The Secret Life of Lula Darling

by Alex Dean

  A short while later, Dr. Morton arrived with his carrying case full of medical supplies and numerous tonics used to treat different sicknesses. He was an older man with round-rimmed glasses and a baldhead with patches of white hair around the sides of it. He walked up to the porch to look at Clarence, pulling out an instrument to take his temperature, and another to check his heart, all as Clarence lay there, we thought unconscious.

  Dr. Morton glanced up. “How long has he been down?” he asked.

  “About twenty minutes. They said he was playing in the garden that Martha tends to, spreading that water all over himself, and one of our field hands said they saw him drinking a good amount of it.” Massa Harland then pointed to a supply of water in a barrel that came from the well on the side of the house.

  Dr. Morton pulled out some other instruments to examine Clarence and lifted Clarence’s hand to feel his pulse. Then he gently lowered Clarence’s arm onto the porch and looked up at Massa Harland with a solemn expression.

  “I’m sorry to say, Harland . . . but this here boy is gone. There ain’t no signs of life in him,” he said as he looked back down at Clarence’s lifeless body on the porch.

  Mama, Mrs. Mansfield and me overheard the doctor and came running out of the house crying and screaming. Mama had just lost her son, and me, my little brother. We all got down on our knees, holding Clarence’s body, thinking of how he’d not lived to see much of this life. We were all heartsick. This had happened so soon. Mrs. Mansfield knew the pain of losing a son and for this brief moment shared much in common with Mama. And with the pain of our loss, I knew that life for me and Mama would never be the same.

  * * *

  Several days had passed by as me and Mama tried our best to stay strong, despite the untimely deaths of my father, Luke, and now, Clarence. The very next day, as I walked with Mama carrying a bundle of cotton after working twelve hours in the field, Mrs. Mansfield called me into the big house to talk to me.

  “Lula, come inside for a moment,” she said as she stood in the foyer of the house. Her feet were bare, and she rubbed them together while fanning herself from the heat.

  She extended her arm, put a hand on my shoulder, and in her southern drawl talked to me like a mother would to a child in search of answers.

  “Lula, I know it’s very hard for you to understand. But one day you will. I believe that Clarence is in heaven, and right now, for whatever reason, he was called home to be with the Lord. These things are hard for us to understand, especially a girl your age,” she said, her eyes boring into mine. “But you just have to be strong, press on with your life and know that God does not make mistakes. Anything you need, if you wanna talk or you have any questions, don’t hesitate to come and see me, you hear?”

  I nodded. “Yes ma’am,” I said as I wiped tears from my face.

  Mrs. Mansfield then stood up straight and began fanning herself faster. “Go on back outside on the porch with your mama; I’m sure she’d like to have you by her side during this time of bereavement.”

  I turned away to walk toward the entrance and joined Mama, who was crying as Clarence’s body was being moved to a final resting place.

  I comforted my mother by rubbing her back, which had ached from the constant bending of slave labor. I then turned my head and looked as Mrs. Mansfield stood in the doorway keeping a watchful eye on me and Mama.

  It was a rare display of compassion she’d shown that day. Rarely had she been known for showing emotion, even during the loss of her own child. As me and Mama got up and prepared to walk away, Mrs. Mansfield quickly composed herself, straightened her flower-patterned dress and patted down her parted hair as if to look unfazed and unattached in front of the rest of the slaves and workers on the premises.

  Suddenly Massa Mansfield came to the front of the house to check on her.

  “You all right?” he said, leaning over her shoulder.

  “I’m fine. I just had a talk with Lula,” she said. “I’ll see how dinner’s coming along.” She walked into the kitchen, where several cooks were preparing dinner, and then came back to the doorway to meet her husband.

  Because of some rain here and there, me and Mama were working in the garden instead of the field that day, clearing trash from the yard, but could still hear everything that was said. There had also been rumors that Massa Mansfield was known to lay a hand or two on his wife—not that me or Mama could do anything about it, but we still kept a watchful eye.

  Mrs. Mansfield looked out from the doorway into the field where the slaves usually labored. “We’ve got something special in that child. I can feel it,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, don’t get too attached to her. It just ain’t good business.”

  “Is that all you care about, Harland? Business? They’re still people, for God’s sake, and she’s a little girl at that. Please . . . the least we could do is let ’em have this time to grieve!”

  Sensing the built-up anger in her voice, Massa Harland walked closer to his wife. He let out a breath and put his hands squarely on her shoulders while looking her straight in the eyes.

  “You know, you make a good point, Martha. I’m not going to let the fact that her father was disobedient have any say-so in how I feel about her, or her mother for that matter. I believe that I’m a fair man. But like Daddy always told me, we got to maintain order around here.

  “Speaking of Daddy, I was talking to Dr. Morton for a few minutes before he left, and he told me that Daddy had called him because he wasn’t feeling well. I’m gonna make it a point to go over there tomorrow and check on him. Ever since Mama died, he seems lonely and depressed. I don’t even think he works on his inventions the way he used to. You know, he would always get on me about staying out of his workroom when I was growin’ up. I was one curious child, wanted to get into everything, not much unlike Clarence in that regard.”

  Massa Mansfield came outside and sat on the top step of the porch with his arms folded across his lap, thinking about his life as a child, I imagined. Me and Mama kept doing what we were doing, pretending not to listen.

  I saw him shake his head, then heard him say, “I never really knew what Daddy was working on in that room. He’d always tell Mama and me that we weren’t yet ready for it. And ever since those men from the government came in town to see him, he hasn’t been the same. He just seems upset about something.”

  “Did he ever tell you what he’s upset about?” Mrs. Mansfield asked.

  “No, he’s always been the type of man to keep things penned up inside. I think it’s eating away at him. And with his health obviously deteriorating, I had something that I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “He’s getting up in age, doesn’t have many kinfolk beside us to look after him like he needs. So what would you say about him coming to live with us so that we could keep an eye on him? We’ve got the room here and can sell his house. The funeral home and church on his side of Washington Road been asking if we want to sell, and in my own kind way, I’ve always told them no.”

  Mrs. Mansfield put her arm around her husband’s shoulder. “That’s fine with me, talk to him and see if he’s interested in coming to stay here. But you can’t make him if he doesn’t want to,” she said.

  Chapter 2

  The Next Morning Harland Mansfield made the trip to his father’s house several miles away. Hartley lived in a modest two-story frame residence on a quarter acre of land.

  Harland dismounted his horse and walked past a stand of weeping willow in front of the house, a bed of flowers, crepe myrtle, and a pitcher of sun tea sitting on the porch. He had to knock loudly since his father had become hard of hearing, especially when it came to sound at a distance.

  “Who’s there?” Hartley called out.

  “Daddy, it’s Harland. I wanted to stop by and check on you.”

  Hartley got up from the sofa, put his reading glasses on the mantel in the living room, grabbed his cane and walked on gimpy leg
s to the door to open it.

  He smiled. “I’m glad you done came by, son. Good to see ya, everything all right?”

  Harland stepped inside while his father held the door open. Then he removed his hat and took a seat on the sofa. “Yeah, as well as could be expected, except for the fact that one of our slaves’ son died. You know, Ella Mae, she had a son named Clarence. We don’t know what was wrong with him. Dr. Morton came out and did everything he could, but the boy was already gone.”

  Hartley shook his head. “Why, that’s unfortunate to hear, him being a child and all.” He shuffled over to the sofa and sat down with his son, twirling the cane between his legs. “It kind of reminds me of something the Good Book says: Our life is just like a vapor that appears for a short time, and then vanishes away.”

  Harland looked at his father and nodded.

  “There sure is a lot of sickness going around Natchez. Speaking of sickness, I been meaning to talk to you, son. First and foremost, I want to apologize to you because I ain’t been forthcoming to you lately.”

  “Okay, what’s going on?”

  “Morton came by the other day for my routine visit and gave me a good lookin’ over. After exchanging pleasantries, he pulled out all of his various instruments, checking me out—quite thoroughly, I might add—and told me this ol’ ticker of mine ain’t beating like it should.”

  “Did he say if there’s anything he can do to help? Any medication or such?”

  Hartley shook his head. “He just said we’ll keep an eye on it and talked to me about some additional tests. He also told me it would be good for me to get out and do some walking, stop sitting around in this here place.”

  “I’ve been talking to Martha, and we thought it’d be a good idea for you to come live with us, so we could look after you. It really ain’t no good for you living here alone at your age. We could sell the house. Old Man Finch up there at the funeral home has been asking if we want to sell. If they bought it, I imagine they would use the house for repasts and such. They ain’t got much room up there with just the one property. So what d’ you think, Daddy?”

  Hartley managed a wide grin. “I guess it sounds like a prudent idea, son. Nice of you to wanna help your old man, who, unfortunately, seems to be falling apart.”

  “I’ll arrange everything, Daddy, contact Dale Mullins, the real estate broker. We’ll get it sold and move you right in with us.”

  “What about my contraptions, can I bring those?” Hartley inquired.

  “You sure can. We can put them in the attic. Should have plenty of room up there. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you. What is all that stuff? I mean…what does it do?”

  Hartley stood from the sofa and started walking toward the back of the house. “Come on back here with me, son…. I’ll show you what I’ve been working on. But only on one condition,” Hartley growled as he abruptly stopped and glared sternly at his son.

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “That you don’t tell a soul! And I mean that! This here is some top-secret stuff—and they know it too!”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Those slick gents up there in Washington, D.C. They come here several weeks ago, wanting to talk to me about this here.”

  They both walked into a back room as Hartley removed a cloth dust cover off of what looked like an old dusty box.

  “This here is an invention that I’m scared to use, son.”

  Harland stared at the more-than-six-foot-long apparatus, puzzled. “What’s it do?” he asked.

  “It’s a Transporter. I call it a time traveler machine. I’ve been messing with a type of science that can take matter, through the use of physical inertia and magnetic fields using this here round disk, and transport a living thing to another time and place.”

  “That’s amazing. But how on God’s green earth do you know it works?”

  Hartley smiled. “I took one of the roosters from out back and put him in there, nicknamed him Charlie. I got tired of hearing him squawkin’ every darn morning, so I figured, wouldn’t be any love lost as far as I was concerned, he could be the first to go.”

  Hartley opened the top of the machine to demonstrate. “I set him down, feetfirst just like this, closed the top, inserted this round magnetic disk, fired her up, and about forty seconds later, when I opened the lid—that rooster was gone! I don’t know where the heck he went! Hell, he might be in the future, or he might be in the past for all I know. That’s why I’m scared to use the thing. I ain’t got the slightest inkling how to make him come back.”

  “So those men that came to town, this is what they’re after?” Harland asked.

  “Yes, it is, and I’ve got a patent on it too.”

  Hartley walked over to an old chest, opened the top drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper from an envelope before putting his glasses on. “Look what it says right here: Hartley L. Mansfield, Inventor. It has been determined that a patent on the invention, known as a Chrononautical Transporter, shall be granted under the laws of the United States of America. They came to see that it worked and have been trying to find out more about it ever since. But I haven’t shown them everything!”

  Harland ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I’ll be. No wonder you kept this a secret all this time. And what are those things over there?” he said as he pointed to various apparatus lying on the floor with wires and coils sticking from the sides of each.

  “Oh, those are just some generators I’m working on, trying to see if I can devise a more efficient way of utilizing steam for engines.”

  Harland shrugged. “How did you learn all this stuff?”

  “Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve been interested in science and how things work. I’ve tried to be a forward thinker when it comes to these things. That’s why I wanted you to know about this, the patent, and those slicksters who I think want to take my idea and use it for their own evil purposes.”

  “Well, Daddy, you’ve got my word that Martha and I will keep it a secret, and keep this stuff hidden in the attic.”

  “You’re the first person I’ve told about this, Harland. I don’t mind you telling Martha, but this can’t go any further than that. I don’t trust those out-of-towners no farther than I can see ’em!”

  “You have my word. I’ll come over Friday and help you start packing.”

  Chapter 3

  Hartley Mansfield’s arrival at his son’s house was not a welcome sight. When he had visited on occasion, it was nearly impossible to tolerate him without turmoil erupting in the big house. The slaves, of course, had no foreknowledge that he was coming there to live, and once he had arrived, it was only a few days before tensions began to rise.

  On one particular day, the attention was focused solely on me. I had entered the house looking for Mrs. Martha to begin my weekly reading lesson. During the walk through the hallway, I was met by Mr. Hartley as he was leaving the kitchen.

  He had a long white beard and wore suspenders over a white shirt with pants that looked too short for his height.

  “What’s she doing in here?” he asked one of the maids with a measure of anger in his voice, the like of which I’d never heard.

  The maid shook her head and answered in a nervous manner. “I don’ know, sir, she come in here every week lookin’ for Mrs. Mansfield.”

  He then looked at me sternly and growled, “What are you doing in this house? You needn’t be in here. Get back outside with your mama.” I turned to walk out of the house. Tears welled in my eyes. Not only was Mrs. Martha not around, but going forward I would have to see Mr. Hartley on a daily basis. How awful were the days that lie ahead, I thought.

  I went back outside to be with Mama and the rest of the field hands, who were picking cotton.

  Chapter 4

  It was an overcast day, and Harland Mansfield had returned with the contents of his father’s house. He had to make several trips in his carriage and had several of the field hands help bring his father’s belongings in
to the big house.

  From the living room, Hartley heard the sound of the horses’ hooves rattling the dirt and the carriage’s wheels creaking to a stop. He clomped outside onto the porch and watched as the field hands were summoned around the carriage, first to unload and bring in the furniture, and then to carry the Transporter up the steps.

  The slaves climbed atop the wagon and then pulled the Transporter to the wagon’s edge, lifting it from underneath, one of them on each side.

  “Hey, you be careful with that thing, boy. What’s under that blanket is worth more than all y’all put together,” Hartley scolded as he descended several steps, pointing a crooked finger.

  Two of the field hands struggled under the weight of the Transporter as they started to take it up the steps. Hartley didn’t care for the way they were handling his invention and, against the wishes of his son, he climbed down the rest of the steps onto the ground to give them some assistance.

  Making matters worse was a massive tornado that was moving through parts of Mississippi on its way through downtown Natchez. Any exposure to water would have severely damaged the equipment to the point of it needing repair.

  Harland, holding a wooden chest, moved closer to his father.

  “Daddy, we got a handle on this. Now quit being stubborn. Go on back in the house; you don’t need to be out here doing this type of work.”

  “I just want to grab hold of it. This boy ain’t carrying it right and might mess up my reactors.”

  As Hartley Mansfield went to lift up the back end of his Transporter, he collapsed, crumpling to the ground with the machine falling down on top of his shins. The field hands set the other side down and ran over to see about his condition. Harland quickly put down the chest he’d been holding and ran to see about his father.

  Harland looked up from kneeling over Hartley as he lay gasping for air. “Quick, y’all run and get Dr. Morton here. I think my daddy’s having a heart attack.”