The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  I reached for my purse, which I’d placed next to me. “Do you mind if I write some things down? If I see anything?”

  Nana looked at Alma, then to me. “I suppose not. Alma says it’s important that this be told, and I reckon at ninety-one I don’t have much time left on this earth for secret-keeping.”

  I could only blink at her, wondering how that might feel—knowing your time was so short. I pulled my reporter’s pad and a pen from my purse and got to work.

  Within a few short minutes I learned that Alma’s grandmother, Louise, had been thirty-six when she gave birth to Alma’s mother, Valeria, and that Alma herself would be thirty-six on her next birthday—October 6.

  Louise’s father, Louis Rucker, had been born in 1900, in Testament. His mother, Katherine, had also been born in Testament twenty-eight years earlier, in 1872.

  “Not even a decade after the war ended,” I said.

  “That’s right,” Nana said. “And her daddy,” she added, pointing to the page of varying script, “was born a slave.”

  I looked at the date of birth for a baby boy named Abraham. January 22, 1862.

  My vision traveled to the name of Abraham’s mother and I gasped.

  “Marguerite,” I said.

  “Now there’s a story,” Nana said.

  My mouth remained gaped. I turned to the old woman, her hair silvery-white, fine, and perfectly styled. Thin lines etched her face, but not so much as to betray her age. Her eyes, I noticed then, were gray-blue. Shimmering. And her skin, unlike Alma’s, was the color of warm caramel. “Are you—a descendant of Marguerite? The consort of Noah Swann?”

  “Yes’m, I am.”

  “You know about that?” Alma asked.

  “Will showed me . . . the graves.” I placed my hands, palms down, over the names scrawled on the pages. “Does he know about this?”

  “I don’t think so. Can’t imagine why he would. Most folks around here don’t talk about Noah Swann and my four-times great-grandmother.”

  “The Swann family never wanted it talked about,” Nana supplied. “Course, you know, Alma told me all about the graves you found buried on the young man’s land. And, so you know, Marguerite died along with the others.”

  I tried to take that in. Somewhere between 1870 and 1880, nearly a hundred people had seemingly disappeared from Testament. All of them ex-slaves. None of them had been given so much as a proper burial. None except Marguerite. She lay beneath a fine-cut stone. Her name and position in the world recorded as though there had been no shame. Her children had called her . . . blessed.

  “Back in those days,” Nana said, “a woman wanted by a white man had no choice. But, from the stories we have—and the letters we’ve kept hidden all these years that went between Marguerite and Mr. Swann—we know they were very much in love.” She patted my hand. I brought both of mine up to clasp hers.

  “Story goes that when the men who killed those gathering in the field for a political meeting realized Marguerite—Noah Swann’s lover—was among the dead, they panicked. Left all the bodies there for their kin to find. When they did, one of Cap’n Swann’s old slaves ran and got him. They say he fled his home in the dead of night, got to her, and cradled her body like that of a small child. Said over and over, ‘Why did you have to be a part of this? Didn’t I give you everything?’ ” Nana’s eyes filled with tears and they spilled over. “Much as he loved her, he couldn’t really understand what it was like, being a slave. Not wanting to ‘know your place’ all the time, but wanting something more. Wanting the same thing afforded all Americans.”

  I understood. Oh how I understood. I’d never been a slave, of course. But I knew what it meant to “know your place.” I shook my head at my self-centered thoughts. “This is like Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings.” I looked at Alma. “What a story . . .”

  “Nana?” Alma said, raising her voice. “You think it’s time to tell all this?”

  Nana nodded as she squeezed my hand. “I think it’s time.” Her gray-blue eyes found mine. “Maybe Testament can handle the truth now,” she said. “And there’s no telling what white people we’re all related to, now is there?”

  She chuckled and I along with her. But Alma only shook her head. “Lawd, Lawd,” she said. “We’re cooking with gas, now.”

  Alma drove me home at five-thirty, practically speeding through town as though she were late for something. Meanwhile, my own thoughts raced. Thinking about the Jefferson/Hemings controversy. Those who swore by DNA that there had been an affair. Offspring and descendants. Others who claimed the rumors were only that—rumors. Once we released this information, would the same thing happen in Testament? Had I gone on a hunt, flipped a rock to find a rare diamond, only to realize a python held it in its mouth?

  At a traffic light, while waiting for the red light to turn green, I looked at the Walgreens marquee and saw “Homecoming 2014! Go Gamecocks!”

  Homecoming! The dance. I’d forgotten.

  “Looks like I’ll be home alone tonight,” I told her as the light changed. I patted my purse where the reporter’s pad, full of notes, rested. “But I’ve got a lot of research to do.”

  Alma looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “You’d give up the football game and the homecoming dance for a secret over a hundred years old?”

  “Alma, this is history. This is far more important . . .”

  Alma chuckled. “If you say so.”

  William’s truck was parked behind his grandparents’ home when Alma drove past. I expected he’d be inside, probably eating dinner with them or, at the very least, getting ready to go out before the game. Instead, we found him standing at my door, but looking over his shoulder at the sound of Alma’s car.

  He met me at the passenger’s door. “There you are,” he said after opening it and extending a hand to help me out.

  “My crutches are in the back,” I said. I looked at Alma, “Hurry up so you aren’t late. And thank you again.” I patted my purse once more.

  “See ya later, Will,” Alma said. “And you, too, Ashlynne. Think about coming on down to the game and leaving that other for later.”

  But I shook my head. “Not this time. I feel like Woodward and Bernstein.”

  After Alma drove off, Will escorted me to my door. “Gram sent me up to see if you’d like to join us for dinner before we leave. And maybe go to the game?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Not quite two weeks ago I’d had “Sunday dinner” (a phrase I’d learned since being in Testament) with the Deckers, much to Will’s chagrin. But now, here we were, technically only a few days later, and he had asked me to join them.

  I pointed to the front door with my thumb. “I was just going to have a sandwich,” I said. “Sit down with my notes from Alma’s grandmother.”

  Will leaned against the opposite side of the doorframe. “What’d you find out?”

  I crossed my arms. “I’d rather work a little more before I share, if you don’t mind.”

  His brow furrowed and he cocked his chin to the left. “Keeping things from your boss?”

  I nodded but grinned to lessen the effect. “For now.”

  He stared, long and hard, then a smile came to his eyes. “Well, you can at least join us for dinner. Gram’s made my favorite.”

  I pointed to my chin as though I were pondering my options. “Which is?”

  “Ham. Mashed potatoes. Sweet peas and corn bread.”

  Grimacing, I said, “Doesn’t sound healthy.”

  “But it sounds good, doesn’t it?” He shrugged. “And then maybe I can talk you into coming to the game and the dance. You don’t have to cut a rug, you know. Just go . . . with me.”

  I shook my head. “As enticing as that sounds, my ankle is starting to throb big-time and I really, really want to work right now. Please tell your grandmother ‘Thank you’ and, if I can have a rain check for next week, that would be wonderful.”

  “Well,” he said, putting his hands on his hips and looking arou
nd the landscape, “I can’t say as I blame you. Personally, I don’t like going to these things as much as I used to.”

  “The game or the dance?”

  “Oh no. The dance. I’ll always love the game.”

  I punched in the key code. “Spoken like a true . . . what’s that thing y’all are called?”

  Will shrugged.

  “I heard it in one of the songs on your radio. The one with the line that I also heard the cheerleaders chanting in one of their cheers.” I snapped my fingers. “Something about chewing tobacco . . .”

  Will laughed as remembrance swept over him. “A redneck?”

  “Yes.” I snapped my fingers again, proud of myself for remembering, much less knowing the word. “Spoken like a true redneck.”

  He chuckled. “Well, all right. Go do what you do.” He started to step away, turned again and said, “Can I call you when I get home?”

  I looked at my feet, then back up to the warmth of his eyes. “If it’s not too late. I’m pretty whipped.”

  He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Get some rest. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  He walked away, leaving me alone with a sigh and my thoughts.

  William Decker would be aghast at what I knew. Not because of the details—Marguerite and Noah Swann—but because the story would cause scandal in his small town.

  And William Decker didn’t like scandal. Especially not the kind I knew was about to hit town.

  There was more, of course. That “one other thing” that hounded me constantly.

  I pushed the door open and entered the cool sanctuary of my home.

  I had one more call to make. And if I thought Will would be upset about Noah Swann’s “other” descendants, this would really set him off.

  35

  Once inside, I placed some ice in a ziplock bag, sat on one end of the sofa, and propped my foot on pillows at the other end.

  Then I called Brianna. “Here’s the way it goes,” I told her. “You and I are going to have to do this alone.”

  “I thought we were going to do this together.”

  “What I mean is, I have tried more than once to talk to Will about this and it’s been a no-go every time.”

  “Got it. Um . . . I want to know more, but Rob will be here soon.” I could almost hear the wide grin. “We’re going to the game together.”

  What a difference a week makes.

  “I won’t keep you, then. But . . . Bri . . . promise you won’t say anything to anyone until we know more about all this. Until I’ve had time to gather more . . . facts.”

  “Oh don’t you worry none. I’m not saying a word.”

  “Not even to Rob.”

  “Especially not Rob. I don’t want him to think I’m the kind of girl who snoops in other people’s stuff.”

  I squeezed my eyes until the burning behind them eased. “Yeah. I know what you mean.” My cell phone beeped. I looked at the caller ID, then brought the phone back to my ear. “Bri,” I said quickly, “Will is on the other line. I’m going with you on Tuesday to the Flannerys’. We’ll take care of all this then.”

  “Okay.”

  “Have fun tonight . . .” I clicked to the other line. “Will?”

  “Hey. Just a thought. Tomorrow morning I’m taking school supplies to some less-fortunate kids. It’s a thing I do—”

  “Yes, I know. I—um—Rob told me about it.”

  “Ah. Well. Would you like to go along? Afterward we’ll catch lunch and maybe by then you’ll want to share more about what you know.”

  “About?” I asked, hoping to avoid the topic altogether.

  “The graves.”

  I thought so. And I doubted I’d want to share. Yet. But, if nothing else, I could see the work Will did as a good story for the magazine. “Sounds great. What time?”

  “I’ll pick you up at nine.”

  “See you then.” I started to hang up but heard Will’s voice. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “I said,” he said with a chuckle, “dress casual.”

  Cute.

  I took a hot shower, ate a sandwich, and then sat on the sofa with my computer linked to Ancestry.com. My plan had been to work on the story for only an hour. But more than three hours later, I forced myself to click off of the website and carefully climb the stairs for bed.

  I’d already fallen asleep when Will sent a text: 2 lte 2 call. I’m dog tired. C u in the a.m.

  I looked at the time stamp above the text—it was after midnight. I returned with: ditto that.

  The next morning, shortly after nine, Will and I arrived at the parking lot of the elementary school—the same one where he’d verbally assaulted me. The bed of his pickup had been stocked with shopping bags full of school supplies. In the center of the parking lot stood an old school bus bearing a long banner with “Testament School Supply Center” printed in large primary colors.

  I clapped my hands. “This is great,” I said. I looked at Will, who smiled at me. “You’re wonderful to do this.”

  “Just giving back to a community that’s always been good to me.”

  “Is that why you do the work at the museum, too?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Knowledge is everything.”

  The line caused my brow to rise. “I always say ‘Knowledge is power.’ ”

  “Then we’re practically switched at birth.” He winked, then continued, “I want the children of Testament to get that if nothing else. Feed their natural desire to learn and you’ll plant seeds they’ll glean from for years to come.”

  I pretended to take notes in the palm of my hand. “May I quote you, Mr. Decker?”

  He squared his shoulders playfully. “Please do, Miss Rothschild.”

  “Because I’m thinking this will be a great story for Guns & Teacups.” If the magazine ever went to print. Deep down, I knew, once I revealed what I’d discovered about the graves, there might not be a magazine. My job might be shadowing Will Decker for the remainder of the twenty-three weeks and six days.

  “I think you’re right,” Will said as he parked the truck near the bus. He chuckled. “Guns and Teacups. Great-granny, girl.”

  When the engine shut off, a man I thought I recognized—broad- shouldered and stocky—stepped from the inside of the bus. “Who is that?”

  “Coach Meriwether. You saw him at the game—he’s the football coach. And he’s instrumental in all this. Kids love him. He plays games with them in the parking lot while their mothers and fathers come inside the bus, redeem their vouchers, and ‘buy’ what they otherwise couldn’t afford.”

  “That was your idea, wasn’t it? Having the coach play with the kids.”

  He shut the engine off. “Actually, Big Guy’s. He and Coach go way back, but I totally agreed to it. As important as their minds are, so are their bodies. We have way too many kids with weight issues. Kids shouldn’t have weight issues.”

  “Too much or too little.”

  He opened his door. “What do you mean?”

  I opened mine.

  “Wait up,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  I waved at the coach as Will let down the tailgate, calling out, “Got a lot to unload,” to Coach Meriwether. The coach nodded, waved back to me, and then half jogged to us.

  My door swung open. “I still say you should have brought your crutches.”

  “As long as I keep my ankle supported with these hiking boots, and try not to overdo, I think I’ll be fine.” He closed my door after I’d hobbled ever so slightly on the pavement. “And what I meant was, when I was in high school, there was a tendency for girls to try too hard to stay skinny.”

  “Ah. Think you can carry a sack or two to the bus?” He pulled two plastic sacks from the bed.

  I held out my hands. “Ashlynne Rothschild, reporting for duty, sir.”

  Five trips later, we’d filled the bus seats with merchandise, had orange cones set in the parking lot for activities, and Coach Meriwether and I had been formally introduce
d.

  “This is a good thing you’re doing,” I said to him as Will made a final trip to the truck.

  “Mostly Will there,” he answered, adjusting the waistband of his sport shorts. “He’s a good man.”

  I smiled, watching Will as he sauntered back, carrying a small wicker basket. “He is that.”

  Will raised the basket. “For the vouchers,” he said, answering the question my eyes must have held. He looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes to spare. Rob should be here soon.”

  “Rob?” I wondered if Brianna would be with him. And, if she were, if we could possibly not look at one another with any telltale signs in our eyes.

  “Yeah. He volunteers. A few others. When the parents or guardians come in, we’re there to answer any questions they might have. Then, they come up to the front of the bus and pay the bus driver.”

  “Who is the bus driver?”

  Will grinned. “That’d be me.”

  Coach Meriwether looked past us. “Here comes someone.” He clapped his hands as coaches do.

  “Rob,” Will said. We stood waiting for the Prius to park next to the truck, then Will smiled at me. “And look who he has with him.”

  I tried to smile, though my heart quickened.

  Brianna.

  When the bus had been “bought out” and all the children, their parents, and the volunteers had left—with the exception of Rob, Brianna, Will, and me—Brianna and I started for where Will and Rob had moved their cars out of the way.

  “You aren’t working today?” I asked.

  “No. Sometimes I figure in a day off while Maris is with her daddy. Lets me get some things done I need to do or that I’d like to do.” She smiled at Rob.

  “You haven’t said anything, have you?” I whispered. “To Rob?”

  “Uh-uh. I said I wouldn’t and I haven’t.”

  “Good,” I said. “We’ll talk more about it later.”

  We arrived at the truck. “ ’Kay,” Brianna said, her voice remaining low.

  When we were in route back to the cottage, I said to Will, “Isn’t it funny how things work out?”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, if Rob hadn’t found the graves, you and I wouldn’t have gone out there. And, if we hadn’t, Rob and I wouldn’t have talked. Wouldn’t have become friends. And, if you and I hadn’t gone to the café that day, I wouldn’t have met Bri, I wouldn’t have told her I’d show her the ropes about makeup and facial care—”