The Laura Line

by Crystal Allen

  I get the ledger and take a seat at the end of the table. After looking at the Laura Line family tree, I see the next Laura should be Laura Belle, Laura Ann’s mom. I get to her cover.

  LAURA BELLE

  Up front is a picture of a building with a sign out front that reads LAURA BELLE’S RESTAURANT. I already knew from Laura Ann’s letter that she owned one. So I’m not surprised. I turn the page.

  Here’s a recipe for pork chops and gravy using lots of different spices. My mouth waters as I check out other recipes for breads, desserts, salads, soups, and stuff.

  It seems as if I’ve been turning pages forever before I get to a newspaper clipping.

  LOCAL NEWS

  May 4, 1915

  * * *

  A GREAT PLACE TO EAT

  Laura Belle’s Restaurant, located in Harlem, opened for business one year ago today. With Sunday dinner and daily specials, she’s become a favorite around the New York area.

  Besides many of the faithful locals, Laura Belle’s customers include politicians, famous singers, and musicians.

  Laura Belle made the newspaper! Her restaurant must have been the bomb! I turn the page and instead of another newspaper clipping, I find a letter from Laura Belle to her mother, Laura Mae.

  September 3, 1915

  Dearest Mother,

  I pray this letter finds you healthy and surrounded by young students eager to learn! I have included with my letter a newspaper clipping about my restaurant. It is a very nice article and I’d like you to have it. I have not received a letter from you in some time, so I hope to hear from you soon, for I am not doing well.

  As you know, since my husband, Charles, died five years ago, I’ve dreamed of owning a restaurant. Charles loved my cooking and tried to convince me that I could make money selling my meals. Even though I experienced many setbacks and am now in my forties, I made our dream come true and opened Laura Belle’s Restaurant.

  But last month, I had a terrible incident happen in front of my customers. My Baby Girl, Laura Ann, visited the restaurant with a handsome young man named Pierre. He’s a track coach from France, and Laura Ann said he was her boyfriend. As you know, Laura Ann is only fifteen, and even though I clearly did not approve of him, I invited Pierre to eat at the center table in my restaurant.

  He ate just a few bites before standing and declaring my food unfit for human consumption. Pierre shouted without stopping, and many of my customers left, some without paying. Pierre even accused my food of being the reason why Laura Ann is overweight and unfit to run track.

  Laura Ann and Pierre left the restaurant, and I have not seen them since.

  Now, with a heavy heart, I am working long hours to rebuild my customers’ confidence in my menu. Some of my regular customers are slowly returning, but I don’t know if I can hold on to my restaurant until things return to the way they were.

  I heard that my Laura Ann is somewhere in France running track on Pierre’s team. I miss her so much and want her back home. But most of all, Mother, I want you to know that I am not a quitter. I will fight for my restaurant until the end. I don’t need anything from you but your love and your prayers.

  I hope to hear from you soon.

  Laura Belle

  Before I read Laura Belle’s letter, Laura Ann was my favorite. But now I’m furious with her again for allowing that French fry named Pierre to make Laura Belle feel so bad. I’m sure the arrow on Pierre’s personality meter is stuck on JERK. I close the ledger and refuse to read any more. Instead I pace the floor, trying to think of why Laura Ann would pick a guy like him.

  I put on the brakes in the middle of the floor. What am I doing? I’ve got to finish what I started. There’s nothing I can do for Laura Ann except never be like her.

  I’ve only got two more Lauras to go and I’ll be finished. And so far, there’s nothing to prove Mrs. Jacobs’s point. Laura Belle is definitely amazing, but she didn’t serve slaves in that restaurant. She didn’t cook for slaves in the shack either.

  If I’m going to win, I need to get back to the ledger. But I’m going to give Laura Belle the Mother of the Century award. She deserves it. The next cover sheet says:

  LAURA MAE

  Her first page holds her marriage license. The next page shows a deed to property in Brooks County, Texas. Is that the deed for this property? Was Laura Mae the first Laura to live here? Does this shack belong to her? I turn the next page to find worksheets for math and spelling exercises. Just by the looks of them, they must be for kindergartners or first graders. The family tree says she was a teacher, so that makes sense.

  I race to see how fast I can do the worksheets in my head, but soon, I’m so bored that I’m feeling sleepy. So I flip pages until the worksheets are gone. There’s a letter from Laura Mae to her daughter, Laura Belle. Maybe it’s the answer she needs to deal with Laura Ann.

  October 4, 1915

  Laura Belle,

  I pray to Almighty God this letter finds you healthy and in good spirits. I got your letter today and read it over and over again. The reason your letter took so long to reach me is because I have moved. Today when I received a small bag of mail from my old mailbox in Philadelphia, your letter was in it.

  I’m so sorry about the trouble you had with Laura Ann and Pierre. Don’t worry, my Baby Girl. Laura Ann will come to her senses and return home. Your customers will return, too. I will continue to pray for you. I wish I was there to help, and you must know that if you ask me, I will come.

  And I’m sure some of the treatment you’re receiving is pure jealousy from the wonderful article in the newspaper, recommending folks of all colors eat at Laura Belle’s Restaurant!

  Since my last letter to you, I have married and moved back to Texas. Now my official name is Laura Mae Richard. My husband is a kind man. He owns a very successful clothing store. I have retired from full-time teaching, but I’ll continue to work with a few children just because I love it.

  Even though most news is good, it is with great sadness that I write this letter. A note from Mother’s closest friend reached me that Mother passed away. She was found in her favorite rocking chair near the fireplace. That is why I returned to Texas, to the place from which I escaped slavery over fifty years ago. We purchased the house where Mother spent her last hours. My husband also bought several acres around it, so we’re building a home. I’d like to start a garden underneath these huge oak trees.

  I have purchased a ledger to hold on to those things precious to the women in our family. I’ll call it the Laura ledger. Please send me what you’d like kept inside the ledger for Lauras in the future and others to remember about you.

  I would love some of your recipes, and please send me some of Laura Ann’s winning ribbons! I plan to add educational things, for that is what I hope to leave as my legacy.

  Laura Belle, we must keep Mother alive in our minds by never forgetting the stories of her youth in Sierra Leone, and of her capture and voyage on the Amistad, where she was chained and beaten until she, along with others, fought and took over the ship. And we must tell of her sacrifice for the four young children held captive on the Amistad, destined for slavery until Mother fought for them, too, and was taken in their place at the innocent age of fifteen.

  I am also free because of Mother. When I was thirteen, she entertained the plantation owner and his guests for hours with her beautiful singing as I escaped. I never saw Mother again to thank her in person. And now she is gone. But I am grateful to her friend for making sure Mother got my letters and that I received the news of her death.

  You’ve heard Mother’s stories many times. You must tell them to Laura Ann, and she must tell them to her children. Do not let Mother and what she did fade in our minds. It is because of her that we exist. And it is because of her that we exist in freedom.

  I have made a burial place for her behind her home.

  Maybe you will come to Brooks County, Texas. I would like that.

  Love, Mother

  N
o . . . No!

  I back so far away from the table that I hit the wall of pictures. My head’s throbbing, and at any moment I know my legs are going to give out. I rush back to the table, convinced that I missed or added something.

  So I read it again. The second time is no better than the first. I quickly turn to the cover sheet for the last Laura.

  LAURA

  I turn the page, but there’s nothing behind it but extra cover sheets and page protectors.

  I close the book and wipe my hands down the sides of my pants just in case I got any Amistad dust on them. Mrs. Jacobs knew. She knew all along! No wonder she made that bet!

  I pace the floor and try to make it all go away in my mind.

  That was NOT amazing. That was NOT amazing. It didn’t happen. I don’t think it could’ve happened. Not to this Laura. Not the one from the Laura Line. It has to be a lie!

  I probably got it all mixed up. Did it say Laura Mae’s mother was on the Amistad? I run my finger down the letter. There it is. Fifteen years old.

  But my eyes seem to make the letters a thousand times bigger than they are as I read the part about her fighting for the four children aboard the Amistad. It can’t be those four. Not the ones we’ve been reading about in class. She saved them? She’s a hero? I rush back to the wall of pictures and look for her. She’s not there. I examine every picture, hoping there’s some unexplained woman I hadn’t noticed before, but there’s not.

  I back away from the wall, and that’s when I see it.

  The pictures of the other Lauras line up to form a perfect silhouette. It’s a head and forehead that winds inward to make an eye socket and then back out to form a nose. Smaller photos round her lips. I can’t move. I remember the three-page Amistad handout Mrs. Jacobs gave us. There’s no doubt in my mind what I’m looking at. The more I back up, the clearer she becomes.

  Sweet Mother of the Laura Line.

  It’s her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I rush out of the shack without putting the ledger back on the stand. I run all the way back to Grandma’s house. I pass her in the kitchen on my way to my room.

  “Baby Girl?”

  “Not now, Grandma. I just . . . I can’t talk right now.”

  I close my door and fall across my bed. But the physical proof of it all is eating at me, and I just have to find the facts. Why wasn’t the first Laura mentioned on the sheets Mrs. Jacobs handed out?

  I rush to my backpack and grab the three-page handout from last Monday. I scan the names of every one of the captives on the Amistad.

  No one named Laura.

  I go to the computer and Google everything about the Amistad.

  No one named Laura.

  I even play with the names of the other captives on the Amistad to see if Laura’s name was maybe spelled differently. But it’s not.

  Wait a minute.

  I hold the handout closer to my face and study every detail. Suddenly, I realize something I hadn’t picked up on until now. Other than the three little girls—Margru, Teme, and Kagne—there are no females listed on the ship.

  I don’t remember falling asleep, but I tossed and turned all night unable to get the first Laura out of my mind. The warmth of the sun slicing through my curtains and kissing my face is a welcome feeling.

  Knock, knock.

  I sit up, wipe the sleep from my face, and realize I’m still in the same clothes from yesterday.

  “Come in.”

  Grandma pokes her head inside.

  “I tried to wake you earlier, but you were sleeping so hard that I covered you up and let you sleep. I’m heading to church in thirty minutes. I’ll wait for you if you want. Come eat breakfast with me.”

  “Okay.”

  I drag my butt out of bed and stare in the mirror at dried lines of tears stretching from the corners of my eyes to the sides of my head. I’ve been crying in my sleep, and the emotion of it all is still on me. I’m not sure what to do, but I need to do something.

  Breakfast smells float under my door and into my nose, so I put on my robe and shuffle to the kitchen. Grandma makes me a plate with eggs, sausages, and fruit. I pour myself a glass of orange juice and take a seat.

  “I’m not going to church with you this morning, Grandma.”

  She sits down at the table. “Is everything okay? Do you need my help?”

  I stare at my orange juice. “I’m good.”

  She picks up her coffee and blows on it. “I understand. I’ll be home right after church.”

  As soon as Grandma’s gone, I get dressed and head for the shack. When I open the door, it feels cold inside, colder than I remember. I wonder if I’ve made it that way with my attitude.

  The ledger’s still on the table where I left it yesterday when I rushed out so quickly. I sit and stare at it, thinking about all the terrible things I’ve said about the shack, the Laura Line, and the crosses.

  Then I read about all of them, from Mom to the first Laura ever. I can’t get that first Laura out of my mind. And I know one thing beyond any doubt.

  She’s the amazing Mrs. Jacobs was talking about.

  I read over Laura Mae’s letter again and get an idea of the first Laura’s personality. She didn’t care about having her name in the books. She wasn’t looking for compliments about how good a person she was. The first Laura in our line showed us how important it is to help people; not just your family, but everybody. Some may say it wasn’t very smart of her to exchange her freedom for a life of slavery. But I get it.

  And I’m so proud to be a part of her line.

  I examine all the pictures on the wall. I rub my hand across the sewing machine and the typewriter. They’re real. The women in the Laura Line were kind and smart, and they took chances and wanted to do stuff with their lives. They had boyfriends and husbands and careers. And it all started right here, in this shack. The first Laura lived here and died in here. Every Laura after her has been inside this place, making plans for her future.

  I touch the brick around the fireplace, wondering which Lauras touched that same brick before me. My hand slides from the fireplace to my side as I realize how wrong I’ve been.

  Mom was right. I’ve judged this shack the same way people judge Sage and me. All they can see is the outside, and they have no idea how incredible we really are on the inside. People like Troy never gave me the time of day until he saw me here. Just knowing that I was a Laura seemed to change his attitude.

  And here I am, currently the last Laura, denying everything for a reason I can’t even remember. I walk out, close the door, and head to the backyard.

  I’ve ignored these crosses many times, and I feel unworthy to even be standing in the grass near them. But there’s just something I need to do. I sit down in the grass in front of them and twist one of my braids.

  “Hey. This feels weird, but I’m Laura Eboni.” I point at the first Laura’s cross. “You’re the first one, and right now I’m the last, but I don’t have any wood with my name on it yet. I don’t know if I will ever be as brave as you were. But, anyway, I just wanted to introduce myself since I read about you in the ledger. Grandma, uh, that’s Laura Lee, told me some things were meant to be told, not written. I hope she’s got something to tell me about you, because I’d really like to know you better.”

  I think about what she did, and I have to say something. “I know you saved four little kids from being taken into slavery, and because you did that, they got to go back home. I’m glad you were the first Laura in our line.”

  I look toward the next cross. “Laura Mae, you’re like glue for this group. I mean, you held us together, even after your mother died. And then you made sure Lauras like me would get to know Lauras like you. Thank you, Laura Mae.”

  I move on. “Laura Belle, you’ve taught me that I can do and be anything. You had a restaurant, but I didn’t think African Americans had any businesses of their own at that time, and on top of that, being a woman restaurant owner is like icing.”
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  I giggle staring at Laura Ann’s cross. “You’re like the sister I never had, because we’re so much alike. I’m athletic, too, but can’t seem to find a place around here to show what I can do. The guy I like may or may not be a jerk. But it looks like you figured everything out and did okay. I hope I do okay, too.”

  I stare a long time at Laura Jean’s cross before speaking to her.

  “I had no idea where my urge to model came from. Mom never mentioned it. Neither did Grandma. I thought it just popped out of nowhere. I’ve always wanted to work the catwalk, but when my classmates laughed at me, I almost trashed the thought. Until I read about you in the ledger. Someday I’m going to strut that runway in a bangin’ outfit. Thanks, Laura Jean, for showing me that I can.”

  I’m now at the end of the Line and Laura Elaine’s cross.

  “I know why Grandma wishes we had met. My best friend works for a newspaper. You’d have liked her, too. Even though you’re not here, I know you’re with the other Lauras now. I’m sure they are taking good care of you.”

  I move to get up, but remember one more thing. So I say it.

  “And your daughter turned out awesome.”

  I bow my head and close my eyes for a moment, trying to picture Laura Elaine at the table, typing away on her typewriter without the letter G. I wonder what she did to make up for that. Maybe she had a beautiful handwriting and she could just write one when she needed it.

  I guess it doesn’t matter. She knew what she wanted and wouldn’t let anything stop her from getting it. Now that I think about it, every Laura was like that. It didn’t matter what people said or did to discourage them. It didn’t matter how cruel life seemed to be. They kept their dreams moving and never let anyone stop them.