Back in the newsroom, I contacted Ruth. Had the family retained any of Esther’s belongings?
“All of them,” she said. “Mama and daddy couldn’t never bring themselves to throw nothing away. Neither can I. Dumb, huh?”
“Not at all. Would you mind if I went through them?”
A surprised pause, and then: “Sure, okay.”
Ruth had packed Esther’s belongings into a trunk and shoved it into a closet. That evening, we dragged it into the living room. Then Ruth headed to the kitchen to prepare supper, leaving Job and I sitting cross-legged on the floor, the trunk before us. We lifted the heavy lid, releasing a sharp smell. Ruth had been generous with the mothballs.
For about three seconds, Job and I just sat surveying the trunk’s contents. A stranger would’ve seen a typical assortment of clothing, books and bills, receipts and odd papers. But I saw much more, and glancing at Job, I was sure he did, too.
I reached for one of the books. It turned out to be a journal. My heartbeat picked up a notch. Maybe Esther had written something about her mysterious beau.
But no, there was only one entry, dated December 18, 1923. It was about her excitement at going out that evening, and a promise to write more on the morrow, a promise she was unable to keep.
I laid the journal aside and started to reach into the trunk, but stopped. It struck me that Job hadn’t moved to touch anything. He was sitting quite still, holding himself back. His eyes glittered wetly.
“Job, honey? Are you okay?”
“I didn’t know,” he said in a small voice.
“Know what?” I leaned closer to hear him.
“That my mama’s stuff was in there.” He gestured to the trunk.
“What do you mean, you didn’t know?”
He spoke in a halting voice. “I been asking Auntie Ruth about that trunk. I done asked her again and again. She always said it was just some old stuff. She didn’t tell me…” His tone was bitter. “She didn’t say nothing.”
“Oh, Job.” My heart broke for him. I took him in my arms and hugged him. “Your Auntie Ruth wanted to protect you. That’s all. She wants to make sure you never get hurt again. I guess she thought … well, she must’ve thought it was better if you didn’t know.”
He raised his big, brown eyes to me. “But, how could she—?”
“Listen. Today, she let you stay in here with me. So I guess she thinks it’s time.”
He thought about that and nodded. “She’s always telling me how I’m a big boy, now.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “You’re a big boy.”
My gaze went to the trunk, hoping it held answers. “Whatever we find in there, we have to be very careful with it.r”
“You mean ‘cause Mama might want it when she comes back?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
He bit down on his lower lip, nodded and sighed. “That’s all right, Miss Lanie. I know my mama’s never coming back. I know she gone for good. I just want to know why.”
“That’s what we all want to know, honey.” I eyed the neatly folded stack of clothes and papers. And that’s what I’m going to find out.
After that, I expected Job to dive into the trunk with the excitement of a treasure hunter. Instead, he approached it with the reverence of an acolyte. The first item he took out was a folded white cotton blouse. He held it in his hand for a moment, his face a mixture of joy and sorrow. Then he pressed his mother’s poor garment to his face, burying his nose in it, and inhaled deeply.
“It still smells like her,” he said with wonder, smiling through his tears. “Even with the mothballs and everything, it still smells like her.”
I thought about how after Hamp died, I gave away most of his things, but there were a couple of items I couldn’t part with. It wasn’t just his tool set, but one of his shirts, too. His favorite shirt. It still hung in our closet. Every now and then, I’d brushed my fingertips over the shoulders and down the sleeves. I’d hold the material to my face, inhaling him and remembering.
Finally, Job laid the shirt to one side and reached into the trunk again. And so it went. Every time he lifted out an item—a book, a belt, a necklace of fake pearls—he held it up with wonder. At one point, he exclaimed with pure pleasure.
“It’s her music! See, see!” He grabbed up several sheets of paper covered with musical notations and shook them at me. “I remember. We used to sing together and we were working on a song together. This is all of it!”
He was so happy. Then it was all too much. His face crumpled. He bent his head and sobbed. I wrapped my arms around him and rocked him. Ruth came to the door, a wooden mixing stick in one hand, eyebrows drawn together in a worried look.
“What’s the matter?”
“He found some of his mother’s music.”
She shook her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have let him go through that stuff with you.” She straightened. “Job, honey, come here. Let Miss Lanie get on with her work and you help me in the kitchen.”
“He’s no bother,” I patted him on the back. His sobs had slowed to sniffles, but he was still curled into a tight ball pressed against me.
“No, he’s had enough.” She came in and gently tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, baby.”
With a last gulp, Job lifted his face and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. He got to his feet, his eyes red. Clutching his mother’s songs, he looked down at me.
“Thank you, Miss Lanie.”
“Thank you,” I said, “for keeping me company.” And for believing that I can do this, when I’m not sure I believe it myself.
Ruth gave his shoulders a squeeze, then ushered him from the room. I could hear her talking softly to him as they walked down the short hall to the kitchen.
As Job had done earlier, I too now sat quite still and took stock. The suitcase was packed more tightly than I’d realized. Job and I had gotten through just under half of its contents. Which was good. It left plenty of room for hope.
The problem was I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I could only hope that I’d recognized it when I saw it. In an ideal world, it would pop out at me—something that proved that Esther and Sexton Whitfield had been seeing each other. But men like him, men with a lot to lose and afraid of scandal, tended to be careful. My best chances lay in the fact that every once in a while, those very same men got too sure of themselves, especially if they weren’t worried about a wife finding out anything. Sometimes, they’d let a little something slip: a note, perhaps.
But another forty-five minutes of looking yielded nothing but disappointment. Whoever this cat was, he walked softly and kept to the shadows.