Letters on the Table

by Pattie Howse-Duncan

  Her enthusiasm brought a look of surprise to the brown lady’s face. “So, you’re an expert at climbing trees and at arithmetic? You might just be the smartest seven-year-old I know. I bet you’re what some folks call a nat-ur-al.” She drew the word out as she spoke, enunciating each syllable precisely.

  Katherine cocked her head and studied the lady’s face before she answered. She was taken back to hear her say that word. “People used to say that about my daddy and the things he built, but I’ve never heard anybody say that about me. I like it though.” Emulating the lady’s pronunciation, she asked, “Are you a nat-ur-al about anything?”

  “Let me think on that.” She studied Katherine’s face hard like the answer could be found written somewhere across her forehead. “Folks tell me I’m a natural at some things, especially cooking. I do think my chicken’s good. You like crispy chicken?”

  Katherine’s ponytail bobbed as she answered, “Oh, I wish you’d teach me so I could make my momma chicken every day.” Then she added, “She might like it enough to want to get out of bed.”

  “Your momma sick?”

  “My momma’s sad. Just real, real sad.”

  Katherine watched as the lady seemed to study her own brown shoes temporarily, eyeing them carefully like she was seeing them for the first time in her life. Without intending Katherine to hear, she muttered softly, “Lord, help my words be few but seasoned up with Your grace.” A deep sigh escaped as she looked back up at Katherine with understanding. “Tell you what. Let’s trade smarts sometime. I’ll teach you how to fry chicken, and you can teach me something I don’t already know.”

  A look of hope spread across Katherine’s face. “Oh, I’d like that. Do you live around here?”

  She pointed in a direction across from the diner. “Down the road a long walk from here. I get off the bus right here just about every day, and then I walk home.” Seeming to lose a little energy anticipating the long walk ahead she sighed and asked, “Where do you live?”

  “Here.” The solitary word from Katherine’s lips seemed to erase the hope that had been shining in her blue eyes.

  Trying hard to coax back the smile, the lady said with a bit of sass, “Now, pretty girl, I know you don’t live up there in that tree.”

  Katherine solemnly motioned with her head, pointing to the second floor of the diner. “We moved there today. Just my mama and me.” She searched the lady’s face, curious to see if she indicated any surprise that someone lived above a diner. Or surprised that she belonged to a family of only two. They were difficult words to put together in her head and even more grueling to hear how they sounded when spoken aloud, especially by her own voice.

  The lady pulled the cotton hanky that had been peeking from her belt and captured the beads of sweat multiplying rapidly on her brow. She didn’t seem a bit surprised, almost as if in some way she already knew the words would be hard ones to say. “Well then, seems like I should be welcoming you to your new home and your new climbin’ tree. That tree’s mighty lucky to have you.” And then she added, “I bet it’s been standing there all these long years just waitin’ for you to come along.”

  With courage, Katherine looked right at the lady and asked, “You want to be my friend? I don’t think any kids live around here. You could be my first new friend.”

  Sticking her brown hand right up into the tree, the lady said, “I’d sure like that. A lot. I’m Lily Mae Warren.”

  “I’m Katherine Engstrom,” she said as she reached for Lily Mae’s hand. And then she added, “And sometimes my daddy used to call me Katie Mae just for fun. That’s sort of like your name when you think about it.”

  “Well, how do you like that? I think Katherine’s a beautiful name; it fits you and those lovely blue eyes. The second I laid eyes on you I saw the kind of beauty fit for a queen. Anyone ever call you Queen Katherine?”

  “Course not! I’m not a queen. Why would you say that?”

  “I think I’m going to call you Queenie.”

  “Queenie?” The thought enchanted Katherine.

  “Something tells me you’ll one day be the queen of something, and I like knowing I’ll be able to tell folks I was the first to call you that.”

  “Queenie,” Katherine whispered her new name aloud and nodded eagerly. “I like that.”

  “I’m going to get on now. About time you climbed on down and went inside. I’ll be by about this time most days, and I’ll look for you up in your tree. Tomorrow’s Sunday so I won’t see you ’til Monday.”

  Katherine remembered the lady had a long walk home, but she hated to see her go, knowing now she had to go back inside the smothering room. “You promise you’ll come back and see me? Promise?”

  Guiding her down from the tree, Lily Mae rested her hands on Katherine’s small shoulders, locked her brown eyes on Katherine’s and said, “I do promise you that. One thing you’ll learn about me, Queenie, is I always, always keep my promises.”

  Like a moth drawn to the porch light, Katherine fell under Lily Mae’s spell from the very beginning of what would become a friendship that would cross all barriers of age, color, and family relations.

  Her Two Worlds

  On the first day of September, Katherine’s six-days-a-week routine began in keeping the promise to supply the diner with a variety of homemade pies. She roused her mother out of bed when the alarm rattled at 5:00 a.m., and together they made four pies. Her mother made the rich crusts and supervised while Katherine mixed the ingredients for the fillings. It was a new beginning, the fresh start they craved. But slowly, as the newness wore off, the reality of the poverty of their lives covered her mother in a thick fog that drove her even farther into the downward spiral that worsened when Martin disappeared.

  There were usually a few good days each week, but the rest teetered on a tightrope between hope and despair. On the good days, her mother made the crusts for the day plus several more to add to the icebox. On dark days, she sat on the stool with clouded, despondent eyes and watched Katherine thaw the crusts and prepare the fillings. Emeline was paralyzed by depression and fear, dependent on her young daughter to keep their world spinning in the right orbit.

  On those days when the light in Emeline’s eyes was extinguished and her movements were clumsy and labored, Doc was known to throw on an apron and pitch in with the pie production during his crack-of-dawn visits.

  Staying ahead of all the extra pie orders that first Thanksgiving was quite a chore. Many Kingston families wanted at least a couple of pies for their holiday meals, requiring the bakers to work early morning and late evening. Lily Mae stopped in each evening to check on the progress of the orders. She never really knew who or what to expect. Occasionally it was Katherine and her mother, well under way with the magical smells of holiday baking. But usually it was just Katherine, sitting alone and waiting. Waiting for normalcy to reclaim her life. Those were the evenings Lily Mae had to forget how her tired feet dreaded the long walk home or how her fingers ached after working hard all day at Tenenbaum’s Finer Wear altering expensive garments to make other women look glamorous.

  But how Lily Mae could bring life to that industrial kitchen. Sometimes singing, sometimes telling a story about her own people, and sometimes just listening to music on the old radio. It didn’t matter. Her being filled up the whole room. She was the vitamin that brought energy to Katherine’s life.

  Sometimes bossing before she was completely in the door, she’d announce, “Queenie, you best get that radio turned up loud as it’ll go. I got singing all stored up in me, and tonight you and me’ll be singing us some of the Lord’s music.” Squealing with excitement, Katherine would race across the kitchen, eager to turn the knob. And just that quick, Katherine’s world would come alive.

  Other nights Lily Mae might come through the door quiet and fatigued after a long day of watching wealthy women squeeze into gowns much too small, exp
ecting, even demanding, that she work her magic with a needle and thread. Those were the nights Katherine would meet Lily Mae at the door with cotton house slippers and help remove the laced shoes from her tired feet.

  “Want me to read to you tonight while we bake, Lily Mae?”

  “How’d you know, Queenie? Lily Mae’s pretty tuckered out tonight. Start up right where you left off last time. I’m hungry for your stories.” And on those nights Katherine would pull her stool as close as possible to Lily Mae and read far into the night, watching as Lily Mae masterfully turned out the holiday pies.

  By the time they took down the calendar and removed the December page, it was evident to all that Emeline was not climbing out of her deep, dark well. And so, the pattern was set. Doc became Katherine’s morning beacon, and Lily Mae assumed the role in the evening. Katherine was delighted when she first realized the two knew each other but never once wondered about the logistics that brought them together. As children do, she just took for granted that all good people somehow knew each other.

  Not that the entire town of Kingston wasn’t aware of the tragedy that cursed the Engstrom family, but everyone eventually got busy living their own lives, putting out their own fires, and managing their own catastrophes. And so, for the rest of her childhood, Katherine walked in two different worlds. Doc Bishop oversaw all the decisions regarding Katherine and her distraught mother, while Lily Mae was charged with carrying them out. For long stretches at a time Emeline was hospitalized in Richmond, undergoing electric shock therapy to curb her depression and weaken her desire to end her life. During those times, Katherine and Lily Mae lived above the diner during the week and spent weekends together at Lily Mae’s house, which Katherine greatly favored.

  Lily Mae’s became her favorite place to be. It was a busy, comfortable place, one that beckoned neighbors to stop in and share their day. Their voices and laughter stuffed the small rooms with vibrant energy, making Katherine sometimes wonder if the front door would fling itself open, just trying to consume more air. She often fell asleep at night, snug in the lap that held her so safe, falling under Lily Mae’s spell as she told the friends who had congregated the stories of her people years before, in the days before freedom came. All the neighbors had skin somewhere close to matching Lily Mae’s, and no one seemed to notice Katherine’s was different, as though it didn’t matter. Lily Mae’s people became Katherine’s people, always making her feel she belonged right there, among them. She mattered something fiercely to all of them, and Katherine was hungry for that.

  Sunday was a day of ritual for them. They dressed in their best and walked the three blocks north to Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church and listened to the Reverend Rodney Morris preach the good gospel to remind them what they had been commanded. They sat hipbone to hipbone on the second pew. Occasionally, as they walked hand in hand down the aisle, Katherine would overhear someone refer to her as “Lily’s girl.” She was more than fine with that.

  There was shouting and excitement and a great sense of community during the full day’s services at Bethel AME. The preacher’s voice bellowed with unbridled energy, as he thumped his worn leather Bible, reminding them the Lord promised to walk among them again one day. Katherine’s little body found it impossible to sit still as she swayed and tapped and bounced, letting the spirit move her, joining those around her.

  Sometimes Emeline was well enough to come home to her daughter and stay months at a time. It was during those Sundays Katherine attended St. Thomas Episcopal Church, sitting with her mother on one side and Doc and his wife Mary Nell, on the other. She loved St. Thomas too, especially the beautifully hand-carved altar statue of Jesus with his hands outstretched to welcome all. The church had been built at a time when America’s boundaries were moving westward, and Kingston was large enough to attract several devoted, wealthy Episcopalians who were willing to plant St. Thomas’ cornerstone in 1840. The century-old pipe organ bellowed regal music, and the choir and congregation sang the hymns reverently. They stood when they sang, sat when they listened, and knelt on tapestry cushions when they prayed, immersing her in a calming reverence that soaked through her pores and flowed in her veins.

  She learned at an early age that Kingston was the most segregated on Sunday mornings which made no sense to her, but no one seemed able to explain it, and she stopped asking questions.

  If people in town had opinions about her divided life, no one ever revealed them to Katherine. Doc and Lily Mae found daily opportunities to communicate, and they magically kept the town’s wagging tongues out of Katherine’s earshot. By then she was rooted in two worlds, and both of them felt like home.

  Meeting Murphy McGregor

  Except for Doc and Lily Mae, the only others who were fully aware of the details of Katherine’s splintered life were Conor and Helene McGregor of the renowned McGregor fortune.

  Kingston might have turned out to be nothing more than just a speck on the map if not for the immense wealth of this single family. The McGregor clan settled in the area well before the patriots declared their independence from the crown. In 1740, Donovan Colin McGregor made his fortune by marrying the only child of another Irish immigrant, a wealthy one. Over the course of the early years of America’s development and through the shrewd business decisions of several generations of Donovan’s descendants, the Irish family aggressively purchased large quantities of thick woodland until they owned over 586,000 acres rich in timber, securing their status as one of the most powerful timber moguls in the country.

  Until the invention of the automobile, it took four solid days traveling by horse to cover the McGregor’s massive land holdings which spread across three county lines. The land was divided into north, south, east, and west quadrants, and each had the look of a miniature village—several massive barns and stables, a sawmill, a blacksmith’s operation, a dining hall, a superintendent’s cottage, a groundskeeper’s cottage, many rows of housing, a bunkhouse expansive enough to house fifty or sixty men, at least two carriage houses, a fruit tree orchard and bountiful harvest garden, a recreation hall, a general store, a school and a church, and a herd of cattle and sheep raised for dairy, protein and hide. Hiring on at one of the McGregor quadrants was more than a job and housing; it was a community and a way of life.

  Almost a full century after Donovan McGregor acquired the family’s first fortune, his descendants built Beechwood Manor in 1837, a palatial estate just a short drive from Kingston.

  Then, just a decade after Beechwood’s completion, the McGregors parlayed their timber resources into a third fortune, making them the principal owners of Central Pacific Intercontinental Railroad, connecting America’s boundaries from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

  Beechwood, the 96-room Greek Revival mansion built on the northwest corner of the McGregor’s fourth quadrant, took almost 900 workers and four years to complete. Surrounded by massive beech, pecan, and oak trees, the grand manor house outdid herself each season of the year. It was designed for entertaining, and the McGregors did so handsomely. A summer invitation to lunch at Beechwood often included swimming or boating, then dinner, followed by late evening cocktails on the Great Lawn. A fall invitation included a quail or dove hunt deep in the acreage or a duck hunt on one of the large lakes using McGregor hunting dogs bred, trained, and groomed just for the autumn hunts. A winter invitation might involve a two- or three-night stay in one of the guesthouses and a sleigh ride under the bright moonlight reflecting majestically off the snow. Beechwood had a way of making guests linger longer than they should. It was a difficult place to depart, and guests hungered to return.

  To Murphy Egan McGregor, Beechwood Manor was simply his home, and Colin and Helene were simply his parents. To the rest of America, the McGregor family’s estate represented a powerful dynasty that only a small handful in the entire country could equal.

  Now home on a forty-eight hour leave after earning his wings to fly a B-24, Murphy wou
ld soon join the Allied forces to fight the ugliness of the enemy on the other side of the world.

  Helene McGregor updated her son on the mysterious disappearance of Martin Engstrom, the missing man who only months before had completed his unrivaled handcrafted woodwork in Beechwood’s newest addition, a modern guesthouse situated just south of the big house. Helene recounted to Murphy the dismal update on the wife and young daughter’s relocation to the apartment above Graham’s Diner.

  She handed Murphy the front page of the Kingston Daily News she had saved for his visit, and he read the headline aloud, “Exhaustive Search for Engstrom Ceases.”

  Helene saw his bewildered look and said, “Read on, it only gets worse.”

  As she stood over his shoulder, he continued, “Thanks to the good men in my department, every single lead has been ruled out and dismissed. Martin Engstrom has now been classified as a missing person, and the case is closed unless new evidence comes up.”

  Confusion clouded Murphy’s face. “The sheriff had the audacity to close a missing person’s case after just a matter of weeks?”

  “Your father and I are just as baffled. And so is Doc, who’s quite concerned about the situation. He’s entirely immersed in trying to help them put their lives back together. He’s become their bulwark.”

  “I’m sure you and Dad have offered to help in a variety of ways. Will Doc let you?”

  “Yes, he and your father have created a plan that will begin next week. We’ve purchased a car with Lily Mae Warren’s name on the title, and we’re providing the startup money for her own storefront, an alterations shop, just a block away from the diner.”

  “Do I know Lily Mae Warren?”

  “Probably not. Doc says she’s the best prescription he has for the little girl. She’s a seamstress in town and takes care of the young daughter when the mother has to go away for treatment. I’m sure Doc has a number of other helpful ideas he just hasn’t proposed yet to your father, but he will when the time is right.”