Chapter 29

 

Two days passed before Buck braked to a stop in front of the Richardson Mansion. Unhappy about losing Fitzgerald Island, he had mixed feelings about staying with the bank president that had foreclosed on his him. Still, his curiosity about Bessie McKinney’s former home and what he might find there intrigued him. His heart beat faster than normal when Lila met him at the front door.

“Thanks for putting me up in your beautiful home,” he said when she hugged and kissed him.

“A touch of southern splendor created by several generations of slave labor,” Lila said.

Robert, the butler, waited behind Lila. When Buck reached for his bags, the man said, “Let me help with that.”

Buck handed him one of the bags and strapped the other across his shoulder. Lila protested “Please let Robert do his job. Daddy's waiting on the back porch.”

Acquiescing to her determined tone, he asked, “How are you?”

“Happy as a peach sitting in a bowl of cream. Now let's hurry. We don't want to keep Daddy waiting.”

They followed the flagstone path around the house to a side porch that provided a striking view of the beautifully manicured lawn, and rose garden. The porch had its own back door to the mansion. They found Clayton Richardson, sipping a tumbler of bourbon. An old man and woman reclined in rocking chairs behind him.

“Sorry about the island, McDivit,” he said. “I guess you heard that Hogg Nation bought it at sheriff's sale?”

“I heard.”

“I did business with your aunt for years. I hope you don't think there was any manipulation on my part to cause her to lose her property.”

Although the thought had crossed his mind, it now seemed likely that Hogg Nation had done the manipulating on his own.

“I understand, Colonel. I realize you had no other choice but to do what was best for your share holders. No hard feelings,” he said, extending his hand.

“You’re most gracious and I appreciate your understanding.” Clayton quickly changed the subject, pointing toward the two old people sitting behind them. “This is my father and mother, Clayton Jr. and Dorothea Richardson,” he said, his east Texas drawl returning.

Although the temperature was at least eighty in the shade, both old people had crocheted Afghans draped across their laps. The man's hair, goatee and mustache were snowy white. His hair seemed appropriate, along with the white suit he wore, complete with an antique black bow tie and wide-brimmed white hat. His outfit conformed exactly to Buck's stereotypical image of a southern plantation owner. The pasty faced man's expression never changed as he stared through glaucoma-ridden eyes at the manicured lawn. Clayton Richardson Jr., it seemed, was totally senile.

Lila's grandmother was different. She had a gold-flecked twinkle in her hazel eyes and a grin on her wrinkled lips. He could see immediately from whom Lila had inherited her extraordinary bone structure. Clayton returned to his chair, motioning Buck and Lila to join him. A barking dog caused several peacocks, patrolling the lawn, to raise a momentary ruckus, the males displaying their gorgeous plumage.

“Part of Lila’s menagerie. When people visit they expect me to drink mint juleps,” he said, noticing Buck eyeing the bourbon. “My personal opinion is mint and sugar ruins the already perfect taste of sipping whiskey.”

“I couldn't agree more,” Buck said.

“A man after my own heart. Pansy,” he called, clapping his hands loudly. “Get out here.”

In a moment a harried black woman appeared from the house. “Yes sir, Mr. Clayton,” she said, out of breath.

Richardson didn't smile or immediately acknowledge her presence. Instead, he looked at Lila and asked, “What do you wish to drink, Daughta?”

“Lemonade, please Pansy,” she said to the black woman barely older than herself.

“Buck?”

“I'll have what you're having.”

Clayton’s grin revealed a gap between his otherwise perfect front teeth. Sending Pansy back into the house with a frown, and a flick of his head, he said, “Nigrah's!”

His inflection read like an open encyclopedia of his apparent contempt for blacks. Seeing Buck's discomfort at her father's bigoted remark, Lila quickly changed the subject.

“Did you get your things off the island?”

“Finally. At least Nation gave us an extra day.”

“Maybe he's not all bad,” she said.

Before he could reply, Pansy returned with their tray of drinks. She smiled at Lila and sat her lemonade on the table. After freshening Clayton's drink, she caught her heel in a crack on the wood porch, lurched forward and spilled Buck's bourbon in his lap. The glass toppled to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

“Damn it Pansy!” Clayton said, jumping to his feet. “Can't you hold on to anything?”

Pansy dropped to her knees, trembling. Buck stooped to help as Lila rushed into the house. Gazing up into the glowering eyes of Clayton Richardson, he feared for a moment the angry man might kick the frightened woman.

“Let her do it,” Richardson said. “It's her job.”

Before he could reply, Lila returned with a broom and dust pan. Pulling a chair out of the way, she began sweeping glass into the pan.

“Lila!” Richardson said.

Ignoring his protest, she cleared the spill before taking Pansy's arm and helping her to her feet. Handing her the broom and dust pan, she pushed her gently toward the door. She dabbed up the bourbon from the chair, finishing so quickly and efficiently, her father had little time to protest.

“Would you like to change clothes?” she said.

“I'm fine. Most of it spilled on the floor.”

“Then sit back down. You too, Daddy.” Grabbing his arm, she directed him to his chair.

“You are embarrassing me in front of Mr. McDivit, Daughta. You should let the help do the work.”

Lila kissed his forehead and hugged him. Her gesture, along with a healthy sip of bourbon, seemed to calm Colonel Richardson. Though Lila appeared calm, Buck could tell by her suddenly ashen complexion that she was hiding more than a little anger of her own. When Pansy returned with another drink, Lila raised her hand for the young woman to stop where she stood.

Tears streamed down the black woman's face. Lila took the drink and put her arms around her, comforting her momentarily before shoving her gently back toward the door. Clayton continued staring at the lawn. When Lila flashed Buck a disturbed glance, her striking eyes explained the degree to which the incident had embarrassed her. Buck glanced around in time to see that Lila's grandmother had missed nothing.

“Sorry,” Clayton said. “I'm afraid we lost our edge with these people when we quit using bull whips.”

“Daddy, please.”

Richardson's words angered Buck. He refrained from commenting in deference to Lila, and, he was the man’s guest. The southern colonel, already half tanked, noticed nothing, grinning foolishly as he held up his glass.

“Cheers,” he said.

After fifteen minutes of inane conversation, a little girl, no older than eight, appeared at the table. Her smile was so infectious even Clayton seemed affected. “Mama told me to check on your drinks,” she said.

The pretty little girl was clearly the daughter of the distraught Pansy. “What's your name, Sweetie?” Buck asked.

With her hands behind her back, she said, “Bessie.”

Her name stunned him. “You're very pretty, Bessie.”

“Yes,” she said. “Mama told me so.”

Lila smiled. “I know what the gentlemen want, Bessie. I'll help you.”

As Lila exited the porch with the pretty black child, Buck noticed Richardson was smiling and acting almost as if the little girl was as white as he. Lila returned alone with fresh drinks.

“Daddy, let's take Buck for a walk outside. We could all use a little fresh air.”

“Good idea,” Richardson said, his words slurred by alcohol.

Drinks in hand, they followed her into the rose garden. “My wife loved roses.”

“Lila told me,” Buck said.

Lila walked ahead with Buck as they passed through the pecan grove. When they reached the gravel path beneath a group of very old oak trees, they followed it to the family cemetery guarded by an old iron fence. It lay perched on a knoll overlooking fields of cotton and corn. Fewer than twenty headstones occupied the cemetery. All were large and elaborate.

“This is the Richardson family cemetery,” Clayton said. “Three generations are buried here.”

Two bourbons had dulled Buck's senses. Richardson's words sobered him.

“Here's Bessie McKinney's grave,” Lila said.

Buck knelt in front of the marble gravestone and read the inscription: Bessie McKinney the loving daughter of Elizabeth and Larkin, taken too soon from the arms of those who loved her. October 10, 1858, July 16, 1872.

Transfixed, he studied the gravestone, rereading the inscription several times. Another gravestone, standing all alone beneath an ancient oak tree, caught his attention. He scraped away the lichen covering the inscription. The old marker, worn and dulled by time, resisted reading and he barely made out the inscription.

Elizabeth Donald McKinney, my loving wife. Born January 5, 1817, Died June 11, 1858.

Buck read it twice before realizing the importance of the two headstones. Elizabeth McKinney had died before Bessie was born. Clayton and Lila, noticing Buck's interest in the old gravestone, stopped chatting and joined him.

Clayton asked, “What have you discovered?”

“A slight discrepancy.”

Clayton seemed puzzled. “Discrepancy?”

“According to the dates on these headstones, Elizabeth McKinney died before Bessie McKinney was born. Four months before.”

“No one worried about exact dates in those days,” Clayton said. “Let’s hurry now. We have more to see before dinner.”

As they left the family cemetery Clayton continued to mimic a tour-guide, explaining points of interest as they passed. Buck paid absolutely no attention to his words, until Lila grabbed his elbow and shook him.

“You still with us?”

He failed to immediately register a reply. “Sorry, just thinking about the inscription on Bessie's gravestone.”

“Probably a mistake. I'm sure Elizabeth was Bessie's natural mother. We'll check the family Bible later.”

The slave quarters, nestled in a grove of trees, seemed like a deserted, make-believe village. “The plantation had more than two-hundred slaves before the Civil War,” Clayton said. “They tended nearly three-thousand acres of forest and bottom land—the largest plantation in east Texas. At the height of local activity nearly twenty different steamboats passed through every month. They brought with them famous actors and actresses, divas from the opera and prima ballerinas from all over the world. Ah, sadly, the war ended all that.”

“That's not true, Daddy,” Lila said. “The War was over and the slaves free long before the Raft broke.”

“I remember you alluding to a log jam in the River, at the restaurant in Deception, the first day we met.” Buck said.

Clayton explained. “The Red River Raft. A mass of uprooted trees and other debris plugging the River years before the arrival of white men into these parts. With time, the log jam became larger and formed an effective dam that backed up the Red River all the way to Oklahoma. The Raft caused water in Caddo Lake to reach a depth of more than a hundred feet in places.”

“What happened to it?” Buck asked.

“The Corps of Engineers dismantled it,” Clayton said. “Hoping to reclaim thousands of acres of swamp for farming.”

Lila added, “Its destruction marked the end of Caddo Lake as a major seaway.”

They soon reached the back door of the large house he had seen on his first visit to the plantation—the large out-building with no windows.

“McKinney's ice-house,” Clayton said. “He stored huge blocks of ice in it. Walls three feet thick kept the ice from melting for months. Even through the hottest summer. We still use it for food storage and such, but now we cool it with electricity.”

“Daddy used to threaten me when I was naughty,” Lila said. “I'll lock you in the icehouse if you don't act nicer,” he would tell me.

“You were a headstrong child, daughta. You know I would never have really locked you in the icehouse.”

“Interesting,” Buck said. “Mind if I have a look inside?”

“Not at all,” Clayton said, reaching for his keys and unlocking the double padlocked door. “We have to keep it locked to keep some child from getting trapped in here and freezing to death.”

The open room was cold as a meat locker. Exactly for what Clayton used it. Halves of beef and pork hung from rafter hooks. Buck took a quick look around and headed for the door.

“The grounds continue for forty acres,” Lila said. “I suggest we go into the house and freshen up.”

“I second the motion,” Clayton said. “This talk of heat has made me thirsty.”

Lila led them through the back door where Robert handed Clayton fresh bourbon. “If you'll excuse me,” Clayton said. “I have some business to attend before dinner. Robert will show you to your room.”

“We'll look at the Bible after dinner,” Lila said.

“If you'll follow me, sir,” Robert said

Robert showed him to his room at the end of the hall, leaving him alone in a setting that had changed little since the days of the Red River Raft. Antiques filled the oversized room. Feeling like a visitor to a historical monument, he removed his shoes and shirt, and lay on the giant canopy bed. He soon fell asleep, not waking until Robert tapped on his door several hours later.

“Dinner is served in half an hour.”

Buck washed his face with cold water from an antique golden tap, still thinking about the two headstones in the family graveyard. It meant that Elizabeth McKinney's was neither Bessie's nor Francine's natural mother. He hoped the family Bible would shed light on the mystery.”

Robert, waiting at the base of the stairs, directed him to the dining room where they dined in nothing less than regal splendor. Clayton excused himself after dinner. Lila and Buck convened to the study where they found the old Bible on a gilded lectern by the wall. Robert interrupted, bringing him a snifter of brandy. He took a sip before touching the books brown pages. Sensing its age, he carefully thumbed to an elaborate hand-lettered family tree.

Larkin and Elizabeth McKinney were the first names. Below them, complete with Lila's name at the end, branched each of the succeeding generations. Each name had a date of birth and death, if appropriate, beside it. All but one. The ink proclaiming Elizabeth McKinney's death was smeared, the date illegible. Buck rubbed his finger across the smear.

“Have you ever noticed Francine's name,” he said.

Francine's name, written in blue instead of black, was beside Bessie's. Lila seemed oblivious to the implication.

“I've neglected my business so long, I simply must work on my books tonight,” she said. “I'll join you for breakfast tomorrow.”

Buck found a comfortable chair and settled down to finish his brandy, wondering if someone had smeared the date of Elizabeth McKinney's death on purpose. Perhaps the same person had deleted Francine's original entry, reentering different information with a modern blue ballpoint. Deciding to forget about it for the moment, and go outside and watch the stars, he followed the long hallway to the back porch. As darkness flooded over him, he had the strange sensation he wasn't alone. He wasn't. Dorothea Richardson was behind him in her rocking chair, startling him when she spoke.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” she said, her face wrinkled into a wry grin.

“I didn't expect anyone to be up.”

“Don't like spending too much time in bed. Time enough for that in eternity. Come and sit down,” she said, patting the cushion of her husband's vacated rocker.

“Beautiful night,” he said.

“You don't like Clayton, do you?”

Buck, taken aback by the old lady's bluntness, pivoted in the rocker and smiled at her. Her open mouth revealed not a single tooth. “Why do you say that?”

“I'm old, but I ain't blind. I saw the look on your face when he yelled at Pansy.” Buck started to reply, but refrained when the old woman put a bony hand on his. “Don't matter,” she said. “I don't like him much either and he's my only child.”

“I never said anything about not liking your son.”

The old woman ignored his reply, “He gets it honest. His daddy was the biggest hell-raiser in Marion County. Mean as a snake, he was. Never quit chasing women till the good Lord took his mind away. Had his own black mistress, he did.”

“His own black mistress?”

“A tradition with Richardson men. Clayton keeps his right under everyone’s nose.”

Her words struck Buck like a blow to the head. “Are you saying Pansy is your son's mistress?”

Dorothea Richardson laughed out loud, as if sharing the secret had given her great pleasure. “You got eyes don't you?”

“Then the little girl is . . .”

“Yep,” she said with a nod.

“Does it bother you that your granddaughter is black?”

The back door opened before she could answer his question. A large woman said, “I swear, Miz Dorothea. You gonna catch your death out here.”

Helping the old woman out of the rocker, she herded her toward the door. Halfway there, Dorothea Richardson glanced at Buck and said, “Might surprise you who's black and who's white around here.”