The Sea Keeper's Daughters

by Lisa Wingate

  She stops, tucks her hands into her apron, squints against the sun to see me. “That’s what my granny said ’bout them keeper women. They was Melungeons, but not all them Melungeons was sea keepers, and that’s how it were. There’s lots a old tales round here, though. Cain’t tell ya all of ’em. All the old ways.”

  I know it is true. We could sit together for days, weeks, months. We could, indeed, watch the seasons change and the winter come, and still I would not hear all that Ida Mullins knows of this rough upland country. I must settle for what little I can learn today, the minutiae I can capture with paper and pen.

  “Can you tell me if there were others who knew stories about this place?”

  The trees overhead shudder and Ida looks up as if she’s hearing their voices. A breath fills her, and I know another story is coming. I feel it brushing over me, like the change in breeze that portends a storm. My heart quickens with anticipation.

  “Reckon I might could,” she says and laughs into the wind. “Reckon I sure ’nuf might.”

  Overhead, the trees go silent, listening too… .

  Letting the bundle rest against the suitcase, I lifted the corner of the paper without untying the twine binding. “This is incredible.” A sense of wonder and joy filled me, overwhelmed me, pressed tears into my throat. Alice’s stories had survived. After all this time, they could still be told.

  I set down the packet, picked up another, began reading.

  PROJECT #1735

  ALICE LORRING

  LA BELLE, NC

  JUNE 21, 1936

  La Belle School for Children of Melungeon Blood

  Subject: R. A. Camp (Alias of Randolph Champlain. Name to be withheld by request of interviewee).

  His skin is leathery and worn, as folded and lined as the bed of a mountain stream. Its characteristics have been shaped by time, experience, and the brushing past of other lives. Thick, silver-white curls neatly adorn his head, yet his eyes are stark, piercing blue, quick and acute. Even now, well into his sixties, R. A. Camp is a strong figure as he stands beside me on the slope, watching the children cavort in the playground below.

  His wife, Sarra, is among the children, directing them in a game of Hen and Chicks. Thick, gray-dusted dark curls are piled atop her head, otherwise she could quickly be mistaken as one of the children. They are easy with her, and comfortable. She is of their own Melungeon blood. She was, her husband tells me, an orphan herself by the age of fifteen, given into the hands of reprehensible men at a trading post after the death of her Cherokee grandmother.

  R. A. was the one to rescue her. They have now been married for forty-six years.

  R. A. is a learned and cultured man. He begins our interview by politely asking that I not use his birth name in this narrative, as his family can be counted among fine Southern folk. Even after these many years, his marriage to Sarra is considered a blot on the family name, unforgivable by some, and illegal in the view of others. Formally educated in his youth, and self-educated in his adulthood, he recognizes the value of learning for these children, and for all children of the mountains. He and Sarra have long advocated for the well-being of workers in mill towns and coal settlements. They have fought for new laws that would prohibit the employment of youngsters at the helms of machinery and in other dangerous tasks.

  “Here in the mountains,” he says, “it is not an uncommon thing to find children as young as six or seven working ten hours per day in the mills. There’s much to change yet.” He speaks as if he intends to live a long while, but I have been told that he suffers from a slowly degenerating heart. There is no treatment for it.

  Sarra attempts to heal him in the old ways, with roots and herbs, but even she feels the numbering of their days together. She is protective of him.

  “For years, I helped to build those mill towns, but when I traveled to them later, the conditions I saw were akin to slavery. It sickened me, and Sarra as well. In places, we saw orphans kept as veritable chattel, either by mill companies, mining brothels, or adopted into families who used them cruelly. There were so few safe havens for unwanted children, and in particular those of mixed blood. Neither the coloreds nor the whites nor the Cherokee were warm to the Melungeon children. It was Sarra who concocted the idea for the school… .”

  I stopped at the end of the page, took in the suitcase with a sense of awe. This small container wasn’t only the hiding place for one life, but for many. I wanted to open each bundle, to read every story, but these manuscripts deserved careful handling. It shouldn’t be done at the bottom of the stairs with dust, grease, and equipment scattered around.

  “It was here all along.” I looked at Mark, but he was engrossed in something he’d pulled from the suitcase. A letter.

  He offered me the first page, shook his head, his mouth a grim line that made me pause with my hand in the air, think twice about accepting it. Finally, I did.

  The handwriting was thick and angular, pressed hard into the page. It wasn’t Alice’s.

  I glanced at Mark.

  “It’s from Thomas.” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. Dread clenched inside me. I prepared myself for something, but I didn’t know what.

  Dear Mrs. Benoit,

  It’s with a heavy heart that I send you Alice’s belongings, which my father retrieved some time ago from the La Belle Orphan School, along with my own cases and the FWP equipment. I realize that you and I did not get on well during those tumultuous weeks at the hospital in Asheville, and that you wished no further communications from me. Yet I simply do not know what else to do with Alice’s things. You should be finding a shipment of three pieces, two large suitcases with a smaller one. As soon as I have the money for it and know that you have received these items, I will send along a fourth item, a small wooden chest.

  To be honest, I can’t look at them any longer. I know you have your burdens as well, but a body and soul can only bear so much. I’ve left the FWP and returned home to my parents’ farm in Tennessee to heal the shattered leg, and in hopes that time and familiar places may in some way mend a shattered soul.

  Even here, I’m reminded that I had dreamed of bringing Alice, Emmaline, and the child we’d planned to raise together to meet my family one day. I still struggle to believe that they will never lay eyes on this place. It may be difficult for you to hear, but I loved your sister to the depths of my soul, and in spite of the difference in our situations, she loved me in return. I don’t know if life will ever hold so dear and tender a connection for me again. I fail to see how it could… .

  Mark handed me the last two pages, then leaned on his hand, stared at the wall, and sighed.

  I turned back to the paper.

  I respect your family’s request not to have me at the funerals and to conceal Alice’s employment with the WPA. I suppose in your position, it’s a matter of reputation, not wishing it known that a member of the family was on government relief. Let me assure you, though, that Alice was devoted to the work of the Federal Writers’ Project and very proud of it. She had fallen deeply for the mountain country and its people. She wanted to do well for them.

  I implore you, if her works are edited out of the final volumes approved by the state and national offices, if politics and prejudice do prevent their publication (as is sadly becoming common, given growing accusations of Communist sympathies inside The Project), please publish her writings in some other way. Alice wanted to see that those stories were told. Possibly they could be printed under the pen name she’d selected for the manuscript she was so feverishly trying to finish in those last glorious weeks before our tragedy.

  To cover our prescribed tour route during that time, we’d been fanning out from the orphanage, but returning each day or two, so that Alice could continue to write the story of Randolph Champlain and Sarra, his Melungeon wife. It was Alice’s intention, before ever seeing the piece published, to alter their names and her own, so as to avoid any disparagement of the Champlain family or conflicts with Randolph’
s relatives. This was at Rand’s request, and being aware of the Champlains as old and important Charleston people, Alice understood it. This is not to say that she did not find it sad, a man living apart from his family all these years, due to the blight of prejudice.

  When I’m able to send along the wooden chest, you’ll find the beginnings of Alice’s manuscript, along with Rand’s journal and Sarra’s necklace (which Alice was allowed to take, as Rand and Sarra have no children). Alice had selected the pen name Louisa Quinn. She decided it had a ring to it, and she felt that anonymity for herself was best, given the current state of politics and racial affairs.

  You should know that we had on several occasions been threatened as we went about our business for the FWP. Alice was concerned that publication of the Champlains’ story could endanger Emmaline’s safety in the future. There are those groups, and even many men in high political positions, who feel strongly against anything that offers a soft view of the mixing of the races. They do not want change, and as we well know, some groups will go to violence over it. I do deeply wish I’d had greater respect for that horrible potential. Youthful confidence made me far too flippant about what we’d undertaken there.

  I could not say this to you at the hospital, in deference to your own grief, and in fear for Able and her child, but your sister and little Emmaline were murdered. I have no doubt of it. We did not veer off the road by accident or careless driving on our journey back to the orphan school that last day. Suddenly, and for no good reason, the steering was gone in the car. “A worn-out part,” the sheriff said afterward, but he knew and I knew that the tie rod did not dislodge on its own. This will never be proven. They took the remains of my car to the scrap heap while I lay in the hospital those weeks, with Emmaline and Able still fighting for their own lives. The car is gone and along with it any proof that tampering caused Alice’s death on that horrible day and eventually little Emmaline’s as well.

  I thank you for what you have done for Able and for the orphanage. It’s on their behalf that I didn’t go forward with taking Alice’s manuscripts to a publisher myself. Rest assured that I will adhere to our agreement that I not intrude on your life or on Alice’s reputation from here on out, but I will also expect you to keep your part of the bargain. I will, from time to time, make trips to the orphan school to see about Able and to make certain that her fees are being paid as promised, until her eighteenth birthday.

  I wish you a good future and that your grief will be eased. I pray that you will let Alice share her stories with the world. Though she lacked confidence in it, she was a fine writer. Even more, she was a spectacular soul. The angels in heaven have gained back two of their own in her and little Emmaline.

  I loved them dearly and think of them moment by moment. I always will.

  Yours respectfully,

  Thomas Kerth

  Setting the letter back in the suitcase, I closed the lid, leaned across it into Mark, and cried for the death of a woman and a little girl I never knew.

  And a story that had too long gone untold.

  “I think you’d have to say it’s been a smashing success.” Denise rests her hands on her hips and looks across the park toward the amphitheater. Overhead, our blue canvas awning rustles in the sea breeze. The scents of deep fryers, hot skillets, batter, spices, and seafood hang in the air, and the last jazz number of the final act drifts over from the amphitheater.

  “I think you’re right,” I agree and sink into my chair, boneless and brain dead, but content. There’s still so much cleanup to do, but it can wait a few minutes. The pots and warmers and hot plates and spatulas and the plethora of utensils aren’t going anywhere.

  “We sold a lot of cookbooks.” Denise measures what’s left of the stack, then checks boxes and finds them empty. Tales and Tastes of the Outer Banks, both the cookbook and the festival, couldn’t have met a better reception. “Next time, I think we should do one thing or the other, though. Sponsor a food booth or sign cookbooks.”

  “By next year, the cookbook will be old news.” Although, with all of Manteo behind it, who knows? And now that Alice and Thomas’s story is on its way to becoming the next big Evan Hall novel, by next year, the tourists here may be thicker than crabgrass. A second edition of Tales and Tastes of the Outer Banks could be an even more successful fund-raiser for the charity, which has been officially named Excelsior House, in honor of the hotel’s history and the inspiration from the Seaside House down on Hatteras. Manteo’s version is soon to open its doors on the newly renovated second floor of the hotel building.

  At this point, I wonder if I would survive one more fund-raiser, but it’s all been worth it. The charity will commence operations fully staffed and offer programs for teens through young adults. With an ongoing income from the publication of Alice and Thomas’s story, Excelsior House will make a difference in many lives, both here on the island and in pushing for legislation to aid family members of people struggling with addictions. “If there’s another festival next year, someone else is going to have to be in charge. I’m hanging up my event coordinator hat … forever.” But the truth is, Mark and his Excelsior House people drove this undertaking like a force of nature. They’ve made so much happen in slightly over a year. Mountains have moved.

  Too many newspaper and magazine articles have tried to give me the credit for it, but the creation of Excelsior House is far beyond the ability of human hands. If I had doubted that, with divine intervention, a mess can become a miracle, this project is proof. From imperfect offerings, something perfect has been born.

  When I’m not quite so exhausted, I’ll appreciate that even more than I do at the moment. I’ll take time to give proper thanks for the success of this day, for all the changes in my life over these past thirteen months.

  Denise sit-stands on the edge of a folding table.

  “Watch the grease.” I toss her a towel. There’s a little river running her way.

  “Thanks.” She drops the rag over it, but doesn’t look. Instead, she picks at her fingernails and sighs. “Listen, Whit … about next year … I’ve been meaning to talk something over with you.”

  “Can it wait until we get to the beach house?” I’m hearing a loud wah-wah-wah inside my head, like it’s swelling and shrinking … but in a good-tired kind of way. “I’m ready to stick my toes in the sand and just chill.”

  One of the backers of Excelsior House has loaned our crew a massive place up past the pavement in Corolla. We’ll stay there for a week, going over every last detail before the charity officially opens its doors. We’ll also have a little celebration, as Mark referred to it. The beach house has twelve bedrooms, and wild horses graze outside the front door. It’s paradise. I could get used to living like that. As much as I love Michigan, it’s going to be hard to get on the plane to go home after the grand opening of Excelsior House. Even harder to say good-bye to Mark, but he’ll fly up for a visit as soon as things here settle down again. We’re pretty good at this long-distance-relationship thing, even with all that’s been going on.

  Denise shakes her head. “No … it really can’t. I have to tell them something by Monday.”

  “Tell who … what?” Denise and I are supposed to be hanging out on the Outer Banks for a week yet, walking on the beach and watching the wild horses, recapping the success of the Tales and Tastes fund-raiser. Back home, Bella Tazza 2 is in good hands. Even with the rush of summer tourists, the staff has it under control. The plate time is so fast and the food is so delicious, we’ve driven Tagg Harper completely out of the Italian food business. He’s quietly gone into cheap hamburgers instead. I still don’t know what Mark did to him, but we haven’t heard a peep out of Tagg in months.

  The look on Denise’s face pins me to my lawn chair and all thoughts of Michigan fly from my mind. “Denise, what?”

  “I’ve been offered a teaching job.”

  “Huh?”

  “I have to let them know by Monday.” She pulls a face, swallows hard, looks do
wn at the food-spattered ground. Sugar ants are having a field day. “I want to take it.”

  I’m dumbstruck. Several minutes pass while I flounder around. I feel like a fish dropped on a hot sidewalk, unsure which way the water might be. “But the … Bella Tazza, and we finally got the insurance claim all settled … and we can build a second store again… .” Even as I say it, there’s a little whirlpool of panic smack-dab in the center of my soul, as if someone is stirring the boiling pot too fast, creating a vortex. With the Excelsior, and Mark, and the cookbook, and the charity, I’ve been worried about taking on one more thing. Life is a blur right now.

  If Denise isn’t there to help keep the balls in the air … they’ll all come crashing down. The juggling act will be over.

  Her head falls to one side, and she gives me the parental look that I both love and hate. It means she thinks she knows more than me. It also means she loves me. “Whitney, here’s the thing. It’s time to make some decisions, and I know you’ve got this phobia about commitments, but to tell you the truth …” She takes a breath, waits for a woman to pass by with a baby stroller and grab samples off the tray of leftover food we’ve set out.

  The customer dallies forever, complimenting our artichoke-stuffed mushroom caps and sun-dried-tomato panelle.

  I’m about to explode by the time she leaves, but Denise is calm. She resumes her position and speaks before I can. “I think you need to move here, Whit. You and Mark are good together, but dating back and forth between Michigan and North Carolina is stupid. There’s plenty of room for you at the Excelsior, and now with Joel ready to move from community college to NC State, Clyde’s going to need help again. Or … maybe you and Mark should just stop beating around the bush and take the plunge, settle in at the Captain’s Castle … have a nice life.”

  Before I can react to the bluntness, she lays a splay-fingered hand on her chest. “I am just plain tired. I’m tired of the restaurant business. I’m tired of the hours. I miss my classroom and the kiddos. I want to be home when Mattie gets there in the afternoons, and I want to be with her in the summers. We could even come here to visit you during semester breaks. If you start a restaurant in Manteo, whenever I’m off, I’ll come help in it.”