“I wish you were able to tell us more about what’s in those diaries,” Alexandra Pendergrast, Sean’s girlfriend and law partner, said. “They must be pretty hot stuff to be the cause of so much activity.”
“There are a lot of interesting details in them,” I said. “If you’re really curious, you can read some of Rachel Long’s story in the memoir of her written by her granddaughter-in-law, Angeline McCarthy Long. The college library’s copy isn’t available at the moment, but Miss Eulalie Estes has graciously donated her copy of it to the archive. The only other copy known to exist is one belonging to the Long family.”
Miss Eulalie had colored slightly when she offered me her copy of the memoir on Friday afternoon. “It turns out I was mistaken, Charlie. I found my copy after a more thorough search at home, but now I think it belongs in the archive.”
I thanked her, well aware that both of us knew that Lucinda Long returned it after having stolen it in the first place. I wasn’t going to embarrass Miss Eulalie, and since I had promised the mayor my silence, I simply took the book and added it to the Long collection.
“Can’t you tell us some of the stories, Dad, without our having to read the book?” Laura asked with a big smile. “As much as I like to visit you in your office, I don’t have a lot of time this semester.”
Diesel, back beside my leg from one of his periodic treks around the table in search of handouts, warbled loudly. Everyone laughed because the cat always seemed to know just when to speak up.
“I suppose I can, especially since Diesel has asked, too,” I said. I thought about what to tell them, and I decided to recount the story of Rachel Long and the Singletarys. Though it was sad, it illustrated what a strong and charitable woman Rachel had been. I had since read more of her diaries—they were still in the archive, pending a decision by the Longs to ask for them back—and had come to admire her.
“Rachel was an admirable woman,” I said. “She, like everyone in Athena, had difficult times during the war. Food and other supplies became increasingly scarce, but she was willing to share what she had. One example from the first year of the war is the Singletary family.”
“Jasper Singletary’s ancestors?” Sean asked.
I nodded. “Yes, the same family. The head of the family at that time was also Jasper, and he had a son, Franklin, by his first wife. She died, and when Franklin was around ten, Jasper remarried, a young woman named Vidalia. They had three children, one right after another, and they were all under six in 1861. Franklin was sixteen, I think.”
I paused for the final spoonful of sorbet. “Times were hard for the Singletarys. Jasper had a heart condition; plus he was around sixty by then, and couldn’t work. Franklin, though much younger, had similar heart problems. Their only hired hand left to enlist in the war. Jasper didn’t condone slavery, you see.”
“Good for him,” Laura said. “I like him already.”
“They didn’t have enough food, but Jasper refused to ask for help, particularly from the Longs. He hated them, and Rachel’s father-in-law wasn’t too fond of Jasper, either. Vidalia, on the other hand, couldn’t stand seeing her children go hungry. Without Jasper’s knowing about it, she went to Rachel and begged for food. Her children also needed clothes. Rachel, being a compassionate woman, gave Vidalia food and bolts of some material she had but had never used.” I paused, trying to remember the name of the cloth. I had meant to ask Laura about it.
“That was kind of her,” Alexandra said.
“She was a good woman,” I said. “Green tarlatan, that’s it.” I looked down the table at my daughter. “That was the name of the cloth Rachel gave Vidalia. I’d never heard of tarlatan before, and I’ve been meaning to ask you about it.”
Laura’s nose wrinkled. “I’ve heard of green tarlatan, Dad. It was actually poisonous.”
“What do you mean?” I was stunned, and, I could see by their expressions, everyone else except Frank was equally taken aback.
“It had arsenic in it,” Frank said. “Arsenic was used in many things in the nineteenth century. In wallpaper, for example, and in cloth.”
“It helped fix the dye in the cloth,” Laura said. “But it was deadly. There were cases of people getting really sick and even dying from it because of the fumes it gave off.”
“I read somewhere recently that they examined some wallpaper produced by William Morris,” Frank said. “It still had enough arsenic in it to be deadly, even after more than a century. I’d never heard of it, but Laura and I were doing some research on nineteenth-century clothing and stumbled across it. We’re thinking of putting on a stage version of Little Women.”
“What happened to the Singletarys, Dad?” Laura asked with a frown. “Were they affected by it?”
“Yes, they were, sadly.” I paused for a breath to steady myself. The unintentional tragedy of Rachel’s charitable act upset me. “All three of the little children and Vidalia died several months after Rachel Long gave them the cloth. The winter was harsh, and I suppose the children were already weak from malnutrition. Vidalia probably died from heartbreak as much as from exposure to the cloth herself.”
No one spoke when I finished. Even Diesel was silent.
To think that Jasper Singletary and his family had been right all along. Rachel Long did kill Vidalia and the children, but never knew she had.
Helen Louise reached out and placed her hand on mine where it lay on the table. I curled my fingers around hers, glad of the warmth and the loving concern in her touch. I looked around the table at my family, and I could see they were all deeply affected by the tragedy, even though it took place a hundred and fifty years ago.
Laura pushed back her chair and came to put her arm around me. She gave me a brief squeeze, and I looked up into her loving and beautiful face.
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” she said. “I know you had no idea about that cloth. It was a terrible tragedy, and I know we all feel sorry for those poor children and their mother.” She paused and glanced over at Frank. He gave her a slight nod.
“Frank and I have some news that will cheer you up, though,” Laura said, tears starting to form in her eyes. “In about seven months, you’re going to be a grandfather.”
I stood, unable to speak, and pulled my daughter close, tears now streaming down my face. Diesel meowed loudly, and the rest of the family noisily gave their congratulations to the parents-to-be.
I would never forget Rachel Long or Vidalia Singletary and her children and how an act of charity brought about so much sorrow. I would say a prayer for all of them later. Now, however, I looked to the future and the expansion of my own family and was grateful to be so blessed.
See how it all began!
Turn the page for the never-before-published bonus short story . . .
WHEN CHARLIE MET DIESEL
I looked out the kitchen window at the wet, gray November morning, and I wanted to go back upstairs and climb into bed. Surely they could get along fine without me today at the Athena Public Library. I was only a volunteer, after all.
On days like this I sometimes wondered whether I’d made the right decision a little over a year ago to leave Houston—my home for twenty-five years—and move back to my hometown in Mississippi. With my wife gone—thanks to pancreatic cancer—and my two children grown and out of the house, suddenly what had been a happy home felt more like a prison. Though loving memories abounded in that place, I no longer felt that it was home, with only one person to occupy it.
Not long after my wife, Jackie, died, my dear, sweet aunt Dottie, my father’s sister, also passed away—ironically, from pancreatic cancer. She left everything she had to me, her only surviving relative. That included her beautiful old house, a place I loved with all my heart. Along with the house came a surprisingly large amount of money, and that meant I could afford to retire from my job in the Houston Public Library system and move home to Athena.
That’s what I did, and most days I didn’t regret it. Other days I felt mildly depressed—all part of the grieving process, I knew, but recognizing that didn’t help much. Volunteering at the public library once a week got me out of the house, as did a part-time job cataloging rare books at the Athena College library three days a week.
“You need something, Mr. Charlie?”
The voice of my housekeeper, Azalea Berry, broke into my melancholy thoughts. I turned away from the window to face her. She set a basket of laundry on the kitchen table and regarded me, her head tilted to one side.
I offered her a faint smile and shook my head. “No, I was only looking at the weather. Trying to talk myself into getting out in it and going to the library.”
“That’d be better than moping around here like a dog done lost his favorite bone.” Azalea didn’t mince words. I didn’t think she meant to be unkind, but a year’s experience had taught me that she didn’t believe in mollycoddling, either. I also realized, guiltily, that Azalea had had to come out into this same weather to take care of the house. “Miss Dottie sure wouldn’t like to see you dragging your tail-feathers.”
Azalea had worked for my aunt for many years, and on the day I moved in, Azalea told me she would stay on because Aunt Dottie made her promise to look after the house—and me. I hadn’t argued because I knew a superior force when I met one. Besides, Azalea took such good care of the house—and of me—that I had quickly grown used to being looked after and fed delicious Southern food. My expanded waistline attested to that.
For a moment I fancied I saw my aunt standing right behind Azalea and nodding her head at what her housekeeper had said. I blinked, and the image faded. This wasn’t the first time over the past year that I’d had these hallucinations—if that was indeed what they were.
“You’re right.” I nodded. “I won’t melt. Guess I’d better get a move on.”
Azalea picked up the basket and nodded. “I’ll be gone by the time you’re home again. I’m going to bake a casserole for you. It’ll be in the oven.”
I thanked her before I went into the hall to grab my raincoat from the coatrack. When I walked back into the kitchen on my way to the attached garage, I heard her singing in the utility room, along with the sound of water filling the washing machine.
The drive to the public library took only a few minutes. Nothing was far from anything else in Athena, a fact over which I marveled frequently after so many years in Houston. I parked my car in the lot beside the building. The front end touched the low hedge that bordered the lot on three sides. As I stepped out of the car, unfurling my umbrella as I did so, I thought I saw something moving in the shrubbery. I shut the door and stood for a moment, watching, but then decided I must have imagined it. There was no further movement in the dark areas beneath the shrubs on this murky day.
I headed into the library to get out of the rain and into the warmth. The cheerful faces of two of the library staff members, Lizzie Hayes and Bronwyn Forster, greeted me, and my spirits began to lift. Really, I was lucky to have such nice people to spend time with, and I ought to be more grateful for that. Besides, I knew they appreciated the help I gave them.
I spent a couple of hours cataloging and processing new books, interrupted by the occasional short burst of conversation with either Lizzie or Bronwyn. Teresa Farmer, the chief reference librarian, popped her head into the office to say hello, and we chatted for a moment. Teresa asked if I could work the reference desk from two to three today, and I said I’d be happy to. After that I would be done for the day.
The time passed pleasantly enough, though slowly. Few people made it into the library, probably due to the weather. When I finished my stint at three, I bundled up again, bade everyone goodbye, and headed to my car, umbrella over my head.
As I neared my car, I saw a longish, dark shape dart out of the shrubbery and run under the car. I stopped a few feet away and squatted awkwardly as I tried to keep the umbrella over me. I thought I saw an animal of some kind behind one of the rear wheels, but the afternoon was so gray that I had difficulty discerning anything clearly.
My knees protested as I stood, and I remained in place. What kind of creature was under my car? Could it be a possum or a raccoon? They turned up in people’s yards all the time. The last thing I wanted was to be attacked by a wild animal. No, I decided after a moment’s reflection. The way the creature moved, it had to be a cat. Probably a family pet that had strayed away from home.
I took a couple of steps toward the car and knelt again. “Hello there, kitty. Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you. Come out where I can see you better.” I repeated my words in a croon, over and over, and although my knees ached, I kept it up until finally a dark head with two large ears appeared from behind the rear tire.
“Well, hello, kitty,” I said. “You look wet and unhappy. How about you let me come closer? Would that be okay?” I kept up the soft patter as I moved clumsily forward in a crouch.
The cat didn’t run off. Instead he—or she—watched me intently. I got as close as three feet from him, and still he hadn’t moved. I stopped and held out my hand.
“Why don’t you come over and say hello? I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I bet you’re really wet and cold by now, and I’ve got an old towel in the backseat of my car. I can wrap you up in that and you’ll be all nice and warm. How does that sound?”
The cat regarded me for a moment, and I had the strangest feeling he understood every word. He meowed, rather loudly, and took a couple of steps toward me. I held still, but kept murmuring to him, and finally he came close enough for me to touch his head gently.
His bedraggled coat dripped water, and he looked to be a year or so old. He must weigh a good ten pounds, I reckoned. I couldn’t see a collar, and I wondered whether he had gotten loose from a nearby house or if someone had dumped him here. The latter thought made me angry, because I despised people who abandoned their pets. If they couldn’t care for them for some reason, they should at least have the decency to turn them in to a shelter. I knew Athena had a no-kill one.
I shouldn’t be so pessimistic, I realized. He was probably only lost. If that were the case, perhaps an ad in the local paper would help locate his family.
The cat rubbed his head against my hand and then looked up at me with sad eyes. He chirped at me—at least, that was what it sounded like. I’d never heard a cat make such a sound before. When my children were young, we’d had a pair of cats, littermates. Both of them were chatty, but I’d never heard either of them chirp.
What should I do next? I wondered. Should I try to pick him up and put him in the car? Or open the car door and see if he would jump in? I might scare him off if I tried to pick him up. I certainly didn’t want to get clawed. My coat would protect my arms, but I didn’t have gloves with me.
While I debated what to do, the cat solved the dilemma for me. He turned toward the car and put a large paw on the rear door. Then he stretched up on his hind legs and touched the handle.
I was so surprised I almost lost my balance and fell back on my rear on the wet pavement. This was one smart cat, I realized. I steadied myself and got to my feet, wincing at the stiffness in my knees.
“Okay, kitty, I’ll open the door and you hop in, okay?” I unlocked the doors, and the cat moved back to allow me to open the rear door. I closed my umbrella and stuck it on the floorboard. The cat jumped inside, and I leaned in to grab the towel I kept there and wrap him in it. I rubbed him with the towel, and he rewarded me with a deep, rumbling purr.
“You sound like a diesel engine.” I laughed. He kept up the purring while I continued to dry him with the towel. By this time the back of my raincoat was dripping, and I decided I had better get in the car myself. I left the towel around him, shut the door, then opened the front door and climbed in.
I twisted in my seat to look at the cat. He chirped at me aga
in, all the while keeping his eyes focused on my face.
“What should we do now?” I said. “You don’t have a collar, so I have no idea where or to whom you belong.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe you have one of those microchips. I’ll need to take you to the vet to find out.”
The cat meowed, then started licking his right front paw. Had he just agreed with me? I wondered.
I pulled out my cell phone and tapped the icon for the browser. I did a search for veterinarians in Athena, and the first one who came up was a Dr. Devon Romano. Her clinic wasn’t far from the library, so I decided to head there.
A few minutes later my passenger and I pulled up in front of the clinic. There were three other cars in the parking area. I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait long. I still felt damp and chilled, and I was ready to get home for a hot bath.
Deciding that trying to handle the umbrella and the cat at the same time would be a recipe for disaster, I resigned myself to a wet head. I climbed out of the car and opened the back door. The cat eyed me with what seemed to be a suspicious glare as I stuck my head and shoulders inside the car.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I said in a soothing tone. “We’re going to go inside and talk to the nice people here, and they’re going to help us find out who you belong to, and then you’ll get to go back home and be warm and dry.”
As I talked, I reached toward him, and for a moment I thought he was going to slap at me with one of his large front paws. He held still, however, and let me check to make sure the towel was secured around him. He shivered suddenly, but then seemed content to let me pick him up and tuck him close to my chest.
I looked down at his face, and he stared up at me. His eyes seemed to be saying, “I trust you, human. Don’t let me down.” I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Then I decided I was simply imagining things. I shut the door and locked the car. Then we dashed for the clinic.
The only person in the waiting room was a redheaded woman who had a rabbit in her lap. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. I stepped up to the receptionist’s window.
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