by R. Jean Reid
He extended his hand and gave hers a hearty shake, one he made sure Nell caught on film. “Pleased to meet you, Miz Carver. Any long-lost cousin is … uh … well … is welcome here.” Not giving her a chance to speak, he continued. “Now, Miz Carver, I want you to know how much the people of Tchula County ’preciate your generous gesture. Crime’s a worry for folks ’round here, and a brand-new patrol car will help us do our duty. Now, I’d like to introduce you to some of the men you … the men and women you are aiding in our cause.” With that, he proceeded to introduce Beatrice Carver to each and every deputy, getting a little banter going with each—anything to avoid giving her a chance to point out that a forefather of the sheriff’s had raped a foremother of hers.
After Sheriff Hickson ran out of deputies, he hesitated for a moment and Nell quickly made the decision for him, coming over to introduce herself to Beatrice Carver. The sheriff glared at her as she added, “I’d love to interview you about your research and experiences in tracing your family line.”
Beatrice gave Nell a smile that indicated she knew a coconspirator when she saw one. “I would be delighted,” she answered.
“Might have to wait for another time,” Sheriff Hickson cut in. “I want to make sure that Miz Carver gets a chance to see our office, then we got the official presenting of the check. Don’t want to rush through the important stuff.”
But Beatrice Carver was the patron and she could change the agenda—or at least hew to her real objective, exposing the tangled racial legacy that had led to her and a Southern sheriff being kin. “The ‘important stuff’ isn’t so important that it will take more than an hour. It really is just handing you the check”—this to the sheriff. Then, to Nell, “After that, we can have the whole afternoon to talk.”
“Perfect,” Nell agreed, giving Sheriff Hickson a big smile. After all, he was the one who’d insisted she be here.
The “important stuff” took considerably less than an hour, probably closer to five minutes. It mostly consisted of Henry, the chauffeur—Nell noticed an earring in one ear and wondered if he was gay; he certainly did seem to be having a good time tossing all the expected notions on their head—getting an oversized check out of the trunk of the car. Beatrice Carver and Sheriff Hickson, remembering to suck in his stomach, posed holding the check between them long enough for both Nell and one of the deputies to take shots until the sheriff had to breathe again. Then there was the exchange of the real check, and Beatrice waved goodbye to Sheriff Hickson and tucked her arm into Nell’s.
“Have you eaten or are you up for lunch?” she asked Nell. She suggested they go to the best restaurant in Pelican Bay.
Nell listed several, but the best was Tutweiler’s. Well, at least I get to go, Nell thought. She followed the Bentley in her car. After a few blocks, Nell noticed another car also following. That it made no attempt to hide made her suspect Beatrice had not come with just Henry and his earring to protect her. She was proven right when they pulled into the restaurant parking lot and the second car parked next to the Bentley. Three men who would have looked more appropriate coming out of the Saint’s locker room emerged.
“Should we eat here?” one of them asked Beatrice.
“Not unless this kind of food appeals to you,” she replied, clearly knowing the answer.
A few suggestions from Nell headed them to the best beer and burger joint in town, with an agreement to meet later at the Crier office.
As they entered the restaurant, Nell was glad she’d decided to dress in what she called “high professional” instead of her usual khaki slacks and cotton shirt. Her dark charcoal wool pants and cream raw silk shirt should pass the Tutweiler’s standard. Beatrice Carver had dressed to match her car—an elegant burgundy suit, her only jewelry a strand of pearls that had the irregularities to prove them hand-
plucked from the sea, and a set of matching earrings.
Four men, all in suits, entered just behind Nell and Beatrice. It could have been simply that their long stride took them to the hostess at the same time Nell and Beatrice reached the reservation desk, and perhaps she hadn’t noticed the men entering behind them. The hostess turned to them first, leaving Nell and Beatrice to wait behind them.
This is what it’s like, Nell thought as the hostess bantered with the men. Is this slight just the vagaries of life or the color of skin of the woman with me?
The men were led away to a table and the hostess turned to them, saying in a polite voice, “We’re busy right now. It might be a wait.”
“We’ll wait, then,” Beatrice Carver answered in an equally cool voice.
“May I take your name?” the hostess asked.
“Nell … Mrs. Thomas McGraw,” Nell answered.
The woman looked at Nell, clearly recognizing the name but not fitting Nell’s face to it.
“Junior,” Nell added. I hate this kind of stuff—unless it works for me, she thought as she watched understanding cross the woman’s countenance: daughter-in-law of one of the town’s doyennes, now running the local paper.
“Just a moment,” the hostess murmured. She disappeared, then returned and said, “Right this way.”
They were led to a table Nell remembered as being saved for regulars. It was in a corner, with a view over the back bayou.
“Okay, what’s your theory?” Nell asked as soon as the waiter left them. “Was the cold shoulder from your skin color, that we’re ‘just’ woman, or because neither of us comes here very often?”
“All the above,” Beatrice replied easily. “I’d peg it as minus three points for being strangers, and minus five each for the color of my skin and our sex. Hard to tell if we should also take off a point for a white and black woman being together.” Then she added, “But your name opened the door.”
“It’s not fair those things close doors and the name of my husband opens them,” Nell said. Then it came out who Thom was, who Mrs. Thomas, Sr. was, how Nell was almost cheating to use that name.
From Nell’s life they went to Beatrice’s. The family fortune, made first in farming then put into a bank that served colored people when the white banks wouldn’t. Beatrice told Nell of her decision to search for her ancestors, the emotions she had on discovering one forefather had been a slave owner.
Nell began taking notes as the coffee was served. After the first tense moment, the service had been impeccable; evidently money and name added enough plus points to make up for the minuses of skin color and sex. I suppose that’s progress, Nell thought to herself—there was a time when no black would be anything except a dishwasher for this restaurant and no woman allowed in without a man.
As they left, Nell also noticed the envious looks as Beatrice Carver got behind the wheel of the Bentley. Most of the men here would never own a car like that.
They returned to the Crier office and Nell lead Beatrice through her account, this time from the angle of a newspaper story. The sheriff probably wouldn’t like what would end up on the front page, Nell thought as she wrote down Beatrice’s words. But she found it a fascinating and timely story, and one with a local twist.
“That’s great,” Nell said as they wrapped up. “This is front page material.”
“Will it cause you problems?” Beatrice asked. “My story brings up all the things that have been hidden for so long. Hidden things upset people.”
“I’m a reporter. I report the news, I don’t make it,” Nell replied. “I’ll probably get the usual crank letters to the editor, but I get those when I report the Pelican Bay Pirates lost a football game.”
There was a knocking at the door. “My entourage has arrived,” Beatrice noted. They both stood up, and she added, “I’d love to see a copy of the story.”
They were at the door. Beatrice handed her a card with contact information.
“I’ll email you a copy before I print it, to make sure I’ve got it right, and also send yo
u a copy of the actual paper,” Nell offered as she fumbled for her card.
And then Beatrice Carver was gone.
Nell returned to her office; a glance at her watch told her she had a little time to sort through the notes she had taken. She began a draft of the story. It was easy to write while it still was so close in her thoughts. As she saw the words gather on the page, Nell wondered if perhaps Beatrice was right: this story, the story of the bones in the woods, the story of the property theft—all hidden things that she was exposing. Nell worried if it was worth the cost—but then quickly reminded herself she didn’t know what the cost would be. Perhaps, as she had so cavalierly said, just a few crank letters, and a story or even two that could go national.
She finished roughing out the draft, then left the camera on Jacko’s desk to remind both of them to look through the pictures. Time to go home and get ready for the evening.
twelve
If this was a real date, I’d be taking a long perfumed bath, not this hasty shower, Nell told herself. She didn’t dwell on the fact she rarely took showers in the middle of the day; it usually required working in the yard in the muggy summer heat.
Nell looked at herself in the mirror, watching as her hands hooked the black frilly bra. Go ahead, tell yourself it’s the only bra that really works with this dress, she thought as she stared at her breasts framed by the delicate scallops of lace. Suddenly Nell felt like she was watching someone she used to know, a past self abruptly intruding into the present. Dice had been rolled in her life, taking her back ten paces—no, sixteen years—before Thom, back when she was Naomi Nelligan primping for a date. I want this and I hate it, Nell thought. I should be at “happily ever after” instead of another round of kissing frogs and hoping for a prince.
She quickly turned from the mirror, a spray of perfume; not Thom’s favorite, but one Mrs. Thomas, Sr. had given her last Christmas. After slipping on her dress, she fastened a strand of pearls around her neck. That and her wedding ring would be her only jewelry.
Nell again stared at her image in the mirror. I’m not sure who I am and I’m not sure what I want, she silently mouthed at her glass twin, one she barely recognized. I guess I’ll have to trust my instincts and my experience, Nell thought as she turned away. And being around my mother-in-law’s friends as chaperones.
Aaron had said he would pick her up. As Nell waited, discreetly hidden by the curtain she was watching behind, she wondered if she should have taken her own car. If it really was just business I would have, she told herself, but by now she admitted it wasn’t just routine business. Instinct and experience, she reminded herself. But they didn’t seem very trustworthy.
His car pulled up. He was enough of a gentleman to come to her front door. Nell felt lost, like she couldn’t quite remember what she was supposed to do. Then she grabbed her purse, slowed her hasty walk to the door. This is when you need a father to ask your young man just what his intentions are, Nell mused as she stopped to take a breath before opening the door. But her father had never asked those kinds of questions of the few dates who had come to the Nelligan residence. If he talked at all, it was of sports scores or the weather, his banter only to fill the space her mother might load with her crude comments. “So, you’re going out with my Naomi, huh? Her sister is the beauty queen, but that’s obvious, isn’t it?”
Nell opened the door. Aaron smiled at her.
“You look great,” he said.
He either sees something that shouldn’t be there, Nell thought, such as the animal glow of sexual desire, or else he’s a skillful politician, because what I probably most resemble is a deer in the headlights of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler.
“Thank you, Mr. Dupree,” Nell replied. “I must compliment you on your political skill. I’ve had a rushed, busy day, and have spent at most twenty minutes throwing on something that will get over the low bar of acceptability at the Preservation Society, and yet your compliment sounds as sincere as our governor promising no new taxes.” Nell turned from him to lock the door and to avoid gauging his expression.
“Oh, dear,” he said in mock chagrin. “Now any accolade I pay you will be treated with the high respect given our governor’s stump speeches. Tell me, how do I sound sincere when I really am sincere?”
His banter got them to the car. He opened the door for Nell, handing her in. It was something Thom had done, but not as a routine; Nell had been impatient with the markers of polite Southern gentleman society. She didn’t object to men opening the door for her, but she also saw no point in waiting in supposed female helplessness for them to do so. “The first person opens the door,” she’d told Thom. “Or not if your mother is around and you think she might consider you a bad boy.”
But this was a new man and the old rules didn’t apply. Aaron got in the car and started it.
“Do you often go to Preservation Society events?” Nell asked to keep a conversation going—and to be in control of it.
“More often now that I’m running for office. But I did even before I had pretensions of political power. Both my mother and father had a strong interest in keeping the history in Pelican Bay, not letting it become overrun by so-called progress.”
“Interesting,” Nell commented, “considering your father’s legacy of developing some of the priciest land in town.”
“But he did it the right way. He didn’t tear things down, save for a few farm buildings that were falling down anyway. And he didn’t go for the quick and cheap cookie-cutter design. He had several different architects and told them he didn’t want the houses to look alike. He may have had critics, but I think they were jealous of his success. He had the vision and will to create one of the best places to live on the coast.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not asking the question as a reporter,” Nell said. There was a subtle defensiveness in Aaron’s voice, as if this was his weak spot and he didn’t want anyone to know it.
“I didn’t think you were,” he said smoothly. “Otherwise I would have launched into a treatise on urban planning, creating infrastructure for the modern age, and so on.”
“Good. I don’t think I could manage that, going over some of these potholes.”
He smiled uncertainly, as if not sure whether she was joking or not.
Nell continued. “I’m not going to promise not to ask reporter questions, but I will be fair enough to warn you beforehand.” She wondered if she’d already violated her promise; just because we don’t quote it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t get tucked away. Some had praised Dupree, Sr. as the person who’d changed Pelican Bay from a sleepy backwater fishing town, permeated with the smell of oyster shells left in the harbor marsh, to a vibrant costal town known for its artsy community, oak-shaded city square, and high-end real estate. Some cursed him for almost the same reasons. Clearly the son was defensive of the father. Thin skin? Nell wondered. Or were the whispered complaints too close to the truth? It was rumored that Dupree, Sr. had ways of making those who didn’t agree with him pay. Those who opposed so much as a stoplight suddenly found themselves without invitations to the high-society Mardi Gras balls, or unable to get loans to expand a business. So far, his name was absent on the property swindles, and his development of them in the ’70s and early ’80s suggested he’d acquired them later. He could have paid market value and had no idea of how they’d previously changed hands.
But those rumors were old, and Nell was savvy enough to know how much the years were likely to have embellished them. History seemed to have proved Aaron’s father right; his properties had brought an influx of money, from well-to-do New Orleanians seeking a weekend home to buyers in upper management in the industry of the area. Pelican Bay had an enviable tax base and citizens who were active and civic-minded.
“Just as long as you ask my opponent equally difficult questions,” Aaron answered, his smile still in place and still uncertain.
“Will the curr
ent mayor be there?” Nell asked.
Aaron smiled more broadly at her subtle hint this mayor might just be current, not future. “I would expect so. The Historical Preservation Society is something no candidate can afford to ignore. Don’t quote me on this, but this is both votes and money.”
“And I suppose I’ll have to dance with both of you to keep up the appearance of an unbiased media,” Nell said.
“A reporter’s life is a hard lot,” Aaron said, his smile finally losing its uncertain look. “I should stop for gas.”
She realized he was heading to the gas station in the center of town. “You’re going to the Jones brothers’ place?” she asked, wanting to be sure.
“Yes. I know they’re not the cheapest, but my family has always gone there. Momma never trusted anyone but old Norbert Jones to work on her cars.”
How do I tell him that I can’t sit in his car at that gas station, Nell thought. Maybe blunt was best. “Junior Jones was the driver who killed my husband. It would be hard for me … ” She trailed off, no longer trusting her voice.
“My God, I’m so sorry. I should have known that,” Aaron said. He turned at the next corner. He reached over and took Nell’s hand, and then seemed to realize he didn’t have that place in her life. He put his hand back on the steering wheel.
Nell was glad of his concern and also glad he had pulled back.
He changed the subject, chatting about the things he’d missed about Pelican Bay while out in California: the food, the uncrowded beaches; all light and easy topics. After a few minutes Nell was able to fall into his banter, telling tales of the Indiana girl learning to clean a crab. That conversation took them to the Preservation Society affair. It was at one of the older mansions in the city, with enough money in the family to be perfectly preserved. Aaron is right about this being a nexus of wealth, Nell thought as she noted the cars parked along the drive. They were new, they were expensive, and if she had come in her car, she would probably park in back.