The Color Of The Soul (The Penbrook Diaries)

by Tracey Bateman

  The Color of the Soul

  By Tracey Bateman

  Text Copyright 2013 Tracey V. Bateman

  All Rights Reserved

  Part One: Shame

  My confusion is continually before me, and the shame of my face hath covered me. (Psalm 44:15 KJV)

  Chapter One

  1948

  Andy should have known better than to walk alone on a country road in rural Georgia. Lord, that was just asking for trouble. A black Ford sped toward him, then slowed to a crawl. Andy kept his focus ahead, his heart beating a rapid rhythm against his chest. Anxiety clutched at him, squeezing tighter with every forward step.

  “What do you think you’re doing on our road, boy?”

  Andy sucked in his cheek and slowly removed his brown, felt fedora. He turned toward the car, dropping his suitcase to the ground. Three white boys of probably no more than eighteen years, hung out of open windows, grinning in a stupid cracker way that bugged the fire out of him.

  He refused to give in to the instinct to drag the loudmouthed idiots out of that car one by one and stuff them in the trunk. Everything inside him screamed for one thing: survival. He racked his brain, trying to remember the proper stance and facial expression to show respect.

  “You deaf?” A fat, red-haired mongrel stuck his head out farther and shoved Andy’s chest with his fingertips. “Or just too stupid to answer?”

  Andy went with the shove and stepped back. Don’t fight. Fighting back had consequences. No matter who was right, he’d come out the loser. Stupid was he? These fellows had no idea what stupid was.

  “I asked you a question, nigger.” The young man’s ruddy face grew redder. “You lookin’ for trouble?”

  “No, suh. I ain’t lookin’ fo’ no trouble.” Andy dummied up his speech, knowing the repercussions for educated black men in the south. “Just headed up the road there.” He nodded in the direction he’d been walking.

  “We know that, you ignorant fool. Where are you headed? I ain’t never seen you around these parts before.”

  “No, suh. I ain’t never been in these here parts befo’.” At least not that they had any need to know.

  The “sir” served its intended purpose and seemed to mollify the aggressive youth. Andy sensed the tension inside the car relax. But he kept up his guard.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted movement and heard the telltale rattle of a wagon coming closer.

  “Hey, Gabe,” said the driver of the car. “Looks like we got company.”

  “Move it, you cockeyed mules,” muttered the old man in the wagon. His disgruntled voice gave the boys a good laugh.

  Andy kept his wary attention focused on the car, despite his curiosity over the expletives coming from the wagon.

  The redhead scowled and turned back to Andy, more than ready to resume his fun.

  “Come on, Gabe,” the driver groused. “Roll up the dadgum window. I’m getting wet, here. Besides, I don’t want to miss the matinee over some colored. Just let him be.”

  The red-headed boy sneered, his lip curling to reveal a wad of chewing tobacco.

  Andy had a split second of premonition, enough to know what was about to happen. Nevertheless, he stood his ground as the young man spat a stream of tobacco juice on his pant leg.

  The engine revved amid shouts of laughter. The wheels spun and mud whipped up, dousing Andy’s clothes.

  Lord, he hated the South.

  He yanked a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped the rain from his face, bent and swiped at the brown spit on his pants, then turned his attention toward the wagon.

  The old-timer tugged the mules to a stop. “This ain’t no kinda day to be walkin’. Get up in this here wagon and I’ll take ya wherever ya need to go, young fella.”

  Andy nodded his thanks to the old man, tossed his suitcase into the back, and climbed onto the wagon seat. “I hadn’t anticipated rain when I started out.”

  “There ain’t no anticipatin’ to be done this time o’ year. It jus’ comes and goes at the Lawd’s command.”

  “I suppose.”

  The wagon lurched forward as the animals strained against their bits. Andy hadn’t stared at the backside of a mule since he left Georgia twenty-six years ago. And he wasn’t crazy about the view now.

  Returning to the rural county of his birth had been like going back in time a hundred years. At least from a Negro perspective. The whites still owned all the cars. Blacks either walked or took the bus. Or in the case of old-timers like this one, hitched a wagon to a pair of mules.

  “You ain’t from around here, is ya?”

  Well, he was and he wasn’t, but no sense starting a story he had no intention of sharing to its conclusion. He shook his head. “Chicago.”

  “Ooo-eee. That far? Ain’t every day you see a stranger from Chi-ca-gy walkin’ down this here road. Can’t help but think on jus’ why a fella’d do that.”

  “I’m on my way to Penbrook House. You know the place?”

  A toothless grin split the old man’s face. “Sure do.” He nodded toward the two gray mules slogging through the red mud. “Ol’ Pru and Pete’ll have us there in a jiffy.”

  “I’m obliged.”

  “You hirin’ on to help old Miss Penbrook with the harvest?”

  “Hardly.” Andy cringed at the sarcasm in his own voice. But did he really look like a field hand?

  “You got somethin’ agin honest work?” The old man gave him a look of hard scrutiny.

  Heat rushed to Andy’s ears. “I’m a writer. Miss Penbrook hired me to write her memoirs.”

  His face scrunched. “What’s that?”

  “Her biography.”

  “That right?” He pulled against the reins, yanking the mule on the left to counteract its tendency to pull toward the right side of the road. “This bi–og–. What’d you called it?”

  “Biography. Her life story, in other words.”

  His face lit with a smile of understanding. “Why didn’t ya jus’ say so, ’stead of usin’ that fancy talk?”

  The old man turned the wagon onto the long lane heading up to Penbrook House. Mammoth oaks lined each side of the road as if watching over them, escorting them in. The mules seemed to feel safer and pulled in the same direction for a change.

  A canopy of leafy branches hovered over the road and offered a respite from the rain. Andy looked down at his wet, muddy suit and mud-caked shoes and grimaced. So much for making a good first impression. Under other circumstances, he’d dry off and change his clothes before meeting the woman. But he hadn’t thought to find a rooming house or a hotel before setting out for Penbrook. Now he had no choice but to face the famous author in disgrace. Then again, the woman was more than a hundred years old. There was a pretty good chance her she eyesight was gone or going.

  He lifted his gaze and took in the impressive sight of Penbrook House. The one-hundred-fifty-year-old mansion stood before him in regal splendor, a monument to all that was beautiful about north Georgia, past and present.

  His memory of the old place didn’t do it justice.

  The old man pulled the mules to a stop in front of the house. “There ya be.”

  “Thanks for the ride.” He climbed down and grabbed his suitcase from the back of the wagon.

  “I was pleasured to do it. Like me to wait and drive ya back to town?”

  Andy hesitated a moment, then shook his head. The rain had stopped and the skies seemed to be clearing. “I hate to impose on your generosity. Besides, no telling how long I’ll be.”

  The old-timer nodded. “Ya take care, now. An’ don’t git yerself in trouble with them white fellas. They’ll
likely be lookin’ fer ya when they ain’t got nothin’ better to do.” Without waiting for an answer, he flapped the reins and fought the mules to get them turned back to the oak-lined lane.

  Andy moved toward the mansion. Towering columns graced the wrap-around porch. Above him, a balcony spread across the front and wound its way around the two sides of the house. He climbed the stone steps leading to an ornately carved wooden door and rang the bell.

  While he waited, he turned to watch the old man and his mules slog away from Penbrook House.

  He shuddered at the thought of what his future might have been if his mother hadn’t sent him away. His heart clenched at the painful memory. Emotions that belonged to the ten-year-old boy he’d been when he boarded the train headed for Chicago sliced at his heart. Miss Penbrook was part of the memory, the emotions. He remembered her kitchen, lessons at the table with a plate of cookies and lemonade. He just couldn’t remember why. Or maybe he never knew. Back then, he just did what his mama told him to do, and most days, she told him to run along to Penbrook, so he did.

  With his attention diverted, he jumped at the sound of the mammoth door creaking open. Feeling like a fool for being so easily distracted, he straightened his tie and flashed his best winning smile at the stern face of the Negro woman standing before him.

  She gave him a suspicious once-over, then frowned as her gaze settled on his suitcase. “We ain’t takin’ in no strays.”

  “I have an appointment with Miss Penbrook.”

  Her brow rose dubiously.

  Heat warmed Andy’s neck. “I can imagine how I must look, ma’am, but I can explain.”

  She folded her arms and waited.

  “I walked from town in the rain, and some boys drove by in their car and splashed me. That’s why I’m covered with mud.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Andy Carmichael.”

  The housekeeper nodded and stepped aside, swinging the door wide open. “Don’t take all day gettin’ in here. We don’t need no more flies.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Chills slid down Andy’s spine as he stepped inside. “This is quite a house. Not as big as I remember. But then, I haven’t seen it in twenty-six years.” Small talk really wasn’t his strong suit, but tight nerves always made him ramble.

  She ignored his observation anyway. “Set down that bag and follow me. Miz Penbrook’s ailin’ and can’t get out of bed. You’ll have to go to her.”

  Andy felt like a ten-year-old boy again, wide-eyed and overwhelmed by the enormity of his surroundings. The housekeeper led him through the expansive foyer and up a winding, plush-carpeted stairway. A crystal chandelier sparkled in the sunlight peeking through floor-to-ceiling windows. Andy allowed his fingertips to trail along the smooth mahogany rail, his gaze taking in the richness surrounding him.

  At the top of the stairs, the housekeeper turned and led him down a long hallway. Andy tried to keep his gaze straight ahead, but curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn’t help but twist around to take it all in.

  Paintings lined the corridor-faces from the past. One black woman stood out among the sea of white. Andy stopped and stared into her eyes. She bore the telltale lightness of a slave of mixed blood. He shook his head, faintly recognizing the deep set of her eyes. Unsettled by the sense of familiarity, Andy turned away.

  The housekeeper stopped before a half-open door at the end of the hall and pounded on the doorframe. “He’s here, Miz Penbrook.” She turned back to Andy and glared. “You comin’?”

  Her sharp tone yanked Andy from his pensiveness. He hid a smirk. Nothing like a bonafide Southern black woman to make a man feel like he was about to get a whippin’. Even at thirty-six years old. Some things never changed. “Yes, Ma’am. Sorry.”

  She pushed out her bottom lip and harrumphed. “You’re gonna have to talk loud. She cain’t hear much. And her mind gets addled when she’s tired, so don’t ask too many questions.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you going to show the gentleman in, Delta, or must I walk to the door myself?” The voice was crisp, clear, not at all the crackling, frail voice Andy would have expected from a one-hundred-year-old woman.

  The housekeeper rolled her eyes. “Go on in.”

  Gripping his hat between his hands, Andy stepped across the threshold. He tried to shake off the feeling that the house was filled with ghosts from the past. But there was an eeriness to the dimly lit room that only added to his anxiety. Vague shadows of memories fell across his mind. Images veiled by darkness and hoarse whispers. The moisture of his mama’s tears soaking his neck. A dream?

  “Come in, Mr. Carmichael.” The voice came from the four-poster bed pressed against the wall straight ahead. “I’m afraid I cannot get up to welcome you properly. But you may come and sit next to me.”

  He strode across the room, the click-clack, click-clack of his shoes resonating off the hardwood floor. The dimness slowly receded to unveil a tiny, wrinkled woman huddled under a thick, rose-colored comforter.

  He stopped next to the bed and reached out in greeting. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Penbrook. It’s a great honor.”

  Her veined hand slipped into his and she snared his gaze, rendering him incapable of looking away. “You don’t speak like any colored man from around here. I swear, if I close my eyes I couldn’t tell you from a lily-white gentleman of the South-except perhaps you have better grammar.” She cackled at her own joke.

  Indignation beat a cold, hard rhythm in his breast. Did she honestly think that was a compliment? Was he supposed to kiss her skeletal hand and thank her?

  He couldn’t do this. Why in God’s name had he come back here? The entire state of Georgia reeked with the sweat and blood of his brethren. Bile rose to his throat and he swallowed hard to keep from retching all over the old belle’s clean floor.

  The witch turned loose of his hand and waved him to an emerald-green wing chair. He sat down, set his briefcase on his lap and clicked it open, then removed pen and paper to take notes of the interview. “I’m from Chicago. But then, you already knew that.”

  She gave a loud snort-the kind only a woman who has become such an icon that nothing she did could possibly jeopardize her position among polite society could get away with. “You’re an uppity colored, aren’t you? You never were as a boy.”

  Andy’s defenses rose and he had to remind himself that this woman was very, very old. “I’m not a boy any longer. And I haven’t been in Georgia for many years.”

  She scowled, making her wrinkles run together in her scrunched-up face. “Don’t act uppity with me. That skin of yours might be lighter than Delta’s but you would do well to remember who you are and where you came from if you want to get along down here. We don’t spoil our coloreds the way the Yankees do.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you don’t.” Andy fought the urge to laugh at her assumption that just because he lived in the North, his light skin made any difference. He was still a colored man, and most white people thought he wasn’t quite as good as even the dumbest and poorest among them. His own kind automatically assumed he considered himself a higher class of Negro, and sometimes that made life difficult. But they didn’t know him. No one really knew him. All he wanted was peace. To live his life, raise a family, and make a good living for his wife--if she’d take him back. It’s all he’d ever wanted.

  He glared at Miss Penbrook. What did she know of being too white to be black and too black to be white?

  “Made you good and mad, didn’t I, boy?” The old hag cackled. “Good. Anger is an honest emotion. I can appreciate that.”

  Swallowing a retort, he cleared his throat and tried to remember that old people had the privilege of being rude to whomever they pleased.

  “Miss Penbrook.” He kept his voice deliberately calm, a difficult task when he was forced to yell in order for her to hear every word he said. “May I begin the interview?”

  With a wave of her bony hand, she giggled like a school
girl. “You’re trying to be polite, when you’d like to give me a good piece of your mind, isn’t that right?”

  “I assure you, Miss Penbrook, the last thing I want to do is give you a piece of my mind.” Andy forced a smile. “You’re much too important for me to offend you intentionally.”

  She gave him a look of scrutiny as though she knew he was only trying to placate her in order to get on with it. Andy held his breath and waited to see if she would challenge him.

  Suddenly, she spoke. “You want to know all about me?”

  “If you please.” Andy expelled a breath.

  A smug smile showed toothless gums. “Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Sometimes knowledge is freedom, and sometimes it’s nothing but a chain around your neck. You might not like my story.”

  What sort of game was the old debutante trying to play?

  “I’m a writer. I don’t have to like it. All I have to do is record it. Would you like to start?”

  She scowled and waved again. “Young people are so impatient. But then, I suppose you have a story to write.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Why else would I have left my wife at a time like this to travel down to this godforsaken wretch of a state? He struggled to push away a sudden rush of memories. A shudder moved up his spine. The sooner he was out of Georgia, the sooner his stomach would unclench. This had better be worth it.

  Miss Penbrook gave a sudden jerk of her head and eyed him with such intensity that Andy had to fight the urge to look away.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m an old woman and I’ve nothing to lose. Shall I begin my life with the beginning of my life?”

  Andy nodded, recognizing her question as the first line from David Copperfield. Did she think her story would become a classic piece of literature? Yes, she probably did. His stomach tightened with excitement. Maybe it would at that.

  “I don’t remember much of the beginning, to tell you the truth. I was very young. But the things I’ve heard. Oh, the things I’ve seen. . .”

  She fixed her gaze on a beam of light shining on the wall alongside the bed. The faraway look in her dark eyes sent a chill over every inch of Andy’s skin. “I’m not sure of my exact age at the time, but I believe I was around four or five years old when my parents. . .”