Chapter Three

Ida

 

Abigail and I stand side by side in front of the kitchen window overlooking the small backyard. As she washes dishes at the sink, I dry them and sit them on the counter. My daughter-in-law has been wound tighter than a yoyo after the call last night that windows were broken at the courthouse. My son, Ted Junior, went with the Charleston police to survey the damage. I overheard him tell Abigail that this incident was bound to happen after the article appeared in yesterday’s paper.

“Did that boy really save her life?” Abigail asks.

“That’s what Trudy said.” I put away three cups and saucers while Abigail watches to make sure I put them in the right place.

“Why didn’t you watch out for her?” she asks, as though wanting to say this all morning.

This is something I have asked myself many times already. Trudy is quite independent, even at twelve, and is growing up fast. Sometimes I think she acts more grown up than I do. Also, television has matured us all, bringing the world into our living rooms, the news delivered every evening by Walter Cronkite—an exciting, sometimes alarming world, and one that is evolving with every passing day.

From what I gather, Abigail would prefer to stop everything: the wheels of time, the wheels of progress, anything to do with forward movement. Forward is the unknown. Yet as a culture, forward movement appears to be exactly what we need. Of course no one asks my opinion, and I don’t offer it. Not even to Ted Junior. A mother must choose her battles carefully with a grown son—especially if she lives in an upstairs bedroom of his house.

Abigail tells me that helping with the dishes isn’t necessary, but I don’t believe her for a second. A person knows when someone is trying too hard to make something work. If I had another option rather than living here, I would have chosen it.

How did I know that Ted Senior and I had depleted our nest egg with all those trips? At least this arrangement has given me a chance to get to know my grandchildren more than I would have. Especially Trudy. My grandson, Teddy, doesn’t sit still long enough to get to know. At least not yet. He is six and in constant motion from sunrise to sunset. I am lucky if I see him streak through the house from time to time.

“Did people see her talk to that Negro boy?” Abigail asks.

My hackles rise from the disapproval in Abigail’s voice.

“Just so you know, I was raised by a Negro woman named Sweeney,” I say, surprised by my outburst. “She was the most honorable woman I have ever known. And I imagine the boy who saved Trudy’s life is just as honorable.”

Abigail turns off the water faucet with an extra hard twist, as if to turn off our conversation. Then she removes her apron and hangs it on the hook on the back of the kitchen door, all calm, like I am the disagreeable one in this scenario.

“I imagine Trudy did talk to the boy,” I say, in an effort to regain the peace. “You know how Trudy is.” But I wonder if she does.

As far as I can tell, Trudy challenges Abigail’s sense of propriety. No matter how much she insists that Trudy remember who she is—the daughter of the mayor—Trudy appears to see no point. She makes a friend of anyone she chooses, not giving a moment’s thought to who their family is, much less hers. She is brave in ways none of the other Truelucks are brave. Including me. If I had to guess, I’d say she inherited some of her great-great-grandmother’s courage. A woman who gets a footnote in the Charleston history books as an abolitionist. Not that I inherited an ounce of my ancestor’s bravery.

“If you’re out together in public, I expect you to keep Trudy out of trouble,” Abigail says to me. “Is that too much to ask?”

“Not at all,” I say. I have to resist adding a “ma’am” at the end. Sweeney knew how to deal with uppity white women. I watched her do it. She did exactly what they asked but with a twinkle in her eye that said in no uncertain terms that it was by choice she did these things, not victimhood.

Abigail sits at the kitchen table and begins to read the newspaper while I dry the remaining dishes until they squeak. I carefully stack things in the cupboard and think about Charleston culture and about how your importance is measured by whether your money is old or new—old being the most preferred. Status is determined by who your family is and how long you’ve lived here. Ancestry is central to identity.

The Trueluck family came to Charleston in the 1820s and my family—surname Rutherford—has been here even longer than that. When I moved in with my son and his family, I also moved into the attic an old steamer trunk full of my great-grandmother’s memorabilia. And when it is my turn to pass from this life, I will leave that old steamer trunk with Trudy.

Just the other day, I was at the Piggly Wiggly, and someone in the check-out line asked me if my family had been here since The War. And by war, she didn’t mean the First or the Second World War, or the Korean, or what is happening in Vietnam right now. The War referred to in these parts is always the Civil War. A war that has never ended and plays out in the shadows on every street corner in our fair city.

Abigail puts the newspaper aside as though distracted. “You don’t think Trudy will befriend the boy, do you?” she asks.

“Trudy is her own person,” I say, to avoid telling truth or lie.

“Speak to her, Ida,” she says. “Tell her it’s not a good idea.”

But it is too late for talks. Last evening, I overheard Trudy call people in the telephone book with the last name of Moses, asking for Paris a dozen times before finally finding him. She has probably already arranged a meeting or perhaps is meeting with him right now.

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders,” I say. “She won’t do anything foolish.”

Abigail elicits a short laugh, as though foolish is Trudy’s middle name. But perhaps fools are the bravest souls of all.

The front door slams, and Ted Junior’s heavy footsteps approach. I can only guess his frustration. He has been mayor less than a year and already people are calling for his resignation. If Ted Junior had been a horse at the racetrack the odds would have him guaranteed to lose, but he won anyway. In fact, it was a landslide victory because of the colored vote. News that made it into the national newspapers.

Yet it seems that any time progress inches forward, the past pulls us right back into what was before. It is a tug-of-war that has been going on for centuries. Charleston is slow to change the way things have always been. Come to think of it, I haven’t been that quick to embrace the big changes in my life, either, like moving in with Ted Junior and his family; however, I am willing to learn. Even if I don’t have a clue how to begin.