Provenance_InteriorDraft_07.indd

by Sawyer, Donna Drew

  Margaret and Lance to leave Richmond. They boarded the

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  train and took their seats in the “Whites Only” First Class

  car. When the train departed the station, Charlotte, Maggie

  and Lance all exhaled. They were fugitives, each in their own

  way. Lance was eager to end his short life as a Negro, Maggie

  would not pay for her crime of miscegenation and Charlotte’s

  life as “Little Cora” was once again buried.

  (II)

  With Hank’s money, Charlotte saw unlimited possibilities.

  Her mind reeled. There was a whole world out there; they could

  be whomever they wanted to be. They would take the train to

  New York, then book passage to Europe, and never return to

  this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. They would make a new

  life as wealthy expatriates; just like the stylish Americans she

  had glimpsed on her past trips to Europe. They would settle in

  Paris. No one there would know, question, or even care who

  they were. They’d be moneyed Americans, that’s all. Hank’s

  revelation and James Stephens’ recognition had shaken her, but

  she was still on her feet; it would take more than two men to

  knock Charlotte Bennett down.

  She looked down at her hands, tightly wrapped around the

  handle of the leather satchel, fil ed with the generous sum James

  Stephens had paid them for Hank’s share of the business, along

  with the inflated purchase price James paid for the house and

  the car. Guilt money, Charlotte thought, for stealing my daughter’s business. To that sum she had added her inheritance from her late husband. She had been a banker’s wife and knew that

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  financial institutions took a patriarchal attitude toward women

  so she held all of her assets in cash. Though she had no money

  in the market she knew that the financial troubles in New York

  would eventually affect the whole country. The cash gave her

  total control. With Hank’s money, and her inheritance, they

  had enough to start over in a way that would attract the kind

  of people that attracted more money.

  Hank ended up doing right by his family, Charlotte thought.

  For just a second, she felt a tinge of remorse over the last errand she’d run that morning. She alone had presided over Hank’s

  burial. With the scent of freshly dug earth in the air, the two

  gravediggers lowered the plain pine coffin into the new grave.

  “Are you sure you won’t be wantin’ a marker for the grave?”

  the undertaker asked her a second time. “Evergreen’s sixty

  acres, Mrs. Bennett. If you ever want to find this grave again-”

  Charlotte shook her head, no, before the man could finish.

  “Then will you be sayin’ a few words before they close

  the grave?” he asked, hoping this woman was not as cold and

  heartless as she appeared. Again, Charlotte declined.

  “Just cover him up,” she said. “Cover him up good.”

  (III)

  When Del did not hear from Lance or get notice of his

  father’s funeral service, she put on her straw hat and took the

  streetcar to the Whitaker home, only to find Frances, Charlotte’s

  longtime maid, packing up.

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  “They gone,” Frances said, her words echoing through the

  nearly empty house. “Took the train out this morning.”

  “Took the train out to where?” Del asked, looking around

  at the wake of Hank Whitakers’ life.

  “North, I suspect. Didn’t ask, since I ain’t goin’ with ‘em,”

  Frances said, letting out an exasperated sigh as she continued

  with her work. “After all these years, I am too old and too tired

  to put up with any more of Miss Charlotte’s ‘Frances do this,

  and Frances do that.’”

  “What are you going to do now?” Del asked.

  “They left me with a nice little piece of change for packing

  up, and all my years of service, and they was years of service I tell you. I saved a good bit, ‘cause Lord knows I never had

  time to spend any of the little money I’ve been making all these

  years. Didn’t get no house like you did,” she said, her resentment

  evident. “But I’m gonna be comfortable, thanks for askin’.”

  Del ignored Frances’ remark. She was hurt that Lance left

  town without telling her. “Did they already have the service

  for Mr. Hank?” she asked.

  “Weren’t no service that I know of,” Frances said. “I’d

  ask Mr. Stephens, the one who worked with Mr. Hank? He

  bought the house, and the cars, and I think he gave them some

  travelin’ money, too. Miss Charlotte sure was in a hurry to get

  outta here. You’d a thought she was the one with the secret.”

  Frances paused. “You know about Mr. Hank passin’, right?”

  “I know,” Del said.

  “That’s all folks talkin’ about.”

  Del turned to leave, there was nothing for her here.

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  “Say, Del, almost forgot,” Frances said, pul ing a crumpled

  envelope from her apron pocket. Del recognized her name in

  Lance’s handwriting.

  “The young man gave this to me, asking if I would get this

  to you. I was gonna give it to Mr. James, so he could carry it

  over to Jackson Ward. No offense, but it ain’t safe for a white

  woman in those parts.”

  Del ignored Frances’ slight and took the envelope.

  “You take care, Frances,” Del said as she walked to the door.

  “That’s my plan.”

  Del waited until she was on her own back porch to open

  the envelope. Inside she found a letter wrapped around a few

  hundred dollar bills.

  Del,

  Please take care of yourself. I have my father’s jour-

  nals. Maybe one day, like you said, I’ll understand

  and forgive.

  Love,

  Lance

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  • 11 •

  Richmond to New York—March–June 1931

  (I)

  With the train safely outside of Richmond,

  and encouraged by the gentle rocking of the coach

  and the warmth of late spring, the three travelers

  succumbed to exhaustion from the past few days. They rested

  fitfully, but easier, knowing the truth was behind them.

  Charlotte awoke just before the train reached Washington,

  DC. She looked over at Margaret sleeping beside her, pain

  consuming her beautiful face. This is why I never gave all of

  myself to any man, Charlotte thought. They use your body, take your soul and then betray you. Get over him, Charlotte willed her daughter, but she knew that losing Hank, her home, and her

  coveted place in Richmond society had irreparably damaged

  her daughter. She’s like her father, never had to strive for anything.

  Nothing earned; everything given. Makes you weak.

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  Walton Wainwright Bennett III, Charlotte’s late hus-

  band and Margaret’s father, was the weakest man she had ever

  known; which is why she chose him. Ten years her senior, his

  most attractive feature was that he was the son of a prom-<
br />
  inent Richmond banking family. Once they’d had sex, he

  never questioned who she was or where she came from, eas-

  ing her transition from a young prostitute to rich man’s wife.

  Throughout their marriage, she used her sexual prowess to

  control her husband. It was ironic that he died from a heart

  attack after sex, leaving her a very wealthy widow. At fifty-four

  she no longer sought or needed comfort or confirmation from

  men. Her solace and power were derived from the ability to

  control her circumstances. In most instances money, not men,

  proved to be her most reliable resource.

  Charlotte watched Lance staring out of the window. She

  hoped he didn’t intend to fulfill the promise he made to his

  father to find the Whitaker family. When she told Lance that

  they were leaving Richmond, he did not question her deci-

  sion. All he wanted to know was when they would have his

  father’s funeral.

  “Where do you propose we have it?” Charlotte asked,

  neglecting to tell him what she had arranged for Hank’s burial.

  “No respectable church in Richmond will al ow it. Who would

  come? You? Your mother? Del? Now that James Stephens

  has what he wants, he won’t bother. Hardly seems worth the

  expense or trouble for a man who did what he did to his fam-

  ily,” Charlotte said. “I’ve already taken care of things, Lance.

  Nothing more needs to be done.” She remembered how vacant

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  his eyes were when he went back into his room to finish packing.

  She was grateful that he hadn’t brought the subject up again.

  Lance will be fine, Charlotte decided, we all wil .

  (II)

  From Washington D.C. to destinations north, passen-

  gers were no longer segregated. During the train’s stop at

  Washington’s Union Station, Negroes filtered into the empty

  seats around the white passengers.

  A young Negro man startled Lance as he settled into the

  adjoining seat.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked. A colored man address-

  ing a white man, absent a direct question and neglecting to

  add “sir” at the end of his inquiry was dangerous behavior in

  Richmond. It took Lance a second to remember he wasn’t in

  Richmond anymore and, he wasn’t a white man.

  “Uh, my family and I, we are on our way to New York.”

  “I’m on my way to Boston, I’ll be a student at Harvard

  University in the fall,” he said proudly. “Are you in school?”

  “No, not yet,” Lance said. “I’m accepted at the University

  of Richmond and Washington and Lee.

  “I see,” the young man said as he shifted in his seat then

  pulled a book from his bag. The mention of two of the South’s

  most prominent segregated educational institutions made

  Lance’s views on race clear.

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  “How did you come to go to Harvard? How can a Negro

  go to a college for whites? Shouldn’t you be in a school for

  coloreds?” Lance asked.

  “Harvard has been educating Negro men since 1870.”

  “Since 1870?” Lance repeated, perhaps in Richmond his

  exposure to what was going on in the rest of the world wasn’t

  sufficient preparation for life anywhere else.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have some reading to do,” the young

  man said ending the conversation.

  •

  Lance surreptitiously watched the young man beside him,

  as wel as the other colored passengers. These Negroes are different he thought; they dressed and even talked like whites. He had

  been around Negroes most of his life but they had been house-

  hold help or the laborers his father hired in his warehouses. His

  parents hadn’t raised him to revile people of color, he just never

  thought about them. Racist attitudes were prevalent among his

  peers so, like his friends, Lance assumed that all Negroes, with

  the exception of the few he knew personally—like Del—were

  ignorant, inferior, and irrelevant. Now that everyone knows my

  Daddy’s a Negro, do I have to be one too? What if I don’t look for his relatives in Virginia? They don’t even know I exist, they would never know the difference.

  Lance looked at his reflection in the train window. I still

  look like a white man; I still feel like a white man. I only know how to act like a white man. That had been enough to make my father 140

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  white to everyone, even my mother. Why can’t I do the same thing?

  Lance wondered. What did Daddy say? He wanted my life to be

  as smooth as silk, that’s what he wanted for me.

  The train lurched, forcing the young man’s shoulder against

  Lance, who instinctively brushed off his jacket where they had

  contacted each other. The young student looked at Lance with

  disgust and muttered something under his breath as he gathered

  his things and moved to another seat.

  Lance remembered what his father had said about not

  hating that he was colored, but hating the way he was treated

  because he was colored. It almost made him want to apologize

  to the young student for his insensitivity. I don’t know how to be colored, Lance thought. He and the Harvard student shared the same racial heritage but even if he wanted to, Lance could

  not relate to the young man. There’s no advantage to embracing

  Daddy’s heritage, finding his brothers and atoning for secrets and sins that were not mine. W hy should I take on my father’s burden?

  Lance straightened his jacket, rubbed his face with both

  hands and pul ed them through his straight sandy colored hair.

  I am white, he told himself, I’ve always been white and I’ll always be white and I’ll take every advantage that being white affords me.

  (III)

  “Try the Waldorf Salad,” Charlotte demanded as the family

  sat in the lobby restaurant of the Waldorf Astoria hotel. “It’s a

  favorite of mine.” After Walton’s death, Charlotte had been a

  guest of the hotel whenever she travelled to New York; it was

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  one of the few hotels that allowed a woman to register without

  her husband.

  “You’ve barely eaten since we arrived in New York,

  Margaret. Lance, what else will you have?” she asked, looking

  around the restaurant to see if there was anyone worthy of her

  attention. “I hope you realize how fortunate we are. Everywhere

  you look there are people who don’t have what we have. They lost

  everything when the Stock Market crashed. I never believed in

  the Market, I insist on keeping my money in cash, that’s how

  we’ve managed to kept it all,” she whispered sharing her great

  secret. She put a gloved hand on Lance’s arm in an extravagant

  gesture. “Pour me another glass of champagne, darling.” Like

  most of New York, the Waldorf Astoria ignored prohibition;

  after their ordeal, Charlotte was enjoying their freedom from

  Virginia’s smothering rule of law.

  Charlotte sipped her champagne in silence for a few min-

  utes then said, “I want both of you to know that I’ve arranged

  ever
ything. Without a stitch of help from either of you, I might

  add. I’ve made all the plans, shopped for everything we’ll need

  and neither of you have seen fit to acknowledge my efforts.

  But tomorrow you have a chore. I want you to get rid of all

  of those old, provincial clothes you brought from Richmond.

  From now on we will be expected to keep up appearances.”

  “For who?” Lance asked. “No one here knows or cares who

  we are, Charlotte.” Since they left Richmond, she had insisted

  Lance call her by her first name, complaining that a young

  man calling her “Grandmamma” made him seem too young,

  and her too old.

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  “The proper term is ‘for whom,’ and I can assure you the

  right people will notice,” Charlotte said, taking another sip of her champagne. “We’ll be making our official debut in a

  couple of days,” she said.

  “What are you talking about, Momma?” Maggie asked.

  “We leave for Paris, France, day after tomorrow,” Charlotte

  said, beaming at her daughter and grandson.

  “France?” Lance asked.

  “Why not?” Charlotte asked. “If we are going to reinvent

  ourselves, let’s really reinvent ourselves; get as far away from

  who we used to be as we can.”

  “I’m not sure I’m up to an overseas adventure,” Maggie said.

  “I’m not asking your permission, Margaret,” Charlotte said

  and leaned into the table, continuing in a low, urgent whisper,

  “All you’ve done is wallow and wail over the legacy that hus-

  band of yours left you. If you had been more discerning, we

  would not be in this predicament, but no matter now. We are

  not going to sit here and wait for fate to take its course—we

  will set our own course.”

  As they had every day since Hank died, tears welled up in

  Maggie’s eyes. Charlotte sighed, opened her purse and handed

  her daughter a linen handkerchief.

  “Why not?” Lance said. “Let’s go to Paris. I could use a

  new identity.” Charlotte smiled as she looked around the nearly

  empty restaurant,

  “Waiter,” she cal ed to the first server she saw. “More cham-

  pagne, we’re celebrating!” The waiter nodded and hurried to fil

  Charlotte’s order. Though Lance and Maggie didn’t yet know

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  about it, she was also celebrating her family’s newly acquired

  identities, courtesy of the United States Department of State.