“I thought . . .”
He shifted so as to bring his back to the settee’s arm and his knee up to the seat between us. “What? What did you think?”
“That maybe somebody here would think I looked nice.” I shook my head. “Presentable. Professional. That if I looked the part, people would respect me.”
“No offense, but you just looked hoity-toity. And when it comes to earning respect? Around here? That’s done with a hard day’s work. An honest hard day’s work.”
Honest. My mind flittered to Sean. To the dishonesty of using steroids while playing sports. How would the people of Testament feel about him when they learned the truth? Worse yet, how would they feel about me?
“What are you thinking?” Will asked.
I sighed deeply. “That I want to tell you my story now. If you’ll listen.”
His jaw flexed. “Have I ever not listened?”
“Well,” I said, drawing the word out. “You did prejudge me. ‘Your type’ and all.” I repeated the words he’d used to chew me out in front of the school.
His eyes met mine as he remembered the moment, bringing a new level of regret. “I’m sorry about that.” He nodded briefly. “Too.”
I didn’t say, “I accept your apology.” I didn’t need to. Sharing with him my worst moment was a gift beyond any acceptance, and showed I was willing to take the chance—once more—for either approval or rejection.
I always expected rejection. But, maybe this time . . . “When I was in the sixth grade, more than anything in the world, I wanted to be what I called a ‘normal kid.’ I wanted to go to public school. I wanted to have scads of giggling girlfriends around me.” I looked up to the sky. “I had been reading Baby-Sitters Club books and The Saddle Club books and had gotten some ideas as to how ‘normal’ girls lived.”
Will narrowed his eyes. “I guess I missed out on those books.”
“They were and are wonderful books. And they’re about normal girls doing normal girl things.”
“Like?”
“Like babysitting and horseback riding.”
“Well there you have it. I had more or less pictured you with some equestrian training behind you,” he said with a grin.
I frowned. “Well, yes. I do have equestrian training. But no adventures.”
“Like the Saddle Club girls.”
“Right.”
“I see.”
“May I continue?”
“Please.”
“My best friend was—and still is—Leigh. And she was the greatest, but . . . I wanted more. I tried so hard to explain it to her . . .”
“Did she get it?”
“No. No matter how hard I tried, she couldn’t even begin to fathom what I saw, first, in the books and, second, in the whole ‘normal’ experience I wanted to have.”
“And you were willing to go it alone?”
“If that’s what it took. I’d never been afraid of a challenge, but this was truly the first one that took me out of my comfort zone.”
“I guess coming to Testament was your last.”
My last. And my second. How could I explain the wall I’d built? The one I cautiously lived behind?
“Well, anyway, between sixth and seventh grades—that summer—I pitched one grand campaign to get my parents to let me go to public school. At first they were fervently against it.” I felt heat pinch my cheeks, remembering some of my antics. “Eventually, though, they relinquished.” An insect played about my face and I shooed it away.
“I take it you went?”
“I did. I walked into that school thinking all these fresh-faced girls were going to be my friends.” I tugged my hair behind one ear. “That they’d practically fall all over themselves to see who could be my . . . what do the kids call it today?”
Will shook his head; he didn’t know.
“A . . . um . . . a bestie! All those girls would want to be my ‘bestie.’ Only, they wanted nothing to do with me. They let me know without so much as a ‘who-ha’ that I was the outsider.”
Will chuckled. “A who-ha?”
I shrugged. “I heard that in one of your songs on the radio.”
“A who-ha,” he repeated. “All right. Keep going.”
I swallowed past the more painful memories of my short stint in public school. Felt tears sting the backs of my eyes, threatening. Not that I’d give them the satisfaction. I’d cried enough the night before. I didn’t need to add to the waterworks. “In two weeks’ time I returned to my old school, scarred but much wiser than the girl who’d left in May.” I raised my bum foot, hoping for some of the throbbing to ease. “To this day, I’m sensitive to those who I believe are prejudging me. And, in some ways, I don’t let anyone in. Not too far, anyway. Only my grandmother. My parents. And Leigh.”
He ran his thumb across my cheek and caught a tear, brushing it away. “And, maybe now . . . me?”
I drew back just enough to wipe my cheek with my own fingertips. I couldn’t have him touching me. Not yet. Even with his attempt at humor. “The truth is—and I figured this out last night after you left—that awful year, I went into public school thinking all these girls would want to be my friend because of who I am. I never realized that—like Gram tried to tell me before I came here—to have a friend I must first—”
“—be a friend,” we said together.
“Yeah,” Will said. “My grandmother has said that more times than I can count.”
“I suppose that’s why I got along so well with Brianna and Alma right away. I offered Brianna something she needed and, quite frankly, who couldn’t get along with Alma?”
“For sure.”
“When we first met, that day in your grandparents’ kitchen, I got that old sensation of not being good enough. Right enough to be a part of this world. Your world. Not for six months, for sure. Maybe not even for six minutes.”
Will tilted his head. “Let me ask you a question. And be honest.”
“Okay.”
“How do you feel about your new clothes? Really feel about them? About wearing them and being seen in them?”
“Honestly?”
“One hundred percent honesty required.”
I ran my palms down the legs of my jeans and lifted my shoulders. “Will, these are the most comfortable clothes I’ve had since . . . since I don’t know when.” I laughed. “But I can’t say I would want to give up some of the things I brought here with me. Because they are also me. Who I am.”
“Who says you have to give them up?”
I cocked my head. “Didn’t you?”
“Not really.” He extended one foot, showing off the right cowboy boot. “I guarantee you these cost more than, say, those Ferragamos you had on your first day. And I probably didn’t fool you, on Sunday. Did I?”
I guffawed. “So you were wearing Armani.”
Will laughed with me. Then he sobered. “It’s not giving up, Ashlynne. It’s expanding your horizons. Finding out that you’re more than you thought you were. Or, in my case, that being who you were had always been just fine.”
I understood. When I’d gone to Chimney Rock to Bubba O’Leary’s, I’d not left feeling as though I were giving anything up. The closet in the upstairs bedroom of the cottage still held the name-brand clothes and shoes I’d always known. Now, they also held clothes and shoes that had taken nothing away from me or my life, but rather added to it.
Will clapped his hands together. “Are we done with this? Because the air around here is starting to get real thick . . .”
I could only nod in response. Nothing had been settled. Not really. But we—William and I—were at least back to an even playing field.
“All right then. Tell me what you found out about the graves.”
I held his eyes with mine. “And then can we talk about Sean Flannery?”
“Do you really want to go there again?”
“Yes. And I have my reasons.”
“I’m sure you do.”
; After a momentary standoff, I sighed and said, “The graves are for the bodies of freed slaves who didn’t suit with the white landowners’ ideas about what they should and shouldn’t be doing. Even though their comings and goings should have no longer been dictated by former owners.” I looked Will directly in the eye. “I don’t think I had any idea how bad it was back then. How much risk was taken or how big a price they were willing to pay.”
“The Thirteenth Amendment didn’t come easy. Even a war—a lost war for us—couldn’t change the minds of men who’d grown up in a certain way of life.” He returned his hat to his head. Rested his elbows on his knees. “Generations have to die out to make those kinds of changes. Not just one. Many.” He cracked his knuckles. “What kind of information have you gathered?”
“I’ve made a list of names of people who appear on the 1870 census but do not appear on the 1880 census. Some of those are crossed out because I found them in nearby counties. I guess people moved in those days, they just didn’t move far. But, Will. Every one of the missing I’ve been able to account for so far had been adults. Some of the children who are under their names in 1870 seem to correspond to names I find living with other families ten years later.”
“So, they would have been taken in by loved ones. Friends, family, or neighbors.”
“Alma says her grandmother has some information in an old family Bible.” I paused. “I’m meeting with her later today.”
“Really?”
Nodding, I answered, “Alma’s coming to get me soon.”
Will looked to the highway as if her car would appear.
“I also want to go back to some of the old newspaper reports from those days to see if there is anything about a group of freed slaves who simply vanished,” I added. “I can’t, for the life of me, wrap my mind around nearly a hundred people being killed off and no one blinks. No one says anything.”
The faraway look returned. The same look I’d seen when I first mentioned the possibility of slaves being buried in the graves. Then he blinked, turned his face to mine and said, “Do you have any idea who may have been behind their deaths?”
“Their murders, you mean? Yes, I do. I went to see Miss Helen—”
“When did you do that?”
“Alma took me the other day. Miss Helen told me what she remembered from some of her husband’s stories. Stories he told when he was drunk, which she said could be quite often.”
“He wasn’t a nice person. Or so I’ve always been told.”
“Miss Helen claimed her husband’s father and a Mr. Jefferson, along with a Mr. Clinton, were behind it.”
Will’s brow shot up. “I know those names. They were icons in our town’s history. Some of their people still live here.”
“And are they highly respected?”
“Yes, ma’am. They are.”
“Well, being an icon in one generation and highly respected in another doesn’t mean they didn’t do it.”
Will thought for a moment. “What are you planning to do with all this information?”
I straightened my spine. “A story like this will raise a few brows . . . stir some nasty stuff in the pot.”
He looked at me sideways. “I know.”
“Are you okay with it? Even if it means things aren’t peaceful and calm? Even if it raises a scandal?”
Will cracked his knuckles again. Hung his head low between his shoulders. Then turned his head to face me. “It’s hard. After Chicago. But I’ll work on it.” After a slight nod he added, “I’ll work on being okay with it.”
I touched his hand with my own as though I were touching the dead for the first time. Tentative. Afraid, but curious. “Will, we still have to talk about Sean.”
“One pot-stirring at a time, okay?”
I shook my head. “I can’t leave this alone, Will.”
“You can.” His face turned shadowy. “Football is serious business, Ashlynne. Remember?”
I remembered. Faith. Family. Football. Still . . . I chose to keep my voice calm as I said, “And the murder of ex-slaves isn’t?”
His jaw flexed once more and this time his teeth clenched as he said, “You know what I mean.”
“Yes I do. But, Will? What if I’m right?”
“Then the rest of the year will be miserable. Slave graves is one thing. But you’re in a no-win position here, Ashlynne.” He retrieved my crutches, handed them to me, and stood. “Besides, you’re leaving in about five and a half months. News like what you’re proposing to report will hang in the town for much longer than that.”
I hobbled up. Positioned the crutches under my arms. For a moment, I stared at the rocks around my foot. Pressed my lips together. “All right,” I said without looking up. “If you insist. I’ll leave this subject for another time.”
As if . . .
“Hey,” he said, tilting my chin upward so I was forced to meet his eyes. They were now tender. Filled with concern. “I’m putting my foot down for bigger reasons than a desire to stay scandal-free. Ashlynne, a few months back the biggest outrage to rock this town was when the waste management folks wanted to change the order of trash days. People here, they don’t get riled up in a bad way about much. But challenge them on anything to do with football and you’ve got yourself—as my grandmother often says—a pupu platter full of problems.”
I forced myself not to laugh. But I did smile.
“Sean is their hometown hero. Our hometown hero. With the graves, you’ll upset a few folks and sully the names of some dead folk. But with this . . . you won’t win, no matter if you’re right or wrong. You’ll get hurt and”—he shook his head and sighed—“I care too much for you to allow that.”
“Do you?”
“Of course.”
I nodded, removing my chin from his fingertips. He was right. I was in a no-win situation. But it was also a no-win situation for Sean. Maybe more than the boy realized.
But I knew. And Leigh knew. And so did Lawson.
Still, for now, I’d go along with Will’s demands.
Or at least pretend to.
34
Alma’s grandmother lived not too far from Brianna. Their houses appeared to have been built around the same time—both postwar “crackerbox”—and both had been refurbished with white aluminum siding.
Alma’s grandmother had added French-blue shutters to the front windows, however, which gave the home a more welcoming feel.
As soon as Alma opened the front door and called “Nana,” an older woman replied, “Come on in and have a seat.”
Unlike Brianna’s home, Alma’s grandmother’s home was elegantly furnished in antiques. Miniature tea sets graced end tables and the fireplace mantel. The fireplace itself had a rose-carved brass screen over it.
“Have a seat,” Alma said, pointing to a high-back sofa.
I touched the wood running along the top. “This is lovely.”
“It’s a Duncan Phyfe,” she said, her voice kept low. “Nana bought it back in the early fifties. She only lets certain people sit on it, so consider yourself blessed.”
Something told me, even before we’d arrived, that Alma’s grandmother was a proper lady. I had changed into a simple skirt and top purchased at Bubba O’Leary’s along with a pair of flats and was now glad for it. Although my ankle throbbed and I knew I’d have to pack it in ice later.
Alma stuck her head around a wide opening leading to the dining room, also elegantly decorated and papered in a pattern of large chintz roses. “Nana, do you need help?”
“Thank you, Alma. I could use a hand.”
Minutes later, “Nana” shuffled in from the kitchen using a walker, dressed in what I thought might be church clothes, pillbox hat included. Alma stayed about two steps behind her, carrying a large silver tray topped with a serving set.
“Don’t know how in the lands I thought I was going to carry that tray and walk with this walker,” she said. Then she cackled. “You must be Ashlynne.”
I stood, ext
ended a hand. “I am. Nice to meet you, Mrs.—”
“Robinson. And it’s so nice to meet you too, but you must promise to call me ‘Nana.’ ”
Alma placed the tray on the coffee table. “I hope you like tea,” she said. “My grandmother doesn’t think four o’clock should come unless tea is served.”
I felt my smile pull at my lips. “I prefer tea, actually.”
“Really?” Alma asked, straightening. “Did you ever tell me that?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I returned to my seat and patted the cushion beside me. “I hope you’ll sit next to me,” I said to Mrs. Robinson . . . Nana.
We enjoyed our tea over the next half hour, which we filled with talk about the weather, the differences in Winter Park and Testament, and my family.
“I remember your grandmother and grandfather,” she told me.
“You do?” I felt myself brighten.
“Mmm. Good people, good people . . .”
“They are. Well, Papa was . . .”
“Your grandfather passed, did he?”
“Yes.” The air-conditioning came on, and billowed the sheers hanging at the front window.
“So many die,” she said. “Me, I’m hanging on at ninety-one.”
“Ninety-one?” I said, looking to Alma.
“Which is why she’s so good for you to talk to.” Alma leaned from the occasional chair where she sat toward her grandmother. “Nana, where’s your family Bible?”
“Back there next to my chair in my sitting area.” She pointed to a small door I’d not noticed before.
“Be right back,” Alma said. True to her word, she returned within a minute. “Here you go,” she said, handing the Bible to her grandmother.
Nana opened the book to the very back. The few pages of text I saw were onionskin thin. Yellowed on the edges from its owner’s fingerprints. “Right here,” she said, pointing to a family tree chart. “See if there is anything here that might interest you.”
The Road to Testament Page 29