fifty-five

Lapeer County, April

I watched Linden’s Mustang disappear beyond the pines and felt an upwelling of joyful satisfaction such as I’d never felt before.

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

I turned to see Nora sitting among the sea of photographs. In her hand she held the last photo ever taken of William.

“I think you were right,” she said.

“About what?”

“This did help.” She placed the photo of William and J.J. atop the rest of them. “I shut the door on this part of my life long ago. I shut out my parents and William’s family and God, and I tried very hard to shut out the memories. Just like I shut up that darkroom.”

I sat down next to her.

“The way I was brought up, you didn’t talk about your problems. You didn’t allow yourself to become the object of pity. So I kept it all to myself. But it seems like lately it all wants to get out. And now I feel like I’m finally seeing this life for what it was.”

I put my hand on hers. “And what do you think?”

“I think I’ve spent the majority of my life mending things for other people while I’ve been walking around in tatters. Today has me wondering what the last fifty years might have been like if I had forgiven my parents and forgiven J.J. Maybe I would have been happier.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But then I never would have met you, and where would that have left me?”

She put her other hand on top of mine the way old ladies do. “Long ago I believed that everything happened for a reason,” she said. “That everything that happened before led you to where you are now, and so it all had a purpose.”

I sighed. “That’s what my mother always says.”

“I think she’s right. I couldn’t believe it for years and years after William died. But now that I’ve gotten to the other side of it all, I have to believe there must be a plan. We just can’t see the whole picture. Our lives are like this.” She held up the photo of William and J.J. “On its own, it doesn’t mean anything. You can’t look at this one picture and understand what has happened in this country, or even what happened during the riots. But when you add them all up”—she put it back on the table among the others—“then you start to see. There are always hard parts. But so many of those things—later you realize that were it not for them, something else wonderful could never have happened.”

“Hey, Aunt Nora,” I ventured, “I wonder if I might show you one more surprise?”

She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn. “I’m not sure I could handle another surprise.”

“It’s nothing big. It’s outside.”

She acquiesced with a tired smile and followed me into the kitchen to where my dirty shoes sat on the mat. I picked her windbreaker off the peg by the back door and helped her into it. The sun had nearly set, but there was enough golden light filtering through the distant trees to guide our steps across the muddy backyard. When we drew close to the little tree, I didn’t even have to explain.

“Oh, Elizabeth.”

“It’s a catalpa, just like the one William planted for you. I thought maybe you’d miss the other one.”

“You are so thoughtful.” She stood with her arms crossed over her stomach and smiled.

I put my arm around her and pulled her close. “So now you have your tree back.”

“No. This one is yours. You planted it, and you’ll be the one to see it grow.” She turned to look at me head-on. “You know I want you to stay, don’t you?”

“I told you I was staying. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

“No, I mean stay here, when I’m gone. I want you to live in this house and keep its memories. I still have more to tell you, and there are more mysteries to solve. I never did get to ask Aunt Margaret some of my questions. She died just a few months after the riot. Did I ever tell you about the window in the attic?”

I shook my head.

“Now there’s a story for you.”

The next Sunday morning I came downstairs to find Aunt Nora dressed to the nines in a pale pink suit, heels, and jaunty pillbox hat.

“Wow. Did you make that outfit?”

“Long, long ago. But I understand from my clients that vintage is in.”

“I wish I could sew something like that.”

“You will. You’re learning fast. We’ll get you onto lined jackets in no time. But now we better get on the road.”

The parking lot at Mr. Rich’s enormous Baptist church was packed. I let Aunt Nora out at the front of the church, where her door was opened by a well-dressed black gentleman who offered his arm to her. Two more men stood a few feet away, holding the doors of the church open. I thought of the simple hut my parents were worshiping in with poor farmers and fishermen and smiled. What a strange and wonderful family we were all part of.

I parked and hiked back to where Nora waited in the foyer with Linden, who then guided us through the river of beautiful people streaming into the sanctuary. I kept an eye trained on Nora, hoping that the carnival atmosphere wasn’t too much for her. It was nearly overwhelming me. I felt practically naked as one of very few white women, and the only woman in sight not wearing a hat. But she seemed calm and delighted to be shaking hundreds of hands and hugging strangers.

The music was soul stirring and full of genuine joy. The minister spoke of redemption and rebirth. All around me I heard murmurings and shouts and affirmations, “all rights” and “uh-huhs” and “amens.” I felt as though I were making up for missing a year of church all in one morning. I also felt that I had something I needed to do.

When Linden and Mr. Rich left to retrieve the cars, I placed Nora in the care of some women and stole away to a quiet corner of an empty classroom. I pulled out the phone I had silenced for the service and dialed Vic Sharpe’s number. After the third ring, I prepared to leave a voicemail. Then the ringing stopped.

“Elizabeth?”

“Thank you for taking my call.”

“What can I do for you?”

I took a breath. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything.”

The line was silent.

“Vic?”

“I’m here. I—thank you, Elizabeth. I appreciate that.”

I wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Look,” he said, “maybe I should have gone about all this a little differently. I let my anger get the best of me. If you want your job back—”

“I don’t.”

“Really?”

“Really. I have a better job now. A better life. I’m good.”

“Okay. Well, let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you.”

Everything happens for a reason.

“Vic, have you ever thought of investing in the arts?”

“I’m listening.”

Several minutes later, I met Nora at the lobby door.

“You sure seem to be in good spirits,” she said.

“I am.”

I had much to be thankful for. I was also grateful that I had been wrong in my assessment of James Rich when I first saw him walking into the Lafayette Coney Island. He wasn’t wasting my time. He was there at exactly the time he needed to be.

Maybe God was in control. Maybe there was a plan. And maybe, just maybe, he had written me in there somewhere too.

The next morning, I sat down to another sewing class in Aunt Nora’s crowded workroom. Matthew smirked at me from the doorway. But his smug disapproval would not deter me. There was a house full of fabric waiting to become something useful, something beautiful, something that some young woman generations down the road would find, unfold with rapturous wonder, and use as her own doorway into the past.