by Ashley Clark
‘It be filled with my Love always.’
She never saw her again.
Ashley is my great-grandmother.
—M.M. 1946.”
Peter’s hands trembled. He was holding a Civil War artifact. The weight of it so thin it could catch the wind and yet oh, so heavy.
He looked to Sullivan, who stood wide-eyed. “Man.”
“Nine years old,” Peter murmured.
“What are you going to do with it?”
Peter touched the embroidery with his thumb and hesitated a long moment. A discovery like this had profound implications. So few African American artifacts from the Civil War had been preserved, and this type of piece belonged either in a museum or with the original owner.
Surely this person, this M.M., wasn’t still living.
“I’m going to find the story.” His resolve grew as he heard himself speak the words.
Sullivan watched him, saying nothing.
“What? You don’t think I can.”
“Look, I know your persistence.” Sullivan swept a streak of dust from the top of the desk. “But this may be a little outside your expertise.”
“Not with some research.” Peter looked up again, toward the ceiling fan. “We have her initials. How hard can it be?”
Sullivan’s silence spoke for itself, but Peter wasn’t swayed. When he set his mind to something, he would not give up. His mother, God rest her soul, had taught him that. And in this case, he was determined to find M.M.
Peter opened another desk drawer, searching for more. His hand caught against something tucked neatly into the drawer. A letter addressed to Rosie.
Peter stopped. Rosie was the nickname his mother went by.
Could these be the artifacts? His stomach leapt in anticipation, but with a deep breath he forced some sense back into himself. Ridiculous, at best. How many women of that time were named Rose? The name itself hardly meant these items were related to his mother.
His lips moved as he read the letter, but this time, he didn’t dare speak the contents aloud. The sentiments seemed too sacred, too personal, spanning decades and generations through these inky words.
Dearest Rosie,
Moments ago, I held you for the last time. I cradled you, and I smelled your soft head full of hair, and I tried my hardest to memorize the feel of you in my arms—so angelic and so small.
These moments seem a lifetime past. And yet, my dress is still damp from the dribble of your mouth as it pressed against my shoulder.
Already, I feel I’ve made a terrible mistake, and I know I will keep this grief for the rest of my life. You have stretched first my womb and then my heart, such that I will always ache for your nearness. But I suppose all mothers learn to live with hollowed-out spaces, and over time, maybe come to appreciate them.
I wish I could tell you the circumstances. Why I must leave and you must stay. But trust me, child, when I say I wish this were not the case—for any of us.
My sweet Rosie, I hope you’ll never doubt my love.
Your Mother
Peter reread the letter, then the satchel, again and again. But every time, the same line stopped him. Two buttons from Rose’s own dress. He fumbled through the drawers once more, searching. His racing heart prompted him to move faster.
He had a hunch—and it was a wild hunch and completely unfounded—but after years of work with artifacts, you get a sense for these things. He had a hunch this somehow did connect to his mother. Not just the letter, but the satchel too. That they all came from the same place.
Now, where were those buttons?
EIGHT
Train from Charleston, 1946
Millie’s cloche tipped on her forehead as she looked out the window. The train was approaching Savannah and slowing.
She bit her bottom lip, still looking for the man who had jumped the rails, but she saw nothing. Had she imagined him?
“Hello.” The blond woman in the seat ahead of Millie turned to face her. She wore a red dress with yellow daisies that cinched at the waistline. “We’re newlyweds. Starting our married life in Savannah.” Her husband turned at this description. He straightened his flat wool cap and suit jacket.
“How nice.” Millie nodded once at both of them and folded her empty hands.
“Enjoying the train ride?” The woman offered a rosy smile.
“I sure am.” Looking first to her right and then left, Millie leaned forward. She lowered her voice. “Say, you haven’t seen a man . . .”
The husband raised his eyebrows, waiting. When she didn’t offer more explanation, his jaw tightened. “No one has offered you harm?”
Millie held up her hand. “Oh no. None at all.” She hesitated, then decided she should trust them with a description. “It’s just I saw a man jump the rails back in Charleston.”
“And you’re worried about him.” His words were a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t be.” The train car jerked to a slower speed as they approached the Savannah station. The man’s gaze went beyond Millie, out her window, and he frowned. “Freight hoppers are a feisty lot.”
Millie started to look over her shoulder too, but a commotion to her left caught her attention.
Several people hurried over to the other side of the passenger car to get a better view. Millie stood from her seat and joined them.
An older woman who smelled of half a bottle of perfume pointed to the window, filling Millie in even as the artificial floral smell nauseated her. “Colored woman was jumpin’ the rails and got caught by detectives.”
Millie squinted to get a better view. “She’s got a baby on her hip.”
“Sure does. And the law in Georgia is thirty days in the chain gang for ridin’ the rails. Don’t know what the penalty is for women or Blacks.”
Fire rose up in Millie. “But she’s clearly just trying to feed her child.” Millie had heard stories of folks following train lines in hopes of work they couldn’t find at home. Northerners going south. Southerners going north. Nobody going nowhere better than the last, but everybody searching. For hope, much as anything else. The New Deal had helped a whole lot of folks, but not everyone.
Panic gripped Millie’s chest. One of the train bulls approached the woman outside. He took the child, then raised his fist above the mother. In a blink, she collapsed to the ground. From inside the train car, Millie could see the child’s wail.
“Somebody do something!” she wanted to yell.
But Mama had instructed her not to draw any attention to herself.
Surely she wasn’t so defenseless. She needed to think fast.
A flicker of light caught her peripheral vision, and Millie turned to the window beside her seat, trying to make sense of the flash. What she saw quickened her pulse all the more.
The train jumper.
The boy in suspenders now wore a flat cap as he crossed near her side of the train car.
Everyone else stared at the commotion to her left.
For Millie’s eyes only, his finger swept over the front of his lips, then back again, telling her to hush but also offering a wink that sent tingles dancing up her spine.
The newlyweds were gone. She looked around the row of seats to see if they’d already disembarked.
Nothing. And no more sign of the boy who’d jumped the rails.
But in his place, flames began to spark up from the ground.
“Fire!” Millie yelled, rushing into the aisle. The mixed-use train carried several wooden boxcars that could easily be engulfed. “Somebody help!”
In seconds, the rest of the passenger car erupted in screams.
The railway detective set the child back with his mother and ran toward the fire. The train bull had bigger priorities. A fire could endanger not only the passengers, but also the train’s cargo.
“Close the station!” someone yelled with authority. “Don’t let any new passengers on board until we put this thing out.”
; Everyone clamored. Several extinguishers quickly did the trick, but not for the passengers’ rattled nerves.
Only then did Millie realize the Black mother and her child had vanished into the night.
Interesting.
“This seat taken, ma’am?”
Millie stared up at him, the boy she’d been dreaming about all the way from Charleston. Well, young man was more like it. Her heart skipped a beat.
Though she hadn’t said a word, he tipped his hat to her and sat.
He smelled of pine and smoke and adventure. And the half grin he offered was far more dangerous than the train tracks.
Millie’s mind reeled as she put the pieces together. Careful to keep her voice to a murmur for his ears alone, she faced him. “You snuck inside.”
“Mhmm.”
“You started that fire so the woman could get away.”
“Mhmm.”
“That man—that newlywed—gave you his hat and jacket so you’d blend in.”
“Was he a newlywed? Good for him.”
Millie gaped. “You do realize the penalty for riding the rails in Georgia is thirty days in the chain gang?” She spoke with authority and not as someone who’d just learned this information moments prior.
He raised his eyebrows, clearly humored. “I like you, Red.”
“Red?”
“The color of your hat, of course.” He bit down on his bottom lip. A beard framed his half grin. “And your cheeks, at the moment.”
NINE
Charleston, Modern Day
The uneven floor creaked under Peter’s feet as he shifted his weight back and forth. He set the satchel and the letter back on top of the desk and pocketed his hands. “These have got to be my mother’s heirlooms.” The ones his stepfather had given away like trash.
Ever since the day he came home to find the box of his mother’s things gone, Peter desperately wanted more information. Felt like there was a gap inside of him with the heritage part left blank—a blank he might never fill now that his mother was gone.
He always knew it might be too late for those artifacts, but the curiosity had drawn him to old houses, old things. That day became the defining moment he finally gathered the courage to stand up to his stepfather’s insatiable longing for prestige and instead take the path God had given him as a historian. In the years that followed, he’d begun to realize it was a lot easier to hear God’s voice when he no longer allowed his stepfather’s disapproval to scream inadequacy over his life.
But sometimes he still woke up in a cold sweat during the night, dreaming about empty boxes.
What if after all that time, these were the missing heirlooms? These could be the very clues he’d been trying to find.
“Mhmm.” Sullivan shifted his weight on his Vans. Peter wanted to tell him to wipe that smug grin off his face. But they were interrupted.
“Right up here.” A woman who looked to be in her seventies stepped into the room, while another woman followed closely behind. Her attention focused in on Sullivan, and she hesitated mid-step. Then her friend stopped behind her, nearly causing a pileup. “Dear me,” she mumbled.
Peter pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. This was always happening to Sullivan—women young and old would notice his height and good looks and ask things like if he played basketball and whether he’d like to come over to meet their granddaughters, daughters, and friends. A slice of homemade pie was usually included in the offer.
Sullivan crossed his arms and smiled. “Sorry, y’all, but we’re buying this room.”
The woman moved her hand to the silk scarf at her neck. “Mercy. But you don’t mean all of it?” She took another step toward them. “Why, there must be thousands of dollars’ worth of furniture in here.”
If they only knew.
Sullivan shrugged. “Sorry.”
The woman turned to her friend, casting a clear frown of disapproval. After a long moment’s hesitation, they left the room. “Let’s take another look at the rose trellis we saw earlier.” Her voice faded as she went down the stairs.
Sullivan looked at Peter and cracked his knuckles. “All right, stubborn fool—what are we searching next?”
Peter grinned. “Is that any way to speak to your boss?”
“That was the edited version, sir.” Sullivan chuckled.
Peter stepped toward the closet of the bedroom. More dust clouded as he opened the door, and he started coughing.
“Delicate lungs?” Sullivan joked.
“You know what? You can just wait outside.” Peter good-naturedly shoved Sullivan’s shoulder.
Sullivan went back to the bedside table and opened the rest of the drawers.
“We have to find what this means.” Peter shook his head.
A knock on the door interrupted them once more. A plump woman with grey hair and glasses, wearing an ample amount of his mother’s old perfume, stood at the entry. “Excuse me, young men, but a very troubled customer told me you intend to purchase this entire room’s worth of furniture. Y’all realize we don’t offer any furniture transport?”
Peter tipped his chin. “Yes, ma’am. I own an architectural salvage business, and we acquire a fair amount of our inventory from sales like this one. I assure you, we won’t have any trouble loading it ourselves.”
Actually, he could probably haul half of this stuff by himself, since his own house was just up the block.
“If we do buy the entire room, could you offer us a bulk price?” Peter asked. Worth a try.
The woman shrugged. “How does a thousand sound?”
“Like a deal.” Peter casually crossed his arms. “Now, would it be possible to close off this room to other customers until we can get it all paid for and loaded?”
“I don’t see why not.” She hesitated a moment. “I see you found the satchel.”
Peter realized he was clenching his teeth and tried taking a deeper breath, but his heart was racing at the thought of this discovery and he was having a hard time playing it cool. “We did. What’s the story?”
The woman looked over toward where it lay on the old dresser. “All I know is my niece lived here with her grandparents when they found it at a thrift shop. The box was labeled ‘Radcliffeborough’ and had an address on it. This satchel as well as some other items were inside. Seemed like fate, you know? To think, some of these artifacts may’ve been in a house like this one decades ago and then found their way back to the neighborhood.” The woman smiled. “It’s been—goodness—probably ten years or so. She was nine years old when she discovered it and said she’d offer it safekeeping. That a story like that needed protecting.” The woman traced her finger along the edge of the door frame. “I think in reality, she probably liked that she shared an age with the girl from the embroidery. You’re welcome to take it with the dresser set. It’s just an old piece of cloth—not worth much.”
Peter hesitated. He caught Sullivan’s attention as everything within him hummed with the echo of her words. Ten years ago. It all fit with the timeline of when his stepfather gave away the artifacts. He knew, logically speaking, there were probably more letters to girls named Rosie than he dare count, but the fact that this one—this particular letter—was sitting in front of him made it different from all the rest.
This letter might be the key to the rest of the story.
“Ma’am?” Peter asked. “Do you happen to remember the number on that address?”
“Sure do. Six-seven-five.” She turned from the doorway. “Why do you ask?”
Because that was his address.
Peter’s throat burned as he swallowed. Sullivan stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Just curious,” Peter mumbled.
He took another long look around the room where the sunlight came through the window, thinking about how the angle was the same it’d been for the past century as he breathed in the distinctive smell of old walls.
What did all of this mean?
An hour later, Peter and Sullivan
had loaded nearly everything into their pickup trucks. Peter wiped the sweat from his forehead. He leaned against the faded blue paint of his truck, his arms crossed.
As he looked back up at the old cottage that’d be worth more as an empty lot than a house, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the missing buttons held the answers he’d been searching for ever since his stepfather gave away his mother’s heirlooms.
Sullivan put his hands in his pockets. “You are stubborn as a mule.”
“Thank you.” Realizing he’d missed checking one set of wooden drawers, Peter knelt beside the piece of furniture to search for the buttons. He pulled out the strong but sturdy drawers one by one.
When the final drawer resisted his pull, he gave it a tug, and all at once, the drawer released. Along with it came the contents.
An old wedding dress tumbled onto the ground in one discarded heap. But beyond the lace and the frills and the fabric, one tiny but significant piece of the garment arrested his attention.
The missing connection. The missing piece. The shimmering wings of an antique butterfly button.
He couldn’t believe his eyes.
Sullivan stilled. “Maybe you’re on to something.”
As Peter reached for the dress, he was struck by its familiarity. He had never seen it before . . . at least, not in person. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth again, so he rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension.
Then recognition dawned.
Of course.
The fabric felt light as the dress slipped through his hands, and he grasped for it as one grasps for a shadow.
Peter had seen the dress before, in photos.
His mother had worn it on her wedding day to his father.
One Day Later
“Come on.” Peter set the satchel down on his desk and leaned closer to his laptop. He sighed as he waited for his computer to load the search results.
So far, he’d determined the satchel had likely begun as a feed sack during the Civil War. In far too many cases, slave-related possessions had been destroyed during the Reconstruction, and slave stories were seldomly documented back then.
The embroidery, of course, intrigued him. Especially the skill of the work, which looked to be done by a professional seamstress. But who was she, this mystery woman?
