Lapeer County, October
Despite my fears, Nora did come through with the story behind the beds in the attic. In fact, she’d seemed more than happy to tell of the escaped slaves who had found refuge within the farmhouse walls. She’d begun as promised, and without further prompting, after dinner that night. It was indeed a long story—at least the way Nora told it—but I was captivated from the start. To think that some of those brave people had slept in my room, that their hands had worn smooth the same banisters that I touched every morning and evening.
Lying in bed that night, I marveled at how little I knew of my own family. Did my parents know this incredible legacy? Surely they would have passed it on to their children if they had.
Having finally gotten a real taste of the secrets my great-aunt was keeping in her head, I wasn’t satisfied with just the story of the beds. What about the trunk in the attic? What about the darkroom? What about William? I needed to learn the hidden history of this place before Nora was in the grave. If I didn’t, the stories would be lost—like those nameless bones in the garden marked by nothing more than a date.
Plus I had a promise to keep to an old man with a box of old photos.
But the very next day, Nora threw herself into her new project and asked for privacy as she worked on it. The request stung a little. Was I wearing out my welcome? I knew I would never have wanted a guest to stay more than one week, let alone six. I decided to give her space and spend a little more time and energy on me.
Tyrese and I fell into a pleasant routine of hanging out a couple times a week. A movie on a Thursday night, a high school football game on a Friday, cider and donuts and a corn maze one Saturday, a barn sale on another.
It was all good, clean, wholesome fun. Though I admittedly missed what Detroit had to offer—dining at the best restaurants, visiting posh casinos, or watching outstanding performances at the Fox Theatre. So late one night as I talked to Tyrese on Nora’s kitchen phone, twisting the cord around my finger as I had when I was thirteen, I suggested we go to Flint one evening for a performance of Ragtime at The Whiting.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I never go to Flint if I can help it.”
“Why not? It’s not as bad as the media makes it out to be. Same as Detroit. Some spots you want to avoid, but there are some cool things going on in Flint.”
“It’s just not my scene,” he answered. “Not my people.”
I wanted to argue with him. Lapeer people weren’t his people. I was struggling to know what to say when I realized that my silence had said volumes to Tyrese.
“Just because I’m black doesn’t mean I fit in in Flint,” he said. “Or Detroit. Or at a showing of Ragtime.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah you did. You didn’t, but you did.”
“I really didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay. I know you didn’t.”
“Well . . . why don’t you come over here for dinner? I’m sure Nora would love to have you, and it might get her out of her cave.”
So he did. And Nora did indeed come out of her cave—and her shell. Tyrese had an uncanny ability to talk with her and asked all of the questions I’d been afraid to ask for fear of shutting her down or tipping my hand.
“Elizabeth tells me you’re from Detroit but you’ve lived here since the sixties,” he said as he cut into a pile of mashed potatoes with the side of his fork. “Tell me about that. Why’d you move way out here?”
“There was no place for us in Detroit,” Nora said matter-of-factly.
I risked entering the conversation. “There wasn’t any housing?”
“Not for us. No one would rent to us in decent parts of town. And I didn’t want to stay anyway. I was disowned by my family when we got married. Not long after, we moved out here and sort of retreated from life, I guess.”
“Why didn’t your family want you to marry him?” Tyrese asked.
“Because he was black.”
It was the answer I expected, but to hear it stated so baldly was still a shock to my system. I looked to Tyrese, expecting to see an expression of disbelief. But he was unsurprised and nodding.
“It was not unheard-of,” she continued, “but it was certainly not considered acceptable, especially for a young woman of my station in life. So we moved out here to escape the dirty looks and rude comments and redlining in Detroit. We had four beautiful years together. And then it ended.”
Four years? That was it? “What happened?” I asked.
She furrowed her brow. “I don’t really know.”
I didn’t know either. I could find no death certificate on Ancestry.com. And now that I thought about it, Mr. Rich never actually said his uncle had died.
She shook her head. “Some days I can believe he is.” Then she was quiet.
Tyrese looked at his watch. “I better get going.”
He was on his feet and at the kitchen door before I realized he meant to leave. I started to stand up.
“Don’t get up.” He pointed meaningfully at Nora, whose head was down. “I know my way out. Thank you for the wonderful dinner.”
I mouthed thank you, and he smiled and disappeared, leaving Nora and me to talk about what I’d been dying to talk about.
“Nora, is that William’s darkroom in the basement?”
I couldn’t quite read her expression, but I was able to rule out pleasantly surprised.
“How do you know about the darkroom?”
I took a deep breath, feeling very much like I had as a child when my parents caught me in a lie. “I hope you won’t be upset with me. When I cleaned out the dresser in my room, I found a key in the bottom drawer. I should have brought it to you right away. I saw the door when I was getting tools to work on the garden. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I didn’t think I could because I’d gone in there without asking. But then when you started talking about William, I thought . . . I know this is weird and morbid, but I wanted to ask you about it while you could still tell me the story behind it.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You mean before I’m dead?”
“Or senile,” I offered weakly, as if that were better.
She gave me a long look. “Well, my natural reaction would be to tell you to mind your own business.”
My heart sank.
“But I guess you’re right,” she went on. “We’re only given so much time on this earth, and though there are some things I think we all take to our graves, I guess your own family history shouldn’t be one of them. I had a great-aunt of my own who was kind enough to share much of the history of this place with me—she’s the one who told me about the former slaves who used to live here. I shouldn’t begrudge you the same courtesy.”
I felt my heartbeat tick up. “So is that where William worked?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he lock it?” I thought of the photos of the gorgeous young woman and feared I knew the answer.
“He didn’t. I did. I locked it the week after he left. I left the key upstairs in the bottom of my dresser so that if I ever got up the nerve, I could open it. Only I never did.”
“Why not?”
She was quiet for a moment. “Once you see something, you can’t go back to a time when you hadn’t.” She shook her head. “You can never go back.”
What did she think was in there? Did she suspect what I did?
“How did you know he was a photographer, anyway?” she asked.
Here goes nothing.
“Because I have something of his that I need to give you.”