“Them was hard times, baby. You understand me? Real hard times. White peoples, they was mean to coloreds. Y’all young folks don’t know how mean they was. Ain’t nobody gone kill a colored man for looking at a white woman now, but they would do them kind of things back then. They was killing colored men like it was Judgment Day. Hadn’t been for Uncle Tommy, I don’t know how hard it would have been for my family. My mama was a good-looking woman. Ain’t no telling what some white man would have did to her if it hadn’t been for Uncle Tommy. Ain’t no telling what would have happened to my daddy trying to protect her. Uncle Tommy kept us safe. He was a good Christian. He was, but I ain’t want to always be standing in no white man’s shade. And all this time, I been asking myself, why couldn’t them crackers just leave us colored folks alone? Let me tell you something. That white man with his contraption, he killed Meema. That’s what he did, bringing all that up. He broke her heart. I loved Meema. She used to give me candy. Used to save it in her bureau drawer just for me. She was a good woman.”
She took off her glasses. Covered her face. There was another long silence.
“I wish that white man never had came up here that day! I wish to God he never had!”
Her voice had lifted to an anguished shriek. I told her I hadn’t meant to make her sad, but she didn’t reply. The tape recorder kept rolling for the next fifteen minutes, as we didn’t speak. Then my granny told me she was tired. She couldn’t talk about this no more. She was gone lay down.
I stood first, holding out my hands. As she took them, I thanked her for her time.
“You welcome, baby. I’ll see you on Sunday, at church.”
Like Agatha Christie
After twenty years, Miss Sharon, Miss Cordelia’s maid, had stopped pressing her hair: gray dreadlocks fell to her shoulders. There were glasses, too, but the smile with the glint of gold remained. She led me into the living room, where Miss Cordelia sat on the claw-foot sofa. There was a blanket over her legs. Her own hair was thinner, tinted a bluish color.
“My, you’ve grown, Ailey!”
“I’m thirty-four, Miss Cordelia.”
Her arms shook a bit when she reached for me. I leaned and pecked on her cheek, hoping I wouldn’t sneeze from her face powder. I didn’t pull out my tape recorder yet. That shouldn’t be the way, so I thanked Miss Sharon when she brought in the tea and the pound cake. I chatted about my family and graduate school. Waited until Miss Cordelia asked, did I still want to interview her?
“Yes, ma’am, I sure do! But only if that’s all right.”
“It sure is. I’ve been looking forward to this all week, ever since Root called me.”
“Is it all right if I record you? I don’t want to forget anything.”
“Oh, this is so exciting!”
I pulled out the recorder. “This is Ailey Pearl Garfield. I am interviewing Mrs. Cordelia Pinchard Rice, a resident of Chicasetta, Georgia. Today’s date is July 25, 2007. Mrs. Rice, do you give me permission to record our conversation?”
“I do, but you don’t have to be so formal. You can call me Miss Cordelia.”
We ran through the preliminary questions, beginning with her date and place of birth.
She laughed. “A true lady doesn’t tell her age, Ailey. But all right, I was born July fifteenth, 1925.”
“We have the same birthday, Miss Cordelia!”
“Well, I’ll be!”
Then we turned to her parents’ names and first memories.
“My mother’s name was Lucille Sweet Pinchard. My father’s name was Thomas John Pinchard Jr. I was born on Wood Place Plantation and lived there until it burned down. I was about nine then.”
“Were you there when the fire started?”
“No, we were out of town. Mother and Daddy and I had driven to Atlanta to visit some people, and when we returned two days later, the plantation house was burned to the ground. Our furniture was in the house, our clothes, all our belongings. Mother took on something awful. ‘My fur! My fur!’ she screamed. Daddy had bought her a fur coat for Christmas, which was rather silly. How often can you wear a fur coat in Georgia? But Mother just loved that coat. Her daddy owned a few houses in town, and he gave this house to her. He was a rich man. After the fire, Daddy used to take me out to the farm to visit with the coloreds—I mean, Black people—and I would play with their children.” She looked at me, blushing. “I’m an old lady, Ailey. Please forgive me.”
I pretended to be clueless, furrowing my brow.
“Forgive you for what?”
“I have a hard time remembering what to call your people. There have been so many changes over the years. It’s so hard to keep up.”
“Miss Cordelia, don’t you even worry about that.” I was just grateful the lady didn’t know any other names for Black people, because I needed this interview for my dissertation.
“You are so sweet.”
“Thank you, Miss Cordelia. So are you.” I picked up the recorder from the coffee table, moving a touch closer. “So . . . you used to play with the African American children on Wood Place?”
“Oh yes, but Mother didn’t like it. She was very old-fashioned, but Daddy, he got along with everybody.”
“Miss Cordelia, do you remember any of your other ancestors, before your mother and father?”
“Let’s see. Big Thom’s wife was Sarah Dawson Pinchard. They called her ‘Sally.’ She died having my father. Big Thom’s father was Victor Thomas Pinchard, and his mother was named Grace. I don’t know her maiden name. Big Thom had a twin sister, Petunia. Victor’s father was Samuel, and his mother was named Eliza, but they called her ‘Lady.’ They said she was very beautiful, but we don’t have any pictures of her. Samuel was the first person in these parts. There was nothing here when he came. Nothing but a bunch of trees and some savage Indians.”
I needed to finish this dissertation. I really, really did, so I couldn’t get insulted. And I repeated my need to myself when Miss Cordelia told me she never could have children, and since there weren’t any other Pinchards besides her, she was the last of the line. I knew better than to bring up Dear Pearl’s children. To mention that I was a direct Pinchard descendant.
“The doctors told me there was nothing wrong with me, but I just never did get pregnant, Ailey. It was the strangest thing. It took me a long time to stop being sad, but the year before he died, my husband, Horace, told me, we were enough for each other. It took him long enough to say it, but I’m glad he did. He gave me plenty trouble, but he was all right. He gave nice presents, especially when he’d been bad.”
“Miss Cordelia, can you tell me your first memory?”
“Hmm. Well, I don’t know if this is my first memory, but I hope this one will do. I was about four, so this was before everything burned down. Jinx Franklin came up to the house and knocked on the front door. He lived on our land and farmed for us, just like the coloreds—I mean, Black people. He was what we used to call ‘white trash.’ We only had three girls working in the house. There was Hettie. She was my nanny. I loved her as much as Mother, maybe even more. May Lois did the cooking, though she wasn’t that good at it. I don’t know why Mother tolerated her. Lacie was the maid. She cleaned the house. Lacie was younger and quite pretty. Probably younger than you. Mother didn’t like her, but Daddy wouldn’t let her fire her, because she was related to Root and Pearl somehow. I heard Mother say that she didn’t trust a Pinchard man around a good-looking colored girl to save her soul. Because of Lil’ May and Big Thom and all that. Am I being rude to bring that up?”
I kept my arm steady. “No, ma’am. Not at all. If I may say so, that’s pretty common knowledge.”
She giggled. “I guess it was! Anyway, we had some boys that used to work around the house, taking care of the cows and chickens and yard and such, but I don’t remember their names. I do know that one of the boys was old, maybe my age now, but he got around well without a cane or anything. Do you notice that older people aren’t as spry as they used to be? I
wonder why that is. Root tells me, ‘Cordelia, it’s because of all the chemicals they put in the water and the food. They’re poisoning us.’ But I don’t know.”
“That’s certainly something to think about.”
“What was I talking about, Ailey?”
“You were mentioning that Mr. Franklin showed up that day at the house.”
“That’s right! That awful Jinx showed up to the front door, and Hettie answered, because Lacie was upstairs cleaning. We’d been playing a game. Hettie was fat, and she was out of breath. When she got to the door, she told Jinx to go around to the back, and he asked her why. She said, he knew why, and if he didn’t, she didn’t have time to tell him. Couldn’t he see she was busy with Miss Cordelia? And, oh, he got so upset and took on! He started cussing up a blue streak right there on the front porch. And then, he called Hettie a bad word.”
“What did Jinx call Hettie?”
“I can’t say that word. All my life I haven’t said that word, and I will not start now. Only the worst trash uses those words. And, my, those Franklins were just the rudest, most ill-mannered trash on God’s green earth. The children used to stick their tongues out at me when Daddy drove us to town for church. I couldn’t stand them!”
I shifted again. I wanted to ask about the Franklins. If the old man had been perplexed by the information that I’d given him, I suspected it would be worse with Miss Cordelia.
“Um . . . may I ask, did anyone in your family . . . um . . . ever tell you of a blood tie between the Pinchards and the Franklins?”
“A blood tie? What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . um . . . did anyone ever talk about you possibly being related to the Franklins?”
“Related? Of course not!”
“So . . . you never heard anything about that from your father, maybe? He never mentioned that?”
“No, he did not! I think I would remember something so ridiculous! What in the world are you talking about?”
Her voice rose, and soon, Miss Sharon had padded into the room. “Ma’am? Did you need something?”
“Bring me my fan!”
Miss Sharon widened her eyes at me: What did you do? When she returned with an Oriental-printed fan, I held out my hand, but the old lady grabbed it, saying she could fan herself. She wasn’t that old.
“Miss Cordelia, I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I said. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
The fan fluttered. “There are just too many gossips in this town! And those Franklins always have been liars! I heard the one who’s a policeman is halfway decent, but I don’t believe it. I’ve never met a Franklin worth a nickel with a hole in it.”
“Miss Cordelia, please forgive me. Will you accept my apology?”
She sighed and put the fan in her lap. “I suppose so, Ailey. As long as you promise not to repeat any more nasty gossip.”
“I promise. You know, we historians have to track down every lead, even the false ones. We’re like detectives.”
“Like Agatha Christie?”
She laughed, and I joined her, relieved.
“Yes, ma’am! Exactly. Only, without all the trains and fancy clothes.” I reached to the coffee table. I placed my hand on the recorder. “Would it be all right if we got back to your story, Miss Cordelia? Or are you too tired? Would you like to rest?”
“You are so sweet. No, I think I’m all right.”
“Thank you so much. Gosh, I really appreciate you. Now, can you remember what happened after the fire at the big house?”
“Yes, I think so. After everything burned up, I was not sad at all to leave the country, but Mother never got past leaving. She said it was a shame not to try to rebuild the old house back up. She died when I was still a girl. I was heartbroken, but I was happy she passed on before Daddy did. She would have been so angry to find out the farm doesn’t even belong to us anymore.”
“It doesn’t? Who does the farm belong to?”
“Why, Ailey, it belongs to your family.”
“My family?”
“Yes, Ailey. Didn’t you know that?”
“Um . . . no, ma’am.”
“Well, I’ll be. I thought Root or Miss Rose surely would have told you. You mean to tell me, after all these years, people think it’s still mine? Daddy had sold about half the land and left that money to me. It was a lot. The other half, he willed to Root and Pearl.”
“Did everyone know it was our land?”
“Oh my, no! It was a secret. Even my husband didn’t know.”
“Why do you think no one was told?”
“I guess because some people weren’t very nice to coloreds—Black people—and such back then. And Root and Pearl and me, we didn’t want any fuss or trouble. But I think things worked out just fine, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess they did. All right, I think that’s it, Miss Cordelia. Thank you so much for your time.”
I turned off the recorder and slipped it into my bag.
“We’re done already? I swan, I haven’t had this much fun in years! The next time you come back, we’ll have to talk more about Horace. He was a rascal, but so good-looking! I’ve lived an exciting life for an old lady. I don’t have any complaints.”
“Well, I just thank you so much again, Miss Cordelia. You are so wonderful to talk to me.”
I rose, but she grabbed my hand. I couldn’t hover over an old lady; that wouldn’t be polite, so I sat down on the sofa.
“Ailey . . . I want to say I’m sorry. About . . . you know . . . all the things that happened . . . you know . . . slavery and that.”
I suppressed a sigh. I was tired. I didn’t feel like playing my role in this script.
“It’s all right, Miss Cordelia. It’s not your fault. Slavery happened before you were even born.”
“No, Ailey, I really mean it. I’m just so sorry. But colored and white—Black and white, I mean—don’t you think there’s always been love between our families? Because I love Root so much. And I loved Pearl when she was alive. My daddy did, too. Pearl was . . . she was . . . she was my daddy’s baby sister, and Root was his baby brother. Did you know that?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did know.”
The times had changed so much, ever since Miss Cordelia had been born, but she was trying to give me something here. She wanted to ease a weight off her conscience. What she was offering me wasn’t going to alter history or bring anyone back from the dead. But at least she finally had acknowledged that my family was her family. What could I gain from berating an old lady who couldn’t even walk across the room without help?
“And yes, ma’am, Miss Cordelia. There sure has been love between us. All the love in the world.”
But when I stood again, she still wouldn’t let my hand go. She asked, I wasn’t leaving just yet, was I? It was almost time for her afternoon soap operas. Miss Sharon always watched with her. We could all watch together, and there was plenty cake, if I wanted another piece.
I’d been looking forward to typing up my notes from the recording that afternoon. Then, too, when I arrived back at the old man’s house, I was planning to fuss at him for keeping information from me, once again. Uncle Root thought he was slick: all these years, the family farm had belonged to him and no one else knew it. But I couldn’t just grab my historical information and rush off. That wouldn’t be kind.
I sat back down.
“More cake sounds lovely, Miss Cordelia.”
Not Hasty
At the hospital, David unwrapped a peppermint and popped it into his mouth. He pulled out a small cologne sample from his pants pocket and dabbed a drop behind each ear with his index finger.
“How I look?” he asked.
“You look okay,” I said.
“How I smell?” He lifted one arm and then the other, sniffing.
“Who are you trying to impress? Stop all that.”
Another early morning phone call, only two weeks after I’d returned to North Carolina. This time, my mother had bee
n weeping violently.
“What’s wrong, Mama? Slow down, now.”
“Ailey, he’s in the hospital. They moved him to Atlanta.”
“Who, Mama?”
“Root! The doctor at Crawford Long said it’s only gone be a couple of days.”
“You mean until he’s dead? Are you serious? What happened?”
“They don’t know, Ailey. His blood pressure kept spiking, and he was having trouble breathing. His regular doctor had him airlifted to Atlanta. Said they didn’t have time for me to drive him. Ailey, please come. I don’t know if I can go through this without you. Coco offered to fly down, but you know she’s working.”
“Of course I’ll come, but can I borrow a few dollars? I’ll pay you back when my fellowship check comes.”
I put aside my panic and fear and moved into autopilot. I slid from under the sheets, dragging the phone cord to the closet. Something in case there was a funeral, dark this time. My navy crepe.
“You don’t have to pay me back. It’s all right. Thank you, baby. Mama loves you so much.” I’d known it was critical when she’d referred to herself in the third person.
I grabbed David’s hand, preparing myself to see Uncle Root lying against the hospital pillows, his fluffy, silver hair combed out. Wearing the silk pajamas that he favored, pressed by one of his many female relatives who were scheduled to drive over in shifts. Tears filled my eyes. David pulled me into a tight hug, kissing the top of my head.
“Aw, sweetheart. Everyone’s got to pass.”
“Your platitudes aren’t consoling me, David.”
“It might not be what you want to hear, but we’ve all got to go. Dr. Hargrace has had a long and good life, so don’t cry, okay? Your mama and granny will be upset as it is. You’ve got to be strong now. That’s your job.”
“You’re a little funky under your pits,” I said. “Now that you mention it.”
He pulled the tiny bottle of cologne back out.
In the hospital room, Uncle Root was perched on the edge of his hospital bed. He was telling a story, his head thrown back dramatically. Mama sat in the armchair by the door. She shook her head, grinning.
The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois Page 76