by R. Jean Reid
She’d let everyone go home after lunch. Now she was in her house, alone. Josh, bundled up in as many sweaters and sleeping bags as Nell could foist off on him, was on his island camping trip, and Lizzie was sleeping over at a friend’s. She hadn’t told them she’d had a gun pointed at her head, held by a woman who would have pulled the trigger. Alma Dupree was beyond prosecution, leaving both Nell and Desiree with some control over what stayed quiet. Nell told herself she was keeping things back for Josh and Lizzie. She acknowledged Desiree had probably saved her life, and she owed her. For now it seemed the right decision; Josh and Lizzie had recently had days go by without the haunted look from after Thom died. They were getting on with their lives, venturing out instead of hovering near home and the mother who was left them. That had Nell alone in the house, with a fire and the paper to keep her company. And a glass of Scotch.
The headline should have been “The Election That Wasn’t.” Instead it was “Mayoral Race in Confusion.” Aaron Dupree had pulled out, making the statement he could no longer live in Pelican Bay. Nell had seen him a few times since then, mostly across crowded rooms. They never spoke. He had looked at her once, first with anger on his face and then a sad, wistful expression, as if there was a place he’d briefly dreamed of that had included her. Then the anger had closed in. He’d left for California two days ago. Both he and Desiree had agreed they would sell all the Dupree property they still held. Nell had to be cynical enough to wonder if it was the memories or if the sale would create another legal hurdle for anyone seeking redress.
One of the new police chief’s duties upon taking office was to arrest Mayor Hubert Pickings. His family had been one of those Pelican Property had outmaneuvered. They thought they could get the bayou property, now the Marina, for just the cost of back taxes, but by putting a little money up front, Andre Dupree had beaten them. Mayor Pickings, deprived of what he considered his rightful heritage, had made up for it by taking any consideration people might want give the mayor. Confronted about the cash-filled envelopes and instructions to do a few errands, he had sputtered, “How was I to know it was illegal?” Harold Reed, at hearing that, had just shaken his head and asked, “How could he think it wasn’t?” Whiz Brown, the bagman for the deals, had taken a few Valium and gotten calm enough to rat on the mayor and get a plea bargain for himself. He also told everything he knew about his father’s involvement. He didn’t know much—he wasn’t the favored son—but enough to confirm where the money he’d gotten none of came from.
That meant of the four candidates for mayor, one was murdered, one in jail, one gone, and Everett Evens, the remaining one, too crazy for consideration. In what had seemed improbable a week ago, the candidate with the most votes was Marcus Fletcher. He had received a groundswell of sympathy and pulled it out by a slim margin of twenty-six. One of those votes had been Nell’s. Somewhere she imagined him saying, “Not too bad for a dead man.” The aldermen were debating what they were going to do.
She had done a long follow-up on the murders of Michael, Dora, and Ella. The story had gone national, and Nell managed a byline in several papers she’d once dreamed of having her name in. Thom would have been so proud. She felt a hard, empty ache he wasn’t there to share it with. Or even Marcus, to celebrate over beers at Joe’s. She’d sent copies of the paper to Gwen Kennedy in Boston, along with a list of graves she could spit on. She had also sent copies to Hattie Jacobs. Twilight years of justice. Only three were still alive; Frederick Connor probably would never get out of his nursing home to face prosecution, but Reese Allen, the man who’d placed his pistol to Michael Walker’s head, was still hale and hearty. “Healthy enough that he might live to face meeting his maker early” was Buddy Guy’s quote at the press conference. The ironically named Bruce Goodman was also alive enough to prosecute. He claimed to have found God, although not enough to have confessed to his sins, and was running one of those churches Nell considered a temple of hate.
Tanya Jones had called yesterday. The judge had turned down J.J.’s request for a delay. She’d sobbed, “What’ll I do without him?” Nell had answered, “You’ll do the same thing I’m doing, only J.J. will be coming back in ten to fifteen. Thom never will.” Then she’d slammed down the phone.
Nell glanced at the editorial she had written for this week’s issue. Her mother-in-law had already called her twice about it; the first call had been arctic, and the next one had dropped the temperature by a few hundred degrees. But Nell had read too many issues of the Crier from that time and she couldn’t be hypocritical enough to expose others’ sins without looking at those she had inherited.
Thom’s grandfather had written, “While we strongly condemn those who use violence to further their ends, can a real solution be imposed by people who don’t live here, haven’t grown up here, and won’t see their children grow up here? They come in, and then leave without knowing what the consequences will ultimately be.” And in another editorial, “Society changes slowly. Attempting to impose sweeping social change, especially change that isn’t seen as universally desired, is a long process. Those that agitate for change should ask themselves how well they might like to have their whole way of living upended by those who claim to know what is best.”
Nell had flinched at its tepid liberal tone. Change comes slowly, but what happens to those whose lives are lost while waiting for change? Pelican Bay had finally desegregated its schools in 1969. That had merited only a few paragraphs in a back section of what was now her paper.
Would I have been any better, Nell wondered, taken out of this time and placed back there? Would I have had the clarity of vision—and the courage—to see the monstrous injustice? How locked are we in our own times? Thom’s grandfather, and even his father—who was already the managing editor at the paper—were they good men or bad? Part of Nell wanted to know, to be able to tell her children they were wrong or they were right. Dolan had showed her a picture with “nigger lover” spray-painted on the front of the building, a result of one of the editorials suggesting that “Negroes have the same right to vote as anyone else.” The best she could call them was flawed men caught in flawed times.
She had used Marcus’s words to end the editorial. “The original American Revolution gave us the ideas of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and that we are all created equal. The civil rights movement, requiring risk of life and limb equal to that of the original revolutionaries, brought America several long steps closer to those ideals. We are still walking that road. Perhaps our children or their children will indeed be able to judge a person by the ‘content of his character’ itself and nothing else.”
Nell put the paper down, watching the flames for a moment. She threw an extra log on, then poured herself another two fingers and picked up the paper again. She was suddenly reluctant to stop reading it. After she put the paper down, there would just be an empty house. She only had a bottle of Scotch to keep the ghosts away.
She took another sip, cold in spite of the fire, and again started to read the paper.
epilogue
Hattie Jacobs stood at her window, watching the three women get out of their two cars. They had been easy to spot, out of place on the block. The newspaper woman had called, asking if they could come by.
As they entered, the cold wind of February came with them.
Hattie motioned them to sit, but she didn’t offer coffee or tea. Part of it was pride; they had taken enough from her. Part of it was shame; she had no milk or honey, and it would be a few days before she had the money to again buy any.
“Mrs. Jacobs,” Nell McGraw said, “this is Desiree Hunter …”
The pale white woman extended her hand. She was tentative, as if Hattie might not be willing to shake with her.
Hattie took her hand, but said nothing.
“… and this is Samantha Dumas,” Nell continued, introducing the other woman.
Samantha Dumas was a black woman, a
lawyer. There was an awkward silence as they seated themselves.
Finally, Desiree Hunter said in a voice barely above a whisper, “Mrs. Jacobs, I’m very sorry for what my family did to you. I know an apology … isn’t much.”
Still Hattie was silent. It wasn’t much. It wouldn’t get Daniel out of prison or Daisy out of her grave.
Desiree faltered and Samantha Dumas took over. “The reason we’re here, Mrs. Jacobs, is to attempt restitution. Mrs. Hunter is aware of what her father did. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right. Mrs. Hunter is offering half of the proceeds of the sale of her part of that property. She is making this offer to get this taken care of without years of litigation, years that would probably benefit lawyers more than anyone else.”
“Like yourself?” Hattie asked. She wondered if this African-American woman had been brought in to convince her this was fair, on the assumption that Hattie would trust her just because of the color of her skin.
“Yes, like myself. Except most of them will be white men.”
“Mrs. Jacobs,” Desiree said in her timid voice, “I have two little girls. I … need to take care of them. My parents’ estate is all I have to do that with.”
Hattie kept her silence, although she was tempted to tell this young woman all she’d had to care for her children was scrubbing floors on her hands and knees.
“It will mean you’ll have a good amount of money soon. Legal action could take years,” Samantha, the lawyer, said.
“Is this a fair deal?” Hattie turned to Nell and asked her directly. She wanted to hear what Nell would say, not necessarily take it as guidance.
“What’s fair?” Nell asked softly. Then she said, “You can fight, and you might do better, but it’s realistic a lot will go to lawyers. And it will take years.”
“Under the circumstances, Mrs. Jacobs,” Samantha said, “this is not a bad deal. Mrs. Hunter has initiated this offer—rare enough in itself, and she’s giving you as much as she’s getting. The choice is sign now and get a check soon, or go to court and fight for a long time with the chance you may not do as well and could even lose, given the statutes of limitation.”
Or not even be still alive, Hattie added silently. She thought of fighting. Because she could. Finally, she could strike back at Mr. Andre Dupree, at his grave, at his children.
But she was tired. She had fought her whole life, fighting every day to vacuum another hotel floor, empty someone else’s trash; fighting the bitterness of being a maid instead of a woman who owned property and had no clock to bend to, save that of the land. Hattie knew she would sign, but she couldn’t say that yet; she wanted to hold on to this bit of time when she finally had power. The money would help Rosa get though law school, give Emmett a new car to replace the one he could barely afford to fix. It could help her grandchildren go to college so they would never have to clean up after anyone. Honey and milk when she wanted them.
Then Desiree Hunter said softly, “I know you must think me a hypocrite for keeping for myself what my father didn’t allow you and your children. I probably am. But I have to take care of my children.”
Hattie did think she was a hypocrite, a woman of such privilege that making a living with her back and hands and knees was a foreign idea. But she was also a mother with children to take care of. She was the only one in her family to attempt recompense.
“Do I have to sign right now or can I look these papers over?” Hattie asked. “My daughter Rosa is in law school.”
“The sooner we get this taken care of, the sooner we can put this behind us,” Samantha Dumas said.
“My life isn’t long enough to put this behind me,” Hattie told the young lawyer.
“It’s been fifty years,” Nell said. “If Mrs. Jacobs wants some time, she should have it.”
“Of course,” said Samantha Dumas. “Here’s my card. Please call me as soon as you’ve made a decision.”
“Please take my offer,” Desiree Hunter said as she again shook Hattie Jacobs’ hand. “It’s all … for my children. To take away their sin. Original sin; all the children of the South should know what it is. Our parents teach us to hate before we’re old enough to know how hatred poisons the soul.”
“I can’t absolve sins,” was all Hattie said to her.
Nell hung back as the other two women returned to their car, the wind of winter blowing their hair in their eyes.
“You think I should take it,” Hattie said, not even a question.
“Would you find any consolation in fighting them? Desiree can only offer funds from her part of the estate. The Duprees have another child, a son, and you could fight to get part of his.”
“I’m an old woman, Mrs. McGraw. I will take her offer.” Hattie tried to keep the resignation away.
“Do you feel bought off by the Duprees once again?”
“It’s a better deal this time,” Hattie said bitterly. “Still, only money. It won’t buy back a single day of those years. I can’t call up Michael and tell him I’m going to fly up to New York and visit him. Or see Ella and Dora dance again, this time at a party with real cake instead of sugar on bread.”
“No, it won’t buy back a single day.”
For a moment, they were silent.
Nell said, “He went to jail, the man who killed my husband. Maximum sentence.”
“Was it a comfort?”
“Not enough.”
Hattie caught the disconsolate look that passed over the newspaper woman’s face. “The man that hit my Daniel was white. Nothing happened to him.”
“Hell isn’t enough,” Nell said.
They said goodbye. Hattie wondered if they’d ever see each other again. They made soft promises: if Hattie wanted to return to Pelican Bay and see what had become of her property, or if Nell got back to New Orleans again.
Hattie stood on the porch watching her drive away. Then she retreated to her kitchen, the warmest room in the house, and made herself tea with a little half-slice of lemon still left.
It was cold, getting so cold these days.
the end
Acknowledgments
No one writes a book alone, except for the staring-at-the-screen part and turning down invitations to do fun things. Below is my long list, with hopes that my less-than-always-perfect brain hasn’t left anyone out.
I need to thank all the people at Midnight Ink for letting an old(er) writer try a new trick. Terri Bischoff for accepting the book, Sandy Sullivan for her painstaking editing (but all mistakes are mine, trust me on that), Katie Mickschl for publicity, and the people there whose names I don’t know but who have done their best for this book.
I also need to thank my writing community, those who have encouraged me or at least not told me I was insane to write a different series. Especially Greg Herren, Ellen Hart, Gillian Rodger, Carsen Taite, Anne Laughlin, Ali, Vali, V. K. Powell, Shelley Thrasher, Nathan Burgoine, Jeffrey Ricker, Rob Brynes, Fay Jacobs, Mary Griggs, Lindy Cameron, Felice Picano, and everyone who trekked out to Treme for the pitcher of Cosmos party or bought a round of drinks at the bar—another book is another reason to celebrate, right, Rob, I mean, y’all? Also some fab book people: Susan Larsen, Candice Huber, Connie Ward, Chris Smith, Paul Willis, all the booksellers, literary festival folks, and librarians. I especially want to thank Jessie Chandler for help above and beyond the call of duty with connections.
While this book is a work of fiction, I have tried to hew as closely as I could to the realities of the history that’s part of the plot. Many conversations happened, from brief ones in the street to longer ones; there are too many to name, but thank you all: Neely, Robin, D.J., Nicky, Elizabeth, Doris, and others. A number of books helped guide my way as well, also too many to name, but especially Freedom’s Daughters: The Unsung Heroines of the Civil Rights Movement from 1830 to 1970 by Lynne Olson, Eyes on the Prize: America’s Civil Rights Year
s, 1954–1965 by Juan Williams, and Beaches, Blood, and Ballots: A Black Doctor’s Civil Rights Struggle by Gilbert R. Mason M.D. and James Paterson Smith.
I also need to thank my day-job folks for being supportive of my quirky writing life, especially those who keep things running while I’m away: Allison, Joey, Narquis, and Lauran. Also Reginald, Noel, Dr. Ron, Jeannette, Josh, and Mark for their help and support. Everyone in the Prevention Department for making me look like I know what I’m doing, and the rest of the staff for being the kind, caring people you are.
Finally, the cats, because cats notice if they don’t get thanked, and Spouse B for learning to make Sazeracs.
About the Author
R. Jean Reid lives and works in New Orleans. She grew up on the Mississippi Gulf coast. Roots of Murder is the first book in the Nell McGraw series. As J. M. Redmann, she is the author of the award-winning Micky Knight mystery series.