“There was even a White House in Richmond,” Miss Bessie was saying. “That’s where President Davis lived. I certainly hope we’re not going there.”
“Not planning to,” Hanna said.
Sophie couldn’t name the battles those Confederate soldiers had fought in, but she did know why they were willing to die. Slavery gave them workers they didn’t have to pay, women they didn’t have to ask. On her breaks at the hospital in Philly, she’d often looked at the magazines and newspapers people left lying around. She knew all about Thomas Jefferson and that poor Sally Hemings.
“It’s good to see you again, Sophie,” Miss Bessie said, maybe forgetting she’d said this earlier, when she and Gail had arrived in Reston.
“Nice to see you, too,” Sophie said all over again, wondering if Miss Bessie had made any friends in Baltimore. “Been a long time.”
“Thirty-eight years,” Hanna said.
“Good gracious,” Miss Bessie said. “That long? But then, you always were so good at math, Hanna. I’m glad you and Gail are still friends.”
“Still friends run deep,” Hanna said.
Sophie had no idea what Hanna meant by this, and it looked like Miss Bessie didn’t, either. Gail was smiling, though, so maybe it was one of their secret jokes, something only the two of them understood.
With Sophie in the Subaru’s passenger seat and Miss Bessie and Gail in back, they’d left the stage in Jeff’s Diner and were on the road again, stopping at one traffic light after another on their way south.
“Wouldn’t I-95 be quicker?” Gail said.
“From what I hear, 95 between Washington and Richmond is pure hell,” Hanna said. “Anyway, Route 1 is more scenic, don’t you think?”
No answer from Gail.
“And more historic,” said their driver and tour guide. “In Virginia, beginning in Arlington, Route 1 is also the Jefferson Davis Highway, proposed by the Daughters of the Confederacy in 1913. There was already a Lincoln Highway, going from New York to San Francisco, and, nearly fifty years after Lee surrendered at Appomattox, those ladies wanted an interstate named after their own president. Am I right about that, Miss Bessie?”
“You may be right about the highway’s name, but I do wish you’d stop calling me Miss Bessie.”
The scenic route was downright boring. Sophie knew everyone was thinking this, maybe even Hanna, but no one said a word.
And the closer they got to Richmond, the worse the traffic became. No matter what the real reason for the trip might be, it could not be worth all this trouble.
“Here we are in the capital of the Confederacy,” Hanna announced. “Now the capital of the great state of Virginia. Still flying the Confederate flag.”
Miss Bessie was snoring.
A little later, Hanna told them they were about to cross the James River on the Robert E. Lee Memorial Bridge. “That Texaco station is on the other side,” she added.
“Good,” Miss Bessie said in a sleepy voice. “I need a restroom.”
Sophie was almost asleep herself when Gail, sounding worried, said, “You sure it was a Texaco?”
“Positive,” Hanna said.
“Maybe it’s changed hands,” Gail said. “It’s been, what, ten years?”
“Twelve,” Hanna said. “Twelve years exactly.”
“I just meant, well, you know how one week a gas station can be a Sunoco and the next week it’s a Shell or a BP?”
“Oh God,” Hanna said. “And I didn’t even bring the address.” But she kept on driving.
Sophie closed her eyes.
Next thing she knew, they were parked beside a rundown Esso station. Signs on the rest room doors said WHITES ONLY, so Sophie walked around back, where a dirt path led to a small shed with “niggers keep out” scribbled on the door.
The bathroom was filthy, with a string mop leaning against the wall, but no bucket. No water in the tap, either. Did the toilet even flush? She raised the lid, and there was a baby inside. A beautiful baby. She leaned down and lifted him out. His diaper needed changing, but otherwise he was clean. He looked up at her with PJ’s sweet smile.
“Oh, PJ,” she said, “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Mama, Mama,” she heard him say. She kissed the top of his head.
Someone was squeezing her arm.
“Mama, Mama,” Hanna was saying. “Wake up! You were talking in your sleep.”
Sophie opened her eyes. She and Hanna were alone in the car, parked beside an Exxon station. The door to the ladies’ room was closed. Were Gail and Miss Bessie in there?
“I found PJ,” Sophie said. “His diaper needed changing.”
“It was a dream, Mama. Just a dream.” Hanna put both hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. “I went inside and talked to the station owner. He says that Texaco station is a Japanese restaurant now.”
This made no sense, until it did. “Are we going there, then?”
“I think it’s on our way back,” Hanna said.
“PJ loved you,” Sophie said gently. “Just as much as you loved him.”
“I wish I could dream about him. What’s wrong with me?”
“Not a thing,” Sophie said. “People are different, that’s all.”
“Why did he even come to Richmond? That’s what I can’t figure out. He could’ve flown to Miami from National or Dulles.”
“Maybe he was hitchhiking,” Sophie said. “Trying to save money.”
“Maybe. And then something or someone made him think flying would be much easier.” Hanna found a tissue and blew her nose. “There could’ve been a travel agency right next door to that Texaco station.” She wiped her eyes. “I just wanted to see whatever it was. Stupid of me, really. What difference would it make?”
And here came Gail and Miss Bessie.
“Our turn,” Hanna said, getting out of the car.
Sophie followed her daughter into a sparkling-clean rest room.
The Mount Fuji restaurant had a locksmith’s shop on one side and a small bank with a drive-through window on the other. Hanna parked in front of the restaurant and got out of the car.
“I’m not hungry,” Miss Bessie said.
“Was this the gas station?” Gail asked. “The Texaco?”
Sophie turned around, nodded at Gail. To Miss Bessie she said, “We’re not going to eat here.”
Gail joined Hanna, who was standing where the gas pumps must have been. After looking left, then right, searching Route 1 in both directions, Hanna, very slowly, turned completely around. Then, raising her shoulders, she turned her palms up in a gesture of defeat.
Gail shook her head, as if urging Hanna not to give up, and Sophie remembered how, when they were little girls, one would put her finger to her lips, and the other would nod in agreement, the two of them understanding each other without having to say a word. Back then, Sophie had been so sure the friendship wouldn’t last. Couldn’t last.
But just look at them, all these many years later!
Now Hanna was pointing at the sky. Gail, too, was looking up. By turning her head, Sophie could see it, too. An airplane, disappearing into the clouds.
Was this the answer Hanna had been searching for? While pumping gas for someone who’d given him a ride, had PJ looked up and decided to travel by plane instead?
Sophie wouldn’t argue. It could have happened like that.
As they drove back across the Robert E. Lee Bridge into downtown Richmond, Hanna, sounding almost cheerful, announced that there was one more stop on the tour. She turned onto Broad Street.
“What’s up?” Gail said.
“It’s a surprise,” Hanna said.
After a few more turns, they came to a wide, grassy boulevard through a residential area. White people’s houses, Sophie could tell.
“Okay, ladies,” Hanna said. “Here we are on Monument Avenue. This one’s J. E. B. Stuart.” She drove right past the statue without even slowing down. “And this one—it’s sixty feet tall—is none oth
er than Robert E. Lee.” General Lee looked down on them from the center of a large traffic circle.
“Robert E. Lee,” Miss Bessie said. “Cruel to his slaves.”
“You never told me that,” Gail said. “None of my teachers did either.”
Hanna continued on down Monument Avenue, pointing out Jefferson Davis, Stonewall Jackson, and a naval officer named Matthew Maury. She then turned onto a side street and parked. “This last monument is the newest one. Let’s get out.”
“What for?” Sophie was tired of looking up at dead Confederates.
“Trust me, it’ll be worth it,” Hanna said. “I’ve been wanting to see this for months now.”
“Better be worth it,” Miss Bessie said, as Gail helped her out of the car.
The traffic circle was much smaller than the one for Robert E. Lee. At its center was a statue of a man holding a tennis racket in one hand and books in the other.
“Arthur Ashe.” Hanna was grinning. “He’s been here since July. Can you believe it? A black tennis player with all these generals.”
“Surreal,” Miss Bessie said. “I wonder how this came about.”
“The Richmond City Council finally agreed,” Hanna said. “It was in all the newspapers. Arthur Ashe was born here in Richmond, but still.”
So this was why they’d come to Richmond now. Arthur Ashe had lured Hanna to his hometown. He’d given her a good reason for this trip.
Sophie couldn’t help wondering what Arthur Ashe himself would think of being memorialized on Monument Avenue. Was this the right place for him?
“Definitely worth the long drive,” Gail said. Seeing how happy Hanna was, Gail was smiling, too.
They were all standing there, looking up at Arthur Ashe, when a man crossed the street and said he was a reporter for the Richmond Times-Dispatch. He asked if he could take their picture.
“Why?” Hanna said. “We don’t live here.”
“All the better,” he drawled. “This monument has turned out to be a real boon for tourism.”
“Maybe because Arthur Ashe is the only winner on Monument Avenue,” Gail said.
“You’re not the first one to remark on that.” He pulled out a notebook. “Where are you ladies from?”
Hanna said Reston. Gail said Baltimore. Miss Bessie said Hartford, Connecticut.
“And you, ma’am?” the reporter said.
“I lived in Philadelphia till my husband passed, and then I moved in with my daughter.”
“In Reston. So, you’re a Virginian now?”
“Not really,” Sophie said. “I was born in Maryland.”
“And how do you folks know each other?”
“We met in Knoxville, Tennessee, a long time ago,” Miss Bessie said.
“And we’ve kept in touch for more than fifty years.” Gail sounded proud of this, and she should have been. If Gail hadn’t found Hanna again, back when they were both in college, then the friendship would have ended when they were teenagers.
“What brings you to Richmond today? Doing some sightseeing?”
“Just Arthur Ashe,” Sophie said quickly. This nosy man with his curly red mustache didn’t need to know about PJ. The four of them were a curiosity to him, like they’d been to the folks in Jeff’s Diner.
“I’m a huge tennis fan,” Hanna said. “I’ve even been to Wimbledon.”
“We’re hoping Ashe’s monument will help to change Richmond’s image,” he said.
“So,” Hanna said, “you’re just using Arthur Ashe.”
“Not at all. Would you like to have your names in the paper?”
All four of them shook their heads.
“What about a photo?” He lifted the camera hanging from a strap around his neck.
“Shoot,” Miss Bessie said.
They were back on Jefferson Davis Highway, about an hour north of Richmond, when Gail let out a squeal. “Look! The Cannonball Grille. We have to eat there.”
“Not our kind of cannonball,” Hanna said.
“They’re round. They’d make a big splash. What do you mean by ‘our kind,’ anyway? Not quite good enough?”
“Okay, okay.” Hanna turned into the parking lot of a long, barn-like building. At one end was a brightly lit entrance, with yellow and orange chrysanthemums blooming in wooden window boxes.
“Thank goodness,” Miss Bessie said. “I need to tinkle.”
Gail took her mother down the hall to the restrooms, and Sophie and Hanna got in line for a table. Everyone else waiting to be seated was white. The hostess was white. Sophie felt a nervous knot in her stomach.
“Two?” the hostess finally barked at them.
“Four,” Hanna said. “The other two are in the restroom.”
“So, four of you.” The woman frowned. “Follow me.”
She led them through the long, high-ceilinged room to a low-ceilinged section at the back. After plopping four menus down on a table, the hostess turned around and hurried off.
“Not sure about this place,” Sophie said.
“Could get interesting.” Hanna sat down and opened a menu. “What do you feel like having for dinner?”
“T-bone steak,” Sophie joked, sitting down opposite her daughter. The nearby tables were all empty.
“Then we’ve come to the right place.”
A black waitress—Harriet, according to her name tag—brought them glasses of water. “Just you two?” she said shyly.
“Plus two more,” Hanna said. “Let me guess. This is the colored section.”
“The back of the bus,” Sophie said.
“Pretty much,” Harriet said.
“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,” Hanna said. “Old Haitian proverb.”
“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” Harriet said.
“A French speaker!” Hanna was smiling. “Très bien.”
“One year of French in high school,” Harriet said. “I’m taking Spanish in college.”
The girl was way too thin. Sophie hoped they gave her free dinners here.
“I waited tables, too, when I was in college,” Hanna said.
“Where?”
“In DC. I went to Howard.”
“Howard, wow! I’m at Mary Washington.” Harriet lowered her voice. “The hostess is watching me. Look over the menu. I’ll be back to take your order.” And she scurried off.
“Are you glad you found that Texaco station?” Sophie said softly.
Hanna shrugged. “The only thing I know for sure now is that it no longer exists, or it exists in a different way.” She shook her head. “Sort of like PJ.”
Sophie reached across the table, squeezed her daughter’s hand.
And here came the very reason Hanna had gone to Howard. Miss Bessie was all by herself, looking frantic. When she spotted them, she waved. Sophie waved back.
Now the hostess was running after Miss Bessie, who didn’t seem to notice. They both reached the table at the same time.
“These aren’t your friends,” the hostess said.
“Yes, they are,” Miss Bessie said.
“Where’s Gail?” Hanna said.
“This dodo told us no one was holding a table for us, so Gail went out to the car, wondering if you’d changed your minds about eating here.”
Exactly what we should have done, Sophie thought, as Miss Bessie sat down beside her.
Gail arrived, cheeks flushed.
“These two are your friends?” the hostess demanded.
“Something wrong with your ears?” Miss Bessie said. “Listen up. The South lost the Civil War. What’s more, they deserved to lose.”
Sophie couldn’t believe her own ears.
“The four of us go way back,” Gail said, taking the seat next to Hanna.
“My apologies, then,” the hostess said, scurrying off.
Harriet had heard it all. She couldn’t stop grinning. “Want anything to drink besides water?”
“You serve mint juleps?” Hanna said. “Not th
at I want one. I’m driving.”
“Wine and beer only.” Harriet was still smiling.
“No, thank you,” Miss Bessie said.
“Where are the cannonballs?” Gail said. “I was expecting to see one of those pyramids.”
“This used to be a barn,” Harriet said. “The man who owned it collected cannonballs, kept them on the front porch of his house. Yankee cannonballs on one side, Confederate on the other. Said he could smell the difference.”
“And?” Sophie sensed a story.
“Turned out some of those cannonballs had gunpowder inside. One day he was rearranging them, and boom!”
“Oh, no!” Hanna said. “Was there a fire?”
Harriet shook her head. “He lost a few fingers. Went blind in one eye. Sold the farm. The new owners decided to turn the barn into a restaurant. Up there?” She pointed at the low ceiling. “The old hayloft. Ready to order?”
Miss Bessie and Gail picked up their menus.
“Did you know him?” Sophie said. “Cannonball Man?”
“No, but my grandfather worked for him.”
“Doing what?”
“Picking corn, milking cows, you name it. Granddaddy was the one who took him to the hospital that day.”
“I’ll have a T-bone steak,” Sophie said. “Medium rare, please. Baked potato with butter and sour cream.”
“And you, ma’am?” Harriet said to Miss Bessie.
“If you call me ma’am one more time, there will be no tip. Understood? I’ll have the shrimp scampi.”
“I’ll have exactly what my mama just ordered,” Hanna said. “And she and I will split a green salad. I’m paying, by the way.”
Gail asked about the crab cakes, said she usually didn’t order crab this far from Baltimore.
“Truth be told,” Harriet said, “the trout’s better.”
“Trout it is, then,” Gail said. “And creamed asparagus.”
It was Saturday night. Soon Harriet had more tables to wait on. Sophie even noticed a white family nearby, young parents with three noisy children.
Beginning with Cannonballs Page 15
