Finding Family Read online

  I turned to see Adena running to me and also, her mama in the doorway, arms akimbo. Tall, bigboned Miss Lottie looked closer to colored than her husband. Like Adena.

  And when Adena reached me, she took off her shoes, her socks. Gave me a full view of her feet, wriggling all her toes.

  “You didn’t have to prove anything to me, Adena.”

  After that, we started having bits of conversation during recess and after school let out. Adena became the closest thing I had to a friend.

  On the day of Aunt Tilley’s funeral, I so longed to have some conversation with Adena. None of the kinfolk brought any children. Some people from town had brought theirs, but “Hey” was the most any of them said to me. Even Viola Kimbrough. On her best behavior that day.

  - - - - -

  After I put the Mullins’ apple stack cake on the kitchen table, I went upstairs and parked myself on the landing, in the spot where from below all a person looking up would see is shadow.

  I sat still as stone, watching to see if anybody came out of the parlor or the sitting room or through the front door looking like they looking for me. I was hoping to spy Mystery Eyes. Maybe somebody had a miracle for me.

  Didn’t know I’d dozed off until the clock chimed.

  As I came clear, it was to shuffling, rustling, yawns, knuckle cracks, and other sounds grownups make when giving themselves a good, long stretch and loosening up their bones. Soon, the front and back screen doors were squeaking and slamming, squeaking and slamming. People were about to head out. By buggy. By train. Some by foot because home was near, and in Aunt Viney’s case, because it was the way she lived.

  After everybody left, where would that leave me?

  When I moved to the top of the staircase, I saw the back of Aunt Viney. She was standing in the front door, tight grip on her doctor’s bag. And calling me, it seemed, though she uttered not a word.

  “Closer, chile,” she said when I stopped at the bottom step. Not till I was by her side did Aunt Viney speak again. “Meek ain’t weak, Delana. Meek ain’t weak. Remember that.”

  I didn’t know what else to say but, “Yes’m.”

  “And one more thing, dear girl. When God wish to bless, he sometime test. Remember that, too.”

  Aunt Viney pushed open the screen door, stepped out onto the porch, then down the stairs, only nodding her head to the left, to the right, but saying nothing to nobody as far as I could see.

  When I stepped outside, I got good-bye hugs and kisses from the women, pats on the shoulder from the men. To his pat, Cousin Richard added a fifty-cent piece.

  So shiny. And brand-new: 1905. I could even read clear the word LIBERTY above the laurel wreath on the lady’s head. Surely Cousin Richard had lots of fifty-cent pieces. He must’ve picked out the prettiest one for me.

  “Thank you, Cousin Richard—and …”

  “Yes, Delana?”

  His glorious smile had me tongue-tied. There was so much I wanted to say, starting with, Take me with you!

  If Cora had another boy and then couldn’t have more children, but her and Cousin Richard had their hearts set on having a girl … maybe I would do. And one day they’d send Grandpa a telegram begging him to let me come live with them. Oh, how I wanted to tell Cousin Richard all of this. …

  “Tell Cousin Cora, hey.” That’s all I could manage when my tongue got loose.

  “Will do, Delana, will do.”

  I was about to ask Grandpa if I could ride with him to take Cousin Richard to the depot when he let me know I couldn’t.

  “Miss Nash will mind you till I get back.”

  As I stood on the porch, waving good-bye, I fiddled with my new fifty-cent piece. I was going to make a special keepsake pouch for it. Keep it in my nightstand drawer.

  This coin was too special for the notions tin atop my wardrobe. That’s where I kept the pennies, nickels, and other money gifts grownfolks had given me for earning high marks, for a Sunday school prize, or in a bag of Christmas candy I didn’t get to eat much of.

  Beside the notions tin was my wooden box of silver dollars. All from Grandpa. My birthday gifts. He’d count them out in my hand. One for each of my years.

  “Save your money, Delana. Don’t spend it on trifles. Save for something dear.”

  Same thing.

  Same words.

  Every year.

  Like always, it was Aunt Tilley who’d filled in the gaps, helping me make sense of Grandpa’s birthday gifts—why he said “save for something dear.” She did it over time, the way she doled out candy.

  At first, all I knew was that Grandpa had come up in slavery in Franklin County, Virginia—“With nothing to call his own—not even a claim on his own bones!” Aunt Tilley had said. By the time she died, I knew about the miracle way Grandpa got free.

  How he learned a trade after his first master sold him to a colored man named Hannibal Watson with a posh barbershop for white gents. And how this Hannibal Watson let Grandpa keep his tips and take on all the side work he could scrounge up. Hannibal Watson, who treated Grandpa kind, had said he could buy himself for four hundred dollars.

  So when Grandpa wasn’t barbering he was keeping yards, hauling trash, chopping firewood, sweeping up saloons—in a powerful hurry-scurry to save up his freedom money. And when he had the whole four hundred dollars, Mr. Watson kept his word—with a miracle in the bargain.

  Hannibal Watson told Grandpa that not four hundred, but just one dollar would do and urged him to make for Charleston. On top of that the man gave Grandpa names of folks here who could help him make a new life.

  “Everlasting memento and reminder!” That was Aunt Tilley on why Grandpa took the surname Hannibal.

  The rabbit stew we had every first of August was a reminder meal. Rabbit stew was Hannibal Watson’s favorite dish and the first of August, Grandpa’s freedom day.

  As for all his freedom money, that was seed, Aunt Tilley had said, for the barbershops for white gents he now had and the houses he rented out to colored and white.

  What I didn’t know was if Grandpa wanted me to have shops and property when I grew up. Or was it that he feared the Ku Kluxers would come to rule the nation and bring slavery back? Then I’d need some freedom money stashed away.

  I never asked Aunt Tilley about that or how she got free. I always figured she’d tell me by and by. And I was used to waiting.

  - - - - -

  Waiting. For I knew not what. Waiting. For some miracle in my life like Grandpa got.

  Everybody was long gone but there I was still on the porch. Waiting. I dreaded going inside, dreaded the quiet I’d find.

  Never much of that when Aunt Tilley was alive. Always talking. Telling me what to do, how to be. If not that, telling me stories.

  And there had been all her talk about what to beware, like boys with Cheshire cat smiles, boys who say they want to show me a bunny in a barn, boys who set off firecrackers, boys who go Psst! from behind a bush, white trash, colored trash, people who pray loud, people who don’t pray at all, lazy fools, fairs, Circus Day, ripping and running, jackleg preachers, pawnbrokers, pistols, women who gussy up, floozies, men with a wily eye, Melungins, the Hollow, people who beg for bones, boys who act grown. And Jude.

  Jude did errands and odd jobs at Grandpa’s shop in the Ruffner Hotel and at our house sometimes. Jude was tall, rail thin, and had big puppy-dog eyes. About fifteen and on his own, but he didn’t look to me like he lived a danger-life. I couldn’t understand why Aunt Tilley put him on the list of bewares.

  The stove was on the temporary list of what to beware like most else in the kitchen. All I ever got to do was stir lemonade, string and snap beans, beat batter. Watch sweet tea cool.

  No real cooking lest I catch on fire. No chopping, slicing, peeling—nothing with a knife lest I cut myself and bleed to death. I couldn’t work the grinder because I’d end up with chewed-up fingers.

  My day would come, Aunt Tilley always promised. Till then, real cooking was on the list of
bewares.

  She had even given me a tablet—

  “Write down all my cautions!”

  Across the top of the tablet, she had me write “The Book of Bewares.”

  The night before she died, Aunt Tilley had me add saloons and Wheeling, West Virginia, to The Book of Bewares.

  I’d long ago put dragonflies in the book. And dragonfly dreams. Aunt Tilley had said my nightmare was Father God’s way of telling me “there’s something to beware.”

  When Aunt Tilley wasn’t telling me what to beware, on occasion she gave me alerts about things up ahead. For my thirteenth birthday, I’d be getting my picture taken at Gates. She told me that on the day we were visiting some of Uncle Dub’s people when they were young. People I hoped to meet one day given how exciting their lives seemed.

  There was the tintype of Uncle Dub’s little sister, Victoria, who looked like she didn’t want to be in that chair and who grew up to be a woman who stayed on the move. Aunt Tilley had said Victoria became one of our best lady reporters, writing for the Washington Bee, the Women’s Era, and a heap more newspapers and magazines.

  And there was the cabinet card of another sister’s children—Peter, Peonia, and Penelope. All three still living in Missouri and running the family’s pharmacy that had a soda fountain up front. As I tried to imagine what they looked like grown, I asked Aunt Tilley why there were no pictures of me.

  “Your day will come,” she said softly, looking like she was roaming around in her head. “Your day will come.” She even seemed a touch sad. “When you turn thirteen, Delana, you’ll be getting your picture taken at Gates … when you turn thirteen.”

  “Why thirteen?”

  Aunt Tilley came alert. “Thirteen, well, um, that’s the age of accountability.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Your sins start to count.” Without another word, Aunt Tilley rushed from the parlor.

  - - - - -

  As I stood on the porch dreading the quiet, I feared that with Aunt Tilley gone, I’d never get my picture taken. I had four whole months to wait. And hope. Could be she told Grandpa or Miss Ida about her plans. Maybe one of them would take me to Gates.

  I also had four months to sin at no cost, I realized. Only one wickedness had ever crossed my mind. Slapping Viola Kimbrough. When she kicked me. When she tripped me. When she called me “Dumb Delana” in a stabbing or ghosty voice.

  The screen door squeaked.

  It was Miss Ida. “Getting too chilly to be outdoors.”

  Inside, she looked at me hard, told me I looked a bit peaked. I didn’t feel sick, but she sure was fidgety. Shifting from foot to foot. Wringing her hands. She must’ve feared Grandpa would be angry with her if I came down sick. “Best go upstairs and rest yourself awhile,” she cooed. “Hurry now, hurry.”

  I headed upstairs to do as I was told, but when I entered my room, I nearabout jumped out my skin.

  A small yalla hand clamped over my mouth. A boot kicked the door close.

  I saw fire in the eyes, but not the Devil.

  Six

  Don’t be scared.”

  The voice was a whisper. The face familiar.

  I was more flabbergasted than scared.

  “Swear you won’t cry out?”

  I nodded as best I could.

  As the hand lifted from over my mouth, again came a whisper. “I’m your cousin—”

  “Ambertine?” I whispered back.

  The fire in her eyes dimmed. She grinned.

  Ambertine didn’t look all that much older, but she was bonier than in her picture. And so tiny. Shorter than me. Not all gussied up either—no beehive-busy black dress, no Ali Baba hat. Nothing like that. She was done up like a man!

  Beat-up boots.

  Denim trousers.

  Checked shirt.

  Ratty corduroy sack coat.

  And on her head—

  That’s when it hit me.

  A slouch hat—a little loose on her head. “At the burial—you passed by,” I gasped, took a step back. Right then and there I knew! Ambertine was Mystery Eyes!

  And she hugged me, hugged me hard, like she knew I wouldn’t break. “Delana,” she said with a sigh, rocking me, as she repeated my name over and over again. “Sorry for the startle, but there was no other way. I’m not welcome here.”

  When she let me go, her eyes were glistening.

  I was still stunned.

  “‘Trash and trouble’!” Ambertine whisperhissed, easing down on the chest at the foot of my bed. “‘Sold her soul to the Devil’ … That’s some of what you heard said of me, ain’t it?”

  I felt bad for her. And puzzled. How did she know what Aunt Tilley said?

  But from the looks of her, Ambertine didn’t seem fazed. “Been called worse, a lot worse,” she said. “Truth is, I ain’t no pretty Christian picture. Cuss. Swig liquor. The soul that crosses me might get cut. And my money comes rough—off other people’s miseries. Pawnbroker.”

  I could hear Aunt Tilley—loud!

  Beware!

  Beware!

  Beware!

  Ambertine leaned in. “If you fear me, I will leave. If not, hear me out, Delana, and with the knowing part of your soul.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off hers, with their flecks of gold and a yonder gaze. Like Aunt Viney.

  “Your choice,” Ambertine whispered.

  “Stay.”

  It came out easy, like Ambertine being there was the most normal thing in the world. I felt safe. Aunt Tilley’s Beware! Beware! Beware! was like a fading echo in a forest far away.

  Then came another shock.

  “I wager you was never told that me and your mama were like sisters.”

  I shook my head. “Never.”

  “Joline never judged me … Joline wept heavy for me when she seen me bruised and welted up from Pa beating on me because I skipped school or gave him a queer look and some sass.”

  Ambertine was over by my bureau, gazing out the window that opened onto an elm tree. “Night I lit out for Chicago with a flashy young fella passing through town, I said good-bye to your mama from a tree like this one that used to be outside her window.”

  There was no tree outside any other window, but beneath the room with sandy white furniture, there was a tree stump.

  “Two rooms down … that was my mother’s?”

  Ambertine nodded. “And on the night I left, when she came to her window, we whispered quick. Me telling her to watch for word from Bertha Mason.”

  Aunt Tilley had never made mention of anybody by that name. “Bertha Mason? Another cousin?” I asked Ambertine.

  “No, sugar, she’s a character from Jane Eyre. Story about a governess living in spooky Thornfield Manor. Of all the books Joline and I started reading together, Jane Eyre was the only one I seen through. Your mama had most sympathy for Jane, what with her being an orphan and all, and soft. I felt more sorry for crazy Bertha Mason. Wife of Jane’s boss man, nasty Mr. Rochester.”

  The way she spat out his name, I believed if Ambertine was in that story she would’ve cut that man or went swinging and swacking at him with an umbrella.

  “Anyways,” she continued, “after I left Charleston, not a week passed that your mama and me didn’t write. She was always ready with a story about making friends with an out-of-towner at a tea or church function, should anybody ask about her letters to and from Miss Bertha Mason.”

  From her coat pocket, Ambertine brought out an envelope and handed it to me. “The last letter I got from your mama. The shortest one, too.”

  It was addressed, in a beautiful cursive, to Miss Bertha Mason. Not in Chicago. In Kansas City.

  Ambertine read my mind. “I move around,” she said, looking at the envelope, then back at me. “Go on, open it.”

  It was short. Just six words.

  Keep watch over my baby girl.

  J.

  My bottom lip trembled as I read the note again, noticing the drawing of purple maypops up top. />
  “That’s what I’ve been doing, Delana. Keeping watch.”

  How? I wondered. From Chicago? From Kansas City? From—? This didn’t make sense. I no longer felt safe.

  “I’m resourceful, my dear Delana.” Ambertine rose, moved toward me, her eyes going narrow like she could see into my very soul. “Your favorite subject? Would that be geography?”

  I nodded.

  Aunt Tilley’s voice was back in my head, telling me, Beware!

  “Just this year your womanhood came on. Am I right?” Ambertine next asked, taking another step.

  “What Aunt Tilley called the curse?”

  Ambertine rolled her eyes. “Right. … And there’s something else I know I’m right about, Delana. This locked-up life ain’t what your mama would want for you. … Second of March you’ll be thirteen, right?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “What do you want, Delana?”

  Nobody had ever asked me that. Not about my birthday or Christmas or anything else.

  “What do you want, Delana?” Ambertine asked again.

  I said the first thing that popped in my head. “A globe.”

  Ambertine frowned, rolled her eyes again. “No, sugar, not for your birthday. What do you want for your life. Ain’t you never daydreamed about your future?”

  “Not really.”

  “Never seen a dress in a store window on Capitol Street or in the Sears or Marshall catalog that you fancied your grown self wearing one day?”

  “Always figured Aunt Tilley would tell me what was to be in my future. … I’m not fixed to want big things.”

  “Sure you are. Everybody’s fixed to dream, till something or somebody break their spirit.” Ambertine looked like a judge laying down a law. “Your life don’t have to be based on what Aunt Tilley said. When I got word she was gone, I decided it was time for you to know some things, get some freedom wings. What do you say? What do you want?”

  I started to say I wanted to see Aunt Tilley’s wishing-place and to live with Cousin Richard, but I was too scrambled to speak. One minute Ambertine seemed safe. The next, like she belonged in The Book of Bewares.

  I looked at my mother’s note, then back at Ambertine. She was over at my dresser, picking through the basket of kinfolk.