“Can we help?”
Abraham Lincoln Greene straightened his wiry six-foot-three frame and looked down at Conn and Will. He had the peculiar habit of turning his head to the left when speaking to people so that only the right side of his face could be seen. Only when viewed full on was his scar visible, a jagged white line in his smooth, dark skin, running from his left temple to his chin. It had tightened as it healed so that it pulled his features to the side, half closing his eyelid.
“Well,” he responded, his deep soft voice an unexpected contrast to his appearance, “I suppose I could use a couple of assistants.”
The week previous, Elizabeth had answered a knock on the back porch door to find Abraham already stepping back to get a better view of how high the ivy climbed up the chimney. He seemed unsure of how to respond when she came out to introduce herself, extending a hand to him. He shook it tentatively, and followed her into the kitchen where she showed him the original log portion of the house.
“I want to convert this into a bathroom,” she said.
After working out the details for what was to go where, he had started to work the very next day, roughing out the indoor portion of the plumbing and electrical wires. He had contacted a man who was putting in a septic system. Abraham was in the process of rebuilding the floor which had had to be raised to accommodate the new pipes.
He led the children to a pair of sawhorses where he had marked several pieces of lumber for new floor joists. He picked up his old cross-cut saw and started the cuts for them, teaching them how to cut on the push stroke. With Will holding a joist steady by sitting on it, Conn began cutting, standing on an old upside-down apple crate. When she got tired, they switched. Abraham went back to nailing, calling out when he was ready for a new board.
Elizabeth came out with three icy glasses of lemonade.
“We’re helping Abraham!” Will bragged, his dark hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. “I mean, Mr. Greene,” he corrected at the stern look on his mother’s face.
“I don’t mind if they call me Abraham,” he said as he accepted a frosty glass.
“Thank you, Mr. Greene,” Elizabeth smiled, “but I would prefer the children address adults by their proper names.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, a move both children immediately mimicked. “I should have floorboards down by Friday. And then we can get the tub hooked up for you.”
“It’ll be heaven to be able to take a real bath,” said Elizabeth wistfully.
“And use a real toilet,” Conn added. Both she and Will had been chased out of the outhouse by hornets which had territorially nested in the eaves.
Slowly, the house was looking lived in. Abraham had shown Elizabeth how to operate the tractor and drag the mower through the grass. What the gang mower couldn’t reach, the children mowed with a push mower, its spiral blades whirring through the wispy strands. He showed Elizabeth how to fix the cords of the sash windows and replace the broken panes of glass. Once the bathroom was done, he planned to begin pulling the ivy off the chimney stones.
They ate lunch outside in the shade where they could catch any hint of breeze there might be. It was only early May, but it was warm in the sunshine. Abraham initially ate by himself, reading a thick book he pulled out of his knapsack.
He looked up one day at Elizabeth who was offering him a glass of iced tea. Puzzled, he said, “You are most unusual, Mrs. Mitchell.”
Elizabeth smiled, noticing his book was a volume of Shakespeare. “You’re a bit unusual yourself, Mr. Greene. And I don’t mean to intrude if you would prefer to eat by yourself, but you are most welcome to join the children and me.”
A few days later, he did just that. He peered over Conn’s shoulder as she lay on her stomach reading while eating her peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“Tom Sawyer, Connemara?” he asked in surprise. “That’s a pretty big book for someone your age.”
“I reckon,” Conn said as she sat up. “May I see your book?” He handed it to her. She carefully turned the pages. “What are these?” she asked, indicating tiny penciled notes in the margins.
“Those were my notes from my literature class,” he replied.
“From when you were a student?” she squinted, trying to read the miniscule writing.
“No.” He paused. “From when I taught.”
“You taught English literature?” Elizabeth asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “Surely not around here.”
“No, not around here. At a boys’ school up north.”
Conn looked up. “If you were a teacher, how did you learn to fix houses?”
Abraham chuckled. “This,” he said, holding up his hammer, “I got from my father. And this,” he held up his book, “I got from my mother.”
“But… you got away,” Elizabeth said, puzzled. “And you came back here? To this? Why?” she asked in disbelief.
Abraham’s gaze went to the farmhouse and back to Elizabeth. “Why did you come back?”
Elizabeth’s eyes fell. “I didn’t plan to. I thought once I got out of here…” She sighed. “My husband is MIA,” she explained. “We came here to wait for him.”
“I’m sorry,” Abraham said in his soft voice.
Will tilted his head to one side. “If you both grew up here, did you go to the same school?”
Abraham laughed, his scar pulling his mouth sideways. “No, William. Whites and coloreds went to separate schools, separate churches, separate everything.”
“But that’s wrong,” Conn said, looking upset.
“Yes, it is wrong,” Elizabeth agreed. “But it’s changing.” She glanced at Abraham. “Isn’t it?”
He absent-mindedly traced a finger along his scar. “Some places, maybe. But there are still a lot of people who think all black folks should have stayed slaves.”
“Your family came here as slaves?” Conn asked. “Ours, too.”
Abraham frowned, puzzled. “You’ve got slave blood in your family?”
“Yes,” Conn nodded. “My great-great-great grandmother. Right?” she asked her mother. Elizabeth nodded.
“Came from Africa?” Abraham asked skeptically.
“No, from Ireland,” Elizabeth replied. “She and her sister were sold by their father for five acres of land and sent to work on a plantation in America.”
“Her name was Caitríona Ní Faolain,” Conn said.
“How do you know so much about her?” Abraham asked curiously.
“Mommy has been telling me about her since I was little,” Conn responded.
Elizabeth smiled. “Her story has been passed down to each new generation,” she explained.
“Every girl in our family has Faolain as a middle name so we don’t forget,” Conn said proudly.
“Why didn’t I get Faolain, too?” Will asked, clearly feeling left out.
Conn’s expression darkened as Elizabeth tousled his hair. “Because you’re the first boy on this side of the family and you’ll get to keep the name Mitchell. Conn’s name will change when she gets married.”
“Oh, no it won’t,” Conn said resentfully. Will always got attention for being the only boy, for being the one who would carry on the family name, even though she was braver and stronger than he would ever be. “I’m not getting married. And I’m not changing my name for anybody.”