“Ruth, don’t you know you are the best friend I’ve ever had? I’m not willing to give that up just because everyone else says it’s wrong. They are wrong. Not us.”
She wiped her eyes and pulled my arm. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”
She led me into the back room furnished with a simple carved spindle bed for one, a roughhewn set of drawers and a small table in the corner. Did she wish me to see the pitiful state of her dwelling? It did seem rather beneath what Ironwood could afford. Perhaps I should speak to Charles on the conditions and see if he will allow me to purchase a few things. Maybe once this Northern Aggression has run its course and we can return to a normal existence. I shall have to add that to my list.
Ruth lifted the lamp from the table and held it high, drawing my attention from my thoughts. The reason she brought me in became quite clear, brought to life in the dancing shadows of the lamplight.
The plastered walls were covered in writing. The words circled around the room from the ceiling to about chest height.
I gasped. “What is this?”
“My story.” Her eyes were full of apprehension.
“You can write?” Slaves are not supposed to read, let alone write. I studied her. There seemed to be more to her past than I had previously thought.
“And read. I know we ain’t supposed to know how. But my grandmother worked in the big house. She was really smart, and she picked it up during the white kid’s lessons. She taught me. It came so easy. She even found an old storybook one of the kids had thrown out and snuck it to me.”
I had always been told coloreds were incapable of learning. They were made only to labor and enjoy the simplest of life’s pleasures. Yet, here stood further evidence that Ruth was more. I felt shame creep into my heart, and I struggled to keep it from my face. I turned away so she couldn’t see my astonishment, focusing instead on the words swirling around us. “You wrote your story on the walls?”
She dropped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just got to get it out.”
Of course. Slaves didn’t have ink and paper. Why would they? So she’d drained her story from her heart and placed it on the only place she could. I drew my lip between my teeth. “Yet another thing we share,” I whispered, more to myself than to the woman who continued to break down the life I’ve always known.
She was too busy babbling to hear my statement. “I will clean it off. I wern’t thinkin’. I guess I thought no one would see it. I’m the only one that comes back here. I—”
I waited for her to realize I felt no anger. She finally stuttered to a halt and stared at me. I patted her hand. “Ruth, I don’t care that you wrote on the wall.” Did I? Shame rolled in my belly again. Of course not. I drew a breath, seeking to right at least a little of my moral compass. “I care that you shouldn’t have had to. I can get you paper and ink to write with.”
She let out a slow breath. “I’d like that very much. I ain’t sure why I has to write. It’s just somethin’ in me. I got to get it out. There’s peace in gettin’ the story outside of me.”
Would there be no end to the surprises that bloomed from Ruth? “That’s because in your heart you are a writer. So am I.”
Ruth sank down on the bed. “No. I ain’t. Maybe you could be, if you really wanted to. But not me. It just ain’t meant to be.”
I sat next to her, reading words of pain and joy scrawled across the room. Most were difficult to make out, as the spelling was more often than not incorrect. I saw my name. “What all is here?”
“It starts the day of the fire. I just wrote down all the things that happened to me.”
A tingle traveled down my spine. “I have a book. My daddy gave it to me just before my wedding. I started writing in it the day I saw you on the street.”
We sat for a moment in silence, just listening to the crickets chirping outside.
“Seems kinda strange, us both doin’ it. Why you think that is?” she asked, voicing the very question that prodded my mind.
What answer could I give? “I guess because we need to tell the story. Even if no one sees it.”
Ruth shook her head. “No, I feel like there’s something more. I even feel like it’s somethin’ I is supposed to do. There’s a reason for it.”
“It’s strange to hear you speak that way. I thought the very same thing myself.”
Ruth smiled. “Then maybe we oughta start trying to figure what that reason is.”
“It seems there is little choice.” Memories of the garden swelled and I drew a long breath. “Charles says we should look for the good that comes from the ashes of the bad. Ruth, I believe God had a plan all along.”
Her brow furrowed. I patted her arm and rose to leave. On the steps she thanked me for what I was trying to do. She thanked me for seeing her as more than just property. My heart constricted. How had I been so calloused not to see the woman in front of me? What was becoming of me? I gathered my courage. “Thank you for seeing me for who I really am.”
I left her to her story and came to write mine. I have to wonder what God is doing. All that’s happened is too beautifully orchestrated to be nothing more than the fickle winds of fate. I believe Ruth is right. There is a purpose to this.
A purpose I am determined to discover.
I suppose looking at the past with the eyes of the present gives a distinctive viewpoint. Lydia and Ruth thought things could never be different. Yet, from my time I knew that soon things would never be the same. War would come, and slavery would end. I wondered if their forbidden friendship survived.
I didn’t read any more in the diary that week. I needed to digest everything and give my heart a rest. Work continued at Ironwood, and I found myself growing more attached to the house and to the man who helped me restore it. Passion fueled my movements, determination bolstered my labor. My hands worked furiously, keeping my mind from unnatural imaginings and deep thoughts and rendering me too exhausted each night to read. Or to dream.
I spent more and more time at Ironwood, though I still returned to Dee’s for dinner each night. Things were running smoothly. I was comfortable, the darkness was held at bay, and I was feeling sane again, having had no weird dreams or hallucinations.
Sunday rolled around, bringing with it the unspoken requirement of church attendance. The sermon was good, as I had expected it to be, although I have to admit I listened more to the pleasant rhythm of Luke’s voice than to his actual words. We sang more old hymns and, as I had now grown accustomed, I took my place in line to shake Luke’s hand and then wait on the front lawn for Dee to finish her socializing.
People gathered in the grassy area in front of the church, many of the ladies fanning themselves with the bulletin. Several people greeted me, and I offered a pleasant smile and customary small talk. I couldn’t remember many names. I never was good at that kind of thing, but it seemed like everyone in church knew me. I positioned myself in the shade of a grandfatherly oak and settled in to wait for my hostess to emerge.
I spotted Dee on the front steps, always the last one out the door, talking with Luke. A bird’s twittering provided the pleasant but humid day a joyful soundtrack. I tilted my chin and searched the branches to see if I could spot it.
“I hear you’ve been fixing up Adela’s house.” Gloria’s nasally voice suddenly appeared at my shoulder. I abandoned my search for the bird and turned my attention to her. Dressed in a bright blue flower-print dress and with her over-dyed hair plastered into a sixties beehive, her attire protested the current century.
“Yes,” I said, “the work has been going along nicely. I think we will be finished in a few days.”
She lifted her chin, looking down her angular nose at me. “I suppose that means you’re getting ready to sell everything off.”
I eyed her. Not that it was any of her business. Besides, I didn’t particularly care for her attitude. I smiled as sweetly as I could. “Maybe. That’s the plan as of right now.”
She huffed. “Well, I
still can’t believe Adela would leave everything to some girl she’d never even met. I doubt she knew anything about you, or she never would have done it.” Her voice resonated louder than necessary, considering she already invaded my personal space. I took a step back.
“Ms. McCrae, I’m not sure what you mean by that, but I know that house has been in the same family for generations. I’m sure that’s why my aunt chose to leave it to me.” I scanned the crowd. A few people close to us started eying me, and I knew they could hear Gloria. She wasn’t exactly trying to keep the conversation private. I looked for an escape.
“Well, I did a little research.” She pulled a stack of papers from her bag and held them up. “I found out all kinds of things about you. Seems like you’ve gotten yourself into a good bit of trouble.” She waved the papers in my face, her voice growing even louder. “I doubt Adela wants a criminal in her house!”
My breath caught. At thirteen I’d stolen a pack of crackers and a Slim Jim from a gas station because my house parents took off for the weekend without leaving any groceries. How could Gloria possibly know about that? Juvenile records were sealed.
I clenched my teeth. “I was only a kid. You don’t know anything about it.”
People started gathering around now, and I could hear them whispering.
Gloria gave me a triumphant look. If she intended on embarrassing me, her success would have made Bill Gates feel like a failure.
“You know something?” Gloria said, leaning closer. “I don’t think she really left everything to you – someone she didn’t know. I think she would have left it all to someone who was there for her.”
I crossed my arms. “What, like, to you?”
“Precisely. I put years into that friendship.”
“Something I’m sure she appreciated. Now, if you’ll excuse me….” I took a step around her, trying to make my way to Dee for protection.
Her nagging voice followed me. “It should have all been mine. I should be the one making the killing off that place.”
I turned and stared at her, shocked by her audacity. “Um, Ms. McCrae, my great-aunt wanted Ironwood left to her family. And as I am quite sure you are aware, you are not family.”
I glanced around the crowded church lawn. People were shaking their heads and whispering behind their hands. My hands clenched at my sides. I tried to control the heat rising from the pit of my stomach, but the taunting grin on Gloria’s face made my blood boil.
“Family. Yeah, Adela was sure proud of her family.” She lifted her chin. “Although the disgraceful daughter from an illegitimate son of a drug addict is nothing to be proud of.”
My eyes widened. I heard several gasps. Without even realizing it, I had stepped closer and now stood inches from her face. She glared at me. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What’s the matter, deary? Upset that everyone just found out about all your nasty little secrets?”
My breath came in short, labored spurts. My teeth ground together so hard I couldn’t have spoken through them if I’d tried.
She leaned closer to my face, her head cocked to one side and her chin jutting out. “You’re just some Yankee gold-digger trying to take advantage of an old lady’s good natured—”
I don’t know what her next words would have been because they were cut off by the sound of my clenched fist landing squarely on her haughty, upturned nose.
She screamed and grabbed her face, her other hand pointing to me. The crowd stood in shock, rendered immobile by my assault. For a moment we all stood paralyzed. The split second of satisfaction I’d felt when my fist stopped her mouth vanished under a wave of guilt and humiliation. I did the one thing I was best at.
I ran past the onlookers and away from Gloria’s screams of rage, down the sidewalk and to the parking lot without looking back. I was in my car with my foot on the accelerator before anyone had a chance to stop me. My sides heaved and sweat poured down my face. What had I done? There was only one place I could go. To the safety of Ironwood.
It took nearly two hours to compose myself enough to start dealing with the situation, which began with cleaning myself up. I rose from my place in the parlor and walked to the back of the house where the laundry room had been built into an old storage room.
I stared at the label on the inside of the washing machine. The sticker had a handy little set of directions on how to remove blood, as if it knew the first time I used it would be to remove the bright-red evidence from my Sunday best. I might launder it from my clothes, but I couldn’t wash the images from my head. I could still see the stunned expressions of the Southern ladies gossiping on the church lawn when my left hook bloodied the nose of that conniving vulture in a flower-print dress. I walked a fine line between knowing she deserved it and hating myself for doing it.
I pulled on a tee-shirt and tossed my blouse in the gentle cycle. I’d managed to high-tale it out of there, leaving the ladies squealing, before Luke or Dee could get to me. I expected they’d come for me sooner or later. Besides, I’d eventually have to go back to Dee’s to eat. I had an emergency change of clothes and some odds and ends, but unless I wanted a box of cheese crackers for dinner, I’d have to suck it up and face them soon enough.
A knock, well, more like a pounding, echoed through the house from the foyer. I steeled myself and stepped across a few two-by-fours left in the hallway from Luke’s latest job. Which one of them had come to deliver my reprimand for decking a lady at church? I knew I deserved it. No matter what she said, I should have been able to control my temper. I couldn’t decide which look of disappointment and disgust would burn more. Dee’s or Luke’s?
I opened the heavy oak door to find Sheriff Ben Riley regarding me with a stern expression. Not at all the face I had expected, but it stung just the same.
“Miss Emily, I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have to come on into town and fill out a statement. Mrs. McCrae is threatening to file charges. Says you assaulted her.” He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead.
I thought I saw a faint glimmer of humor in his deep brown eyes, but I didn’t show it. I dipped my chin. “She had it coming.”
“Be that as it may, Miss, you just can’t go hittin’ a lady at Sunday morning services. You’re going to need to fill out that statement.”
“Fine. I’ll come by first thing in the morning.”
He shook his head. “No, Miss. I have to insist you come now.” He hesitated. “And…if she presses charges you may have to stay the night. Unless someone posts bail.”
“What?” I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll go. But you’ve got to know, she had it coming.”
“As you said. Now let’s get moving.” He turned on his heel in near-military fashion and I watched his broad form descend the creaking front steps before I made a move to follow him. He didn’t look back.
At the station, Ben led me into an interrogation room. Twenty years ago the cinderblock walls could have arguably been painted a soft, pleasant green. But now the paint peeled in several large places, leaving grimy gray splotches all over the walls. I plopped onto the cold metal chair and waited for the sheriff to talk over the loud humming of the florescent lights.
I told him my version of what happened in the church yard, and he took notes. When I finished, he closed his notebook and we stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment. I didn’t know what else I was supposed to say, so I opted for silence.
The sheriff let out a long breath and tapped his finger on the table. “Now, Miss Emily, you know folks around here are glad you came and decided to stay a piece. It’s nice to see the work you’re doing on that old house. It’s kind of a landmark around here. But, now this thing with Mrs. McCrae, it’s not good. She has a way of getting under your skin for sure, but she and your great-aunt were good friends. Maybe that’s worth something.”
I felt my jaw tighten. Yeah. I knew just what kind of friends they were, too. Adela was the only family I had, and I wasn’t just going to sit by whil
e vulture McCrae insulted us. Besides, she didn’t have any claim to Ironwood, and that’s what all this was really about. Of course, I didn’t share any of this with him. I drummed my fingers on the table and willed my anger to cool off.
Sheriff Riley cleared his throat. “You know, we’ve got some time. Seeing as those papers have already been filed….”
Oh great. Just what I needed.
“…and it’ll be morning before the judge gets this little mess settled,” he said, leaning back into his chair, “why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”
I studied him for a moment. How much could I tell him? Should I disclose how I ended up in the middle-of-nowhere Mississippi fixing up an old southern mansion? He knew that already. What about how my two-week vacation turned into unemployment because of what I’d found in the attic? Or maybe I’d tell the sheriff I’d really stayed because of the preacher/handyman overseeing the repairs. Better yet, I could tell him I saw a long-dead relative in my dreams. Any of it would land me in the nuthouse.
“You know,” I said instead, “I always wanted to be a writer. I wanted to tell stories people could enjoy curled up by the fire on a snowy night. This is not what I planned for my life.”
The sheriff smiled, the crows-feet around his eyes becoming more pronounced. “Tell you what, since we got some time, why don’t I get you a pen and some paper, and you can start doing that writing. Seems like maybe you’ve got a story to tell.”
I stared at him until the metal door clanged behind him. Was everyone in on this? How many people were going to keep telling me the same things? A thought nudged me. Maybe if I listened, I wouldn’t keep getting the same message.
The door swung open and Sheriff Ben returned, carrying a stack of lined paper and an ink pen. He looked down at me and smiled. “Well, you’ve got nothing else to do. Might as well get started.”
He shut the door behind him and left me to stare at pages as empty as the hollow feeling inside me. Where would I even begin? I don’t know how long I stared at those blank pages, my mind reliving all the moments of the past weeks. As strange as it felt, I started to believe I really did have a reason for being here. A greater purpose, even. Maybe the sheriff had a point.
Heir of Hope: Return to Ironwood Plantation (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 2) Page 17