Provenance_InteriorDraft_07.indd

by Sawyer, Donna Drew

  proud to be a Negro, be a better man than I was, son. There’s

  beauty on both sides of your family. Don’t forsake one for the

  other. Otherwise you don’t belong to no one, and you’ll pay the

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  same lonely price I did.” Hank coughed, sending his body into

  spasms, but he was determined to keep talking. “I wrote it all

  down for you,” Hank gasped. “Find my people, your people,

  they’re the best there is. Find them; share some of what we have.

  They have what you need: family, people to love you, to show

  you the right way. Do that for me, Lance. Promise me you’ll

  find my family, your family. Will you do that?” Hank pleaded.

  “Daddy, what are you saying? I don’t understand what

  you’re saying,” Lance questioned.

  “Why would you say this, Hank? It’s not true,” Maggie said.

  “Shouldn’t have been ashamed of being colored, didn’t

  have the courage, too afraid to lose everything, especially

  you, Maggie, but you love me, and oh my God, I love you,”

  Hank said, grasping for his son and his wife. “I had to tell you

  who I really am. I couldn’t die with this lie; you had to know.

  Maggie, Lance, I love you so much,” Hank’s last words came

  out as a gasp.

  Maggie shuddered. She stared at the man she thought she

  knew everything about.

  “Hank, why would you say that you’re, you’re. . . “

  “A nigger!” screamed Charlotte dropping to her knees,

  beating the floor with her fists, “Oh my God, oh my God,”

  she wailed, rocking back and forth.

  Hank’s hand on Maggie’s felt like ash, dark and weightless.

  She pulled her hand away, wiping it on her dress, as if soiled.

  “Why would you say this, Daddy?” Lance asked. “Why

  would you say this?” he asked again grabbing his father’s shoul-

  der and shaking him.

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  Hank looked past his son as he watched a replay of his life.

  He saw his family home in Park Place, his mother and father,

  his brothers, the people who had nurtured him whole. He

  replayed the night he ran, the sheriff falling to the ground, his

  life forever changed. He remembered when he met Margaret

  Bennett, and when she defied her mother and married him

  anyway. When they had a son, Lance Henry Whitaker, the

  physical incarnation of his father, and now heir to his deception.

  He saw James Stephens, his partner and his friend. And Del,

  more a mother than his housekeeper and until this moment,

  the only person to hear his confession. She had kept his secret

  just as she promised. Hank had finally revealed himself to the

  people he loved; the loneliness that he’d felt for more than

  twenty years final y left him. Unburdened, Hank slipped away,

  leaving his wife and son with the truth and an uncertain future.

  (II)

  Lance and Maggie sat in the hospital room after they took

  Hank’s body away.

  “How could your father betray us?” Maggie asked trying to

  understand what had just happened to her perfect life, “I never

  knew, never suspected. Why did he have to leave us with this?”

  “I don’t know, Momma,” Lance said, too numb to deal

  with his mother’s shock and grief as well as his own.

  “Where’s my Momma?” Maggie asked.

  “She left before they took Daddy away,” Lance said. They

  sat in silence for a few more minutes then Lance jumped up

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  and headed for the door. “I gotta get outta here. I’ll ask Mr.

  Stephens to take you home.” Before Maggie could protest,

  Lance was gone.

  Wringing her hands, tears streaming down her face, Maggie

  looked like a distraught widow, but felt like an abandoned child.

  “Momma was right. Momma was right,” she whispered

  to herself. She remembered the way Hank had loved her, the

  way he made love to her and today revealed that she had been

  with a Negro. She felt the confusion of loving Hank and being

  conditioned to hate what he was. She felt sick; bolting to the

  bathroom she vomited in the sink. She ran cold water on a

  towel and wiped her face. There in shadows, she stared at her

  image in the mirror, “What do I do now?” she whispered, as if her reflection could answer questions she could not. Then she

  heard voices coming from the hospital room.

  “Why do we have to strip the bed, if they’re going to get

  rid of the mattress too? No one in this hospital would use it

  now that a nigger done died on it.”

  “Did you hear her Momma? If she hadn’t been scream-

  ing and carrying on nobody woulda heard his confession, ya

  know. Do you think his wife knew? She had to know. There’re

  differences, aren’t there?”

  “How would I know? You think I ever seen a nigger naked?”

  “All those years, livin’ like a white man and nobody knew.

  They’s some treacherous people, I tell you. Just like my Daddy

  said, all they want is to get with a white woman.”

  “It ain’t legal for a nigger to marry white in Virginia. What’s

  the wife and her nigger-son gonna do now?”

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  “Think they’ll go to jail?

  “Probably worse. You know what they do to lyin’ cheatin’

  niggers ‘round here. That boy gonna hafta pay for what his

  daddy did.”

  “That’d be right, keep somethin’ like that from happenin’

  again now wouldn’t it?

  “Never know who you talkin’ to, do you? What do you do

  after gettin’ news like that?”

  Maggie, unnoticed in the dark bathroom, could not answer

  that question for herself or her son. She looked at herself in

  the mirror again. She could see the woman she once was dis-

  appearing before her eyes. How would she explain this to her

  friends? What about Lance? Would he have to pay for what

  Hank did? Would the rules for Negroes now apply to him too?

  She was a white woman with a colored son, in the heart of the

  segregated south. She was sure the shame she felt was the only

  thing people would see from now on. When she heard the door

  close as the two nurses left the hospital room, Maggie buried

  her face in her hands and moaned,

  “Momma you were right. Help me Momma, help me please.”

  (III)

  Charlotte did not get any information from Hank about his

  will so as soon as she arrived at their house she rifled through al the drawers in Margaret and Hank’s bedroom, then his study,

  but found nothing. If they were going to salvage anything,

  she would have to move fast. By tomorrow, Hank’s deathbed

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  confession would be rumor. Within three days, the efficiency of

  gossip in Richmond society would ensure that Hank Whitaker’s

  passing was all people talked about. Charlotte was not about to

  wait for talk to turn to action – there were severe consequences

  for colored folks who tried to pass for white. She’d seen trees

  bear
ing the bodies of black men for doing a lot less than Hank

  had. They will not take their vengeance out on Maggie and Lance, no matter what Hank did, Charlotte vowed.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered as she poured herself another

  glass of sherry. “I knew he was hiding something. I should have

  been able to see what Hank was.” She knew the nurses heard

  everything when she saw them huddled together whispering.

  When they saw her, they fell silent and looked away.

  I should have offered to pay them something to keep their mouths shut. They just would have taken my money and talked anyway,

  Charlotte thought as she looked at the piece of paper crumpled

  in her hand. She’d gotten the number of an undertaker from a

  colored nurse in the hospital’s segregated ward.

  “Go to the hospital and get him tonight,” she instructed

  the undertaker after giving him the pertinent details. “Bury

  him in Evergreen,” she said referring to the Negro cemetery in

  Richmond’s East End. She didn’t tell him Hank Whitaker was

  her daughter’s husband, she told them she was paying for the

  burial because his family couldn’t afford it. “We’re not having

  a service. I’ll come around tomorrow to pay whatever it costs.”

  With that, she had taken care of the inconvenient remains of

  Hank Whitaker. Now she needed to take care of her family.

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  Charlotte heard a car pull up in front of the house. She

  drained her glass of sherry then frantical y wiped the tears from

  her face, raked her fingers through her hair, and smoothed her

  dress as she went to the front door. When she opened it there

  was Margaret, looking dazed, smelling of vomit and sorrow.

  Charlotte did not recognize the man with her.

  “My baby!” Charlotte said, attempting to embrace Maggie,

  who pushed her away.

  “Where did you go? Why did you leave me?” Maggie said,

  turning her back to her mother.

  “Thank you for bringing me home, James,” she said to

  her escort.

  “James?” Charlotte asked.

  “James Stephens. He works for Hank. He was with Hank

  when - he took Hank to the hospital.”

  “I’m Margaret’s mother, Charlotte Bennett.”

  “Ma’am?” James said, bowing slightly and removing his hat.

  “I don’t know what I would have done without you, James,”

  Maggie said.

  “Do you need me to see to Hank tonight?” he asked.

  “I’ve taken care of everything,” Charlotte said, putting her

  arm around Maggie and guiding her into the house. “Nothing

  left for anyone to worry with. You go on upstairs, Margaret. I

  just want to have a few words with Mr. Stephens.”

  Once Maggie was out of earshot, Charlotte turned on James.

  “I need to know if Hank said anything to you about a will

  or the disposition of the business,” Charlotte said, as if her

  son-in-law had died weeks, not hours, ago.

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  “Ma’am, this is not the time for that. I just lost my partner

  and my friend. I need to go,” he said as he started to his car.

  Charlotte caught his sleeve, “Partner? Did you say partner?”

  “Ma’am, I am not going to discuss business with you now.”

  James pul ed away and continued to his car. “There will be time

  for that later,” he said, choking up as he got into his car and

  pul ed out of the drive. Charlotte watched James’ car disappear

  down the street then stalked back into the house slamming the

  front door in frustration. I am not going to wait for you to contact me, Mr. Stephens. I’ll be at Hank’s office first thing tomorrow.

  Maggie had only made it as far as the first step of the

  staircase, where she sat, draped against the balustrades.

  “Where’s Lance?” she asked. “Is my son here? He said he

  couldn’t stay at the hospital, he had to leave.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m sure Lance is fine. Let’s get

  us both cleaned up,” Charlotte said, as they walked up the

  stairs, Maggie leaning heavily against her mother.

  “Frances,” Charlotte barked. “Draw Miss Margaret a bath.”

  (IV)

  Lance went directly to Del, the one person he always went

  to when there was trouble. When Charlotte moved in with

  Hank and Maggie last year, Del left the Whitaker household

  after nineteen years. She had raised Lance as far as she could

  and she was not about to start taking orders from Miss Maggie’s

  momma. At seventy-five, her mahogany-colored face showed

  few wrinkles though her hands were gnarled and rough, and

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  her knees creaked and ached from sixty-three years of cooking,

  cleaning and caring for white folks. What time she had left in

  life she planned to tend to herself.

  Her plan was to live with her sister Charlene and her hus-

  band but Hank had surprised her with a house in Jackson Ward,

  the middle class Negro community in Richmond’s East End.

  Del protested, but Hank was adamant.

  “All these years you’ve made our home comfortable, now I

  want you to be comfortable in your own home,” he’d told her.

  “It would mean everything to me, if you would let me do this.”

  Del final y accepted and her home was now as comfortable

  and welcoming as she was. It was her haven and it became the

  same for Hank. At least a couple of times a week he would

  stop by on his way home from his office for her cooking, and

  conversation he could only have with the one person who knew

  everything about him.

  Occasional y, Lance would join them. Del would cook, and

  father and son would do the dishes while the three of them

  reminisced. That had been the plan for tonight. She had fixed

  one of Hank and Lance’s favorite meals: chicken smothered

  in rich brown gravy, hot buttered rice, collards and mustard

  greens seasoned with onion and salt pork and cooked until just

  tender. Earlier in the day, from the peaches she had put up last

  fall, she’d made a peach cobbler for dessert and was about to

  put the cracklin’ corn bread in the oven when she heard Lance’s

  urgent knock.

  “Would you give an old woman a chance to get to the door?”

  Del said, laughing as she opened the front door.

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  “You all must have a mighty appetite tonight. Where’s your

  Daddy?” She asked looking past Lance; then she noticed the

  expression on his face. Del grabbed his arm and pulled him

  inside, “What is it, what happened?”

  “Daddy’s dead.”

  Del’s hands flew to her mouth, tears filled her eyes. “Oh

  my Lord,” she whispered.

  “Hit by a car.”

  “No, no, no,” she moaned.

  “What do I do now, Del? What do I do now?” Lance asked,

  tears also filling his eyes.

  “Oh my boy, my boy,” Del said as he crumpled into her

  arms. She could not heal this wound; she had no sage wisdom

  that would soften this pain. All they could do was hold each

&nbs
p; other and cry out the hurt and loss that had come too suddenly

  to comprehend. Lance had lost a father, and Del, who had no

  children of her own, felt as if she had lost a son.

  “Ain’t the natural order of things, Mr. Hank is supposed

  to be here,” Del said, as she led Lance into her small, tidy

  kitchen with its red gingham tablecloth and white lace curtains.

  The aroma of the dinner she had so carefully prepared for the

  people she loved filled the room. Their sorrow and the gaping

  hole that Hank’s death left in their lives made the cheerful

  room seem dark and somber. Knowing that she would never

  see Hank Whitaker again filled Del with such sorrow that she

  felt like she could not breathe. She opened the back door to

  let the blossom scented breeze blow in from the garden then

  retrieved the pot of coffee that she always kept warm on the

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  stove. Pouring a cup for herself and one for Lance, they sat at

  the table that was supposed to have hosted a dinner of good

  talk and great food and sipped the strong, hot coffee in silence.

  Del looked at the man-boy sitting across the table from

  her. Lookin’ just like his daddy, she thought. She wanted to tell Lance about the long talks and black coffee she and his father

  had shared on her back porch. Most of the time they talked

  about Lance’s future—Hank’s hopes and dreams for his only

  son. She remembered the night Mr. Hank told her he was

  passing. Did he ever tell Lance?

  “His whole life was a lie,” Lance said, breaking the silence.

  He looked down as tears again welled up in his eyes. He told

  him, Del thought, as she reached over and put her hand over the place on the table where Lance’s tears fell, as if catching

  them would also capture his sadness. As Lance told Del about

  his father’s confession, she avoided his eyes and said nothing.

  “You knew?” Lance asked. He knew Del as well as she

  knew him. “He told you and not his own flesh and blood?”

  “He wanted so bad to tell you, Lance, he just didn’t know

  how to…” Del said.

  “Bullshit!” Lance shot back.

  “Watch your mouth when you’re taking to a lady,” James

  Stephens said, surprising both of them as he came through

  the open back door.

  “What are you doing here?” Lance asked. James wanted to

  be the one to tell Del what happened. James had introduced

  Del to the Whitaker family before Lance was even born. James