The desk clerk called the hotel manager at home. Fifteen minutes later, the manager arrived; his wife, her hair in curlers, waited in the idling car outside. The manager expressed terrible shock that Miz Eula had passed on and that Mr. Forrest was in lockup. Judith, dirty from poking around in the mansion, disheveled in her secondhand clothes, spoke out righteously and at length about her due as progeny and about how her father had robbed her and Miz Eula. She didn’t mention Cassie. Cassie sat down in the nearest chair and waited to hear her own name come up. The clock edged closer to three. Finally, when Judith was red in the face and on the verge of genuine hysterics, the manager offered to put her in a room upstairs free of charge until the lawyers arrived in the morning.
“Now, who’re you?” the manager said to Cassie.
“Oh,” said Cassie. “I’m progeny too.”
The manager let out a laugh that indicated he was glad someone in the room was willing to acknowledge how ridiculous this business was, with this crazy dirt-poor white girl and her midnight rant about lost riches.
“It’s true,” said Cassie. “I’m her sister. And I want a room upstairs too.”
The manager, his wife still waiting in the car, handed Cassie a key with a number on it. “It’s on the fourth floor,” he said. “Just keep quiet.”
The room upstairs was clean and quiet. The bed was soft under crisp sheets. Cassie lay down on the softness, but she couldn’t sleep. She was too angry at Judith to do anything but get up again and sit by the window, watching the lights run around and around on the movie marquis on the other side of the hotel’s parking lot. At five o’clock, she straightened the bed she hadn’t slept in, replaced the towel she’d used to dry her face, and took the dirty towel down to the laundry.
At about nine thirty Eden Pomeroy came over to where Cassie was ironing and told her that a couple of lawyers up in the salon were looking for her. Iris and Bethesda stopped midfold and midgossip. As far as Cassie could tell, no one knew that Bill Forrest had been arrested or knew what had happened to Miz Eula. Judith was no doubt still sound asleep, too sure of what was coming to her to get up and be a maid.
When Eden Pomeroy told Cassie about the lawyers, Iris made her eyes big and her mouth round. “Don’t you go up there,” Iris said. “Them’ll send you t’jail.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Eden Pomeroy. “They ain’t that kinda lawyers. They prob’ly think you know where that white girl’s hidin’.” Cassie seemed reluctant to leave, and Eden Pomeroy said, “Git up there, gal,” the way someone would speak to a carthorse.
* * *
There were two lawyers, both white men with cigars and ties. One was fat and wore glasses. The other was fatter. Judith was already with them, and so was Bill Forrest. Bill Forrest looked like a man who’d spent the night in jail. Judith had taken time to clean herself. She was wearing the second best of all her secondhand dresses. The dress was blue, and she had done her hair up in a bow, also blue. Cassie had never ever seen Judith’s hair in a bow. The color of the ribbon matched the dress so perfectly, she suspected Judith had cut it out of the hem.
Judith motioned Cassie over. Despite the dress, the bow, and all, she looked furious and pale in contrast to last night when she’d been furious and red-faced. “Now we kin start,” she said to the lawyers.
“Who the hail is she?” said Bill Forrest.
“She’s your other chile.” Judith actually shook with anger.
“I ain’t never seen her before in my life!”
“What’s your name, gal?” asked the fat lawyer, and Cassie told him.
“I don’t see the connection,” said the fatter lawyer. “What makes you think he’s your father?”
“My mama told me,” Cassie realized how thin that sounded. “Ever’body in town knows it.”
“I knows it,” said Judith, “and he knows it.”
“You got documentation?” said the fat lawyer to Cassie. “We really can’t do anything without documentation.”
“You got a birth certificate?” asked the fatter lawyer.
“I ain’t got no birth certificate,” said Judith, “and he married my momma.”
“Well then,” said the fatter lawyer, “I see we’re going to have a problem.”
The lawyers began to talk to each other in what seemed to be a language not quite English. There were words Cassie recognized: inheritance, birthright, descendants. And those she didn’t: assertion, bequest, allegation. And those she could guess at: legacy, entitlement, testimonial. But there was nothing she heard that translated into Judith’s rendition of progeny, and as the conversation went on, Cassie could see Judith’s fury fading into worried hope. After some time, the lawyers, their thick necks folding and unfolding, turned to Bill Forrest and to Judith.
“Concerning your claims to be heirs to the Forrest estate,” said the fat lawyer.
Bill Forrest drew himself up, unshaven and unwashed. “Yes.”
“Other than the late Eula Bonhomme, who seems to have been divorced from the original William Forrest, the Forrest line is too disparate for any single person to be considered an heir.”
The fatter lawyer nodded as if any fool could understand. “There is no reason to postpone the sale of the estate. Whatever comes out will be split among the remaining claimants.”
“Remaining claimants?” said Bill Forrest.
The fat lawyer took a pad of paper out of his briefcase and consulted it. “There are twenty-three that we know of.”
“Twenty-three?”said Bill.
“Just because they aren’t here doesn’t mean they don’t have a claim,” said the fatter lawyer, speaking to Bill as though he were a child.
“But my name is Forrest!” said Bill.
“Of course it is,” said the fat lawyer, “and once the estate is sold, you’ll get your equal share of the proceeds, along with every other Forrest who’s made a claim.”
“Equal share,” said Bill. “How much is that likely to be?”
The lawyers frowned as though they were silently debating the numbers.
“I would say no less than eighty-five dollars,” said the fat lawyer.
“Each?” said Bill.
“Certainly no less,” agreed the fatter lawyer. “After our fees, of course.”
* * *
Eden Pomeroy let Cassie off for the rest of the day, and since Judith had been fired for not showing up for work that morning, Cassie and Judith went to the estate sale in Miz Eula’s old car, which had been towed back from the mansion and slumped in its old space, leaking oil, drop by drop.
“Eighty-five dollars is a lot,” said Judith as she drove the rattling old heap. “I guess I thought it would be thousands, though. Mebbe millions.”
The breezy warmth of the afternoon blew in through the car, dispelling the smell of gasoline and oil. Since they didn’t know how to get to the front of the mansion, they parked in the back by the gas station and walked in through the overgrown drive again. The walk seemed much shorter this time, and this time they didn’t go through the house. They found a path along one side and made their way to the front.
Unlike Tawney’s, hardly anyone had shown up, and those who had were clustered around the draped tables. All of them were white people, probably just curious about all those rumors about lost riches. Cassie and Judith wandered over to see what was left from the house. There were a few sconces, a couple of broken figurines, a set of jackknives, as though someone had been collecting them, and a satin-covered box filled with faded, stained silk handkerchiefs. The rest was rusted junk, barely enough to cover the three tables, and when the auctioneer started selling the lots, he sounded dispirited, as though this auction was hardly worth his while. Cassie and Judith looked for Bill Forrest and found him, keeping his distance on the far side of the tables.
“What you gonna do with your share?” said Judith.
“I ain’t getting any money,” said Cassie. “An’ if I understood it right, you ain’t getting any either.”
“You’d be spending it in jail.”
“Well,” said Judith, “I ’spect eighty-five dollars might go a long way in jail.”
Cassie rubbed her eyes. “Judith,” she said.
“Hmm.”
“You got enough money to get to New York, and you ain’t got no job here.”
“You know what I’m gonna do.”
“You gone have to do it by yourself.”
Judith looked away at the tables with their poor spread of goods. “I was real upset when they brought us back to the hotel last night,” she said. “I know I din’t mention you. I din’t think they’d understand that an’ ever’thin’ else what was goin’ on. I’m sorry for that.”
“It’s all right,” said Cassie softly.
Judith looked down at her own feet. “You gonna stay here?”
“I guess I am,” said Cassie. “When are you gone leave for New York?”
“I ain’t got no place to sleep no more,” said Judith. “So I guess I’ll be takin’ the train today.” She squinted at her father, who was studiously ignoring them.
“You kin probably still sleep downstairs.”
“It’s all right,” said Judith. She smoothed her blue dress and blue hair ribbon. “This what I bin’ waitin’ for. I may’s well git started.”
They left the mansion and its minigolf facade. A sign across the doors said CONDEMNED.
When they got back to the Veranda, they went in to get Judith’s suitcase. In the dim, warm room, when everything was packed, they took each other’s hands.
“Ain’t you gone say good-bye to your daddy?” said Cassie.
“He doesn’t care, and I’ve had just about enough of him.”
“I guess I’ll be washin’ his towels.”
“No,” said Judith. “They gonna kick him out on account of not payin’ his bill. Miz Frances tol’ me.” She squeezed Cassie’s hands, hard. “I’ll write to you.”
“You can’t write,” said Cassie. “You can’t read neither.”
“Then you write to me,” said Judith. Her hands, gripping Cassie’s, were hot and sweaty. “I’ll git someone to read it to me.”
“I won’t know where to write to,” said Cassie. “Less’n you learn how to use the telephone and call me.”
“Telephone?” Judith’s nails pressed into Cassie’s palms. “You think they got ’em in New York?”
“You don’t have to go,” said Cassie. “You could probably sing round here and get famous just like that.”
“I know.”
“I can’t come with you,” Cassie said and gently pulled her hands away. “I ain’t gonna be your maid, an’ I guess I can’t really be your sister.”
“I know.” Judith picked up her suitcase. “I’m sorry I din’t tell them police you was progeny too. I’ll come back an’ see you. In mah big ol’ car with mah lil ol’ dog.”
“I’ll be list’nin’ to the reddio,” said Cassie. “Every single day.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
With or without Judith, it fell to Cassie to clear out Miz Eula’s hotel room. Eden Pomeroy had guessed that Judith and Cassie were sisters. To Eden, it was a family duty and entitled Cassie to whatever she found up there, a few old books and the faded quilt, worn but neatly kept.
Cassie was putting everything into Miz Eula’s suitcase when she found the two thick envelopes on the nightstand by the bed. One was addressed to Judith. One had Cassie’s name on it. That was the one she opened. Inside there was a roll of bills and a letter. Cassie counted the money first. It was two hundred and fifty dollars. Heart pounding, she put the money back in the envelope and took out the letter, which was written in the same neat hand as the one Judith had brought to the laundry months ago.
Dear Cassie,
This money is your legacy. I know there will be nothing of value tonight at the manor, and that you’ll get nothing from the estate sale tomorrow. You are an outcast like myself. This small sum cannot possibly compensate you for the troubles you have had in your life, but hopefully it will make some difference in your future.
Perhaps in some way we were sisters, like you and Judith, but regardless, you both are part of my family and I cannot let you go without knowing that you have a past and generations of relatives, all of whom were striving for the same kind of justice you and I (and Judith) deserve.
By the time you read this, I will be gone from the hotel and on my way home. I hope you will keep me in your thoughts.
Yours,
Eula Bonhomme-Forrest
Cassie picked up the other envelope, which had a similar size and heft. Miz Eula had left the same for Judith, most likely with a different note. Cassie read hers over again and this time put the money in her pocket. She put Judith’s envelope in Miz Eula’s suitcase and took the suitcase down to the room by the furnace. Then she sat on the edge of the bed with the lump of bills in her pocket, trying to think. She was as close to rich as she was ever going to get, and her mind spun with what to do with the money. It wasn’t clothes and a car, like Judith would’ve wanted. Judith would probably have been jumping around the room, crowing with victory. For Cassie it was getting Lil Ma out of Mississippi.
* * *
Since there was no will, the funeral home cremated Miz Eula’s body. The manager of the hotel offered Cassie the ashes in a cardboard box; she took them to the old mansion to scatter them.
Even from the golf-course side, which had been shored up and painted white, the condemned house was swaybacked and buckling. When the mansion was torn down, it would probably disperse as dust, not as beams, bricks, or shingles. From the front, where Cassie and Judith and Miz Eula had entered almost a week before, Cassie stepped out under the leafy branches of the ancient live oaks and picked her way through brambles and creeper, past what might have been a summer kitchen, and farther into woods to where the slaves had lived. Once, cabins had lined either side of the barely visible path; now no more than two bricks stood on top of each other. Back at the mansion, which showed as a shadow behind the trees, like the elephant shading a canvas flap, Cassie opened the box and gingerly scooped up a bit of the ash. She scattered it as far as it would go, which wasn’t far. Her dress caught in the thorn bushes. More ash spilled as she pulled herself free. She apologized to the box. Judith would have looked at her like she was crazy, roaming around in a ghost-infested forest with yet another potential ghost right there in the box. Judith would have told her to git the hail out. This was life without Judith. Cassie took the rest of the ashes up the steps of the big crumbling house and set the box on the porch under the broken shutters, just to the side of the front door.
Birds trilled in the soft air. Wild flowers had grown up in the remains of the mansion’s front lawn, and she picked a few, thinking she would leave them by the box, but the gray, vandalized face of the mansion was no place for flowers. Miz Eula had always worn black anyway.
* * *
Cassie used some of her money to move out of the Veranda and in with an old widow on the colored side of Remington. The widow, Mrs. Morgan, had one daughter, who lived in Baltimore, and Cassie rented her old room. Every night after Cassie got home from work, Mrs. Morgan made her sit down for a cup of hot tea and ginger cookies and told Cassie about how, after Mister Morgan had died, her daughter had insisted that she sell the house and move to Baltimore. “He built this house with his own hands!” Mrs. Morgan would say. Every night Cassie did her best to act appalled and to offer advice. She wrote a letter to Mrs. Morgan’s daughter and after several weeks, received an envelope with ten dollars in it and a note about how awful Baltimore was this time of year. Mrs. Morgan had no relatives in town, but she showed the money to her elderly friends and told them that even though her daughter was rich now, there was no way she would ever abandon Mister Morgan’s hand-built house. Her elderly friends visited regularly and fussed over Cas
sie as if she was somebody’s long-lost child. It made Cassie unbearably homesick. It made her think about Heron-Neck and what life might have been like without the burden of Grandmother’s designs.
Cassie started eating supper at the Veranda and coming home well after Mrs. Morgan went to bed. She found herself less homesick at the laundry and stayed longer hours than she might have; not just because of Mrs. Morgan’s tirades, but because of Winston, one of the bellhops. Winston was cherry-black, as Lil Ma would have said, with eyes so warm they melted her insides.
Cassie started meeting Winston for breakfast. He was charming and handsome and eighteen years old. He told her about his life, growing up in Remington with his granny, his mama, and his six brothers and sisters. Cassie found herself envious of the idea of brothers and sisters and even more envious of the extended family of aunts, uncles, and cousins, all growing up in the same section of town. She told Winston about Grandmother and Lil Ma. There had been nothing else but laundry, and as for extended family, only Judith. She didn’t mention Grandmother’s grand plan for lightening the family bit by bit, or the albino boy, and certainly not Porterville, but she did tell him some of the adventures she and Judith had had on the way from Heron-Neck, and some of them, mostly the ones about Judith and her harebrained schemes in pursuit of fame, were funny. Cassie and Winston laughed together.
Later, Cassie felt guilty for laughing at Judith, and at the widow’s house, she turned on the radio very softly, right around midnight, to pick up WINS. She tried to listen as often as she could, straining to hear Judith’s voice among the background singers, but she was never sure she did. One night, though, it was different.
… tonight we have a special hello from one sister to another—you know who you are, gal!
The disc jockey played the song they’d heard at the Wivells’ coming from the albino boy’s bedroom, and on the road to Porterville, the time they hadn’t found the place. It was the energetic colored version too, not the mediocre white rendition. Cassie knew the song was sent from Judith, better than a postcard. It gave her hope that Judith was on the right track and had at least learned how to use a telephone, since that was the way you got dedications onto Radio WINS.
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