by Alex Dean
Everyone who was inside the big house ran outside to see what all the commotion was about and saw Hartley lying on the ground with his mouth splayed open and his eyes staring straight up at the dark skies above. He clutched his chest and lay there, unable to say a word.
“Morton said he be right here, sir, said to elevate his neck and try to keep him cool,” one of the house servants announced between nervous breaths.
Roughly fifteen minutes later, Dr. Morton arrived, leapt off his horse with medical bag in hand and hurried over to look at Hartley and check his vitals. But it was too late. Mansfield had died of a heart attack. For Morton, the Mansfields, and the rest of the folks here on this plantation, another untimely death such as this one had become too much to bear.
The field hands assisted Morton with wrapping the body in a bag to be prepared for a proper burial.
The Mansfields were devastated.
Funeral services were planned shortly after. Although he had no will, under the authority of the law, all of Hartley’s property legally belonged to his son and daughter-in-law now. His inventions were put in the attic of the house, where no one was allowed. No one other than Harland and his wife had a clue what had really been brought here.
Eventually, things got back to normal. Life as it was on the Mansfield Plantation resumed, until there was a surprise visit several weeks later from some men from Washington, D.C. They had heard about Hartley Mansfield’s passing and wanted to come and talk to his son.
The men arrived in Natchez dressed in custom-tailored suits made of woolen broadcloth with ornate buttons to match. And from the look of discomfort splashed across their faces, it was obvious that they were accustomed neither to the Deep South nor Mississippi’s sweltering heat.
Residents around town as well as those on the Mansfield Plantation stared at them with a bewildered look. They knew that the men were from out of town and, from the way they were dressed, must have been there on some type of official business. All the slaves on the plantation working near the big house whispered to each other as the men walked up the steps and knocked on the wooden door.
One of the house servants came to the door and opened it. She was taken aback by how well dressed these gentlemen were.
“We’re here from the United States Government looking for Mr. Harland Mansfield. Would he be home?”
The house servant nodded. “Yes sir, and who should I say is calling?”
“Please tell him my name is John P. Walker, and this here is my colleague, Mr. Wallace Cromwell. We’re here to talk to Mr. Mansfield on some official business.”
“Okay, let me summon him for you, please wait right here.”
The servant walked to the back of the house, to the bedroom where Harland was having a conversation with his wife.
“Excuse me, sir, there are some men at the front door to see you. They say they got some official business and are here from Washington, D.C.”
Harland looked at his wife and then at the servant. “Tell ’em I’ll be right there.”
He grabbed his housecoat and walked out of the bedroom, down the hall, and toward the front door to greet the men.
“I’m Harland Mansfield, what may I have the honor of doing for you fine gentlemen?”
One of the men flashed his credentials from his billfold. “Sir, my name is John P. Walker, and this here is Wallace Cromwell, and we’re here on official business from Washington, D.C., to talk to you about your father’s invention. May we come in?”
“Sure, why not?”
“First off, we wish to express our sincere condolences, as we were sorry to hear about your father’s passing. He was a brilliant man and a true asset to our country. In case you didn’t know, we were in contact with your father about his invention before he died and wanted to know more about it, and to see if he would be interested in selling the rights to it, along with the patent, to the government.”
Harland cinched the flannel robe he was wearing and shook his head. “Well, gentlemen, I appreciate y’all coming down here to Natchez, and I can understand your interest in my father’s invention, but he made it perfectly clear to me that he was not interested in selling it. He left it to me to preserve it as part of his legacy. And I’m not at liberty to talk to you about it in great detail. Now I’m sorry y’all came down here with false expectations, and hopefully, I didn’t waste your time. But my father was not interested, nor was he willing to turn over his ideas to anybody.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Mansfield, you do understand that this is a potentially dangerous device in your possession. Your father has created something that, if it got into the hands of the wrong people, could possibly cause harm to them and no telling what else. Therefore, if you do not wish to cooperate voluntarily, you leave us with no other choice than to use the full power within the federal government to confiscate that machine.”
“I’ve said what I have to say about the matter. Now, if you fine gentlemen will excuse me, my family and I are preparing for a special occasion.”
Harland courteously escorted the men to the door. As he saw them off the property, he knew that this would not be the end of the matter and somehow he would hear from them again.
Chapter 5
One Monday morning, Mrs. Martha and me were in the middle of our weekly reading lesson when Mr. Mansfield came home unexpectedly early from his twice-weekly run to Natchez’s general store.
I saw the look on her face when she heard him stepping down from his carriage, preparing to walk up the front steps. I imagined she feared that her husband would not approve of my presence in the house.
“You go upstairs to the attic and find yourself a nice hidin’ place,” she said.
Frantically, I ran up the stairs to the second floor and with the help of Sophia, the main house servant (who overheard Mrs. Martha ordering me to the attic), I opened the door to the dusty wooden room, which had previously been off-limits to anyone other than the man and woman of the house.
I could hear Mr. Mansfield talking to his wife through the attic floor and tried my best to stay still. But each time I moved, the wooden planks beneath my feet would slightly creak under pressure.
Then Mr. Mansfield apparently went outside, as his voice could be heard at a distance instructing those coming in from the field where to set their baskets of cotton.
After looking around at the covered items throughout the room, my curiosity grew greatly.
Slowly, I crept around the attic, looking at old furniture and boxes of clothes Mrs. Martha had stored away for the winter. One particular item had caught my attention right away. It was a large box of some kind, covered with a black cloth with the following words printed on its side:
PROPERTY OF HARTLEY MANSFIELD.
I wasn’t sure what those words meant. But because of the labeling on the cover, I knew that something was special about what lay underneath. I tiptoed toward the strange thing and lifted the cover, rubbing my hand across the top. My first thought was that it was some type of fancy coffin. I’d seen coffins before at the few funerals I’d attended, but nothing that looked quite like that one.
The “coffin” had a glowing button with the letters ON, a space for inserting another piece of equipment, and some funny-looking wires sticking out of the bottom, connected to some type of object on the floor. I quickly figured out that the strange round object lying on the floor was supposed to go inside the slot at the end of the box—and picked it up and inserted it.
Boldly, I climbed inside, pushed the button and slowly closed the top. The box started to shake and make strange noises. “Whoa,” I said. My head was spinning, as I lay there motionless, unable to stop whatever was occurring.
I had become completely unconscious, and my body had entered another dimension, swiftly traveling through time and space. But part of my being was still in that room. Maybe it was my soul or spirit that had not yet connected with the rest of my body.
I could hear everyone in the house talking about
the strange noise and how they knew that someone or something was in the attic. Mr. Mansfield, who I heard come back indoors, instructed several of the servants working in the house to look into it further. As the men made their way into the attic toward the vibrating box, its loud buzzing only seemed to get louder. I could see them as they drew close, as they slowly opened its top and pushed the same button to stop it—and saw nothing.
I was gone.
Chapter 6
Chicago, IL Present Day
* * *
I CAME TO lying on a hard surface, my arms reaching outward as sharp pains traveled down my lower back. Slowly, I managed to push myself from the ground to sit upright. Then I adjusted my eyes to wherever this was I’d found myself.
Blinking several times, I tried to tell myself that this was just a dream. Perhaps a dream where Mrs. Mansfield would wake me—with Mama curiously by her side. But the sight of people before me, the colorful wagons with no horses, but with people inside, the likes of which I’d never seen nor heard, told me that this had to be real. The noise and stench from these strange objects were unfamiliar. They stopped momentarily, lined one behind another, then moved forward again.
There were people going to and fro in every direction. Young and old. Negro and other, in wagons, both large and small. Folks all ’round here were dressed oddly, some of them half-naked. Further down there was a row of small and peculiar trees, each sitting neatly upon its own piece of land. And on both sides of this road sat large buildings. Huge and dreadful.
The only thing that seemed familiar in this place was the warmth of the sun as it covered my skin.
I briefly turned my head to see as far as I could, hoping that by some miracle, Natchez would be off in the distance. But what I mostly saw was two people coming toward me. They were drinking from something they held in their hands and talking.
My heart began to beat wildly. Where am I? I thought as I looked around.
I had no idea.
So I gathered my knees close to my body, wrapping my arms around them as a shiver of fear ran over me. Then I scooted backward, my back set up against the side of what looked like some kind of a store or building. Only a few paces from where I sat, people continued past me. Several gave me a merciful glance. But most went on ’bout their business as if I were not even here.
I trembled and wheezed while taking in a large breath of this foul-smelling air. And then, raising my head, I peered into the sunlight—only to see a young girl, a White girl, suddenly staring down at me.
“Are you all right?” she said.
I shook my head. “Where is this?”
She giggled. “This is Chicago. Hyde Park,” she said as she looked around and pointed backward. “Where do you live?”
“Natchez.”
“Where is that?”
“In Mississippi . . . the Mansfield Plantation,” I mumbled, feeling unwell and somewhat hungry.
“How did you get all the way here?”
I shook my head again. “I . . . I don’t remember exactly.”
“Well, I can talk to my parents and maybe we can help you get back home. In the meantime, would you like something to eat?”
“Yes.”
She extended her hand to help me up while staring strangely at my clothes. “My name’s Ariel,” she said. “And yours?”
“Lula.”
I looked at her, the clothes she had on, and noticed that she was dressed unlike anyone I had ever seen before.
“Come on, you can go with me. I’m on my way to Zberry’s. It’s a frozen yogurt place I go to quite often.”
As Ariel talked, I’d blocked out everything she’d said as we moved forward. I was amazed by everything I was seeing in this place.
I had never seen Negroes look this equal to White folk. The way they were dressed and carried themselves was unbelievable. They were free, it seemed.
We walked into the restaurant and were quickly met with stares and snickering as other kids and teenagers gawked, especially at the way I was dressed. Ariel spoke for both of us as I stood there, still looking around in shock, at the look of this place—expecting all Negroes to be herded up any minute and taken away.
As I wondered about this new existence, this unfamiliar place I’d found myself in, I was not surprised that Ariel, a White girl, was willing to help me. I thought about Mrs. Mansfield’s willingness to teach me how to read, and most of all I thought about Mama, and how, hopefully, I would be reunited with her one day. Even if the reunion occurred in heaven after our passing.
The two of us walked outside, holding what Ariel described as “food.” It looked nothing like anything I’d ever eaten. Ariel looked at me and could tell I wasn’t sure I wanted to eat whatever she had bought us.
“It’s okay to eat it, Lula. It’s cake batter frozen yogurt.”
Suddenly Ariel grabbed at something that was making a strange sound. A small silver object. She spoke to it like it was a person as she held it to her ear.
Then she put the object away. “It was my mother calling to see if I was okay. I didn’t tell her that I’d met a new friend. I didn’t want her saying no to me bringing you home to meet my parents.”
“They mind me coming to your house?” I asked.
Ariel shook her head. “Nope. They’re cool like that. My dad’s name is Randy, my mother’s Patty. They were both born and raised here in Chicago. I guess you could say we’re an upper- middle-class family. My dad’s a business executive at one of the top advertising agencies downtown, and my mom’s an administrator for the Chicago Board of Education.”
We walked past small groups of people that stared as we went by. Still, nothing about this place was familiar to me. Not the residents. Not the huge and long wagon going by with people staring out the windows.
We continued past a row of trees on our right, buildings on our left. “This is the condominium complex where my parents and I live,” said Ariel, smiling.
I looked up at the large building Ariel and I now stood in front of. There were so many windows. Between the trees and the size of the building, I could barely see the sun. I followed Ariel inside and then, after a few minutes of walking, stopped and waited behind. I became frightened.
“What’s wrong?” said Ariel. “You’re staring at the elevator like a deer caught in a pair of headlights.”
“I’m scared, ain’t never got in one of those before. What’s it do?”
“It’s an elevator, you’ll be okay. It’s to take us up to our condo. You’ll be okay, I promise.” Ariel grabbed me by the hand and gently pulled me inside. I quickly closed my eyes and put my hands over my face, terrified of the idea of being lifted up in the air.
Once the doors opened, we walked out and down the hallway. Ariel opened the door to her home with her key. She looked worried about what her mother would think, with her bringing home an unexpected visitor.
Her mother began talking as Ariel walked inside. She looked surprised to see me, I knew. A young girl, yet still a complete stranger in her home, and dressed so oddly.
“Who is this?” Ariel’s mother asked.
“This is my friend, Mom. Her name is Lula. I saw her sitting on the sidewalk on Fifty-Third Street, and she told me that she’s lost. She was hungry, so I took her to Zberrys, and then I brought her home to see if we could help her.”
Ariel’s mother swiftly looked me up and down, glancing at the cotton gown I wore and the leather shoes on my feet.
“I’m Patricia Evans, Lula. Everyone calls me Patty. Are you from around here?”
“No, ma’am. I’m from Natchez . . . the Mansfield Plantation.”
Ariel’s mother looked amazed at my response and asked Ariel to come into another room for a private talk. But I could still hear everything that was said. For a brief moment, I thought about heading for the door. Running away to unknown freedom. But the fear of being alone in this unfamiliar setting was enough to make me want to stay. At least for a short while.
“All
right, Ariel, what’s going on here with this girl? Why does she talk and dress that way, and who is she?”
“Mom, I’ve told you. She said she’s lost and she lives in Mississippi.”
Ariel’s mother briefly stuck her head out the door, watching me. Then she closed the door to finish talking. I imagined she worried about what I was capable of doing while left unattended. I imagined she worried about what I might do to them.
“Is she a runaway? Or delusional? Whatever the case, she’s definitely an odd duck. I don’t mean to come across as nasty or judgmental, but this is very strange—and we’re going to get to the bottom of it.”
Ariel and her mother opened the door and walked back into the room where I stood.
“Lula, would you like to use the telephone to call your parents? I’m sure your parents need to know where you are. Are your parents here in Chicago?” Ariel’s mother said.
“No, ma’am, my daddy died, and my mama is in Natchez.”
“What’s your mama’s name?”
“Her name is Ella Mae Darling.”
“So, I take it your name is Lula Darling?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How did you get to Chicago?”
“I ain’t sure. I remember Mrs. Mansfield told me to go in the attic to hide. I got in a box and went to sleep; when I woke up, I was in this here place.”
“Okay, I’m going to do some calling to see if we can locate your mother. Ariel, get my laptop, please. I’m going to Google her mother’s name.”
Ariel’s mother cleared some space off a nearby table, sat down with her device and started to look up information ’bout Mama . . . with not much success.
“Nothing is coming up here. I’ll try directory assistance.”
I stood and waited patiently as she reached for another object and began speaking into it.
“Directory Assistance, city and state?”
“Yes, thank you, Natchez, Mississippi, please?”
