by Erin Bartels
Nora nodded.
“Most of them didn’t know how to read or write, so they just had to go on the boss’s word.”
“Couldn’t they challenge him? Take him to court?”
“Oh, come on, you can’t be that naïve.”
Nora was taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”
“A Negro couldn’t take a white man to court.”
“What?”
“Didn’t they teach history in that fancy school of yours?”
Nora sighed. “Well, I guess they missed that part.”
“I guess.”
“So what did they do?”
“One night they hopped a freight train. They had to do it at night so the boss wouldn’t send a posse after them to bring them back.”
“But what grounds would he have for keeping them there? He couldn’t just keep them against their will.”
“Sure could. All he had to do was claim they owed him money and were skipping town without paying their debt. And he wouldn’t just bring them back and put them back to work. He’d send a lynch mob to get them and teach them a lesson.”
Nora sat back in her chair. “I can’t believe that,” she said, shaking her head. “That can’t be true.”
William looked incredulous. “Why not? Is it any less believable than two hundred years of slavery? You think people who had been buying and selling human beings and working them like animals would suddenly see the light and start treating them as equals? Open your eyes, woman.”
Nora frowned. She didn’t like being made to feel a fool. But it wasn’t William’s fault. “Why Detroit, then?”
“There were recruiters down in Georgia trying to get black folk to come up and work in munitions plants. I guess they got run out of town pretty fast by the bosses who wanted to keep their free labor, but word got around anyway.”
Nora took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s amazing to think about all that had to happen to put you and me at the Detroit Artists Market at the same time. Even all the bad things. If your family had been treated better, if my father had treated you better . . . we might never have met.”
A thoughtful smile crossed William’s lips. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. Mama always says that God doesn’t make mistakes. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that.”
The phone rang.
William jumped up. “I got it.”
Nora picked up her needle and thread and started to baste the little hexagon in her lap. She rocked the needle in and out, in and out, around the perimeter, until all six sides were secure. Then she put it in the tiny pile she had started on the side table and picked up another.
Faint murmurings floated out of the kitchen, but she couldn’t understand what William was saying. She was just about to go see who he was talking to when she heard him run up the back stairs. She dumped the needle and the fabric into the basket and rushed up after him.
When she entered their bedroom, William was packing a suitcase.
“What’s going on? Who was that?”
“Bianca. J.J.’s friend Rod got shot, and now J.J. is missing.”
“Where are you going?”
“Detroit, where do you think?”
“Just tell her to call the police.”
“Nora, it was the police. They shot Rod. And now there’s trouble brewing down there.” He stopped packing and looked at her. “J.J. got himself involved with some rough characters. Militants. Follow this Reverend Cleage character.”
Thoughts of the man who had held a knife to her throat at the drive-in rose up unbidden.
“They’ve been agitating all summer. Since Watts. Looking to start something. J.J. may have been involved or he may not, but the fact is that these guys are stirring up trouble and he’s throwing his lot in with them. He’s not in jail as far as they can tell, but they don’t know where he is. So I’ve got to get down there and try to track him down.” He shut the suitcase and headed for the hall.
“Should I come with you?”
“Better not.” He was halfway down the stairs.
“I could sit with Bianca and your mom.”
“Baby, I’ve got to go now. If J.J. gets picked up by the police . . .” He didn’t finish. Instead he planted a kiss on her cheek at the bottom of the stairs.
“Okay, but—”
“It’ll be all right.”
“Don’t drive crazy!” she called after him as he hustled to the car. “And please call me tonight!”
“I will! I love you!”
The car roared to life and spit gravel out behind the tires. And then it was gone.
Nora went inside and picked up her quilt pieces again. She basted a few more hexagons, but soon she was so tense with anger she got sloppy.
Where did J.J. get off dragging William into his problems? William, who did his best to live at peace with everyone. William, who had been the bigger man and shaken her racist father’s hand. William, who worked hard and didn’t expect everything to be handed to him. And here J.J. took it all for granted. Bianca certainly had no control over him. It had always gotten under Nora’s skin when J.J. would say something rude or disappear for hours at a time and his mother did nothing more than sigh. That boy needed a father.
While they were still in Detroit, William had tried to fill the gap. He’d taken the time to play basketball and take J.J. to movies. He’d even taken him to see Martin Luther King. What better figure could there be for J.J. to emulate? And yet all the boy had seemed to hear in that speech were the negatives. He latched on to the injustice and couldn’t hear the solutions. He let the rage he felt grow and fester. He’d lashed out at Nora when she and William lived with Mrs. Rich. She had thought then that he must have just been annoyed that she was taking up too much space. Now she wondered if it was just because she was white.
The phone finally rang at eleven o’clock. Nora snatched it up on the first ring.
“Is everything okay?” she asked before William even had a chance to identify himself.
“Yeah, he’s home now. But things are still heating up here. Cops swarming all over the place. Lots of arrests being made. But J.J. wasn’t one of them.”
A small part of her was disappointed. Maybe a night or two in jail was just what that kid needed to straighten out his life.
“When are you coming home?”
“I’ll try to come home tomorrow.”
“What about work?”
“I’ll call my boss in the morning. It’ll be all right.”
She was quiet a moment. “So was he involved in this incident?”
“He says he wasn’t.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I guess.”
“What does Bianca think?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t know what to do with him.”
“I know what I’d do with him.”
William didn’t respond at first. Finally he said in a flat voice, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then Nora heard a dial tone.
forty-two
Lapeer County, October 1873
Mary watched the carriage heading down the lane with a bittersweet pang in her heart. It had been so nice to have Bridget and her little girl for the afternoon. The sweet baby’s antics had given her such joy she hadn’t noticed the time slipping by. But evening was approaching and Bridget had to get back home to her husband.
The last couple years had brought much change to the Balsam farm. As Little George’s antagonism toward the Negroes grew, Nathaniel had decided that it was time for some of them to move on. He offered several of them small loans to start their own farms, and the men had jumped at the chance to become more independent and have something to offer prospective wives. Others left of their own accord and design. John and Martha Dixon had taken Angelica and little Elwin and moved to Cass City to open a store. Mary’s accidental confidante Loretta had married and moved away with her new husband and her son Simon. Mary found herself the lone woman in the house until she’d hired Mrs.
Farnsworth to help do the cooking and the wash. But Mrs. Farnsworth was all business and never had time to linger over a cup of tea with her.
Mary couldn’t blame the poor woman. With more than a dozen men still in the house, besides the five Balsams, she had her work cut out for her. George was now nine and had begun to tag along behind his father in the fields. At seven, Jonathan wanted nothing more than to do everything his older brother did, and so Mary saw him less and less. Even little Benjamin seemed determined to be with the men rather than her.
In fact, Mary had begun to feel rather insignificant in the scheme of things. She recalled with a warm nostalgia the long-gone hardscrabble days when she had done everything on the farm, just her and Bridget and George toiling away. Now it seemed she was superfluous.
The farm had grown so large since the war that Nathaniel and a few of the hands sometimes slept at outlying barns during the busy harvesttime so that they could work until the sun went down and be at it again before the sun came up. All of the hard work had been paying off. The decimated South had need of nearly everything after Appomattox. Their fields and storehouses had been destroyed, their houses burned, their railroads twisted by Sherman’s men. There were few options for them and therefore much money to be made by Northern farmers and entrepreneurs. A small part of her felt guilty for the high prices they were charging for such essential a commodity as wheat, but another part felt it was justified, part of God’s punishment for a people that needed to atone for their sins.
That she benefited from it seemed somehow right to her. After all, she had given refuge to so many. Now she was reaping some reward. Her once simple house was full of nice rugs, handsome furniture, and fine china dishes from which the little boys were not allowed to eat. A new carriage had been purchased, new horses and oxen and mules pulled wagons and plows, and Mary could replace the fine dresses she had cut up in order to make her quilt during the long nights when Nathaniel was sleeping in an encampment in some Virginia field.
And yet, she felt empty. Her successful husband, her handsome young sons, her lovely house—none of it satisfied. After a few years of growing closer, Mary and Nathaniel had once again begun to drift apart. A fifth pregnancy had led to a miscarriage that devastated them both. There hadn’t even been enough of a child to bury. After that, Nathaniel avoided his husbandly duties, waiting most nights to come to bed until she was asleep—if he came to bed at all.
“Mrs. Balsam?”
Mary turned around to find Jacob standing in the doorway.
“Mr. Balsam need me to go to town for more balin’ wire, and Mrs. Farnsworth says we nearly out of flour and lard. So I’m gonna go pick those up. You need somethin’?”
Nothing came to mind, but she’d give almost anything right then to go to town and distract herself from her loneliness. “I think perhaps I’ll go with you, Jacob. If I can convince Mrs. Farnsworth to keep an eye on the boys.”
“It’d just be Benjamin. Little George and Jonathan is out with Mr. Balsam right now. They all stayin’ out at the south field tonight. Those boys was excited, I can tell you.”
“Well then, I think I can manage to get Benny taken care of, though I imagine he will be in a foul mood for being left out.”
“I ’spect. Little George did pester Mr. Balsam about that somethin’ awful. Wanted Benny along with them. ’Bout fit to be tied when Mr. Balsam say no.”
“How odd. He normally doesn’t care to have Benny tag along. Give me a few minutes.”
“Okay, Mrs. Balsam. I’ll bring the wagon up here.”
Mary hustled into the house and headed for the kitchen.
“It’s just Benny. He can help you with the dinner. He loves to cook, and it shouldn’t be too difficult tonight. Jacob and I will be in town. Nathaniel, George, and Jonathan will be gone for the night, along with a few of the farmhands. I can’t imagine you’ll be having more than eight or nine for dinner.”
“Is that all?” Mrs. Farnsworth said dryly.
“I sure would appreciate it. While I’m there I can look for a bolt of fabric for you. I know you wanted something red to make a new tablecloth for Christmas, and you don’t want Jacob picking it out.”
At this tempting offer, Mrs. Farnsworth relented. Mary donned her hat and retrieved her reticule. Jacob was waiting with the wagon when she went out the front door. He gave her a hand up onto the seat next to him, and she settled in for the drive.
“I’m ready now,” she said when he didn’t signal the horses.
“Just waitin’ on—”
The wagon shook as someone hoisted himself onto the back. Mary turned in her seat.
“There you are, George,” Jacob said, then he flicked the reins and the horses leapt into action.
Mary’s stomach dropped, whether at the wagon’s jerky motions or the sight of George sitting on a bale of hay in the back, she wasn’t sure. George gave her a nod, which she returned before turning to face front. If she didn’t look into his eyes, didn’t speak with him or smile at him, she could pretend she didn’t still love him.
The trip was quiet, with Jacob humming a tune in time with the horses’ hooves. When they reached Lapeer, Jacob stopped in front of the dry goods store and George hopped off the wagon.
Mary went straight into the store and took her time looking at the fabrics, though there was just one red heavier-weight cotton that would be appropriate for a tablecloth. It still felt a little scandalous to buy cotton. But Mrs. Farnsworth said it would wash better than the alternatives.
After the clerk cut the correct length, Mary perused the store’s other offerings. After a few minutes more, she saw through the window that Jacob and George had returned with the baling wire and were now rolling a large barrel of flour onto the wagon as well. She paid the clerk and started for the door.
“Why, Mary Balsam, I haven’t seen you for an age,” came a voice from behind her.
Mary turned to find Sadie Whittaker, the minister’s wife, walking toward her with a small tin of straight pins in her hand. The women shared a quick embrace, and Mary pasted a smile onto her face.
“How have you been, dear?” Sadie said. “I’ve been so concerned since we didn’t see your family at Easter services as we might expect.”
“We’ve a minister at the farm right now leading our regular Sunday services, and we thought since he was qualified to serve the Lord’s Supper that we wouldn’t fill up all of the pews at church on Easter.”
Sadie’s face was a picture of concern. “You mean to say a Negro minister?”
“Yes. And if he is still with us at Christmas, we’ll plan to worship at home then as well.”
Sadie put the tin of pins down on a counter and grasped Mary’s free hand in hers. “Mary, I have tried very hard these past years to be understanding, as has Reverend Whittaker. But I am deeply concerned about your family.”
Mary schooled her features. “There’s no need for concern, Sadie. We read the same Scriptures, worship the same Lord. We may sing some different songs, but I can assure you that we have been faithful to God.”
“But not to his church,” she admonished. “Mary, I know that years ago Reverend Whittaker passed on the concerns of some in the church about the Negroes you brought with you, but he didn’t mean for that to drive your family away. What of your children? Don’t you want them to grow up in the church?”
“The children worship with us, of course.”
Sadie sighed and pressed her lips together. “Couldn’t you and Nathaniel come with the boys and leave the help to worship in their own way?”
“Why would we do that?” Mary asked, though she could guess the answer Sadie might give.
“It’s just not . . . natural. The entire situation over there isn’t natural, all of those men living there rather than living in their own homes. Why, they’ll never learn to take care of themselves if you don’t make them.”
Mary clenched her jaw and weighed her response, but the door of the dry goods store opened before she could s
peak.
“Mrs. Balsam,” Jacob said, “we ready now.”
Mary forced a smile toward Sadie and pulled her hand away. “It was nice running into you today, Sadie.”
She allowed Jacob to help her up onto the wagon. George climbed onto the back, Jacob flicked the reins, and the dry goods store and Sadie Whittaker faded into the distance.
“Was that Mrs. Whittaker you was talkin’ to, Mrs. Balsam?” Jacob asked.
“Yes, it was.”
“Are things well with her and the reverend?”
“I’m not sure. I assume so. We didn’t talk about her family. She was far more interested in the state of mine.”
“Oh? There somethin’ wrong with one of the boys?”
Mary might have answered yes. Little George had been acting so strange and distant of late. “No, it’s nothing like that.”
“That’s good. Mr. Balsam okay?”
“I believe so. Though I think you could tell me better than I could tell you. You see him far more often than I.” Mary wished she hadn’t said that. Nothing good could come of grumbling. “Mrs. Whittaker was actually sharing her concerns about us not returning to the church for Easter services. Though I can’t see why she didn’t just write me about it back in the spring if it has been on her mind since then.”
“You tell her we had church?”
“I did, but she seems to think that must not be quite good enough for God.”
Jacob laughed. “I guess God’s all right with it. He seem to be blessin’ us.”
Mary smiled. “It would seem so.”
They traveled in silence for a time, and then Jacob got to humming again. Mary recognized the tunes. They always put her in a happy mood and soothed her nerves on busy days. She missed hearing them in the house now that Martha and Loretta were gone. Mrs. Farnsworth certainly made no habit of humming.
Mary closed her eyes and focused on Jacob’s song. Behind her George took up the harmony. The rich sound washed over her like a wave of sunshine, warming her soul and pulling the last vestiges of Sadie Whittaker from her mind.