by Darcy Burke
He’d be quite happy to not repeat his Sadie experience.
“I’ll be honest—I have a hard time picturing you with someone like her. The life she leads… I don’t know.” Mom shook her head. “She’s a bit older than you too, isn’t she?”
Five years. Not that she’d told him that. He’d figured it out based on Alaina’s age, which was easily searchable on imdb dot com. “It’s all moot, Mom. We aren’t a ‘thing.’ She’s a nice gal, but we have nothing in common.” Except amazing sex.
She smiled at him. “Does that mean I can go back to trying to set you up?”
He laughed. “Absolutely not.” He turned away from her and went to the table. “Is this the box?”
She joined him and set her cup down on the table. “Yes. I have to admit, I’m a bit nervous to open it up.” She looked at him askance, chewing her lip.
He put his cup down too and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Whatever’s in that box doesn’t define us.”
“I know that.” She sat down. “Let’s get to it.” She pulled the lid off, and Jamie took it from her to place it at the end of the table. He reached into the box and removed all he could while Mom scooted the box out of the way.
Jamie sat down beside her while she separated the contents into two stacks. There were three photo albums. All were black paper and about six inches tall and ten inches wide. The first said “Stowe” in large letters with the dates 1919-1930.
“This is the one I remember,” Mom said, opening the album.
Jamie took one of the others. It had dates scrawled on the bottom of the cover: 1905-1919. He reached for the third—he wanted something dated around the time of the fire. But the last one didn’t have dates, and it was slimmer than the others. Nevertheless, that was the one he chose to open.
Inside was a photograph of a family. There was a couple and five children—two boys and three girls, one of whom was in her mother’s arms. At least he thought it was a girl. Young boys were put in dresses in those days. Beneath the picture, it read 1882. Jamie turned the page and saw two portraits. They were of the couple from the family picture.
“Hey, here’s Redmond and Lavinia Stowe.” Jamie didn’t mention that he was the KKK leader. What had Crystal called him? The Cyclops? Jamie studied the picture as if he could discern whether or not the man was a monster.
The following pages held photos of their children—portraits of them done as babies and a few when they were older, some in groups, and some with animals. One, dated 1891, in particular stood out to Jamie. It was of the three sons—apparently that baby had been a boy—and a large dog. Names were captioned beneath the photo in order of their standing, reading from left to right: Hoyt, Francis, Beau, Turner.
Hoyt was a man by this point. He clasped the end of a rifle, which stood beside him on the ground. He looked a bit sullen, but then no one was smiling in any of these photos. Francis was next to him, a few years younger, maybe in his late teens. Then came Beau the massive dog, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Turner had his hand on Beau’s head. He was much younger than the others and wasn’t smiling either, but there was something about his gaze that was warmer. He looked almost familiar, actually.
“Hey, Mom. Does this kid look like me when I was the same age?”
She leaned over and peered at the photograph, then studied Jamie before going back to the photograph. “Yeah. A lot, actually. That’s kind of spooky.”
And gross. Jamie didn’t want to look like a guy who was in the KKK!
In the middle of the book, he came to a large photograph of a man with his hand on a bible. The caption read: Hoyt sworn in as mayor, 1901.
He turned to a blank page followed by another. And another. Given the patterned fading of the paper, it was obvious there had once been pictures and now they were missing. “Looks like some of the photos were removed.”
Mom glanced over again. “Hmm, yeah. That’s too bad.”
The next page held photos again. His heart raced as he saw the year 1902. It was a single photo of a man next to a horse. He thought it was Redmond Stowe, the patriarch, but it was a bit blurry. He turned the page and the year jumped to 1904. He quickly looked through the last few pages of the book and felt a rush of disappointment. What had he expected to find? A KKK gathering complete with burning cross?
He was glad he hadn’t. But what had been on those blank pages?
Mom finished with her album and slid it over to him. “This one has some blank spots too. Quite a few toward the middle, actually.”
Jamie flipped through it. There were a few photos of Ribbon Ridge interspersed with the family. “We should give this to Kelsey for the exhibit.”
“I’ll do that.” She sighed, opening the third album. “I should’ve remembered I had this sooner.”
Jamie came to the middle section. The first photograph after the blank spots was of a trio of men wearing black armbands. Jamie flipped back, and one of them was the middle Stowe son, Francis. Curious, Jamie turned to the next page but there were no more black armbands.
Mom finished with her album and then picked up the first one Jamie had gone through. He reached for a small stack of papers and shuffled through them. The top one was a commencement notice from Williver College dated 1938.
Jamie set it aside. The next paper was a letter dated December 24, 1923. He started reading:
Dear Mother,
I hope you’ll read this, even if you really do hate me. I’ll say it again: I’m so sorry about Hoyt. I never meant for him to die. But you must know he wasn’t a good person. Just like Father wasn’t a good person. You might argue that I’m not a good person either, but I didn’t seek to cause harm. I sought justice and Hoyt resisted. He and Father, however, intended harm. They caused harm. They murdered a woman in the name of hate and intolerance, and Hoyt was bent on continuing that hatred.
I am very happy with Rose. We have a wonderful family. I am sorry you are not a part of it and that we are still not welcome in Ribbon Ridge.
I hope you had a Merry Christmas. I remain,
Your Loyal and Loving Son,
Turner Stowe
“Mom.” Jamie stared at the faded handwriting. “You should read this.” He set the letter on top of the album she was still looking at.
He watched her as she read. When she finished, she closed her eyes briefly, then shook her head. “We don’t know what this really means.”
“I think we can make a pretty good guess. Don’t you?” He took the letter back and quickly scanned it. “He says Hoyt and Redmond aren’t good guys, that they murdered someone. And the words hate and intolerance are synonymous with the KKK.”
Mom put her face in her hands. “This is terrible.”
Jamie touched her shoulder again. “It is. And we can’t change that.”
She put her hands in her lap. “I know. It’s just… This isn’t who I thought we were.”
“Of course not. And we aren’t those people.”
She looked over at the stack in front of him. “What else did you find?”
“Nothing yet.” He started sifting through it, looking for another letter, or maybe a photograph. Halfway through, he did find another letter, this one dated April 21, 1933.
Dear Lavinia,
I received what you sent, but I haven’t disposed of it yet. I want to make sure that’s what you want. I understand your shame and sadness. I would want to keep the truth buried too. It’s good that you are going to visit Turner and his family. It really doesn’t matter what color they are. Those children have your blood and that’s what matters.
There was more, but it was all about the weather and grandchildren and other topics that didn’t particularly interest Jamie. He scanned down to the end and read:
I’ll only say one more thing on the subject of what you sent. Don’t you think that woman’s family ought to know what happened? Don’t you think they have a right to know their daughter was murdered by the KKK? It’s not my secret to tell, but I don’t think
I could live with that on my conscience. I will continue to pray for you, dear sister.
With love and faithfulness,
Clara
Jamie reread the letter, this time reading every word. He could feel this woman’s empathy but also her judgment. He moved the letter toward his mother and sorted through the rest of his pile. But there were no more letters or anything else of note.
From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother pick up the letter and start reading. Her hand went to her chest and stayed there until the very end when it ascended to her mouth. She shook her head again. With trembling fingers, she set the letter down and looked at him.
“You can’t give these letters to Kelsey. They’re too personal. Too private.”
“But they’re also history.” He recalled that TV show that researched a celebrity’s ancestry and how Ben Affleck didn’t want the fact that his family had owned slaves to become public. “It isn’t right to bury the past.”
She took both letters and folded them in half. “There’s no evidence, save these letters. We don’t really know what happened.”
“There’s another piece of evidence. Some guy from Lane County wrote to Redmond Stowe confirming their plan to burn down the brothel. With torches.”
Mom blinked at him. “Why would the KKK burn down a brothel?”
Jamie still didn’t understand that part, but it was clear that his ancestor, Turner Stowe, had married a woman of color and that he wasn’t a member of the KKK as Jamie had feared. “We should find out about Turner Stowe,” he said quietly. “And Hoyt—particularly how he died. It seems like Turner was somehow involved.”
It took Mom a moment to respond, and when she did, she sounded defeated. “Yes, we should.” She looked at him, her eyes beseeching. “Can we do that before we go about sharing this information? I mean with anyone, including your brothers.”
Hell. Those were the first two people he wanted to tell. Actually, that wasn’t entirely accurate. He imagined Crystal’s reaction. This information could really help her research. Then again, if he had more information, wouldn’t that be better?
Mom’s shoulders suddenly drooped. “How do we find information?”
Jamie wasn’t sure but thought that digging up birth and death certificates on the Stowe family would be a good place to start. “Are there birth and death certificates in any of this stuff?”
“Oh!” She quickly stood. “They’re in the other box. Mom kept them all in a manila envelope. I’ll be right back.”
Jamie stood and stretched. His eye caught something white stuck between the cardboard on the bottom of the box. He pulled it out—an envelope with a Ribbon Ridge address on the front. And a San Francisco return under the name T. Stowe.
“Well, hello,” he murmured. “Now I know where to find you.” And he knew just who he’d ask for help. He had a friend from his undergrad days with a master’s in library sciences—like Kelsey. But he couldn’t ask her, which made him feel bad. He’d make it up to her—and to Crystal—when he had a better, more complete picture.
Mom returned a couple of minutes later with the envelope. They sifted through the stack of legal documents. “I didn’t realize there was so much here,” Mom said.
“Your family was pretty hard-core about saving stuff.”
“Some stuff,” she muttered. “It would be nice to have those missing pictures from the albums—maybe they’d fill in some of the blanks in this horrible story.” She looked over at him, her eyes bright. “And they’re your family. Warts and all.”
Yes, they were.
“Here’s Turner Stowe’s birth certificate.” She handed the paper to Jamie and kept looking.
He wanted the death certificate. Actually, he wanted Hoyt’s death certificate to see how he’d died.
Mom continued going through the certificates, and suddenly, her hand stilled.
“What?” Jamie leaned over and saw that she held Hoyt’s death certificate. He died October 30, 1923 of stab wounds to the chest.
Mom’s jaw dropped as she turned her head to look at Jamie. “He was killed.”
“It certainly looks that way.” He didn’t know if Crystal and her researcher friend had found anything about that, but Jamie meant to look into it. “I’ll add that to my research. See if I can find a newspaper article or something.”
Mom touched his arm, her eyes softening. “Thank you. I don’t mean to be difficult. This is just… It’s a shock.”
“I get it. We’ll figure it out together. But people will have to know at some point.”
She nodded. “I don’t have to like it.”
He pressed his lips together. “Nor do I. Nevertheless, we can’t change the past. All we can do is work to prevent it from happening again.”
9
“Mom, I’m really busy,” Crystal parked her car at Starbucks and turned off the engine but kept the Bluetooth activated so she could finish the phone call.
“You’re always busy,” Mom answered. “You were barely home for Christmas. I just want to know when you’ll be back.”
“I know, and I can’t tell you that right now. Next month maybe?” Crystal knew that wouldn’t happen, but it would put her mother off.
“Maybe for Trent’s birthday?”
Her oldest brother was turning forty. Damn, she should try to make it back for that. “I’ll try to make that work.” She could fly in for the party and leave first thing the next morning. In and out. Easy peasy.
“He’d be thrilled.”
Crystal smiled, shaking her head. Trent wouldn’t give a shit unless she brought him a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. “Okay, I have to run.”
“Crystal, everyone here loves you, you know.”
No, she did not know. In fact, she knew the opposite. There were enough people in Blueville who thought she was lucky her life hadn’t ended up in the shitter. Some of those people were still waiting for her to crash and burn again. Not that she’d ever give them the satisfaction.
“I know you love me, and that’s all that matters. I gotta go. Say hi to Dad for me. Bye!” She disconnected just as Mom said, “Bye, dear.”
Crystal tucked the phone into her purse and jumped out of the car, locking it with the fob as she strode toward the door of Starbucks. A young guy with bleach-blond hair swept into a messy man bun held it open for her.
She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
Ma’am. Her mother was ma’am, along with every other woman over forty in Blueville. Didn’t you have to at least be married to qualify as ma’am? Crystal glanced at her naked ring finger on her left hand. Like that would ever happen. She’d dodged that bullet once and didn’t plan on getting close again.
She scanned the lobby and saw her friend just sitting down at a table. She waved at Crystal, who motioned that she would grab a drink and head over. A few minutes later, tall flat white in hand, Crystal made her way to the table.
“Hey, Kim, thanks for meeting me.”
“We’ve been meaning to get together for ages!” She grinned. “This gave us a much-needed excuse, apparently.”
Crystal chuckled. “Yes, and we need to do it more often. How’s Marcus?”
“Really good.” They spent the next little while catching up.
“So tell me about this project,” Kim said, settling back in her chair and crossing her legs to the side of the table.
A moment’s panic rushed over Crystal. It was silly, but she was suddenly afraid. Or embarrassed. Or nervous. All of the above, actually.
“It’s still in the development stage, and it may suck.” Crystal leaned her elbow on the table. “It probably does suck.”
Kim pursed her lips and gave her an exasperated stare. “Stop that. I’m sure it doesn’t suck.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried anything like this. Alaina seems to think I can write a screenplay. What the hell do I know?”
Kim rolled her eyes. “We’ve been friends a long time. You�
�re one of the savviest people I know when it comes to scripts.”
“That doesn’t mean I can write one.”
“True, but you and I both know that most scripts are edited past the point of recognition from where they started.”
Crystal smiled. “Very true.” She finished the last of her tall white. “I’m nervous about this for another reason. It contains some controversial subject matter.”
Kim uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “Oh, now I really want to hear it! Are we talking Oscar bait?”
“Maybe.” Crystal made a face. “I don’t know!” She took a deep breath. “Let me start at the beginning. Last summer, I started helping a few friends research a small town up in Oregon—where Alaina lives now.”
“Something Ridge, right?”
“Ribbon Ridge, yeah. It was founded in the mid-nineteenth century—it has a great pioneer cemetery. They—my friends—found a brick with the year 1879 and the letters BNR. It was buried near the foundation of a house that was demolished on a vineyard. That house was mid-twentieth century, but the date on the brick didn’t match that. We spent countless hours trying to figure out what BNR meant. Turns out the vineyard was once a farm called the Bird’s Nest Ranch. A young couple owned it, but the husband died, leaving the wife in a bad place. I sort of became obsessed with finding out what happened to her.”
Kim had been listening intently and now cocked her head to the side. “Why’s that?”
Crystal had thought about that and wasn’t sure she had a good answer. “I don’t know exactly. Something about her spoke to me. Maybe because she was an underdog—a woman on her own in the Wild West.” She shrugged. “Anyway, we learned that she turned the farmhouse into a brothel.” Kim widened her eyes, and Crystal nodded toward her. “The brothel burned down in 1902, and Dorinda—that was her name—died.”
Kim sucked in a breath. “That’s terrible.”
“I know. I was pretty upset about it. I’d barely begun to learn about her—I really want to know what led her to open a brothel.”
