Dear Reader:
We first introduced Ruth P. Watson with her debut novel, Blackberry Days of Summer, which conjures up images of The Color Purple. Now she returns with her poignant sequel, An Elderberry Fall, historical fiction set in the 1920s.
Carrie Parker, newly married to Simon, has moved to Richmond, Virginia, in contrast to her rural roots of Jefferson County. There she experiences motherhood with her son, Robert, while pursuing her dreams of becoming a teacher. Simon travels throughout the country playing baseball on colored teams aspiring to climb the ranks in the beloved sport. Carrie also finds her flirtatious neighbor, Nadine, a challenge as she adjusts to city life.
Mystery continues to surround the murder of Herman Camm, her stepfather, in this whodunit. Then suspense arises again when Willie, the husband of popular nightclub singer, Ms. Pearl, is shot and killed.
The novel is a tale of discovery, doubt and deceit written with the flavor of a bygone era. Follow the appealing cast of characters, and if you haven’t read Blackberry Days of Summer, find out how it all starts with the excerpt included.
Thanks also for supporting the authors under Strebor Books. We truly appreciate the love. For more information on our titles, please visit simonandschuster.com.
Blessings,
Publisher
Strebor Books
www.simonandschuster.com
This novel is dedicated to the dreamers. It can be done. Stay faithful, my friends!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“To God be the glory for the things he has done.”
To all of my ancestors who’ve paved the way for me to live free, I thank you.
To the readers who purchased Blackberry Days of Summer and enjoyed it enough to request another book, I thank you.
To my future readers, I thank you.
My family and friends mean the world to me. I thank you for the love and support. And, to the book clubs and readers who were curious enough to crack open my book, your support is reason to keep writing.
Relax now and enjoy An Elderberry Fall.
Prologue
“A Colored Man Found Dead” was written in tall letters on the front page of the Clinch Valley newspaper. The Richmond Planet also mentioned the murder. “His frostbitten purple lips kissed the cold ground while the frigid wind whistled a solemn lullaby through the barren trees.”
In the article about his murder, the condition of the body was described in vivid detail. “Sticky blood splattered all around his lifeless body. His dark beady eyes were wide open and staring straight ahead. The undertaker put a copper penny over his eyelids to keep them closed.”
The news had the entire damn community reacting. The Baptist preacher was especially concerned; another soul had gone before he could lay hands on him and make the call to the Almighty to save his sinning soul. The rumors had been spawned. It had ignited a sick excitement of concern about Herman Camm’s earthly departure. Everybody was talking. But, I didn’t utter a word. I’d learned how to bury my feelings. The news of his death brought with it a certain air of peace, and for the first time in over a year, I felt relieved in the midst of confusion. As a wave of fear replaced the rattled nerves of the small farm community, the men folks checked their guns for ammunition, and others polished and sharpened their weapons. As they searched their minds for whomever his killer could be, they rolled their eyes and gazed at each other, afraid they might be in the company of a real criminal. There was no pity in my heart for Herman Camm. I was somewhat relieved, even glad, but not gloating. Cheering was a sin. It was definitely my signal to leave town. Simon’s letter arrived right on time.
“This is for you,” Momma said, and handed me the letter, folded, as if she was trying to hide it. I had been praying for a way out and when I read his note, I cried for joy, borrowed a suitcase from Aunt Ginny and headed to the train station.
Chapter 1
On February 4th, 1921, I gulped a breath of fresh air before I took the last step down the train steps onto solid ground. The brisk wind caressed my skin, and alerted me to a new reality. “So this is Richmond, Virginia,” I said to myself, gazing around at the cobblestone sidewalks and cars. My six-month-old son, Robert, had his head resting on my shoulder as I struggled with my overloaded suitcase, straining every muscle in my body, but I could not have cared less. Who would have believed a young girl like me would be here—in the big city, with streetcars and tall buildings and with colored people strutting around in fine, fashionable outfits, like the kind white folk wore in Jefferson County on special occasions? The coloreds appeared proud, like they owned the town. It felt good, and I fought to slow my heart down from the rush of anxiety. It was certainly different here. Most of the folks I knew probably thought I would live forever in Jefferson County amongst the sour memories and shame from the child I bore out of wedlock. But I was not so ready to stay there. When Simon asked me to come to Richmond, Virginia, my real transformation began.
• • •
My child, Robert, is beautiful. He is almost flawless. Each day I study the ridges around his little fingers, waiting to see if his tan color and fine features and that innocent, charismatic smile will remain. He favors me for the most part. However, there are times when his eyes seem dark and mysterious, and it sends chills throughout my body.
Robert, Simon and I live in a small apartment on the west side of Richmond—Jackson Heights, they call it. It’s the colored section of town. It is a fine neighborhood, with shrubbery and flowers planted tastefully in front of well kept tenement houses and single-family row homes. Our place is a small, brick, two-story house with a cast-iron fence around it. Alongside the yard is an elderberry bush, which reminds me of the sweet jam Momma made in the fall. Most of the neighborhood residents are colored and oblivious to the surrounding communities. Everything seems to be within walking distance—the grocer, tailor, the cobbler, and the feed and seed store. The corner store has everything we need. Farmers are unloading crates of vegetables every day, and hanging inside are hams, and there is a meat counter where slices of select meat can be packaged. It is well stocked, and I am overwhelmed that I no longer have to work in a field with the hot sun beaming down on me. Simon has a rooster and two hens in the backyard, mainly for eggs. But, I can imagine them on the table stuffed with cornbread dressing.
We share our backyard with a couple downstairs. They are on the front porch every day sitting in a porch swing with wide smiles swept across their faces as if the stresses of life had floated past them even though they are different from others in the neighborhood. Most people stare transfixed by their difference. The lady is white, very pale, and the man is colored. Most feel their living together is a disgrace to everyone around them. It is alright with me because they seem happy. And from where I come from, happiness is the center of life and satisfaction. The man is tall and very dark, almost as dark as a midnight sky. He is clean, somewhat handsome and solid in build. She is a petite lady of normal height, a brunette, with barely any frown lines or wrinkles and sky-blue eyes. The Halls are at least sixty years old, but they don’t look it. Directly across the street from us is another strange, but beautiful couple. The man is rugged in appearance like most railroad workers. He has long lashes like those of a woman, thick bushy hair and flawless caramel skin. Though handsome, he is never well-groomed. His wife is also attractive. She is dark chocolate with a lot of hair that falls to her shoulders, and bounces as she walks; her pouty lips are the kind the old people swear are sexy. Those neighbors have two children. Simon and I are getting used to the newness of city life, the sounds of the streetcars, the pinging of the church clock, and the whispers of voices walking down the street. On steamy summer nights, the neighborhood seems to explode. Vague voices and outbursts of
laughter are heard from blocks away. It’s a jovial place. The sounds of crickets chirping are drowned out by the hissing of the steam shooting out of the trains and streetcars starting and stopping along its route through town. The action is hypnotic. I find myself loathing going to sleep, because I relish the sounds of city life so much. It is invigorating.
I can’t help wondering about Momma and her life in a world shadowed with trees. She is alone now, with painful memories about a time all of us would love to forget. But, somehow the past always come back to you in some form. Carl, my brother, is still in Jefferson County, and yards away from my mother. He is just like my papa, strong-willed and no-nonsense. He is the strength she needs right now. When Camm was murdered, I’d waited for her to lose it all—break down in tears—but instead her face appeared less tense, relaxed. Just like for me, a burden had been lifted from my mother’s shoulders.
Simon is all I need right now. He is such a handsome man, physically and mentally strong. He is truly mine in every form, something I never thought would happen; and I adore ever inch of his being. I quiver sometimes just thinking about how complete he makes me feel. “Oh, Lawd, is this right?” I say to myself, and feel warm chills travel over my skin. He says he loves me, and acts like it, too. He is so attentive to me and Robert. Along with most women we are around, the lady across the street is always staring at my husband. I smile shyly at her, knowing she’d better stay in her place, because he has chosen me.
Chapter 2
“You ought to leave that precious little boy right here with me,” Mrs. Hall said to me, with a proper Northern accent, early one morning as she sat on her front porch. I was on my way to the corner store. Robert was straddling my hip with his bottle in his hand and his head heavy on my shoulder. He was attached to his bottle. I had tried breastfeeding him, but my nipples became sore and blistered. My Aunt Ginny told me to rub some camphor on them, but I hated it and the bottle was convenient, except for the cost of the cow’s milk.
“Mrs. Hall, he is always on the go. I don’t want to burden you with a baby.”
She stared at me, puzzled, “What are neighbors for, then?” I liked what she said, so I smiled. She fixated her sky-blue eyes on Robert, and he lifted his head and smiled cheerfully.
Her husband, who was rocking in the chair beside her, egged her on without hesitation. “That’s right” he mumbled, “we don’t mind; we love children.”
Robert is a thick child, unlike his father, who was puny compared to my Simon, who is athletically built and over six feet tall. Robert’s hands are chunky and his arms thick, with folds on them. His teeth are coming in and he is gumming on his fists and everything else he can put into his mouth. He is a heavy child, and full of energy, bouncing around in my arms without a care. His jovial little smile can charm the best of them. Every time I take him out, women are often complimenting him on his beauty, and in return, a smile spreads across his chunky little face.
Before I could answer, Mrs. Hall reached out for Robert, who, without hesitation, threw up his tiny arms for her to take him. She pulled him out of my arms and Robert stared into her eyes as if he was hypnotized. And afterward, he snuggled his head into her breast. I never thought he would take to someone so easily, but he liked her from the moment we met them. I stood waiting for my child to come back into my arms, but he appeared comfortable in Mrs. Hall’s pale, thin arms. I felt relief when she held Robert. Dragging him with me wherever I went was wearing me and him out. Simon rushing off again to play with the Negro League had me perplexed. The assumption that it was okay bothered me. What could I say? I needed him more than ever. As I walked the three blocks down the street, I couldn’t help but wonder about my life. Teaching was the only current running through my head, and that was the only thing I intended on doing.
The walk to the corner was what I needed, the air still and sweet with the scent of fading honeysuckle and lilacs. The morning sunlight hovered above my head, filling me with warmth. The street was empty and quiet. As I passed one house, the aroma of fatback seeped into the streets. However, I was the only person walking down the street so early in the morning. I had remained loyal to Mama’s efforts to get up early. “Peoples get more done in the mo’ning,” she’d say. The merchant on the corner was also a daybreak riser; he opened his doors every morning at seven on the dot. He was a short, bald, colored man, who always wore a butcher’s apron. He greeted me as soon as I stepped in the door.
“Good morning, young lady. I see you know the early bird catches the worm.” It was a phrase I’d heard him say every time I came before the normal crowd. I wasn’t sure if I was getting any special care, but I knew the produce was always fresh.
“Yes, sir, “I answered.
“What can I get for you?” He was always pleasant, and treated everyone well. Already shopping was the couple across the street, Nadine and Jessie, holding a package of wrapped cheese with 5 cents written on it. Their children probably were still snuggled under their bedcovers, unlike my Robert who woke up with the sun. As I thought about him, I hoped he was not giving Mrs. Hall too much trouble. The store was well stocked. It had everything from eggs to hams, and in the very back of the store were a washing machine, tin tubs, and two potbelly cast-iron stoves. On my shopping list was butter, cheese, souse meat, coffee and saltine crackers. I don’t have to worry about milk as the milkman delivers milk twice a week.
I gathered my things and handed the merchant two dollars to pay. He nodded to say it was right, and then I picked up my merchandise and headed through the door. I walked briskly back to the apartment house, right past two ladies chatting in the middle of the cobblestone sidewalk, without speaking to them, concerned my baby was in need of me. When I got to the porch, Robert was lying on Mrs. Hall’s petite chest. He saw me and smiled. “He was no trouble at all. We never had children and it was a delight looking after him. I know you are alone most of the time, so if you need some help with him, let us know,” Mrs. Hall said, patting Robert on the back.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered and waited for Robert to acknowledge my opened arms and reach for me. I thanked them and took him up the steps to our apartment. Mr. Hall grabbed my groceries from the steps and followed me up the stairs to my apartment. “Thank you, Mr. Hall,” I said and he put the items on the table and left.
It was Friday. The weekend was about to begin, and I couldn’t wait for the man I married to return home. The Colored League was busy these days, and Simon was gone most weekends. Within six months, Simon had bounced from team to team. He spent a month with the Washington Patriots, and now he was playing with an independent team over in the Blue Ridge Mountains. He was yearning for the opportunity to play against Pete Hill, of the Detroit Stars, who hit more runs last year than Babe Ruth, because the colored boys play longer games. He loved living out of a suitcase. He usually came home during the week, but the team gave them a weekend a month to spend with the family.
We got married the first week I arrived in Richmond. On Wednesday while the sun was high we went to the courthouse and got a marriage license and the gospel preacher around the corner scolded us about love and then married us in his parlor—his wife the witness. “Marriage ain’t no game. It is real and serious. Y’all need to know this before I marry y’all,” he said.
“We understand, Reverend,” Simon answered and I nodded. I had on the same mundane tan dress I’d worn to church many times before. The only special thing about our wedding was our love. One day we plan on doing it the right way, in front of all the people we admire and respect. I plan on wearing a gown, too—a white one. White is for anybody who wears it, Ginny told me. But, most folks in Jefferson County had memories like elephants. They felt virgins were only entitled to white. I knew better, since they all had skeletons in their closets, and nobody had enough white to cover those skeletons up.
The clock on the kitchen wall read six o’clock. I had glanced at it so many times; the time seemed to stand still. Simon should be walking in the door at any t
ime, I thought, turning over the salt fish frying in the cast-iron frying pan. Simon loves salted fish, and I had soaked it all night, making sure everything was ready for his homecoming. The aroma was irritating. I cracked open the kitchen window, so the fumes and scent would escape before sticking to my clothes. The fried apples and potatoes were already done and warming in the oven. And Robert was scooting around on the floor, his bright eyes wide open, smiling as if he knew Daddy was on his way. The apartment was clean. I had scrubbed the floors that afternoon and finished folding the clothes. Everything was in place. The ice-cold lemonade was in the ice box, and the pudding cake I’d baked early that morning was ready for dessert.
A frown of worry rippled across my face at the mere thought of Simon traveling with the baseball league. I worried about where he would eat and lay down his head at night. Colored boys had to stay in the homes of the volunteers in the community. I worried because the white man was mighty bitter about the Emancipation Proclamation and would forever hold a grudge. We just wanted what they enjoyed, acceptance.
Robert was now sitting on the floor waving his little arms for me to pick him up. He was such a happy little child and I hoped that never changed. I bent down to pick him up just as the front door sprang wide open. “I made it,” Simon said, smiling from ear to ear.
Robert heard his daddy’s voice and almost jumped out of my arms toward Simon.
“Hi, Honey. We have been waiting all day for you to get home,” I said, grinning from ear to ear.
“I know you have,” he said, as he put his arms around me and little Robert, squeezing us so close we could feel each other’s heart beat.
Simon is gorgeous and tall, a muscular man with beautiful, almond-shaped eyes that compel you to stare and gaze directly into them as if they are magnets. I can’t help staring, not because I want to, but because I’m compelled to each and every time I see him.
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