by Phil Swann
What she loved, not surprisingly, was the history. Every brick of the small but elegant Federal and Victorian style homes were layered with it. Washington, Jefferson, and Adams seemed to pour from their very mortar. The spirit of Roosevelt and Kennedy resonated from the monuments of the obelisks and weeping angels that studded the many terraces. The stately mansions of tobacco merchants, the ones who built the town, seemed to still emit the sweet smell of the much sought after commodity long after the days when their ships docked at the foot of Wisconsin and cows ambled down M Street. Yes, Dani mused, in Georgetown history is in the present tense.
But as much as she embraced the town for its past, she despised it for what it now was, the exclusive hamlet of the rich and powerful. Senators, cabinet members, and other politicos infected its history like locusts, all suffering from the same blight inside the beltway blindness. "Don't go there, Dani,” she begged out loud, gritting her teeth and pushing the accelerator harder. No sooner did these people get elected to public service in their home states than they began matching swatches for their new homes here in Shangri La. Safely out of touch with their constituents and the concerns of Joe Six-Pack. "Folks like Daddy," Dani said, hitting the steering wheel. It's not fair. Why should a man who never missed a single day of work, or was never late on April 15th, suffer like this? Tears welled. She removed a tissue from the glove box and dabbed the corners of her eyes. "Oh frigg," Dani huffed, looking in the rearview mirror and seeing her newly applied mascara running down her cheek.
"I wonder if these people ever get cancer?" she said, fixing her face. "I wonder if they've ever been told by an insurance company they can't have any more treatment, or medicine?" She threw the blackened tissue on the floor. "No, because they probably own the friggin’ insurance company."
She looked at the speedometer. She was doing fifty in a thirty-five. She lifted her foot off the accelerator and coasted the car to a stop at the top of the hill. She rested her head back and took a deep breath. It was always with her; pain, anger, and helplessness. She'd gotten better at controlling it, but it was with always with her. And that, probably more than anything, was what irritated her most about this assignment. The fact Capitol Hill was at the beck and call of some old lady simply because she had the right address.
The loud honk from behind brought Dani back. She waved the driver around and then looked at the street sign. She was in an area known as Georgetown Heights. The slip of paper where she'd written Sugarberry's address had suffered her wrath and was now a crumpled ball. "Okay, Dan, calm down," she said to herself, unwadding the paper and checking the address again. "Just interview the old biddy, get what you need, and be done with it.”
Dani saw she had to make a left or right, as continuing straight would lead her into the private driveway of an old civil war cemetery. She read the numbers in both directions and elected to turn right. As luck would have it, it was the first house. House, however, was a ridiculous understatement.
Dani pulled over to the curb, got out of her car, and gawked at the sight before her. Unlike the other small but stately homes in Georgetown, the red brick Tudor mansion before her was massive. Marigolds and pansies lined a cobblestone walkway that wound from the street through a perfectly manicured front lawn. Three giant sycamores, two on one side of the walk, one on another, shaded most of the yard. On the right corner of the house, an elderly oak rose high in the air, resting one of its mammoth limbs on the tip of a bleached wood steeple protruding from the second tier of the manse. Dani smelled the burning wood before she saw the smoke billowing from a chimney on the right rear of the house. Four bay windows, one that looked to be on a third floor, three of which looked to be on a second, were the focal point of the house. All were adorned with redwood flower boxes.
Dani pulled her backpack from the backseat and started up the walk toward the granite staircase that led to what she hoped was the front door. "I wonder how many bathrooms this dump has?"
She ascended the stairs onto a covered veranda where six large wicker rocking chairs sat in row. The huge double doors that greeted her were dark wood and embellished with solid brass knockers on each side. She knocked twice. At that moment, she wouldn't have been surprised if Lurch opened the door with a deep, “you rang?”
He didn't.
Instead, an elderly African-American woman appeared. "Yes?"
"Hello, my name is Dr. Dani Parsons. I'm from the Smithsonian, and I have an appointment with Mrs. Sugarberry."
The next words spoken were the last words Dani ever expected to hear. "Yes, I'm Mrs. Sugarberry,” the old black woman said with a smile and refined southern drawl.
"Gertrude Sugarberry?" Dani asked, unable to hide her surprise.
"Yes, dear, one and the same," the woman replied with a slight laugh.
"Oh…well…hi."
Sugarberry laughed harder. "Well, hi to you too, dear. It's getting a tad chilly out there, won't you come in before we both catch our death?"
"Uh…yes—thank you, I'd love to."
Dani's immediate impression was that there was a youthfulness about the woman that contradicted her seventy-plus, possibly even eighty-plus years. She walked slowly but not cautiously. Her skin was smooth, only her hands and neck showing the wrinkles of age. Her hair was black except for a shock of gray above her left temple, and the southern accent didn't disguise the fact that she was very well educated.
Dani followed the woman from the gracious foyer, down two steps, and into a large living room area. Dani was overwhelmed. If the outside was breathtaking, the inside was full-blown asthma. Elegant didn't begin to describe the décor. It was as if she were looking at a magazine. The whole room had a quiet, peaceful ambiance. Exquisite antique furnishings, eighteenth century, Dani surmised, sat on polished hardwood floors and a richly colored braided wool rug. Tiffany lamps softly illuminated everything, the largest being the one on a simple mahogany table beside a cream-colored divan in the center.
"Your home is magnificent."
"Oh, thank you, dear. I must confess I love it too. Won't you please have a seat? Can I get you a cup of tea?"
"Yes, thank you, that'd be lovely," Dani replied, putting down her backpack and sitting on the over-stuffed divan.
"I'll be just a minute, you make yourself at home."
In the far left corner, a fireplace was crackling as expected. The house was warm but not hot. Dani got up and walked over to the fire and put out her hands. The heat flushed Dani's face, and it felt good; it felt wholesome. She closed her eyes and drew a long breath. The burning wood blended with the aroma of the jasmine potpourri that filled the house. She could easily understand how one could forget about the outside world here.
The fireplace itself was unlike any Dani had ever seen. The hearth was high—very high, at least two-feet tall, and it extended far into the room. The heavy oak mantle that stretched over the firebox was bare, no framed photographs, no special keepsakes, and no porcelain figurines, the things one would expect to see in such a house. Instead, a large oil painting, the only such piece of artwork in the room, hung above the mantle. Dani studied the art. The painting depicted numerous families, obviously slaves, huddled together by a riverbank. It looked as if it was supposed to be dawn, but she couldn’t tell for sure. The sun, if that’s what it was, seemed to be neither rising nor setting, it was just sort of there, casting no shadows or light. On the bluff above the bank, men, both black and white, sat on horses with shotguns and pistols at their side. Their expressions were determined. The look on the faces of the slave families was—
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Dani turned to see Mrs. Sugarberry reentering the room with a silver tea service.
"Can I help you?" Dani said, moving toward the elderly woman.
"No, no, I'm fine. I'll just set it right here."
Nonetheless, Dani assisted in placing the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa. "Yes, it is beautiful, but I'm embarrassed to say I'm confused by the depiction."
"They look—I mean the slaves—they look so…hopeful, almost happy."
The stately woman let herself fall onto the couch. After a brief adjustment, she sat straight with her back arched and looked at Dani. Her brown eyes sparkled. "I'm going to become very fond of you, dear."
"Excuse me?"
"You are very observant and have a very empathetic soul, dear. There are not five people in this town who could walk into this house and make that observation about that painting. Yes," Mrs. Sugarberry nodded as she poured the tea, "I'm going to become very fond of you. Cream or sugar?"
"No, thank you."
"Now then, you're from the Smithsonian. I gather from your reaction at the door that Dr. Beckman didn't inform you I was colored?"
Dani sat down. "No, ma’am, he didn't. I'm sorry for—”
"Oh, stop it, I'm not offended, dear. An old colored woman is the last person I'd expect to live in these parts too. Don't tell anyone, but I'm what you might call a minority." Sugarberry put her napkin up to her mouth and let out a low and husky laugh.
Dani joined in. “Yes, I guess you are."
"Oh, lordy me, I'm awful.”
Dani took a sip of tea.
"Now, where were we, oh yes, Dennis Beckman. Now there's an interesting person. You know, I don't think he cares for people of color very much. Mmm mmm, not one bit. He's never been exactly warm to me, if you know what I mean. I believe he puts up with me because he feels he must. Rather funny, don't you think?"
"Yes ma’am, I guess it’s—”
Sugarberry moaned and set down her teacup and saucer. "Oh, would you listen to me? I'm sorry, dear, where are my manners? Your Dr. Beckman is a colleague and probably a friend. I do apologize."
Dani responded quickly, "No, Mrs. Sugarberry, please don't apologize. Dr. Beckman is neither my friend nor what you'd call a colleague. He's my boss. And quite honestly, I don't think he cares much for me either. And though I feel absolutely no desire to defend the little—" Dani stopped herself. "Well anyway, I do feel the fact that you're a woman is more of an issue with him than your race. He's not what you'd call a modern man."
"Ah, I see." Sugarberry smiled. "One of those."
Dani returned the smile. "Yes, ma’am, one of those."
"Then let me apologize."
"For what?" Dani asked, setting down her tea.
"I'm sure I must be a punishment of sorts. I can't believe Dennis Beckman would send someone to me he actually liked. I'm sure he thinks I'm cuckoo." She chuckled again. "So, I am sorry. I hope you'll find me worthwhile in the end."
Dani wasn't sure if she was being conned or not. But she was quite aware she was having her blue cords charmed right off of her. If Sugarberry's intent was to make her feel guilty about all the mean things she'd said and thought since getting this assignment, she'd succeeded. If it was to merely win her over with grace and hospitality, she'd succeeded at that too.
"Ma’am, if he is punishing me, then the laugh's on him, because I am delighted to be here."
"You are a dear.” Sugarberry reached out and patted Dani's hand. "I guess that leads us to the task at hand, my collection. Would you like to see it?"
"Yes, but first I'd like to start by asking you a few questions."
"Okay, I'm all answers. You go right ahead."
"Great. I'd like to learn a little about you. Like where you're from, how you came to live in Georgetown, things like that."
"Me? Oh, I didn't expect that. Is that really important?"
"Is that a problem? I assure you I have no desire to intrude into your personal life. It's just I've found the more I know about the contributor of artifacts, the better I can recreate its history for display."
The husky laugh resonated again. "No, dear, I'm not worried about you exposing any dirty laundry. In fact, at my age, it would be quite a hoot if you could dig up some juicy dirt. No, I'm just surprised anyone would care about me. I'm just not that interesting."
There go my pants again, Dani thought.
"Okay, well let's see now. I was born and raised in New Orleans—you don't need the year, do you? I'd like to keep some secrets."
Dani chuckled as she took out a pen and note pad from her backpack. "No, that won't be necessary."
The old woman nodded and continued. "Well, being from New Orleans, of course I developed a great love for two things: food—oh, my girl, you just wait until I cook for you, mmm, mmm—and the other, of course, was music. Yes, music was always a part of my family. You see, Daddy was a preacher, fire and brimstone, don't you know? Oh, child, he could get a place going like nobody's business. The devil didn't stand a chance when Daddy got to testifyin'," she said, waving her arm in the air, momentarily taking on a cliché dialect. "A good man, a real good man. And he could sing too, all the old Negro spirituals. We'd sit up at night, my five sisters and me—can you imagine, five sisters—yes, we'd sit up and listen to Daddy sing and sing and sing."
Dani saw water filling the old woman's eyes.
"Oh, now look at me." She dabbed her eyes with her napkin. "I'm such a sentimental old coot."
"It sounds wonderful. My daddy used to sing to my younger brother and me when we were young too—we were Methodists though. Our songs weren't nearly as good."
Both laughed.
Dani added, "It's one of my favorite memories from childhood."
"Music's a powerful thing. Is your daddy and mamma still alive?"
Dani smiled. "Dad is, Mom died when I was eleven. He raised us on his own. Both my brother and I are still very close to him."
"That's wonderful. Family is the most important thing there is."
Dani noticed a sad and distant look on her face, the first time she'd seen that expression.
"Anyway," she continued, snapping back to her previous self, "that was where my love of music began. When I got older, I would sneak down to the Quarters—Daddy didn't know about that. Preservation Hall was the place. I was little more than a child, but I was big for my age, so I got in with little trouble. I'd listen to The Dukes of Dixieland, with this kid on trumpet named Armstrong. You may have heard of him," she said mockingly. "Yes, dear, that's where the love affair started. And not just one love affair, either." She laughed loudly only to suddenly become very quiet. "I met my Edgar down there. Oh, that was so many years ago."
"Edgar was your husband?" Dani asked.
"Yes, we were married a month after we met. Daddy threw a fit, but he eventually got over it, and he and Edgar became quite close."
"How long were you married?"
"Forty-five years. I still talk to him. Perhaps your Dr. Beckman is right and I am cuckoo."
Dani felt a warmth go through her and a chill down her arm. "No you're not. You're very lucky."
"I take it you're not—”
"Married? No, I haven't as yet found my Edgar."
"You will, you will," she said, patting Dani on the hand again.
"So how did you end up here in Georgetown?"
"Edgar. Can you believe it? The man didn't have two nickels to rub together when we met, but he had an imagination. Edgar was nothing but a cotton picker down in Baton Rouge. Every night all the men would go out after a day in the field. Well, Edgar was younger and smaller than all the other men, so he had to work harder at fitting in—this may be the one time that blasted male ego actually paid off. Anyway, all the other men smoked. Edgar tried but would get sick every time he'd taste the tobacco. It was very embarrassing for him. So Edgar had this idea. He started taking little pieces of cotton with him from the field and wrapping it at the end of his hand-rolled cigarettes. He said it took the sting away and kept his tongue from tasting the tobacco.”
"Wait a minute," Dani interrupted. "Are you telling me Edgar invented the filtered cigarette?"
"Can you believe it? No one was more shocked than I was when he came home one night and told me he'd met some fellow from the Phillip Morris Company down at the saloon, and they wanted to buy hi
s invention. We moved up here two weeks later—not into this house, that came later—but to Maryland. This was where, what did they call it—the research and development center was located. They gave Edgar a lot of money for his invention and a job as well."
"It must have been quite a change, moving from the South up here."
"Dear, you can say that again. I’m a regular pig in a pastry shop," she said, covering her mouth and laughing.
Dani didn't laugh with her this time. Instead she smiled a smile of admiration. Some quick arithmetic in her head told Dani that Sugarberry's husband must have died somewhere around the late sixties, early seventies. That would have put her living here in Georgetown alone right in the middle of the civil rights movement. She was sure she wasn't getting the entire story and that there had to have been very trying, if not downright scary, days. Her off-handed casualness about being a minority living in this largely white community, Dani suspected, was a complete façade.
"Well, ma’am, may I say this is one pastry shop that is considerably sweeter for your being here.”
Sugarberry blushed. "Oh, dear, aren’t you charming."
Praise indeed was all Dani could think. "So, about the collection?"
"Yes, the collection." Sugarberry's face lit up.
"How did you get started collecting old and rare sheet music?"
"Well, come with me to the music room while I explain."
Sugarberry lifted herself from the divan. Dani followed her from the living room back across the foyer into a small study. The room was sparsely furnished with an antique rolltop secretary, two chairs, and a bookcase. The room looked as if it wasn't used, and Dani guessed it was probably her late husband's study.
"It all started when I was growing up in New Orleans. There was a piano player in the Quarters—he played ragtime—for the life of me I can't remember his name. Anyway, I used to love to hear him play. I think he was sweet on me and was trying to impress me, so he gave me an autographed copy of the Maple Leaf Rag. Now in all honesty, I don't know for sure if it's the actual handwriting of Scott Joplin. It could well be the piano player signed it himself and just told me it was Joplin’s, but the music is quite old and in very good condition. But that was the start. I began picking up music all over the place after that, second-hand music stores, garage sales, church bazaars, just about anywhere I ran across something that looked special to me."