A Penny Urned

by Tamar Myers

  “I can remember, Mama. Well, not the armed forces, but the separate drinking fountains and bathrooms. And going to an all-white school.”

  “Then you can imagine that for a white woman to fall in love with a black man—well, that was just unthinkable.”

  My blood raced. “You mean Aunt Lula Mae—”

  Mama nodded.

  I turned Mama around to face me. “Wow! Tell me everything!”

  “I don’t know a whole lot!” Mama wailed. “It was all so hush-hush. Your Daddy didn’t like to talk about it.”

  “You mean he was prejudiced?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I really believe he wasn’t. But his parents were. So were mine, come to think of it. Anyway, this thing with your aunt—well, your grandparents forbade anyone in the family to ever have anything to do with her again. They gave him an ultimatum; either he turned his back on Lula Mae, or they would turn their backs on him. Your grandmother Flora—forgive me, Abby, but she was a very bitter woman. She didn’t even approve of me at first, because I was a Presbyterian and my people dirt farmers from upstate. It wasn’t until I became an Episcopalian—well, anyway, out of respect for his parents, Daddy went along.”

  “That kind of ultimatum doesn’t deserve respect,” I said. “Aunt Lula Mae was Daddy’s sister. It should have been up to him to decide whether or not to see her.”

  “Don’t judge your daddy too harshly, Abby. He was very close to his mama.”

  I swallowed my anger. Believe me, it didn’t sit too well on the Eggs Benedict and champagne.

  “Grandma Wiggins died just a year or two after Daddy, didn’t she? And Grandpa Wiggins was already dead by then. Why didn’t you—”

  “Abby, I already know what you’re going to ask, and I don’t have an answer. Maybe because I thought your Aunt Lula Mae would hate me for having ignored her all those years. Or maybe it was because I didn’t know how to explain to you what happened. You see, dear, it was easier just to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “This sleeping dog was my aunt!” I said with surprising vehemence. “And she isn’t sleeping now—she’s dead!”

  Mama shook her head. “You see how strongly you’re reacting? Do you honestly think you’d have taken the news well if she were still alive? I mean, what if she told you to go to hell?” Mama gasped and dutifully slapped her own mouth for swearing. Gently, of course.

  “Yes, Mama, I do think I would have taken the news well. But even if I hadn’t—even if I’d been mad as blazes at you for keeping the secret from me, and even if Aunt Lula Mae had spit in my face—I had a right to know. She was my flesh and blood!”

  It pleased me to see tears in Mama’s eyes. “Okay, Abby, so maybe I made a mistake. A big mistake. Can you forgive me?”

  I longed to give Mama a long, easy hug. Not one of those quick, backslapping things I’d slid into as an adolescent and never quite grown out of. Not with my own mama at least. I am capable of giving my children slow, tender hugs, and my lovers too—not that I’ve had that many, mind you—but the second I put my arms around Mama, my hands start flapping like the flippers of a seal.

  “Of course I will forgive you, Mama. In due time.”

  Mama’s right hand flew to her pearls. “What does that mean?”

  I smiled. “I want to experience the joy of being mad at you. At least until lunch.”

  Mama let go of her necklace long enough to wipe away the tears. “I can live with that.”

  “But you need to tell me everything you know about Aunt Lula Mae.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell, dear. I only met her once, when I was dating your daddy.”

  “But you said I insulted her when I was three.”

  Mama turned the color of a Yankee sunburn. “I lied,” she said in a voice that matched her physique. “But that was before Mr. Kimbro hung our dirty laundry out to air.”

  “He did no such thing, Mama. He merely told me the truth. Besides, yesterday you came right out and asked Ashley, the desk clerk, if she knew Lula Mae Wiggins. Weren’t you afraid she’d spill the beans?”

  Mama paled to the color of a ripe peach. “I was testing the waters, so to speak. I was hoping the scandal had blown over. And Abby, it has!”

  “What an awful thing to say.”

  “Not that I was scandalized, mind you. But Abby, it really was a big deal back then—especially in our social set. You can’t imagine how big a deal.”

  “Yes, I can,” I said reluctantly. “My elementary school was segregated, remember? And our church might as well have been.”

  Mama nodded, her normal pasty complexion completely restored. “Even though I only met Lula Mae that one time, I wasn’t surprised when I heard the news.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, your aunt was very much a free spirit. A bohemian, we called folks like that in those days.”

  “Was she tall, thin, short, fat? What color was her hair?”

  “As I remember, she was a big girl, like your daddy. Dark brown hair. Very pretty. But she dressed different.” Mama began rotating the pearls around her neck as if they were worry beads. It amazes me the nacre hasn’t worn off after all these years of abuse.

  “Different how?”

  “Well, she wore pants, for one thing. Women just didn’t wear pants back then—not in the South. I’ll never forget that your Aunt Lula Mae had on this pajamalike outfit the day I met her. And the biggest gold hoop earrings I’d ever seen, and a barrette in her hair that looked just like a grasshopper! A green enamel grasshopper. Can you imagine that, Abby? Oh, and not only did she smoke, but she had this ivory cigarette holder about a mile long. She could blow perfect smoke rings.”

  “What was her personality like?”

  “That’s hard to say from just one meeting, but I thought she was very friendly. And smart. She had gray eyes, I think. Anyway, you could just look into those eyes and tell she was smart.” Mama sighed. “That’s really all I can remember.”

  “You did good, Mama. But can you remember anything—anything at all—about the man she became involved with? Besides his race? Something somebody, maybe Grandma, said about him?”

  The pearls stopped in mid-rotation, the clasp at the front of her neck. “I think maybe he was a teacher.”

  “Oh? What level?”

  Mama shrugged. “I think it was something your grandmother Flora said before your Aunt Lula Mae broke the news her new beau was black. Something about dating a teacher, which was at least a step up from the sailor she’d been dating the month before. Like I said, Abby, your aunt was a free spirit.”

  “I’m surprised you two weren’t related by blood,” I mumbled.

  Fortunately Mama didn’t hear me. “So, dear, is the interrogation over?”

  “Yes, Mama. Have you had breakfast yet?”

  Mama looked like the cat who has stolen the cream. “After C.J. and Wynnell left to go touring, I ordered room service.”

  “I don’t see any dirty dishes.”

  Mama looked like the cat who has stolen the creamer as well. “I washed the dishes.”

  “Yes, I know we have a kitchenette, but where are the dishes? In the cupboards?” I hoisted myself off the couch and headed toward that corner of the room. “Mama, it’s not your job to wash them, you know. And if you put them away in the cup—”

  Mama leaped off the sofa and intercepted me. “Don’t look in the cupboards, Abby.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because they’re really filthy. The Heritage should be ashamed. Don’t worry, dear, I’ll put the dishes out in the hall like everyone else does.”

  I may be short, but I’m not stupid. Not that stupid. My antennae were up, just as sure as if Mama were one of my children. I didn’t have time to play the onion-peeling games I did with my own children to get to the truth. Instead, I started to walk back to the couch, which put her off her guard. Then I turned abruptly and dashed past her.

  The cupboards were bare. Just bare as Mrs. Hubbard’
s.

  “Mama! You didn’t!”

  Mama hung her head.

  “You did! You packed them in your suitcase already, didn’t you?”

  “It’s only one place setting, dear. It’s not like they don’t have plenty more. And they’re charging you so much for this room. It’s only fair.”

  “It’s stealing.”

  “I would have sent them a nice thank-you note. Anonymous, of course.”

  No doubt she would have, at that. I could just see and smell her flowered, perfumed paper, across which she’d have written something like Thanks so much for the lovely china. It goes so well with my grandmother’s lace tablecloth.

  “Mama, I have half a mind to call security.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Try me. Now you go put it back on the tray and out in the hall—no, better yet, take it down to the kitchen yourself. But put some clothes on first. In the meantime I’ll call to cancel the masseur. Then I’m going to freshen up a little. Then you and I are going to do something that’s long since been overdue.”

  “Oh, Abby, not the birds and the bees talk. I tried telling you when you were in the seventh grade, but you refused to listen.”

  “Not that, Mama. We’re going to go pick up Aunt Lula Mae. It’s time for a family reunion.”

  Moss Brothers Mortuary & Memorial Gardens was out near the Bamboo Farm and Coastal Gardens, southeast of town. The wide, sweeping oaks on the grounds were hung so heavily with moss that I suspected the establishment owed its name to the epiphyte rather than some siblings.

  Calvin Bleeks, the owner and director, confirmed my suspicion. “Yes, ma’am, my granddaddy was an only child. But he loved that moss.” He looked around the plain walls of his windowless office as if someone had hidden a listening device in the crumbling plaster and then whispered, “Granddaddy was a Yankee.”

  Mama and I both gasped. I, for one, was just pulling his leg.

  He nodded somberly. With each forward movement I thought he was going to lose his head. I mean that literally. It may have been just an average-size noggin, but it was set on the skinniest neck I’d ever seen on a full-grown man and set off-center at that. He was wearing a black-and-white-check bow tie, and I had the impression that if I pulled on one end of the tie and loosened it, Calvin Bleek’s head would either come crashing down on his desk or float up like a helium balloon. Surely it was not connected to his rather normal torso.

  “Yes, ma’am, my granddaddy was a full-blooded Yankee. Came all the way down here from Boston, Massachusetts, in a goat cart.”

  “A goat cart?” Mama and I exclaimed simultaneously.

  He nodded again, despite my prayers to the contrary. “It was the Depression, you see, and Granddaddy couldn’t afford a car, and the Boston Bleeks never took public transportation. Anyway, that cart was the prettiest little thing, all painted up red and gold like a gypsy wagon. Of course, granddaddy had to take the back roads, and it took him over a year to get down here. By then he’d gone through eight or nine goats. Granddaddy got awfully good at cooking them, though. Became a regular goat gourmand. Even wrote a cookbook titled Getting Your Goat and Grilling It Too.”

  Mindful of my manners, I rolled my eyes discreetly. “You don’t say.”

  He checked the cracks in the walls again, and I can’t say that I blame him. They’re making microphones awfully small these days.

  “My grandma on my mama’s side was a Yankee, too. I reckon that makes me one-quarter Yankee.”

  Mama gasped again. By her reckoning there is no such thing as a part-Yankee. If your ancestors were Yankees, then you are a Yankee. When the memory of their tainted blood dies, and if you have married into an upstanding local family, well, then just maybe you qualify for a dinner invitation. But you can forget about Junior League and Cotillion.

  “Mr. Bleeks,” I said pleasantly, “that would make you half Yankee, not a fourth. Now, as I said when we met, I’m here to pick up my Aunt Lula’s remains.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He stood and bowed slightly before leaving the room. It may have been an involuntary movement.

  “Abby,” Mama said, clutching my arm like it was a rail on the sinking Titanic, “did you notice?”

  “That his head is off balance? In more ways than one?”

  “No, silly. That he isn’t wearing a ring.”

  “Give it up, Mama. You’re not having a fling with a mortician.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking of me, dear. I was thinking of C.J.”

  “Well, maybe you have a point—”

  Calvin Bleeks returned, carrying a blue and white ginger jar. He set the vessel reverently on his desk.

  “These are the cremains of Miss Wiggins.”

  I stared at the jar. It wasn’t at all special. I’d seen hundreds like it at Pottery Barn, Kmart, you name it. True, this one had a nicer glaze than some I’d seen, and the painting was competently done. But I had bras that were older than it and no doubt more expensive.

  “I don’t mean to be crude at a time like this, Mr. Bleeks, but Mr. Kimbro said you thought it might be a very valuable urn.” My voice rose, forming a question.

  He smiled, and that merest of movements caused his head to bobble. “I didn’t know if I could trust him,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “I don’t get it.”

  He opened his desk drawer and withdrew a small plastic bag, the kind you store a sandwich in. It was folded several times.

  “That was taped to the inside of the jar lid,” Calvin said. “I reckon it’s worth a fortune.”

  7

  I took the bag and spread it on the desk. In the space following the word CONTENTS, someone had written with a black felt-tip pen: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, there’s plenty more, if this you trust.

  “Hmm, wonder what that means.”

  Calvin shrugged, thereby putting his cerebellum in danger. “I assumed you would know. As I understand it, you were supposed to be the one to deliver the urn to me. Instead, Mr. Kimbro brought it.”

  I nodded. “Ex-husband problems.” There was a coin in the bag, and I fingered it through the plastic. “What’s this? Some kind of foreign coin?”

  “No, ma’am. That’s an American one-cent piece. It was minted in 1793.”

  I started to open the bag. “This I’ve got to see!”

  Calvin Bleeks was quicker than Mama when I try to sneak a bite of her dessert. He did not, however, poke me with a fork.

  “You shouldn’t touch it with your bare hands.”

  “Says who?”

  He bobbled apologetically. “It’s very valuable, ma’am. I took the liberty of speaking to my brother-in-law, who is a numismatist.”

  “That’s very nice,” Mama said politely, “but your family’s religion is really none of our business.”

  “A numismatist is a coin collector,” I mumbled.

  “What was that, dear?”

  “Nothing, Mama.” I smiled warmly at Calvin Bleeks. “How valuable is it?”

  The mortician looked pointedly at Mama and then at me.

  “If I can hear it, so can she,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, then, the penny—or, as I should say, one-cent piece—is worth hundreds.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps thousands.”

  “Perhaps? What exactly did your brother-in-law say?”

  “Please, Miss Timberlake, I would much rather you take that up with him.” Calvin Bleeks was looking at Mama again.

  I tried my best to sound patient. “Okay, I’ll see your brother-in-law. He does live in Savannah, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, ma’am. His name is Albert Quarles. You can find him on West Perry, which is right off Chippewa Square. That’s the square where Forrest Gump sat waiting for the bus.”

  “How interesting,” Mama said with genuine enthusiasm. Forrest Gump is her favorite movie. Mama is convinced that Sally Field based her interpretation of Forrest’s mother on the o
ne and only Mozella Wiggins.

  Calvin Bleeks jotted down the address, his head jiggling, while I signed Aunt Lula Mae’s release forms. I know that sounds like an odd way to put it, but I felt a need to liberate her from Moss Brothers Mortuary & Memorial Gardens. To say nothing of the bobbling Mr. Bleeks and his black-and-white-checked bow tie.

  I placed the urn, which was surprisingly heavy, on the back seat of my car and buckled it safely in place. As we drove off, Mama burst into her own rendition of “Moon River.” The woman couldn’t sing for a snack, much less her supper, but she means well. The choir director at the Episcopal Church of Our Savior in Rock Hill fondly refers to Mama as her mercy member. As in Lord have mercy every time Mama opens her mouth.

  “Three drifters, off to see the world,” Mama sang.

  I’m sure Aunt Lula Mae, looking down from above, was happy to at last be included in a family event.

  The address Calvin Bleeks had given us was not a business but a private home. West Perry is lined by restored stately houses. Wrought-iron railings, oak trees, palm trees, cherry laurels, azaleas—if there is a more beautiful residential street in this country, write me in care of the Den of Antiquity, Charlotte, North Carolina.

  The house we sought was fronted by a cherry laurel and an unusual shade of azalea, almost salmon-colored. Next to one of the flowering shrubs was a downspout in the shape of a dolphin. I coveted the spout in my heart as I rang the doorbell.

  Albert Quarles opened the door immediately. He was a small, swarthy man whose black hair betrayed its bottle origins. He had a clipped black mustache, rather like Hitler’s, incongruous silver eyebrows, and tiny, wrinkled ears that reminded me of dried apricots. His cream suit, white silk shirt, and yellow paisley tie only served to accentuate his sallow complexion. The monocle, however, was a nice touch.

  “Come in,” he said, without even asking our names.

  I meant to introduce myself, but he immediately led us through a foyer with a gleaming parquet floor and into a sumptuous drawing room. The peach, silk-covered walls soared ten or twelve feet—height has always been a difficult thing for me to judge. The heavy damask drapes were also silk, as was the Chinese rug.