet tainted by the grit of cities. She had once hoped to visit a few cities up north. But she had married a man from a family whose attention was along the Gulf Coast or out in the Caribbean. Still, a few Platt men had taken the trains north. Her son had gone up the coast by bus. He was laid to rest beside a few Platts who had traveled north by train. Perhaps he had been laid near a distant ancestor who had come to this land by sea?
At the edge of the clearing, she is surprised at how near the water is, an easy task to toss something into it. After reaching into the pocket of her dress, she opens her hand. At first she can hardly believe what lies in her palm. Is this piece of bone from her son’s thumb, elbow, or toe? She is certain the man at the funeral home wanted to honor a mother’s wish to douse the remains of her son. But he needed to keep his job. The law is the law.
Zera likes the feel of the cool water that she pours over the bit of remains in her palm. For a long while she stares at the drenched bone. At first she thought she would keep this part of her son with her only a short while. Then she would place it in the casket or drop it in the grave. But now there is talk of rejoining her with him here in what had once been Africaville, a reunion of mother and son. She will be with him soon enough. No need to give up this part of him yet. She will keep it with her for as long as she can, perhaps until she dies. Before her mind goes soft, she will confide the thievery to Warner—and then hand over the gift to him.
Acknowledgments
Over the nearly twenty years since I began writing Africaville, many people have helped nurture the novel to publication. Many thanks to my early readers Victor LaValle, Brian Hall, Marita Golden, Colum McCann, and especially Tom Jenks of Narrative magazine, where an excerpt of the novel was published. Thanks, also, to Bridgett M. Davis, Min Jin Lee, Sameer Pandya, Lorraine Berry, Maria Kennedy, Mildred Ehrlich, and Juanita Bobbitt. To Ayesha Pande, my brilliant literary agent, who provided years of feedback and encouragement. Patrik Bass, my smart and astute editor, who has worked diligently to improve the book and has been a tireless champion. The amazing marketing, sales, and publicity team at HarperCollins USA, especially Paul Olsewski, Tara Parsons, Mary Beth Thomas, Josh Marwell, and Andy LeCounte. My Canadian editor Iris Tupholme. Sally Arteseros, Randy Rosenthal, and Holly A. Hughes, whose critical eye and commentary on later versions of Africaville helped me tremendously to improve as a writer. Juanita Peters, Managing Director of the Africville Museum. Brenda Steed Ross, former resident of Africville and leader of the Africville Genealogy Society. The research staff at the New York and Halifax public libraries. A special thanks to Amina Iro, editorial assistant at Amistad, who guided me with tremendous aplomb through the many deadlines in the publication schedule. I am grateful to have attended residencies at Cuttyhunk Island Writers Residency, Vermont Studio Center, Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center, and Hambidge Center.
About the Author
JEFFREY COLVIN served in the United States Marine Corps and is a graduate of the United States Naval Academy, Harvard University, and Columbia University, where he received an MFA in fiction. His work has appeared in Narrative, Hot Metal Bridge, Painted Bride Quarterly, Rain Taxi Review of Books, The Millions, the Brooklyn Rail, and elsewhere. In the summer of 2018, he was a Paul Cuffee Scholar at the Cuttyhunk Island Writers’ Residency. He is a member of the National Book Critics Circle and is an assistant editor at Narrative magazine. He lives in New York City.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AFRICAVILLE. Copyright © 2019 by Jeffrey Colvin. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Cover design: Grace Han
Cover images: (woman) © Nova Scotia Archives; (map) THEPALMER/Getty Images
FIRST EDITION
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Colvin, Jeffrey, author.
Title: Africaville : a novel / by Jeffrey Colvin.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Amistad, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019017430| ISBN 9780062913722 (print) | ISBN 9780062913715 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Slaves—Fiction | African Americans—Migrations—History—20th century—Fiction | BISAC: FICTION / African American / Historical. | FICTION / Sagas. | FICTION / Family Life.
Classification: LCC PS3603.O4685 A68 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019017430
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Digital Edition DECEMBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-291373-9
Version 10222019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-291372-2
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