***
The next week I stopped at the post office and noticed an envelope that felt thick, as though it had something in it other than a letter. It was a long, white envelope with familiar handwriting, addressed to me in a beautiful cursive hand and forwarded from my address on campus.
I was afraid to open the envelope because I knew, from experience, what was in it.
Every August I received an envelope with pictures of the little girl I'd given birth to on August 21, 1969. She'd be five, I thought, and I put the unopened envelope on the side table near the lamp. I also received Christmas pictures every January.
I remembered the initial picture after the baby's first Christmas: a chubby, mostly bald, four-month old lying on a quilt on the floor with a silent, toothless laugh. The following August there was a picture of a toddler standing up, holding on to the sofa table, pride lighting her face, plus another shot of her taking a step. She wore a red dress with smocking across the bodice and a big bow in back. Her hair was a little longer than in the bald picture and looked light brown. Loose curls fell over her forehead.
I didn't open the envelopes that came the following years. I put them in my bottom dresser drawer under my pajamas, along with the first two that I'd opened. I put the new, unopened envelope with the others and tried not to think about the small stack that was growing.
There was a letter from Rodney in the stack. It had been written ten days before and looked as though it had been forwarded twice, first to the wrong address then finally to my PO box on Utopia Parkway.
July 29, 1974
Dear Susie,
Reggie got back from Jean Ville with good news and not-so-good news.
It was after eleven o'clock on Friday when we all got together. Everyone looked tired.
Reggie said that Jeffrey is out of his coma, but not out of the woods. He's still in the hospital and Dr. Switzer is taking care of him. Reggie got to see Jeffrey and he asked Reggie to deliver a message to me: “Tell my brother this is not his fault. He needs to follow his dreams. We all do.” That's what he said. I know what he means because we’ve talked about it a lot. As Negroes, we have to work doubly hard to achieve our dreams. I think what he was trying to say is don’t let my race dictate my life.
The fear and uncertainty I'd been able to keep at a distance for almost a month seemed to shroud me like a thick, dark cloak. The other men sat around and waited for me to pull myself together. It took a few minutes, but I got hold of my emotions.
The bad news is that they are keeping two men in Jackson at all times, Reggie told me. He had a stubble on his face that had collected over the past week while he'd been in Louisiana and I felt responsible that he’d been away from his family that long. He said the word on the street in Jean Ville is that the “posse” your dad recruited to keep me from getting to you thinks I’m still in Mississippi. They watch the train and bus stations and have guys who live in Jackson working with them. Reggie said he thinks they have you staked out, too, and since I haven’t shown up there, it confirms their belief that I haven’t gotten out of the South.
Most importantly, Dr. Switzer told Reggie that your dad and mom are planning a trip to New York to visit you. Do they know where to find you?
This is important, Susie. Reggie said that Dr. Switzer thinks that if I go to New York, the Klan, or the posse, or whatever you want to call these bigots, will hurt my sisters or my mother. In fact, he suggested that they could be molested, among other atrocities. Dr. David told Reggie that I have another choice: go back home.
I know; it doesn’t make sense. It would be walking into a trap. But Dr. David believes that if I go home and pretend I’ve been on vacation or off at school, it will be as though you and I never had plans to run away together. He said your dad would have egg on his face and the Klan would not only call off the massacre, but they'd probably never believe your father again.
I'd never considered going back home and I didn't understand how that could solve anything, other than have me walk right into a trap. But Reggie explained that Dr. David said that if I showed up in Jean Ville with my colored girlfriend and pretended the two of us had been away together, "Two birds, one stone is how the doctor put it," Reggie told me.
Frankly, Susie, I've never considered what the Klan might do to the rest of my family. I know your dad is evil. I witnessed what he did to you. But to hurt my mother or molest my sisters? I just can't wrap my mind around that.
Dr. Switzer told Reggie that's what would happen if I make it to New York and we get married. I suppose that's something we should think about. Reggie said I should think hard and long about what I'm giving up by marrying you.
I asked him: “So you’re telling me that if I go back to Jean Ville without Susie, all of this will go away? Susie's dad will get off her trail, the Klan will let go of Jeffrey and my family. Everything will die down?"
Reggie said that was his opinion and Dr. David's. The other guys looked at me and shook their heads.
I asked Reggie what he would do if he were me.
Reggie walked over to where I was sitting and stood in front of me, his hands deep in his pockets, and said this to me: “My family won't see me. They are paralyzed with fear about what will happen to them. They live each day as if it's their last, waiting for the Klan to attack, or waiting for word that I've been killed. I miss them. I love my wife, but I'm not sure I'd make the same decision, knowing what I know now. I was young and impetuous and thought, 'To hell with people who don't understand.’ But really, they are the ones who understood. Now, I'm living with the consequences."
I wanted to choke him, to tell him he couldn't understand how much we love each other and deserve to be together.
"I'm just saying think about it, Rodney." Reggie was compassionate, yet firm. "In a few years, after all of the excitement of being with her every day has worn off, will you miss your family? How will you feel knowing you can never go back home? Never see Jean Ville again, or your brother? And how will you feel if your brother dies? Or if they string up your dad again or do God knows what to your sisters and mother?”
His last biting message had to do with you. He said, if none of the things they could do to my family scares me, what if they hurt you, molest you, even kill you. I could never live with myself if something happened to you.
It’s a lot to think about. What do you think we should do?
Steven said he tried to call you from his work to bring you up to date and so you could let us know if you are safe and whether you are receiving my letters, but your phone has been disconnected. I don't know how to reach you. Marianne told Reggie that she talked to you but that you called her and wouldn't give her your new phone number. Why do you have a new phone number, have you moved? Stupid me, I'm acting like you can answer my questions.
It looks like neither of us can find the other.
And I can't leave this house, unless I go back home to Jean Ville.
I'm not sure what to do.
I love you. I miss you.
Forever yours,
Rod
I called Marianne as soon as I finished reading Rodney's letter.
"I thought you knew." She sounded surprised and caught her breath. "Maybe you should sit down."
"What is it? Is he okay?"
"He's home."
"What?" I sat down hard in one of my kitchen chairs.
"He's been back almost four days."
"Is Annette with him?"
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"Is he going to marry her?"
"He's not sure. He wants you safe. He wants his family safe."
When she hung up I held onto the receiver until the dial tone turned to a squawking sound and brought me to my senses. I couldn't cry. I was out of tears. I had to find some way to move through life without Rodney.
It was over.
I slumped into my chair and crumpled Rodney's letter. Hearing the crackle of the page gave me a start and I threw it, like a baseball, across the room. He could have told me himself, I thought. Then, once again, I remembered he didn't know how to reach me other than letters that took almost two weeks to get here.
On the one hand I wanted him to fight for me—then again, I didn't want him killed. I'd rather not have him than live in a world where he no longer existed. I thought about calling Rodney or writing to him, but that would be all wrong. I had to let him go.
*
Some days I'd have talks with myself, dress in something that made me feel sexy or pretty or professional, whatever my mood dictated that day. I'd make myself walk with a lilt and a swagger. I'd arrive at the office with donuts for everyone and go to lunch with some of the girls. Other days I'd wrap myself in an old sweater, slump my shoulders, put my head down and forge through the crowds, get to work, and not speak to a soul.
I felt schizophrenic and I knew the people I worked with wondered from day to day, which Susie would show up. But I couldn't help myself.
A week after I found out Rodney had moved home I got a letter from Marianne.
July 7, 1974
Dear Susie,
How's your new career in publishing? I'm loving my job at the hospital. I was promoted to night supervisor and, other than the crazy hours, it's great. Mom is doing good. She only works until about three o'clock every day now so she has more time at home. She misses Granddaddy. We all do. We miss you too. When do you think you'll come for a visit?
Rodney took a job with the Toussaint Parish District Attorney. He's getting married next May. I thought you'd like to know. He seems happy.
I hope you're happy too. Tell me all about your love life. Mine is great. You'd love Lucy, she's a real character.
Gotta run. Sure do miss you.
Love,
Mari
After I read Marianne's letter, an invisible force walked me to my bedroom and made me open the bottom drawer of my dresser and dig out the stack of white envelopes with the cursive handwriting written across the fronts. My legs wouldn't move so I sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor with the drawer still pulled opened, and put the stack in my lap.
Before I realized what I was doing, all of the pictures of the baby—my baby—were lined up, beginning with her at four months old; then at one year; then one year, four months; then two years; two years, four months; three years old; then three years, four months and the latest on her fourth birthday, wearing a pink dress, white shoes that buckled on the sides, white lace-trimmed socks, and a pink bow in her shoulder-length, curly brown hair. She had huge, almond-shaped eyes that laughed at the camera. She was beautiful, like Rodney.
I wondered who sent the pictures. Was it Emalene Franklin? Would she send pictures of her child to the biological mother? I felt so totally alone without Rodney but somehow the pictures of the child we had made together gave me a ray of happiness.
I examined each picture until I had the little girl's growth memorized. I also looked for hints that I might be a welcomed visitor, if I could find her.
I finally put the empty envelopes back in my bottom drawer. The pictures, however, I lined up in chronological order on the bulletin board over my desk and pinned each one with a stickpin. As I sat at my desk and stared at Rodney's baby, I thought about Catfish. I wondered what he'd tell me to do.
Then I remembered a story he'd told me about a child being wretched away from his mother. The thought to somehow get Rodney's child back began to germinate inside me without my knowledge, while my consciousness considered the injustice of dislocating a child from her family. If I could only meet her, see her in person. Would that be enough?
Catfish told me that changes ran rampant the first year Mr. Gordon Van took over Shadowland. I could hear Catfish's deep, throaty drawl with a hint of laughter in every sentence. I picked up my pen and began to write his words on the ruled sheets of paper on my desk.
Samuel
1855
In the beginning the slaves was uneasy and thought it might be a trap 'cause it seemed too good to be true, yes indeed. They lined up at the cookhouse and got theyselves three hearty meals every day and could ask for more if they was still hungry when they bowls was empty. They could go to the barn for new work clothes when theirs wore out and George made sure everyone had at least two sets, so they had something to wear when they washed.
The womens had several bolts of fabric to choose from to make theyselves skirts and such, and George would cut any length they wanted. There was real sheets and pillow slips for their new straw mattresses and pillows, big iron kettles for each family for days, like Sundays, when they cooked they own meals. Bessie gave out corn meal, flour, sugar, coffee grounds, and such as they needed and she kept a tally to make sure no one took too much—but that was not one of Mr. Van's rules, it was Bessie's rule and it kept everyone in check.
I could still hear Catfish chuckle when he made a comment like that. "The biggest change for the slaves was the work hours," he told me.
Before Mr. Gordon come back, everyone worked from sun-up to sun-down with no breaks. Now they only worked ten hours a day and had three breaks, fifteen minutes in the morning and afternoon when they was given as much water to drink as they wanted and thirty minutes for dinner at one o’clock. At first George say some of them drank water and ate so much dinner so much they got sick. Hah!
At six o'clock Mr. William rang the bell for supper and they got all the time they wanted to eat 'cause after they ate, they didn't have to go back in the fields. They had time to sit in the quarter, sing hymns, visit neighbors, care for their children, and rest.
And wonder of wonders, they didn't work on Sundays. They could have they own church service or walk to the Bethel Baptist Church about four miles across town.
Best of all, no one saw a whip.
About six months after Mr. Gordon came to Shadowland, he and William was up in town to pick up some seeds and twine for straw bales when he heard a commotion in the town square. Mr. Gordon tells the story about my granddaddy different than what I heard direct from Granddaddy. Maureen said William told her what happened.
Mr. Gordon paid his bill and left William to see that the supplies were loaded in the flatbed wagon and walked out of the Feed & Seed in the bright sunlight. The excitement in front of the courthouse was a slave auction. Mr. Gordon didn't like the way slave owners and buyers put them poor black folks on risers, wrists and ankles chained, a metal ring around they necks, with one end of another chain hooked to it, the other end held by the owner. Mr. Van thought it was cruel.
When he needed a field worker, which is what he called his slaves, he asked around and found out about plantation owners who had some to sell. He'd visit the owners and meet the worker, then decide whether the worker would meet his needs.
On this particular day, Mr. Van wasn't in the market for a new field worker but he started walking towards the auction block when he saw a boy about ten years old take his place on the stand. The owner jerked the boy's collar so hard it scraped the boy's neck raw.
"What do I hear for this big, strapping boy?" the auctioneer barked. The boy wasn't big or strapping. He was just a little squirt of a thing and didn't look as if he'd ever done a day’s work in a field. Mr. Van said he blocked out the sounds of cheers, jeers, and screams from the men and women spectators but couldn't ignore the spit and clods of dirt flung at the boy. The boy was scared. It was obvious he had cried for hours, probably torn from his mother at a plantation far away by a ruthless owner who saw an opportunity for quick income and one less mouth to feed.
The bidding started at ten dollars. "Do I hear fifteen, fifteen, anyone bid fifteen?" the auctioneer asked. Without a thought, Van raised his hand, "Fifteen," he shouted. Half the crowd turned to look towards him where he stood in back of the crowd.
"Fifteen from Mr. Gordon Van, do I hear twenty? Twenty dollars for this strong young body?" No one responded. The auctioneer repeated the bid at twenty dollars. Still no response. Mr. Van say he was surprised because a boy like that should go for $100, for sure.
"Sold to Mr. Gordon Van of Shadowland Plantation in Jean Ville!" Mr. Van pulled his billfold from the inside pocket of his jacket and peeled off fifteen dollars, walked to the block and handed the money to the man who sat behind a small table on the side. The owner, from Alexandria, approached to sign a bill of sale that transferred ownership of ten-year-old Samuel Harrison Massey to Mr. Gordon Van.
"You got a deal, Van," the owner said. Mr. Van ignored him, signed his name to the two identical documents, watched the seller do the same, picked up his copy off the table, folded it and stuck it in the pocket with his billfold.
"I said you stole that nigger, Van," the owner taunted. Van ignored him. The man jerked on the chain and the boy fell off the block on his side, his arm jammed between his body and the ground.
"You can unlock the chains now," Mr. Van said to the owner.
"I deliver him to your wagon, that's part of the deal."
"Not necessary," Mr. Van said. "Just unlock the chains and I'll get him to the wagon."
"You crazy, man," the owner said. "He a nigger slave. He'll run off as soon as the chains is off. Where's your wagon?"
"Follow me." Mr. Van told William he wanted to help the boy off the ground but the crowd watched the exchange with great interest. He would have to make it up to the boy later. The owner practically dragged the boy through the dust, the youngster scrambled to keep up, tripped, fell, stood and fell again over and over until they reached Mr. Van's wagon in front of the feed store. William stood next to the wagon that was loaded with supplies. There was enough room near the rear edge of the wagon for the boy. Van heaved him onto the flatbed where the boy sat up straight, his neck bleeding and oozing, his wrists and ankles blistered from the restraints.
"You have some chains to put on this boy when I take these off?" the owner asked.
"Sure," Mr. Van said. "Just release him, take your chains and go. He's my responsibility now. Leave us be." The owner used a key to unlock the ankles, wrists and, finally, the neck ring. He gathered his chains and strolled off, shaking his head.
"Get me a bucket of water and a ladle, William," Mr. Van didn't take his eyes off the boy, who kept his gaze downward towards his bare, bleeding feet. Gordon Van was in temporary shock. William said the boy's wounds, cuts, blisters, and infected mosquito bites were beyond Mr. Van's understanding. The child's only clothing was a pair of drawstring pants cut off at the knees; no shirt, no shoes, no hat to shield his nappy head from the blaring sun.
"How can a human being treat another like this?" he asked William, who had no answer.
William handed Mr. Van the bucket of water and Mr. Van dipped the ladle in the bucket then held it under the boy's mouth.
"Drink," he said. The boy tried to sip politely but, after a couple of slurps, he gulped the water in one breath. Mr. Van continued to fill the ladle and the boy continued to gulp the contents. When he finally had his fill, Mr. Van placed the bucket next to the boy, removed his white pocket handkerchief from the outside pocket of his jacket, dipped it deep into the bucket and brought it up, dripping with water. He placed the wet rag on the boy's head and allowed the water to drip down his face. He dipped the handkerchief again, wrung it slightly and gently wiped the boy's face. He repeated the process on the boy's neck, then the scrapes on his knees and elbows, and finally, he held the bucket so the boy could place his feet, one at a time, in the water while Van reached in with the cloth—now stained red and brown—and washed the boy's feet.
A crowd gathered and watched the process with combined interest and confusion. William tried to lure them away, but the crowd grew. When Mr. Van had completed his tasks, he handed the bucket to William and asked him to rinse and refill it with clean water. He removed his straw hat and placed it on the boy's head. The frizzy hair helped it to fit snugly. When William returned, Mr. Van placed the bucket beside the boy and handed the ladle to him. He reached in William's front pocket and removed a bandana, which he wet and loosely wrapped around the boy’s blistered neck.
No words were exchanged during this ceremonial process. The boy's eyes were opened wide with fear and sadness, Mr. Van's with remorse and pity. The smell of horses, straw, and dampness filled the air while the auctioneer's barks could be heard above the snorts of horses, murmurs of the crowds, and wagon wheels that came and went on Main Street.
Gordon Van ignored it all. He climbed on the wagon bench and motioned for William to join him. The boy sat on the back of the wagon; his feet dangled off the edge and he held the bucket close to him to keep it from falling out. He wouldn't try to escape. Where would he go? All those people knew he was a slave, bought and paid for. One of them would catch him, probably beat him, and return him to his owner. He was brought into this town blindfolded so he didn't know how to get back to his Mama, and it was a long, long way. It had taken them all day to get here.
The trip to Mr. Van's plantation took about twenty minutes. He instructed William to lead the horses straight to the barn where Mr. Van jumped off the bench to find George. William went to the back of the wagon and lifted the boy to the ground.
"Follow me," William said. The boy followed close behind the overseer. They went in the barn as Mr. Van and George were walking towards them.
"Son," Mr. Van said to the boy. "This is George. He takes care of the livestock. He's going to get you cleaned up, bandaged and fed, then he'll show you where you will stay. For now your job will be to help George. He's your boss, you understand?"
"This nigger my boss?" the boy blurted. The three men laughed. It was the first words the boy had spoken in his high-pitched, squeaky voice.
"Yes, son, George is your boss. William here is George's boss. I'm everyone's boss. Now, what's your name?"
"Samuel, sir," he said. "Samuel Harrison Massey."
"Pleased to meet you, Samuel Harrison Massey. That's a big name. What do you like to be called?"
"At Kent House they call me, 'Li'l Nigga' but I likes 'Samuel', sir."
"Then 'Samuel', it is. George, take care of this one. He's going to grow up to be a fine young man. He has quite a future ahead of him here. You explain the rules." He turned to Samuel, "And if you have questions no one else can answer, you come see me up at the house, you hear?"
"Yes, sir!" Samuel said. His confusion complicated the sadness and pain he carried, but somehow he felt safe, even safer than he had felt with his Mama. But he missed his Mama every day and hated the men who had taken him away from her.
"That little squirt turned out to be my granddaddy," Catfish told me. "And he tole me so many stories I don't know I have time in my life to share them with you, Missy."
He called me 'Missy' from the time I was seven, even though he knew my name. I put my pen down and thought about the gentle man who taught me what real love felt like. And it had all started when I gave him a turtle. That was a story I should write at another time.
I looked at the pictures of Emalene and Joe Franklin's daughter. My daughter. Rodney's daughter.
What would I have named her if I'd been able to keep her? I thought back to why I gave her up: I was eighteen, pregnant by a colored boy, 2000 miles from home, trying to get through college, no job, no way to care for a baby. If I'd gone home with a child, half-Negro, I'd be killed and maybe the child would be, too. I couldn't raise her alone in New York. I had no job, no income.
My choices were abortion or adoption. I could never take the life of an unborn child, so I went to Catholic Charities and asked whether I could interview mixed-race couples who wanted a newborn. Emalene and Joe Franklin stood out among the couples I met. Joe, a white college professor, and Emma, a beautiful, brown attorney, couldn't have children of their own and wanted a baby more than anything.
The nurses cut the baby’s cord and took her away. I knew that the Franklins were waiting for my baby in the hall. I’m not sure how long she remained in the nursery before they took her home but I never went to the window to see her. I never looked at my little girl. I never held her because I was afraid if I did, I would never be able to let her go.
Now I was twenty-two years old, had a master’s degree, and a good job. Could I possibly get her back? Or would I be just as cruel as the people who took Samuel away from his mother and sold him to Mr. Gordon Van?
*
Marianne called me at work about a month after I'd talked to her about Rodney getting married. I rarely got phone calls at Shilling, so I was nervous when I picked up the phone.
"Hi, it's me," she said.
“I gave you my home phone number.” I whispered because we weren’t supposed to take personal calls at the office. “Why are you calling me at work?”
“This can’t wait.” Marianne whispered, too. “It's about Rodney, and I know you don't want to know about him, but I think you need to know this."
I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger then tried to spread out the wrinkles on my forehead. I felt a massive headache coming on.
"He's been drafted." Marianne sounded upset.
"What?"
"In the army. I guess they waited until he finished college and law school. Something about a college deferment and a lottery. His name came up and they sent him a letter. He reported to the recruitment office and, sure enough, he's in the army."
"Oh." That's all I could muster from my aching head and pounding heart. "When?"
"He left yesterday."
"Where is he?"
"Basic training first, then probably Vietnam."
"Oh, God! I thought the war was over."
"The US still has troops there and an embassy staff," Marianne said.
I was sitting at my desk. I put the phone down, dangled my head between my legs, and took deep breaths. I could hear Marianne through the receiver on my desk above me, "Susie, you still there? Susie?" She eventually hung up. I got through the day and called her back when I got home that evening. She was at work. I dialed the nurses’ station at the hospital and she answered on the first ring.
"It's me," I said in a whisper. "What about his wedding?"
"It's been postponed, indefinitely."
"Oh."
Marianne told me that Annette wanted to get married before Rodney left for the army but he refused. "He said he's not ready." Mari said she thought it was his way of saying that it was over with Annette. She told me that Rodney confided in her that he didn't think he loved Annette enough to spend the rest of his life with her. I didn't want to know those details but I couldn't talk, so I had to listen while she continued. "I think he gets to come home after his training, before they ship him overseas."
"Is there a chance he'll go somewhere else? Not Vietnam?"
"If he was white, maybe. With his degrees you'd think they'd cut him some slack, but I understand the army has a plan to protect the intelligent whiteys and put the dumbasses and coloreds on the front lines. I don't hold out much hope."
"Maybe the war will end."
"Maybe." Marianne also told me that my dad's campaign for re-election to his Senate seat didn't look good. She said the white people were backing his opponent, Mr. Jack Roy, and that the coloreds wouldn't vote for my dad because of what happened to Jeffrey. "They know your dad was behind it and after Rodney came back they believe your dad tricked everyone." I got some sort of sick pleasure knowing that my dad might lose. He hated to lose. "And Sheriff Guidry is up for reelection, too. He's got competition this time, a guy named Desiré."
"Dolby Desiré?"
"Yep. That's him. A progressive, they say. The coloreds are for him because he says he'll take down all the 'whites only' signs."
"That's the kiss of death," I said, thinking about how the white people in Jean Ville wanted to keep the Negroes in their place. "Your people need to register to vote. There aren't enough Negro voters in Toussaint Parish to unseat Guidry."
"We're working on that. Me and Lucy and a group of young people are spearheading a 'get out and register' campaign that seems to be working. And there's a group of Democrats—whites who believe in integration—who are behind Desiré. Things could really change around here if your dad and Guidry both lose. They've had the Klan busy all these years."
When I hung up I was distraught. I felt so alone, deserted.