“Like what?”
They stopped for a moment and let a band of schoolchildren hustle past. “A decrepit shed, running my fingers along a brick wall in some shadowed room. A man’s voice. A woman’s humming. A pair of—” Effie loosened the knot of her bonnet.
“Go on.”
“A pair of eyes. A dead person’s eyes.” She could see them even now, wide pupils outlined in a thin ring of brown, dull and hazy as if covered by a scrim.
“Dead? How do you know they were . . . mais bien sûr, your work.” Adeline looked away toward the street, her lips and cheeks newly pale, and Effie wondered if she regretted her questions. A lacquered carriage rolled passed. A policeman on his bay. A wagon piled high with tightly baled cotton. When she turned back, Effie was surprised by the steadiness of her gaze. “That’s it? You don’t even remember who told you what to say when you reached the Union camp?”
Effie shook her head.
“However is that possible?”
“Schopenhauer believed loss of memory stemmed from the inability of one’s intellect to assimilate an event due to opposition from the will.” She thought it best not to add he believed this the root of madness.
“Intellect and will?” Adeline gave a dismissive flip of the hand. “Whatever the cause, they must be in there somewhere.”
* * *
The statehouse, a four-story affair crowned with a dome, spanned almost an entire block. A rust-speckled balcony wrapped around the building, casting shade on the rows of French windows beneath. As they passed through the columned entrance, Effie couldn’t help but wonder whether they’d see Samson somewhere inside. She fiddled with her bonnet and gave her skirt a quick shake. A short vestibule led into a grand rotunda aglow with afternoon sunshine from the skylights high above.
“This used to be the most fashionable hotel this side of Canal Street. Mamm said they threw the most wonderful balls here before the War. Can you imagine?”
Effie could not. Aside from a few Reform Society functions, she’d never danced. Still, the look in Adeline’s eye—one of such wonder and longing—made even Effie wistful. What would it be like to feel Samson’s hand upon her back, his breath upon her cheek? To hear his melodious voice in her ear above the music as he led her around the dance floor? Her blood sparked at the thought as if each tiny cell had been laced with gunpowder. She shook her head to dislodge the fantasy and stymie the conflagration in her veins, pleasant as it was.
Adeline sighed. “Quel dommage. Now they’ve turned the beautiful ballrooms into Senate chambers and the like. All that political humbug.”
Effie clutched the worn marble balustrade as they climbed a curved stairway to the second floor. At the far end of a narrow hallway, they arrived at an office. Adeline knocked and a handsome young mulatto answered.
“Adeline, chérie, quelle surprise.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Tu es belle comme toujours. Ça va?”
Adeline looked down and smiled. She’d increased the rate at which she blinked and surreptitiously bit her bottom lip so that it flushed pink. Her friend, meanwhile, had straightened his posture and pinned back his shoulders. His eyes never left Adeline’s face.
Effie watched enthralled. She’d seen behavior like this before, but never paid it much mind. Often people’s movements were awkward, rigid, their speech riddled with “ums” and “aahs.” But Adeline was a master. She said something in French about the man’s cravat. They both laughed. Then she playfully adjusted the silk tie as if it had been askew, her hand lingering on his chest a moment afterward. More laughter. Adeline’s gaze was teasing, bold then retreating, like a cat pawing at a cornered mouse before sinking in her teeth.
“François,” she said, stepping back to include Effie in their repartee. “May I introduce Miss Effie Jones. She’s the reason for my little visit today.”
He turned as if seeing Effie for the first time and extended his hand. “Miss Jones.”
She shook it, both relieved and slightly offended he’d not tried to kiss her hand as he’d done with Adeline’s. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. . . .”
“Rey, but do call me François. My what a strong handshake you have.”
Heat rushed to the tips of Effie’s ears. “A necessity of my profession. I’m—”
Adeline gave a shrill laugh and nudged Effie in the ribs with her elbow. “We could spend all day on pleasantries, but we really haven’t the time. I told Miss Jones here you could help us. We’re looking for the old Freedmen’s Bureau records.”
“I believe they’re being kept up on the fourth floor, but I’m afraid they’re rather in a jumble. You could put in a request with the file clerk and—”
She tugged playfully at his cravat again. “I’m sure we can manage ourselves. All we’re after are the accounts of missing kinfolk. We’ll put everything in right order when we’re done.”
He ran a hand over his closely cropped hair.
“S’il te plaît, François. Pour moi.” She smiled and cocked her head, displaying the smooth skin and graceful line of her neck.
“All right. Come on.”
He led them up two more flights of stairs, down another hallway, and unlocked a room the size of two streetcars lined side by side. Effie and Adeline grimaced at each other, then waded inside. The air was hot and reeked of mildew. A lone window illuminated the room. Dust motes drifted through the narrow beam of light peeking between the moth-eaten curtains. Otherwise the room was dark.
“I don’t think the gas works up here,” François said. “Let me see if I can find a lantern.” He left down the hall.
Effie followed the weak glimmer of light, knocking into stacks of boxes and tripping over crates on her way to the window. She flung back the curtains and lifted the sash. A light breeze drifted in, pleasantly cool against the sheen of sweat that had already built on her skin. “That’s better.”
“Much,” Adeline said. “Now, where to begin.”
Receptacles of all shapes and sizes crowded the room—chests and paperboard boxes, burlap sacks and driftwood crates. Adeline peered into an open box with rolled-up sheaves of papers jutting out like stalks of corn. As she sifted through the rolls, a trio of moths flew up into her face. She yelped and batted them away. From the far corner, somewhere amid the jumble, a rat squeaked and scampered away.
Adeline’s complexion turned ashen.
“You don’t have to do this,” Effie said. “I can carry on from here alone.”
“Nonsense.” She took a deep breath, then removed her hat and gloves. “I said I’d help and that’s what I mean to do.”
François returned with an oil lamp.
“All these boxes are from the Freedmen’s Bureau?” Effie asked.
He looked around and nodded. He recommended they start in the corner by the window, though he didn’t offer any logic in support of this advice, and begged off, promising to come check on them once he’d finished his bookkeeping for the day. He flashed Adeline a smile that seemed to suggest, despite his initial hesitation, he was game for any conspiracy to which she was party.
“Are you lovers?” Effie asked when he’d gone.
“Mon Dieu, what a question! You really must try for more tact.”
“Fine. Is your mutual interest in each other of the romantic or corporeal variety?”
“Hardly an improvement.” Amusement played beneath her words, undermining the glower Adeline had set upon her face. “Mais, non. We’re nothing of the sort.”
“Is it his family name or his income?”
Adeline pulled the lid off a nearby box. “Both, if you must know.”
“Then why all the . . . all the—”
“Flirting? That’s how you get a man to do what you want, of course.” She pulled out a stack of letters. “I hope you were paying attention. No doubt you could use a little flirting in your interactions with Monsieur Samson.”
“But I don’t want anything from him.”
“Of course you do! His heart.”
&n
bsp; Effie hadn’t a reply. She’d never considered love in those terms before, as if it were a game of chess—attack, pin, check—all in the hopes of getting the other player to expose his king. Or in this case, his heart.
She crouched down and opened one of the chests. Its hinges creaked, and stale air assaulted her nose. When she looked down at the mess of papers and ledgers, thoughts of Samson drifted from her mind.
Could the answers to her past really be in one of these containers? Until that moment, she’d not realized the crushing weight hope had brought to bear on her. Her lungs struggled to expand. Her hand trembled as she reached for the top sheet of paper.
But the paper was only a personnel record, listing staff names, hire date, salary, and military rank when applicable. The next several pages were more of the same. She sifted through marriage records, land applications, internment rolls from the Freedmen’s Cemetery. She picked through a crate filled with maps of the surrounding parishes.
She too removed her bonnet and gloves, and pulled forward another box. “Anything?”
Adeline shook her head. “You sure you’re from around these parts? Not Alabama or the Carolinas?”
“Captain Kinyon said I found my way to camp the very morning they fought the rebels at Georgia Landing, just outside of Labadieville. Considering my age and the terrain, I’d estimate a travel radius of no more than twenty miles.”
“Labadieville . . . that’s Assumption Parish, n’est-ce pas?”
Effie nodded. She’d looked it up once on a map.
“Do you remember the year?”
“Sixty-two. Captain Kinyon said they’d just started up the Mississippi with orders from General Butler to secure all the cotton and sugar plantations there.”
“Ah, Le Bête. Careful whom you say his name to around these parts.”
They set back to their work. The lovely breeze stolen in through the window weakened, and Effie’s skin again became sticky with perspiration. She unbuttoned her collar and fanned herself with a stack of bounty claims. Adeline removed her jacket—a rather bold move should François suddenly return. The shirt beneath, plain white cotton embroidered at the collar and cuffs, bore the marks of age. Pale yellow stains circled the armpits. In a few places, the fibers had worn so thin the ribs of her corset were visible. Effie’s undershirt was in little better repair, but she found it hard not to pity Adeline and forgive the crassness of her comments that day in the bedroom. She too knew what it was to want something lost. Or perhaps they were both after something they’d heard tell of but never really known.
“I think I’ve found something.” Adeline held up a notebook. “The front page is titled ‘Register of Missing and Lost Persons.’”
Effie squeezed onto the small trunk where Adeline sat. Three columns divided each of the notebook’s pages. In the first was recorded the name of the lost or missing person. The next column contained a description of their last known location. A few of these entries were quite specific. Mr. Silas Marrs’s plantation, Donaldsonville, Louisiana, 1858. Others gave only the city, parish, or state. Some offered even less. Sold downriver, 1855. The final column listed the inquirer’s name and residence.
Though she knew it anatomically impossible, Effie felt the frantic contraction of her heart halfway up her esophagus. She scooted so close to Adeline their shoulders were overlapping and took hold of one edge of the notebook. Her eyes leaped from name to name to name. She reached to turn the page, but Adeline batted her hand away. “Espère! I’m not finished reading yet.”
The seconds were agony as she waited. Several names on the next page snagged her gaze: Ella, Elie, Edney, Eveline. She moved the letters around in her mind like pieces of a shattered cup, as if in rearranging them, they might come to spell Effie or Euphemia.
Too soon they came to the last page. After a quick scan of the names, she rent the notebook from Adeline’s hand and flipped back to the beginning. Surely they’d just overlooked it. Surely her name was there. Misspelled perhaps or on first pass illegible. But, no. Nothing.
She tossed the notebook into an open box.
“It’s just one register, Effie. There’s probably a dozen more in the room.” Adeline nudged her lightly with her shoulder. Effie nodded once, her skull a weight on her neck.
“And I’ll thank you not to sit right on top of me next time and hurry me through. I’m perfectly capable of reading a list of names.” Adeline bumped her again. Effie let herself be pushed to the far edge of the little chest, offering only a weak nudge in return.
“You can do better than that,” Adeline said, giving her a playful shove.
Had Effie been foolish to come here? To let this hope awaken inside her?
Another little shove from Adeline.
Hadn’t she survived all those years in Indiana not knowing? Hadn’t that been a better way to live?
Another nudge.
The dust seemed to have multiplied in the air, the smell of moldy paper and rat urine sharpened. Her undergarments clung sticky to her skin. Yet she also caught the whiff of Adeline’s vetiver eau de perfume. A breeze once again fluttered the moth-ravaged curtains. She didn’t wish herself back in Indiana, not for all the comfort and stability in the world.
Her bottom was hanging off the edge of the chest now, her balance teetering. She planted her feet and pushed back. Her torso met with Adeline’s. Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip. For all their petticoats, bustles, and flounces, they came together with surprisingly little padding. She must have caught Adeline unaware, for Adeline slid clear across the chest, wobbled on the edge a moment, then fell to the floor with a thud.
“Great goodness, I’m sorry!” Effie said, kneeling beside her. But laughter drowned her words.
Effie laughed too. It started as an uneasy chuckle, halting puffs of breath with just a whisper of sound. But the sight of Adeline on the floor beside her—fine jacket cast aside, shirt soaked through with sweat, limbs planted around her like a crab—bolstered Effie’s laughter. It spread down her throat and through her lungs, becoming louder and more robust. It infected her diaphragm until her entire rib cage shook. In an attempt to catch her breath, Effie snorted, and she and Adeline laughed anew.
Her stomach muscles ached when the last of their giggles petered out. She wiped her eyes and tucked the flyaway hairs back into her bun. Without saying anything they returned to the papers and notebooks and ledgers. The shaft of sunlight through the window moved like the hand of a clock across the room, growing long and narrow.
In one box, sandwiched between financial records from the orphan asylum and a roster of destitute and discharged soldiers at the freedman’s hospital, she found a stack of letters and a few newspaper clippings pertaining to the lost and missing. The first letter read:
I wish to inquire for my brother Joseph and sister Patience, whom I left in Louisiana in 1854, near as I can remember. At the time of my sale, brother belonged to Wm. Hines of Cross Bayou. Patience and I belonged to Jeffery Jackson. Any information about them will be thankfully received. Address me at Aberdeen, Miss.
Each letter and clipping read much the same: I wish to inquire for my mother, my brother, my daughter, my uncle, my sister, my father-in-law, my kinfolk, my people . . .
Effie’s name wasn’t in any of the letters. Nothing about a girl last seen in Assumption or neighboring St. James Parish in 1862. Even so, Effie took comfort from the letters and newspaper ads. She was not alone in her search. Surely by now some of these people had reunited. She arranged the envelopes and newsprint in a neat stack and tied them together with a ribbon from her bonnet. This way they would stand out for the next person who came looking.
“What about your last name Jones?” Adeline asked a few minutes later. She’d found another Register of Missing and Lost Persons and pointed to a name, Elijah Jones. “Could he have been a brother? Iberville is only a few parishes away from Assumption.”
Elijah. She rolled the name around in her head, then said it aloud to feel the shape of it on h
er tongue. “I don’t think so. Family names weren’t common before the War. Not among slaves.”
“How did you come by Jones, then?”
“I picked it myself. Mrs. Kinyon, the captain’s wife, said plain Euphemia wouldn’t suit. I must be ‘Miss someone.’ So I thought on it and chose the name Jones.”
“Why didn’t you take their surname, Kinyon?”
“I was their ward, not their daughter.” Mrs. Kinyon had made that distinction clear. So too had the captain, in the end. Not in word but in action. True, he’d saved her life. Saved her from ending up on one of those orphan asylum rolls. Yet a daughter enjoyed affections beyond charity. A daughter was not an experiment in racial aptitude or a badge of virtue. “They already had a daughter—dead before the War—and weren’t in want of another.”
“Oh.” Adeline eyed her with a shrewd expression, one that made her feel as if she did indeed have spirit powers and could stare into Effie’s soul. Thankfully, she asked nothing more about the Kinyons. “But Jones, it must have some significance or else you wouldn’t have picked it. Could it have been your master’s surname?”
A common enough practice, but Effie didn’t think so. When she picked the name, but a few months after the War’s end, she hadn’t any memory of her former master or life before the camp.
With so little to go on, the impossibility of their task grew more apparent. They wrote down the contact information of the woman who’d inquired after Elijah Jones, but Effie had little hope in the prospect. Each new box or crate or chest they sifted through, each new register void of her name, further dampened her hope. They huddled close to the lamp now, the sun long since lost behind the surrounding buildings, and evening quickly approaching.
“Bon Dieu, look at this,” Adeline said, holding a thick stack of papers, their edges just beginning to yellow. Her voice trembled.
Effie read the heading on the top sheet of paper. Murders and Outrages Reported to Bureau Headquarters, July 1865–February 1867. Below was a succinct tally of the offenses:
Freedmen killed by whites—70
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