The House Girl

by Tara Conklin

  I traveled to Charlotte County. I saw the deserted Bell Creek, the place she had left. It was empty save for squirrels fat from the unused seed. No one could tell me where Robert Bell had gone, only that his wife was buried there, in a poplar grove beside the mounds of her dead children.

  I saw the fence, the river, the slave shacks where Josephine began her life. Only God above knows what became of the ones left after Mrs. Bell’s death, Lottie, Winton, and the others Josephine described to me, their names already gone from my memory.

  I queried those I met as to the location of the Stanmore place. They pointed me there and, finally, I found you.

  You have your mother’s eyes, the turn of her lips and long graceful arch of her neck, and the instant I laid eyes upon you I knew you were her son. Mr. Justice Stanmore was a wealthy man, a very fat, very pale man whose eyes seemed to grow in size and sheen as he realized the extent of my interest in you.

  At the Stanmore place they called you Joseph, they said it was the name you came with, and so this reminder of your mother Josephine you keep every day.

  With this letter I enclose your mother’s pictures of the boy Louis, Lottie and Winton, and Josephine’s mistress, Lu Anne Bell. The stone that reflects the colors of Josephine’s eyes, I have kept for myself and trust that you will forgive me this small liberty.

  I know that I can never be so deserving as to call you son. My sins pile up around me, voices of those men and women sold back into enslavement by my hand call to me at night, and I know that peace is beyond me now. The happiest days I have known were the ones with your mother and the summer spent with my brother and his Dorothea. That is why I leave you here with Jack. I know that he will be the best of fathers to you, that you will thrive in the new western lands. I know that your mother watches over you. I know that you will lead a good and happy life and grow to be a far better man than ever I could be.

  Yours most faithfully,

  Caleb T. Harper

  Lina sat unmoving in her twilit room. She had not thought to light a lamp as she read and now she sat with the pages close to her face, resting against the tops of her legs, her knees drawn up, her back against a pillow on the bed. She had forgotten she wore socks on her hands, she had become so adept at turning the pages with them, but now the scratchy feel of the thin cotton surprised her when she reached up to wipe her eyes. Outside the street seemed hushed, as though the modern world had, for the moment, gracefully retreated.

  Caleb wrote about Josephine’s pictures, the ones that Jasper now held: Louis, Lottie and Winton, Lu Anne Bell. But Nora had said that Caleb’s letter was sealed when it came to her. Did Joseph ever know the truth about his mother? Was this why the meaning of those drawings had been lost to time?

  Lina removed the tidy, frail pages of Caleb’s letter from her lap and replaced them into the envelope Nora had given her. She needed nothing more. The path ahead was easy. The 1870 Oregon census, Jack Harper, Joseph Harper, marriages recorded, births announced, deaths noted. Lina could now trace from Josephine’s son to the next generation and the next and the next; now she would know Josephine’s descendants, their names, where they lived, their occupations, when they died, who they married, who they left behind.

  It was silly to think of this as a loss but Lina felt it nonetheless. She had known that Josephine was dead, of course she had, but for Lina, Josephine had breathed and planned and run. She had run away to someplace better, but she hadn’t found it, and Lina felt this as an aimless sort of grief, the kind she had felt in her father’s studio, looking at the pictures of a Grace she didn’t want to see. She felt cheated of a possible past that had never been. Lina wanted to write a different history and, for a time, she thought that she had.

  TUESDAY

  Gray-faced, rumpled, and staring, Lina and Garrison slouched in their usual chairs in Dan’s office. Neither had slept more than three straight hours of the previous seventy-two. The reparations brief, all 112 pages of it, sat on Dan’s desk.

  Dan and Dresser walked in, the two of them chuckling as though one had just finished telling a discreetly clever joke. Dresser wore uncharacteristically casual clothes—a pale pink button-down shirt tucked into stiff dark-blue jeans, and the look made him seem smaller, somehow less authoritative. Dan walked to his desk, and Dresser folded himself into the chair beside Lina. Dresser’s assistant, also in jeans, entered last, closed the door, and perched on the edge of a chair by the window. Lina still had never heard the man’s name.

  “I’m afraid Jasper has been delayed,” Lina said. “Jasper Battle, the plaintiff. He just called me and said he got stuck underground, some problems with the subway, but he’s only a few blocks away now.”

  “No problem,” Dan said. “Gives me a chance to say to the two of you, well done.” He patted the brief as though it were a small dog. “I know you worked hard on this and it shows. Excellent work.”

  “Yes, I must agree,” Dresser said.

  Movement outside drew Lina’s attention away from Dresser. On the other side of the windows, a cleaner edged into view, pulling his platform of gray aluminum farther into Dan’s hard-earned Manhattan view. The cleaner floated: wiper, hard hat, sky.

  “I’m particularly pleased that we managed to find Josephine Bell’s descendant,” Dan continued. “I was just reading about her in the Times—Ron, did you see that piece? I understand the Stanmore Foundation is issuing a claim against the gallery. It’s all great publicity for us. Josephine Bell will be the most famous slave since … since … Well, she’ll be famous! Regardless of where this whole authorship question ends up. It’s a fantastic controversy. Fantastic.”

  As Dan spoke, Dresser shifted in his chair and momentously cleared his throat. His lips parted in preparation for speech.

  Just then the door opened and Mary’s head popped through. “Sorry to interrupt. Jasper Battle is here.”

  Jasper had worn a suit, though Lina hadn’t asked him to, and it was just a touch too short in the sleeves and ankles, making him seem boyish and, to Lina, charming. He was pink-cheeked and damp around the temples from his crosstown dash to make the meeting. Hovering in the doorway, he bobbed his head in a general way toward the assembled group and smiled awkwardly, his eyes scanning for Lina, and then he saw her and the smile broadened. He stepped fully into the room.

  “Jasper, come in,” Lina said and rose to greet him. The others stood as he entered and there was the rustle of trouser legs straightening, the crack of knee joints bending, the squeak of chairs releasing their occupants, and then complete silence.

  “This is Jasper Battle, Josephine Bell’s great-great-great-great-grandson,” Lina said. No one spoke. Garrison, Dan, and Dresser all stared at Jasper, who smiled back at them with some confusion.

  “Nice to meet you all,” Jasper said.

  Lina glanced at Dan. His face was grim, the face of a man who suspects that his perfect win record may soon be coming to an end.

  “Mr. Battle,” Dan said, reaching out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. Thanks for coming down, but we’ll have to do some thinking on this one.” He glanced at Dresser. “I’m not sure you’re quite what we need for the lawsuit.”

  “He’s Josephine Bell’s direct descendant,” Lina said. “I’ve fully verified him with public records.”

  “Mr. Battle—” Dan began.

  “Please, call me Jasper.”

  “Jasper. You’re too white. What else can I say? We can’t have a white guy leading a lawsuit seeking reparations for the descendants of African American slaves! I don’t care who you’re related to!” Lina could almost see Dan’s blood pressure rising beneath his blue shirt, his enlarged heart pumping furiously. “And the earrings? And I see you’ve got some tattoos? No, this isn’t going to fly.”

  Jasper’s face, open until that point, now hardened. “I—” he began, but Garrison interrupted him.

  “I agree with Dan. You’re not black enough.” Garrison’s hands were in his pockets, and his chin was angled down. “
It just won’t work,” he said and slowly shook his head.

  “Friends, friends—” Dresser held up a hand, palm outward in the universal symbol for Stop. Lina realized she had been wrong about the jeans; wardrobe notwithstanding, Dresser presided over a room with supreme authority. “Please, let’s all sit down. Regardless of Mr. Battle’s skin tone and whether it is the appropriate shade for our purposes, I’m afraid I must call a temporary end to our work on the reparations lawsuit.”

  “What?” Dan lowered himself heavily into his chair.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t go into the specifics. I’m afraid certain high-ranking government officials, on both sides of the political and racial divide, have expressed some … concern about Dresser Tech being associated with a lawsuit of this type. I understand that the federal apology for slavery will not be forthcoming. Not anytime soon. That will leave us without any sort of pressure against the corporate defendants, and with no graceful exit from the federal suit. And that will leave Dresser Tech high and dry. I can’t sue my biggest customer, now can I? I’m sorry, but that’s all I can say. I thought that we had an opening, some leverage where we needed it, but I was … overly optimistic.”

  Lina glanced at Dan, who was watching Dresser with a look of dismay.

  “We need to wait,” Dresser continued. “Bide our time. We’ll come back to it when the circumstances in Washington are more amenable to the idea of repair. When my personal business interests won’t be so negatively impacted. I won’t let this case disappear, I promise you that, but I can’t say when we’ll be back. It may take some time.”

  Dan’s door slammed shut, and Lina realized that Jasper had left the room. She ran to the hall and saw his tall back receding. “Jasper,” she called. He stopped and turned and they faced each other down the gray carpeted passage, empty but full of the muffled pat-pat sound of typing, the incessant electronic beeping of an unattended phone. The space between them stretched long under the cold light and then a side door opened, a meeting spilled out, suits and khakis and cardigans, and when they cleared away, Jasper was gone.

  Lina slipped back into Dan’s office, into her chair, her feet pressed firmly to the floor, her arms gripping the side rests.

  Dresser’s assistant whispered loudly, “Ron,” raised his eyebrows and tapped his watch.

  “Now,” Dresser said, glancing at the assistant, “I need to catch a flight but I wanted to come in personally and give my thanks for your hard work. This is a cause close to my heart. I’m grateful to you all for your dedication. Dan, we’ll be talking again soon, no doubt.”

  Dresser and the assistant rose. Dan and Garrison jumped up to see them out, but it was Lina whom Dresser approached. She remained seated and he gazed down at her. “Lina, it was a pleasure to have worked with you. If you ever find yourself in need of employment, please give me a call.” He handed her a card. “I need people with commitment to a cause. People who believe in what they’re doing. It’s a rarity in this world.”

  Without comment, Lina accepted the card. From the corner of her eye she saw Garrison, his features adrift with the effort of hiding his envy.

  Dan ushered Dresser out of the room and then returned, falling into his cushioned desk chair with a soft whoosh of expelled air.

  “I’m sorry to see this case go,” he said, turning toward his antique law books. His face softened and, for a fleeting, hallucinatory moment, Lina saw a younger Dan gazing fixedly at the spines of the United States Reports. Under-eye shadows softened; the furrows beside his mouth relaxed; his hair became less obvious, more sincerely the characteristic of a man who didn’t care what he looked like, who thought about justice and injustice, the workings of history, the cases to celebrate, the cases to be ashamed of. Then Dan turned his chair around and pulled himself flush against the desk, his face falling straight under the glare of a strip light and again he was Daniel J. Oliphant the Third, partner, Clifton & Harp LLP: tired, rushed, and annoyed.

  “But it is what it is,” Dan said. “And I’ve got a shitload of derivatives work coming in. A shitload. And to be frank, this reparations case has been a tough sell for the partnership. Dave doesn’t think we need something like this right now. Easier ways to make the diversity point—it looks like we’re making up Joe this year.”

  “Joe Klein, in M & A?” asked Garrison. Lina didn’t know Joe Klein, besides knowing the fact that he was black.

  “Yeah, Joe Klein.” Dan nodded. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it, it still has to go to final vote, but he’s been working like a dog. The guy has no life. This isn’t affirmative action, believe me. He’s earned partnership. He’ll slide by. So that will make three black partners, which is one of the better numbers in the city, trust me on that.” Dan was speaking quickly, scanning through some papers on his desk, not looking at Lina or Garrison. Lina knew he shouldn’t be telling them this kind of information, but something seemed to have come loose in Dan.

  “And Garrison, your name is being bounced around for a white-collar matter. Something with Dave.”

  “Dave, Managing Partner Dave?” Garrison asked with a quick eagerness.

  “The one and only. Be on your best behavior. If you impress him, you’ll go far. Now get back to your office. I’m sure his secretary will be calling you soon.”

  Garrison left, casting a half-smile and raised eyebrows at Lina; he looked self-satisfied but dazed too, like a man who has just been given the thing he’d been asking for but is now unsure if it is in fact the thing he wants.

  Lina knew she should leave too. There was no reason to stay. But was this really where the case would end, with the too-sweet smell of Dresser’s cologne still hanging in the air and that photo of Dan’s ageless, grinning twins staring at her?

  The window washer hung suspended behind Dan’s desk. His arms were in constant motion: circle, circle, pull, circle, circle, pull. He seemed perfectly at ease, more at ease than any of them, more sure of himself and the rightness of his task, the utility of it. Suspended thirty-four stories above a hard concrete planet.

  “Did you read what I found?” Lina asked. “Did you see?”

  “Yeah, good work, Lina. Probably a bit more detail than we need for the initial brief, but a good first draft. You’d make a great private investigator. I’ll remember that about you. You’re like a dog with a bone.”

  On another day, Lina would have said thank you. Or laughed. But now she said nothing.

  She thought of Dan sitting in this office, looking out over Midtown, Bryant Park and the library, and, if he leaned his cheek against the glass and kept his gaze level, he would see the rising expanse of Lower Manhattan, Wall Street, and, long ago, the Twin Towers. The best of New York there from these windows. Dan spent his days and nights behind this expanse of glass, his wife and children behind glass, his antique books behind glass. Everything there for him to see, but he didn’t know what any of it really felt like.

  The harder road to walk, Dresser had said to her. And now, finally, Lina got it. Her road was not here. She didn’t know where it might be, but it was not at Clifton & Harp LLP.

  Lina stood up to leave. Dan had his head down, shuffling pages. A blue vein on his neck pulsed faintly. He said nothing as she walked out.

  Back at her desk, Lina closed her door and opened the reparations brief to page thirty-four. She reread what she had written there:

  As established by historical records, Josephine Bell gave birth to a boy, Joseph, on August 28, 1848, at Bell Creek in Lynnhurst, Virginia. Joseph lived until the age of four at the nearby plantation of Justice Stanmore, the largest antebellum tobacco grower in Charlotte County, Virginia. In 1852, Josephine Bell escaped from Bell Creek and died shortly thereafter in Philadelphia, PA.

  Mr. Caleb Harper, an acquaintance of Ms. Bell’s, purchased Joseph in early 1853 from Mr. Stanmore. Caleb Harper then transferred Joseph to his younger brother, Jack Harper of Stanton, Virginia, a widower with no children. In March 1853, Jack and Joseph Harper moved from Virginia
to the new Oregon Territory, where they settled in what is now Hood River, Oregon, and raised cattle and wheat on a 110-acre farm.

  Although he was born and raised in Virginia, military records indicate that Caleb Harper fought for the Union Army during the Civil War. He died in 1862 at the Battle of Antietam.

  In 1866, Jack Harper formally adopted Joseph as his son.

  Joseph Harper married Marietta Simpson in 1876. Marietta gave birth to two children, a daughter, Dorothea (1880), and a son, Caleb (1883). Jack Harper never remarried; he died in 1903, survived by Joseph and his two grandchildren.

  Joseph Harper remained on the family farm until his death in 1921.

  Dorothea Harper married Edward Shipley in 1900 and had five children. They remained in Oregon on the Harper family farm, increasing its size and diversifying its output to include flax and apples. The Shipleys became well known as pioneers in the use of grafted fruit tree production and Shipley Growers remains today one of the largest apple orchards in Oregon.

  Caleb Harper married Amanda McCray in 1904 and had three children. The family relocated to New York, NY, where Caleb became a train operator and lived until his death in 1947.

  From 1900 census data, it appears that Dorothea Harper Shipley self-identified as African American and Caleb Harper self-identified as Caucasian. The family split along racial lines at this time and it appears that the Shipley and Harper branches did not maintain contact.

  Between them, Dorothea Shipley, née Harper, and Caleb Harper were survived by six children, who had children, and they in turn had children who today reside in five different states and two foreign countries.

  Although Josephine Bell died in 1852 at the age of seventeen, her descendants live on today. Her great-great-great-great-grandson, Jasper Battle, a musician, currently resides in New York City.