The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  “We’re from The Testament Tribune,” Alma said. “We’d like to do some research, if you can point us to where to start.”

  The woman placed her hands flat on the desk and pushed herself up. “There’s not a whole lot around here that I can’t put my finger on,” she said. “Where would you like to start?”

  “Land records,” I said. I hobbled in an effort to balance myself between the cramped furniture.

  “Take a seat,” the woman said, “and give me some names and dates.”

  Alma supplied the information. She joined me at the table and, less than a minute later, we had several books lying open in front of us. “Here ya go.” The older woman pointed to one of the pages. “Look here and you’ll see which microfiche box corresponds to what you’re looking for.” She stood straight. “Over there,” she said, indicating the rows of boxes, “is the microfiche. And right over here,” she said, turning to reveal two viewers, “is where you’ll load it.” Her eyes shifted between the two of us. “Do either of you know how to use the viewer?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And thank you so much.”

  “I’ll be right over here if you need me,” she said, then left us to our task.

  I pulled my notebook and a pen from my purse. “We’ll start with the land grants,” I said. “Then the census records.” My foot throbbed. I chose to ignore it.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We found the names Miss Helen had mentioned and the corresponding microfiche boxes. After several tries at winding the machine, the records worker walked over and asked if she could help. Alma and I both laughed, said, “Yes, we could use some help.”

  “It’s temperamental,” she said. She wound the film, slid it between two narrow pieces of glass, then spun it to the next reel. “There you go. Now, don’t go too fast or you’ll miss what you’re looking for. There’s an awful lot on these films.”

  I peered up at her. “How will we know where, exactly, to stop?”

  “Everything’s in alphabetical order.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. “Wonderful.”

  Alma and I began our search. Spinning first one way, then rolling the film back slowly in the other direction. When we were done, I turned to Alma and said, “Miss Helen was right. The land belonged to all the people she said.”

  “Next is the census records.”

  I placed my hand on Alma’s arm and her chocolate eyes focused on mine. “Oh, Alma. Do we really want to uncover this information?”

  “Shame on us if we don’t,” she said.

  Hours passed before we managed to form a complete list of freed slaves who were listed in 1870 but not in 1880. Only the total wasn’t a hundred, it was many, many more.

  “Take into consideration,” the records office employee said after we’d shared with her a bit about our task, “that some of those freed slaves would have left the area on their own and some would have died.”

  “But if they moved,” Alma said, “they wouldn’t have gone far, do you think?”

  “You may find some in neighboring counties. We have those records here, too.”

  “This could take days,” I said to them both. “To look up death certificates. Land grants. Record everything.”

  Alma glanced at my crutches leaning against the desk next to me. “Fortunately, time is something you’ve got, my friend.”

  Alma picked me up early the next morning.

  “Sleep well?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I said. I pointed to my temple. “Too much going on in my head.”

  “I know what you mean,” she said. “Finding out the truth about the past can be disturbing.”

  I thought of Will. Of what little bit I knew about him and his time in Chicago. “It sure can,” I muttered.

  We changed the subject to mindless topics as we continued on to the records office, where she dropped me off with a promise to return around lunch. I’d brought my laptop, opened up a spreadsheet, and set about recording names. I also found myself indebted to Miss Leila, the records employee I’d met the day before.

  “There’s a method to tracing former slaves,” she told me. “What you need to know is that, often, the slaves took on the surnames of their former owners.”

  I sat at the same table Alma and I had been at the day before and propped my foot on a chair from the other side of the table. I looked up at the older woman. “But the race will be recorded with a ‘B,’ right?”

  “That’s right.” She looked past the microfiche viewers to her desk. “I’m right over there if you need me.”

  A little after noon I received a text message from Alma that she was in the parking lot. “May I leave my things here while I go out for lunch?” I asked Miss Leila.

  “Honey, absolutely.”

  I hobbled to the parking lot and Alma’s awaiting car. As soon as I got in, she grinned at me and said, “Girl, I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was talking with my mama today about the graves and all. And, guess what?” She backed out of the parking lot, swung the SUV around, and headed toward Testament.

  I grinned. “What?”

  “She says there’s some connection between what you’re looking for and her mama’s family. She said Nana has some old family Bibles with a lot of the information you’re looking for. She said that Nana also knows something—and I quote—‘about the stuff we dared not talk about years ago’ ”—she turned onto the highway—“ ‘and now, when we can, we’ve managed to forget.’ ”

  “To forget? How can you forget something like this?” I shook my head. “See, this is exactly what I was talking about the other day. If we don’t remember, we forget.”

  Alma shook her head. “But we’ve made progress, you know? Think about the differences in 1865 and 1965.”

  “Civil rights.”

  “In 1965 Malcolm X died. Bloody Sunday in Selma.”

  “I remember studying that in school.” But I knew so little. “I don’t see how that makes 1965 any better than 1865, but maybe I’m just being cynical right now.”

  “Well, then just think about it—in 1965 Congress passed the Voting Rights Act.”

  I smiled. “That’s positive.”

  Alma smiled too. “And, not too many years later, look where we are. Even South Carolina has an African American elected to Congress.” She turned the car into a strip mall. “Great little café in here,” she said.

  “Good, because I’m starved.”

  “I’m sure they have a healthy salad or two that you’d like. Me,” she said, parking the car, “I want a juicy steak sandwich, open- faced, smothered in gravy.”

  I frowned. “You really should think about your health, Alma. Good food doesn’t have to taste bad, you know.”

  She crossed her eyes at me, then laughed with me. “Back to what we were talking about, ’cause I think this is important. Very important.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Look at me, Ashlynne. I’m a sports reporter. Me. Not for a major newspaper or anything, but a reporter nonetheless. I own my own home. I go where I want, when I want. I think what my nana was trying to say is that, once you find a calm spot in the water, you don’t rock the boat.”

  “But what if stories like the one we now know about need to be told? Do you just stay silent because you’re enjoying the good things in life now?”

  “Sometimes. I think mostly what Nana is saying is that you can be afraid you’ll lose the good stuff if you keep bringing up the bad. Does that make sense?”

  “Perfectly.” I opened the door. “So, does that mean we shouldn’t dig any further?”

  “Oh no.” She opened her door, got out and walked around to my side of the car, where she opened the back door to retrieve my crutches. She handed them to me. As I hobbled up, she said, “There’s a big difference in you finding information like this on some old graves and my nana making some grand announcement from her living room with old family Bibles spread open
around her.”

  I closed my door. “I understand.”

  “Good.” She took a step forward and I followed. “I’ll arrange for the two of you to meet.”

  “Hummmph,” I said as a thought played with my mind.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m just thinking how I spent Sunday afternoon teaching Brianna about cosmetics and now you’re teaching me about . . .”

  Alma stopped. I did too. “About?”

  “Something just dawned on me.”

  “Wanna share?”

  Hadn’t I done the same thing as Alma’s ancestors? As the people whose names could be found in her nana’s Bible? After seventh grade I’d closed a door, unwilling to discuss what had happened to me in public school. To talk about it meant to reveal the truth and to possibly shatter the wall I’d built. To talk about it meant . . .

  . . . to remember.

  30

  William arrived at the cottage on Thursday evening between 8:15 and 8:30, driving a Cadillac Escalade.

  “Where’s your truck?” I asked as I swung toward it. Fading sunlight illuminated the sapphire-blue metallic paint. Overhead, birds chirped like the songbirds in a Disney fairy tale. I glanced upward. Stop it, I ordered telepathically. I am not Cinderella and he is not Prince Charming. Although the pumpkin-to-carriage comparison didn’t escape me.

  “I thought you’d be more comfortable in my dad’s car.” Will opened the passenger’s-side door and reached for my crutches.

  Recognizing the car to be a newer model, I said, “I thought your mom and dad had been away for a while.” I hobbled over, hoisted myself in as efficiently and as gracefully as possible. After situating myself on the plush seat, I eased my feet toward the pristine, carpeted floorboard.

  “You mean because this is a newer-model car?” He closed the door on the question.

  When he’d gotten behind the wheel, I said, “Yes.”

  “Dad and Mom came home a year or so ago so Dad could have some medical testing done. Nothing serious.” He started the car. “And while they were here, they bought the Caddy because . . .” Will drove the car around the cottage without bothering to finish his explanation.

  “Because?”

  Will shook his head as though he were amused. “Dad found a great deal.” He glanced at me. “My father loves a great deal.”

  “But why? He can’t drive it if he doesn’t live here and he apparently wasn’t thinking in terms of taking it wherever he is. Where are they, by the way?”

  “England.”

  “England?” I chuckled in spite of a half-determined resolve not to be amused at anything Will Decker said during our time out. But, I had naturally pictured his parents serving in a third-world country and living in an adobe hut.

  “Don’t snicker,” he said, laughing with me. By then we were on the highway, heading toward town. “You have no idea of the need for Christian missionary work in England.”

  “I guess not.”

  “You like research so much, you should read up on it sometime.”

  I didn’t answer. I only stared at him for a long moment and tried to steady my thoughts. William Alexander Decker. Accused of unethical journalistic practices. I couldn’t fathom it. Difficult to work with at times, yes, but unethical? To the point where he had lost his position as the star reporter—the golden boy—at the Chicago Star?

  The golden boy.

  Sean Flannery was another golden boy. And tonight I had resolved to tell Will what I knew. I had to convince him of the importance of bringing Sean’s drug usage to light. It wouldn’t be easy, not with everyone in town putting all their hopes for football glory on the young man. But it had to be done.

  Will turned his attention to me. Night had nearly fallen. Only the faint light from streetlamps exposed the grin forming in the shadow of his hat’s brim. “What are you looking at, Miss Rothschild?” he asked.

  I blinked, feeling heat rush to my face, and turned to look out the windshield. “Nothing.”

  I heard faint chuckling, which I refused to acknowledge. Not the objective, not the objective . . .

  We ventured past the courthouse. Will turned the SUV first to the right, then left into a makeshift parking lot beside an auto repair business that looked to have been around since the Model A. When he caught me studying it—the old Coca-Cola signs, the antiquated gas pump off to the right from more modern-day pumps, the closed bay windows—he said, “Our very first service station here in Testament.”

  “A service station?”

  “Many, many years ago, when someone brought their car to get gas or whatever, they received complete service. Thus, they were called service stations.” He parked. Turned off the car. “See that old pump? It still reads forty-seven cents to the gallon.”

  My eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

  “Guy who owns it—Jesse—he decided to keep it for old time’s sake. Jesse is a grease monkey—as he puts it. So was his daddy and Jesse’s two sons are too.” He tipped his hat back a fraction of an inch. “By the way, I heard from Cliff today. Your car will be ready soon.”

  “Really?”

  “He says it looks good as new. I’ve already filed with my insurance on it, so you don’t have to worry about the cost.”

  The insurance. I hadn’t even thought about that. If I’d been in Winter Park when the accident occurred, my father would have handled everything for me. “Yours? Why not mine?”

  He brought the rim back to its starting place. “My fault. My responsibility.” He opened the car door. “Let me help you down. Hold on.”

  A few minutes later, Will and I ambled toward the silhouettes of a fairly large group of people gathering on a grassy mound. Some—mostly older—sat in lawn chairs along the crowd’s edges, but most rested on blankets. Everywhere, candles flickered. “Citronella,” Will told me when I commented on it. “To keep the skeeters away.”

  “Do you have one for us?” I pointed to the wicker basket Will carried.

  “Yes’m. Along with something for us to sit on and some snacks for the movie.”

  “Well, then you’ve thought of everything,” I replied.

  He smiled at me. “This ain’t my first rodeo, you know.”

  We found a vacant spot near the back of the crowd. I propped myself on my crutches while Will spread an old, somewhat ratty, blue-and-white quilt. He dug farther into the basket and brought out two boxes of Gobstoppers and two more of Boston Baked Beans candy. “My favorites,” he said, looking up at me. “Can’t watch a movie without them. But I’m not done so don’t worry.”

  “Uh-huh.” I scanned the crowd, some sitting, some milling about, all ready for entertainment. A lone figure moved toward us.

  Rob.

  I braced myself for the disappointment I feared he’d carry on his face at seeing William and me together but, instead, received a look of concern.

  “Hey there,” he said. “Doctor know you are out and about?”

  “He says I’m healing well. And I try to keep it elevated.”

  Rob crossed his arms. “Have you heard the latest?”

  Whatever smile I might have had on my face fell. “The latest?” Was he talking about Sean?

  Rob chuckled. “According to the last rumor I heard, Will was chasing you with a snake when you toppled down the ravine.”

  Will shook his head as he rested on his haunches and removed his hat, tossing it on the old quilt. “I hope you cleared things up.”

  “Why bother?” Rob asked.

  From over his shoulder I spied Brianna, sitting alone on a blanket. She waved to me and I waved back. “Hmmm,” I said. “I wonder where Maris is tonight?”

  Rob glanced in the direction of my gaze. “With her daddy and his family,” he said. “Maris and Bri were sitting not too far from me. A few minutes ago, Cliff came and got Maris. He asked if Brianna wanted to join them, but . . .”

  “And she said she didn’t?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, as though h
e were amazed by Brianna’s answer. “She said maybe she would later, but not right then. She seemed all right with Maris going, though.” He shrugged again.

  Good girl. “Hey, Rob,” I said, using my sweetest voice, “I really hate to see her sitting alone. Don’t you?”

  He looked over his shoulder again, then to me. “It is kinda sad. Like you said the other night, it’s amazing she doesn’t have every young buck in town knocking on her door.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw Will shake his head, but I chose to ignore him. “Well . . . ,” I drawled, “why don’t—you know—you?”

  Rob’s brow shot up so fast I was surprised it didn’t get lost in his hairline. “Me?” He pointed to his chest.

  “Why not?” I asked, hobbling a little to steady myself. “She’s a pretty girl. A sweet girl. You’re a good-looking guy who couldn’t be any nicer. You have a lot in common . . .”

  Rob blushed as he stared at his shoes. “Um, don’t you think, Ashlynne, that she might be just a tad too young for me?”

  Will feigned a cough. I raised my left crutch and jabbed his shoulder. “Hush,” I said. Then to Rob, “I’m not asking you to marry her, Rob. I’m only asking that you sit with her for one movie.”

  Will broke in, “And it’s not like you’re Old Man Baugh and Miss Helen.”

  I jabbed him one more time. He rubbed his shoulder as if I’d really injured him. “Do that again and you’ll walk home.”

  I shook my head. “Sure I will.” Then to Rob, “So? Go . . .”

  Again he blushed. “Well, all right. Sure. I can do that.”

  I grinned and my heart soared. Score one for Ashlynne.

  “Go on, then, Romeo,” Will told him. He glanced skyward. “It’s getting pretty dark. Movie ought to start soon.”

  Rob walked away, and I grinned at Brianna, who waved one more time. She looked up as Rob walked toward her. The way her smile illuminated the night, the movie may never start.

  I eased myself to the quilt and I felt Will’s hand on the small of my back, guiding me. I wished he wouldn’t. More than anything, I wished I didn’t need him to. The foreign felt familiar. The thing I found objectionable, I liked.