by Erin Bartels
Nathaniel yawned. “Perhaps you can show me tomorrow. I must retire. Are you coming up?”
“Soon,” she said. “I just want to do a little more while I still have the firelight.”
Nathaniel nodded and stood. “Don’t be too long. It can’t be good for your eyes. Good night, George.”
“Good night, sir.”
He disappeared beyond the ring of light around the hearth.
Mary threaded her needle again. “I wish now I hadn’t made this red. I’ll never be able to look at it again without thinking of the blood of those dying men. What a dreadful story to tell us.”
George nodded. “But I suppose in the telling a man gets some relief of his burden.”
“I suppose.”
“It’s terrible hard to carry around a secret pain all by yourself.”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
Mary thought of her stillborn baby. But no. That was not secret. Thousands of other women suffered such pain, including some of those who had given her love and support after her own tragedy.
She looked at George, who was staring into the fire. “Do you carry such a pain, George?” It felt like too intimate a question, but there was no getting back the words. “How stupid of me. Of course you all do.”
“The pain of slavery is no secret.”
They were both quiet.
“But I do carry one,” he said.
He met her gaze in that same sad and tender way he had at the kitchen door the day they learned of the devastation at Gettysburg, the day she felt she might have lost Nathaniel for good. It was the same expression she’d seen in Nathaniel’s face when he had looked at her that morning.
Love.
At that moment, Mary knew she must write her long-tardy response to George’s request for a letter.
twenty-two
Lapeer County, September
“Cardinal de Richelieu, Charles de Mills, Hénri Martin, and Rosa gallica officinalis. Those are my best guesses.” Tyrese stood near the center of the garden and pointed at each of the four rosebushes in turn.
“Cardinal Richard, Charles de Mill, Henry Martin, and Rosa gallifinakus,” I said.
He laughed. “I’ll write them on the map.” He pulled out two pairs of long leather gloves and handed one to me. “You’re going to want to get some of these.”
“Another trip to the nursery.”
It had been three weeks since he’d taken the cuttings, weeks during which I had been to the nursery at least half a dozen times. I’d buy landscape fabric and gravel, then realize I didn’t have any stakes to keep the fabric in place. Then there wasn’t enough gravel. Then I remembered the edging to keep the tiny gray stones corralled. Then it seemed like I needed more plants. I always decided to make do, but Nora would push some cash into my hand and send me on my way.
“May as well do things the right way,” she’d say. “If you rush things, they don’t always turn out as good as they might have if you’d been just a little more intentional about them.”
Sometimes Tyrese was there and sometimes he wasn’t. But each time I saw him he would assure me he was “working on it.” After stopping at the nursery, I’d sit for a half hour or so in the Kroger parking lot and follow the trail of little green leaves on Ancestry.com. I found Nora’s parents, Daniel and Mallory, and discovered that while Daniel was my great-grandfather, my great-grandmother was not Nora’s mother but a woman from an earlier marriage. More importantly, I found Nora’s husband—William Rich—and the tumblers in the lock on my brain all fell into place and things started making sense.
Nora had said that William cut the lawn, but of course that was Tyrese. She’d said that William had freshened up what was the mustiest room on the planet. She’d said that William had planted the nearly dead tree in the backyard. That one might be true. The scanned marriage license proved that they had indeed been married in Detroit in 1963. But why had they moved? And when had William dropped out of the picture? So far my research had uncovered no death certificate.
“Why would someone plant roses in an herb garden?” I asked as Tyrese gathered up the thorny canes he’d pruned and slipped them into paper yard bags I held open.
“People used to make rose water to freshen their linens. You can use the hips for tea. And they just look and smell nice and give the garden a little height. Not everything in an herb garden is for eating.” A look of concern came over him. “You do know what you’re doing with this stuff, don’t you? There are some plants that you just shouldn’t mess around with. There are a number of dangerous plants that look a lot like edibles. Or sometimes one part of a plant is okay to ingest, but another is not. Like, you might eat rhubarb stalks, but the leaves are toxic.”
He was looking around the garden, I assumed for all the things that would kill me. He walked over to a patch of what I had determined was either Queen Anne’s lace or caraway.
“This is water hemlock. You need to get it out of here. It’s in the carrot and parsnip family—the roots even smell like carrots—but it’s not edible. In fact, it’s quite deadly.”
Oops.
“Isn’t that what killed Socrates?”
“That’s the rumor. Wear gloves when you pull it up, make sure you get the roots, and wash your hands well afterward.” He dumped some more clippings into the bag.
“Hey, how do you know so much about this stuff?”
“I majored in plant sciences at Michigan State. I planned to work for the Department of Natural Resources when I got out, but they didn’t have any spots available and Dad needed me at the nursery.”
“Your dad works there too?”
“He’s Anthony Perkins. He owns it. Well, we own it now. He made me his partner last year.”
I tried not to look surprised. “Why are you mowing lawns if you own the place?”
He tossed a full bag into the bed of his pickup. “I started mowing the lawn here right when I got home from college. The nursery got a call from that James Rich guy and I happened to answer it. He gave me his spiel, told me how much he’d be paying me, which was ridiculous for just mowing a lawn, and I took the job. Had to repay my college loans, you know?” He tossed another bag in. “Then I just got used to doing it. Now I put all that lawn money into a savings account and don’t touch it. That way when I have my own kids maybe they won’t need student loans for school.”
When the last of the bags was in the truck, he got into the cab, shut the door, and then leaned out the open window. “I’m working tomorrow from ten to five. Want to come out and I’ll get you hooked up with some rose gear?”
“Sure. I think that would work.”
“Great! See you then.”
He drove off, leaving a cloud of dust behind him, and I headed back into the kitchen where Nora was wiping the counter.
“Was that the young man from Perkins?” she asked, though I was pretty sure she knew it was.
“Yes. He came to tell me more about the roses. You know he owns that place? Him and his dad.”
“Yes, of course. Tony Perkins bought it from Frank Wilson in the late 1980s.”
I wondered why she didn’t think it was strange for a business owner to be mowing her lawn. But it was none of my business. If I started to pry, Mr. Rich’s cover might be blown.
“Think we’ll see him again soon?” she asked.
“I’ll see him tomorrow if I go in to get the gloves I need. Want to come with me?”
She draped the wet dishrag over the edge of the sink. “No, no. You go. I’d just get in the way. I have plenty to do here.”
“It’s not really like that, Aunt Nora. I’ve seen him five times and he’s hardly talked about anything but plants.”
She looked out the window and seemed to be remembering something pleasant. “Sometimes you just need the right moment.”
The next day was cold, gray, and rainy, a day when you must accept that summer is truly over and done with. I drove down the county highway past fields of high corn and the occasional m
aple tree turning an intense orange.
I’d always had mixed feelings about maples. While others pointed them out as happy harbingers of the cozy season to come, they had always seemed to me to be reckless—the first small flames of fall, each dropping leaf a burning ember that spread the fire until every tree was bare and dead and the November snows came like ash. I’d learned not to share this opinion with others, as it was universally judged as incomprehensible. Everyone loved fall.
I couldn’t say exactly why it depressed me. Maybe it was because winter in Detroit was the opposite of charming and fall was the warning sign that it was coming. Or maybe it had something to do with going back to school as a kid. Mom called it seasonal affective disorder. I didn’t know what to call it. I just knew it always brought me down.
I parked the car in the dirt lot at Perkins and rushed through the raindrops. Scanning the ever-shrinking selection, I found what I needed too quickly.
“Can I leave these here?” I asked a clerk as I put my items on the end of a closed checkout counter.
“Sure. Can I help you find something else?”
No, not something. “Do you know if Tyrese is here today?”
“Mr. Perkins is around here somewhere. Want me to page him?”
“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll just look around.”
“Be sure to check out our patio pots. Everything’s on sale right now.”
I walked down a ramp into the enormous greenhouse with metal tables that stretched on for fifty yards or more. Most were empty, but the ones near the front were crowded with chrysanthemums, that ubiquitous fall flower I had never cared for. A few workers milled about with hoses, but no Tyrese.
I slid open a heavy door and looked down at the tree and shrub area outside and saw no one at all. Then a fantastic notion popped into my head. A tree. I should buy a tree. A tree to replace the one by the garden. What had Nora called it? I put up my hood and walked down a long concrete ramp to the tree section.
Despite the rain, I started down a row of trees, looking at each plastic tag. Surely if I read the name I would know it. Crab apple, cherry, pear, serviceberry. Another row. Oak, maple, birch, ash. All of them were on clearance, but none of them were what I was looking for.
“Can I help you find something, ma’am?” came a familiar voice.
I looked up. The rain dripped off Tyrese’s hair and down his cheeks and soaked into his green fleece jacket.
“Elizabeth! I didn’t recognize you with your hood up.”
“Hi.” I hoped I did not look too pleased to see him.
“Looking for a tree?”
“Sort of. There’s that tree out back that’s just about dead and I thought I’d replace it for my aunt, but I can’t remember what she called it. I’d like to get the same kind. I thought I’d know it if I read the name, but nothing’s sounding familiar.”
“Our selection’s picked over this time of year. Why don’t you come into the booth over there out of the rain and I’ll grab a book.”
I was getting drenched, so I agreed at once. A moment later, we stood at a rough wooden countertop in a tiny booth barely big enough for two people. I could hardly turn the pages of the thick binder without elbowing Tyrese in the ribs. He smelled of earth and rain, and I turned the pages of the book slowly, more to extend the time we were stuck in that little shed than to study the pictures. Something about him made me feel relaxed, at ease, and yet all keyed up at the same time.
“That’s it,” he suddenly said, leaning close. “The catalpa.”
I examined the page. The picture was of a tree with large, teardrop-shaped leaves. “Are they messy? She said it was messy.”
“Oh yeah. Those seed pods can be over a foot long and they all fall to the ground, and not at the same time the leaves do, so you have to rake them all up in the spring. Well, I have to.” He laughed. “They make a huge mess. And they get to be very big trees. They’ve sort of fallen out of favor. People mostly seem to want smaller flowering trees and statement foliage trees that give good color in fall, like maples. We don’t typically carry these.”
“Oh.”
“But I could order one for you.”
I turned to face him. “Really? You can?”
“Sure. It would come in the spring. I’ll put in the order today.” There was that killer smile again. “I got you covered.”
An awkward silence descended as the eye contact lasted longer than the conversation.
“Well, okay then.” I turned away. “I guess I’ll just go buy my stuff at the front and see you later.”
He stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Hey, would you ever want to go see a movie sometime?”
I almost didn’t answer, so sure I was that he hadn’t actually said it. But he was looking at me as though he were waiting for a response.
“That’d be nice.”
“Why don’t I give you a call tonight and we’ll figure it out.”
“Okay. I better go.” I had to leave before the spell was broken and he changed his mind.
“Want me to walk you up?” he said.
“That’s okay.” I put my hood up. “Wouldn’t want you to get wet.”
He laughed and looked down at his already rain-soaked clothes.
I trotted back up the hill with a stupid smile fixed on my face. Maybe fall wasn’t so bad after all.
twenty-three
Detroit, August 1963
Nora’s steps on the gray tile floor echoed off the bare walls. She tried to see past the cosmetic failings to the potential that might lie beneath. Torn wallpaper, water-stained ceiling, gouged door frames, dirty carpet in the next room. The place smelled like an ashtray left out in the rain. William tapped her on the shoulder and, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head, expressed the same sentiment she felt. This won’t work. This isn’t for us.
They weren’t quite out of options yet. There were other apartments in other neighborhoods. Though it seemed to Nora that she’d been in this same apartment a dozen times already. Why should the next one be any better?
“And this is the kitchen,” came the voice of Mrs. Wendell from down the hall. “The appliances are in working order, and I think you’ll like the spice rack.”
William leaned in close to Nora’s ear. “Let’s get out of here. She’s just wasting our time. We can’t live here. It’s a terrible neighborhood. No insurance company is going to cover us here.”
The overly coiffed head of their Realtor appeared in a doorway. “Come, come, we haven’t time to dillydally.”
William pushed ahead of Nora and into the kitchen. “When are you going to show us some places in Southfield or Warren?”
Mrs. Wendell offered a condescending smile. “That’s not in your budget, I’m afraid.”
“Okay, fine, but there’s better neighborhoods in Detroit. What about the East Side?”
Mrs. Wendell’s mouth became a hard line. “I don’t think so.”
“You’d show it to my wife if it was just her.”
“But it isn’t just her, is it?”
William took a step back. “I’m out of here,” he mumbled. In the next moment he was gone, and Nora stood looking at Mrs. Wendell’s disapproving scowl.
“You see, that’s why I can’t show you places in white neighborhoods. Colored people are just too emotional. No one wants a neighbor who will fly off the handle at every little thing.”
“Thank you,” Nora said. “I don’t think we’ll be needing your services anymore.” She spun on her heels and caught up with William, who was pacing up and down the hallway outside the apartment. “Let’s go.”
On the long ride back to Seward Avenue, Nora stared out the window and fiddled with an errant thread on the skirt she had hemmed the night before. The scene at her parents’ house two months earlier played back in her mind. A slack-jawed Wanda had pointed to the veranda, where Nora found her parents with drinks in hand, her father reading the paper, her mother staring into the trees. William waited in the
house as Nora painstakingly paved the way for the revelation, leaving out any mention of the photo of her father that had started it all.
“I met him when Diane and I were volunteering at the Detroit Artists Market back in the spring. He told me his camera had been damaged, and I could see that he had a lot of talent but not a lot of extra money—I mean, he does have a job, but you know good cameras are so expensive—so I offered to buy him a new one.”
“That was very generous,” Mallory said with eyebrows raised.
“Important to support the arts,” Daniel said without looking up from the newspaper, “though I’d prefer you did so through some decent acquisitions.”
“He took some photos of me to test it out,” Nora continued, “and then I met up with him to see them when they were developed.”
Her mother frowned, guessing at the trajectory of the story. “And?”
“And we hit it off, of course. He’s charming and intelligent and loves his family. I’ve spent quite a bit of time with his mother and sister. They’re very nice people. His father was killed in France during the war.”
From behind the newspaper, Daniel nodded his approval of this sacrifice.
“They’re not as well-off as we are, but they are polite and well-mannered and hardworking people.”
“Then they will go far in life,” her father declared. “Our family was not always so well-off. We had to work for it. That’s what makes this country great.”
“We’ll have to meet this William someday,” her mother said noncommittally.
“Actually, he’s here now.”
Her father finally looked over the top of his paper. “Where?”
“In the kitchen. I wanted to tell you a little about him before I sprung him on you.”
“The kitchen?” Mallory said. “Why on earth did you leave him waiting there? Call him outside, Nora.”
Nora walked back into the kitchen to beckon William from the cool shadows of the house into the soft light of the perfect June evening.
As they walked hand in hand onto the veranda, Nora examined her father’s face to see if he recognized William. He didn’t seem to. But the matching expressions of shock on her parents’ faces told Nora that the next twenty minutes would be painful anyway.