by Tara Conklin
From across the room, Missus Lu’s voice was measured: “I have lived more years here than at my daddy’s farm. Did you know that? My, how it smarts.” Missus shook her head. “I have wasted so much. Almost everything, I know that’s true. I have a little beauty left and this I will pass along to you. Pass it to you, Josephine. There is no one else.” As she spoke, she walked slowly back toward Josephine, her fingers trailing against the wall and then against the glass of the windows as she passed each one. “My face was a beauty, wasn’t it? I was a great beauty.”
Missus Lu neared the last window and then lunged toward the knife on the sill, fingers grasping for the handle. Josephine was ready. She jumped from the bed and grabbed Missus’ shoulders, pushing her away from the window, back against the wall, and she held Missus there as she struggled. Josephine’s breath came fast with the strain but she knew she could keep her. Missus surely weighed no more than a child. Nothing more than sinew and bone.
Missus Lu stopped struggling and let her head hang down, but her breath still raced, and Josephine did not release her. They stood like that until Missus Lu crumpled to the floor, crying softly. “You don’t understand,” she said. “That’s all I have to give you, Josephine. There’s nothing more.”
Leaving Missus Lu against the wall, Josephine walked to the open window. She picked the knife off the sill and threw it long and hard through the window, onto the front lawn. It landed blade down, the carved bone handle poking from the long grass, nearly obscured. She watched it for a moment, until a breeze stirred, the landscape shifted, and the handle disappeared into the green. Josephine turned back to Missus.
“Come now, let’s get you cleaned up for dinner.”
“Leave me, just leave me here. I am so very tired.” Missus’ legs were bent beneath her. The neck of her chemise gaped wide and exposed the thin jut of her collarbone.
Again a shadow of pity passed across Josephine’s vision and she blinked her eyes fast to clear it. She went to Missus Lu on the floor, helped her to stand and led her to the bed.
“Lay back,” Josephine said, and sat beside her. Josephine re-wet the cloth and wiped away the remaining blood from the cut. Carefully she held Missus’ face in her hand, turning it to clean the skin thoroughly, until it shone wet and new. Missus closed her eyes.
“No more of this, Missus.”
“Yes, Josephine.”
Missus lay back against the pillows, her breath evened out, her features softened. Missus Lu now was so altered from the Missus who had walked down the path to fetch Josephine those years ago. The cheeks more hollow, the hair more sparse, her whole person washed and wrung out in the muddy shallows of the river. Josephine did believe what Missus had said; she could still see the beauty that had been there. The bones of the face, the ripeness of the lips. Those things would be with her until she died.
What Josephine felt for Missus now was sour and sweet, hot and cold, a flash of tenderness so sharp that Josephine longed to slap her across the face, or dig her nails into the softness of Missus’ arm, the skin pink beneath a screen of fine dark hairs. Missus was not Josephine’s protector, not her confidante, not her friend. But Missus had taught her to read, she had washed the sweat from Josephine’s face when she was eleven years old and so feverish she had collapsed in the kitchen, her cheek pressed against the coolness of the stones. A dress that Missus had grown tired of, she gave it to Josephine. Cotton with small blue flowers and stems of green printed in rows. Josephine had worn that dress every Sunday until the buttons would not close along the back, no matter how deeply she inhaled and pressed her breasts and stomach down to flatten them. She had wept when the buttons would not close, for the dress was the prettiest thing she had ever held in her hands.
Josephine never knew the name of her daddy. Lottie always said it must have been a white man on account of Josephine’s tawny skin and the blue threads in her eyes. Missus Lu brought Josephine up from the cabins at seven years old, after Missus had lost another baby. The farm had still been producing well then; Mister had twenty-one field hands working the tobacco and wheat, a barn that housed eight cows and five horses, and beside it the curing barn for readying tobacco for sale. Mister hadn’t wanted Josephine; he wanted to buy a new house girl and put Josephine in the fields. But Missus had insisted.
Missus Lu used to go down to where the field-hand children played, over by the tall oak with the roots that rose and twisted away from the earth so there were places to hide underneath, cool and dark. Missus would sit on a root and clap her hands with the children, sing songs, play hidey seek. Josephine was the one Missus would look for longest. After all the others had tired of the game and wandered away, Missus would circle the tree again and again, calling, “Where are you, Josephine? Where are you?” She would give Josephine the largest biscuit, or a new shirttail, once a rag doll, and the other children teased her for it, even shunned her sometimes in their games, once Missus Lu had gone back up to the house and they were left alone again.
Lottie would tell Josephine that the others were only jealous, and she should use Missus Lu’s attention. More and better food, something warm for wintertime, extra blanket for her bed. Lessons maybe.
And so Josephine had gone up to the house without tears or tantrum the day after Missus Lu came down to the cabins. Lottie and Winton had just returned from the fields, Lottie heating collards and salt pork over an open fire in the yard, and Winton on the cabin steps carving at a piece of birch, making a spoon or toy that perhaps he’d sell on Sunday to white folk for a penny. Josephine sat on the ground beside the fire, smelling the supper, her stomach rolling in anticipation, waiting for Lottie to be finished and a steel plate to be passed her way. Winton and Lottie saw Missus first; they looked up in unison at her. Josephine’s eyes were intent on the black pot, so she only saw Lottie’s head turn and thought with dismay that something would now delay the meal.
But then Josephine heard the voice, soft and wavering, apologetic in a way but stating a fact, not an item for debate, not something that could be questioned. “Lottie, Winton, we’re bringing Josephine up to the house, train her as a house girl. Tonight will be the last she’ll sleep down here with you.” Josephine looked up at Missus Lu, so much like a creature from a storybook, her dress a pale yellow, and silk slippers that winked out from beneath her skirts.
“Why yes, Missus,” said Lottie, without hesitation, as though she’d been asked for the use of Winton’s old rake, standing there against the side of the cabin.
Josephine heard what Missus said, the words like a hard pinch. But then came Lottie’s calm approval, as if letting Josephine go would mean nothing to her, as though she were just a child who slept on her floor, ate from her pot. Josephine wanted to cry out and run toward Lottie and shake her, shake sense into her that no, Lottie could not let Missus Lu take her away. How could she do such a thing?
But Lottie turned slowly to Josephine and nodded her head just so, and Winton resumed carving the birch piece in his hand, the sound of wood chips hitting the dirt. Missus Lu stood awkwardly in her toy slippers just a few steps from the pot, which was bubbling now on the fire, ready to be eaten. All this told Josephine in a matter of seconds that she would go, there was no stopping it. Some things there was no stopping, most things in fact.
Josephine looked at Missus Lu. “Yes, Missus,” she said. “Thank you, Missus.”
Missus Lu turned to leave and they all watched her go. Just as the path turned back up toward the house, Missus Lu slipped in the spring mud and nearly lost her balance. Neither Winton nor Lottie moved to help her and Missus didn’t look back as though expecting anyone to, just righted herself, her skirts now muddied at the hem, and continued on.
The next morning Lottie had sent Josephine up the path to the house alone.
Lina
SATURDAY
Lina woke late and went down for breakfast. Oscar was standing at the stove in jeans and a paint-stained CBGB T-shirt. Positioned on a burner glowing red was Oscar’s
favorite piece of domestic equipment, a cast-iron waffle maker circa 1951, a time when household appliances required careful handling. Oscar enjoyed the danger inherent in the thing and liked to show off a thick straight scar across his left palm where once, years ago, he’d hastily gripped the hot iron handle. This was Oscar’s sole contribution to their meals: every Saturday morning, for as long as Lina could remember, he made waffles.
For a moment, Lina stood in the kitchen doorway. Nina Simone was playing and Oscar hummed along as he lifted high the bowl and poured batter onto the waffle iron, the sizzle and steam and baked butter smell rising into their colorful, sunlit kitchen. The scene pulsed with a comfortable rhythm and yet Lina sensed a tension, some kind of nervousness, maybe in Oscar’s shoulders, or the way he remained at the stove, not turning to face her. Or maybe it was just her, still half-asleep, still vaguely guilty from the night before—the greeting-card comment, not having told her father about Stavros. With a loud yawn, Lina stepped into the kitchen.
“Morning, Carolina,” Oscar said, turning finally to face her, and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. She took a juice glass from the cupboard, fork and knife from the drawer, and sat at the table. Oscar’s back was to her, his head down. The song ended and the only sound was the faint silky pour of syrup from bottle to jug. Lina scratched her ankle and waited for the waffles.
Her father turned toward her and, yes, there was a nervousness in him. He cleared his throat, his eyes darted away and then returned to her. “Carolina, about the paintings—do you want to talk? I meant it the other night, I want to tell you about Grace. You can ask whatever the hell you want to ask. You don’t have to worry, I swear.”
The pictures came back to Lina with immediate clarity, as though Oscar had hung them here, in the kitchen, above the sink, and she had only now noticed: Enough, the woman drowning within the blue, the kneecap, the scalp. And along with the pictures came the same raw, splintered feeling that had so overwhelmed her that night. She hadn’t known what to call it then, but now she recognized the feeling for what it was: fear. Lina rarely acknowledged a fear of anything, spiders or darkness or death, but now she took it in, this understanding that she was terrified of what her father might tell her. The quiet laugh? The tune? What if none of that were true?
Lina dropped her gaze to the checkerboard linoleum floor, the table with the curved wooden legs, scarred with age and cigarette burns from Oscar’s long-gone parties. How many times had Lina sat at this table? On how many Saturdays had she eaten Oscar’s waffles and maybe they would go to a movie afterward, or walk across to Prospect Park, or Lina would go running, Oscar head to the pool? Lina had lived so many days without knowing about Grace. She had never needed the truth. Look at all she had achieved, and now she was poised to climb to the top of another ladder, this one bigger and better than any that had come before. Clifton & Harp LLP, partner track, and each year would bring her closer to the prize: a seven-figure salary, a corner office, a solidly successful life that no one could take away from her.
Raising her head, Lina met Oscar’s gaze. “I’m ready for some waffles,” she said. “Two—no, three if you’ve got them.”
Oscar looked at her for a beat, unsure, and then lifted a piece of foil off a platter and forked three waffles onto a clean plate. Leaning over the table, he placed one hand on her shoulder and set the food before her.
“I have a new case,” Lina said brightly and shrugged off his hand. “Reparations for slavery. A class action.”
Oscar stood unmoving for a moment, and it seemed they both hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. Their days together had never included Grace, not the image of her, not her name. Lina looked up at Oscar, his lips thin, his cheeks a little red from the heat of cooking, and she understood that he did not know how to do this either; they had waited too long.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Oscar said at last, and he grinned, the nervousness gone, and Lina recognized his relief because it matched her own. “Good old Clifton & Harp is looking into reparations for slavery?”
“There’s a big client who’s funding the case.”
“Of course there is. Oh, my lovely Carolina, I will never understand why you choose to spend your days with a bunch of money-hungry corporate bozos.”
“As compared to your unemployed artist-friend bozos?” Lina flashed a smile; she had heard this particular rail before. Oscar was a proud subscriber to Mother Jones. He talked often of retiring to Sweden.
“Point taken. Some of my friends are indeed bozos, but they are at least nice and poor bozos.” Oscar placed the syrup on the table. “But I mean, what is Clifton getting out of a reparations suit?”
“Well, money. A lot, if we get a settlement or win. But there’s more to it than just that.” She described the case to Oscar in the terms Dresser had used. Truth. Justice. Reparations paid into a fund for scholarships, education, memorials, community building. Naming the names, clarifying the past. Celebrating those who had died as slaves. Honoring them. And Lina’s immediate task: to find a lead plaintiff. Someone (photogenic) whose ancestors were slaves and whose injury was representative of the injury suffered by the class.
Lina finished. Oscar, surprisingly, had listened without comment or critique.
He said, “You know, that’s actually the most I’ve heard about any of your cases since you started at Clifton. I withhold all judgment. It’s nice to see you this enthusiastic.”
Lina smiled around a mouthful of waffle. Oscar was sitting at the table now, working at his own plate of waffles amid the general mayhem of a deconstructed New York Times.
“Carolina, look at this,” Oscar said with sudden focus. He handed her the Arts section, folded over to a headline: LU ANNE BELL—GENIUS OR FAKE? “This reminds me of something. Hold on.” Oscar jumped up. As his slippers shushed down the hallway and into the living room, Lina skimmed through the article: masterpieces, Lu Anne Bell, house girl, mistake, fraud. Oscar returned, holding a thick white envelope.
“Here. This might interest you.”
Lina set down the newspaper and lifted the envelope’s flap. Inside was an invitation: heavy cream paper embossed with the name Calhoun Gallery in dark-red ink. Lina knew the gallery, a storefront in Chelsea painted lacquer red, its owner, Marie Calhoun, an old friend of Oscar’s. The invitation read:
THE ART AND ARTIFICE OF LU ANNE BELL
Much has been written about the early death and turbulent life of the southern painter Lu Anne Bell. An artist with no formal training, she rendered masterpieces of everyday life on the failing tobacco farm where she lived and died. Her work provokes questions of class, race, poverty, and the pernicious effects and moral bankruptcy of the “peculiar institution,” slavery in the antebellum South. She has been embraced by modern feminists and civil rights activists as a woman who, due to the constraints of the society in which she lived, expressed her beliefs in the only way she could: through her art.
Or did she?
Art historians now question the true authenticity of the Bell oeuvre. Famously, Lu Anne Bell signed none of her art. New evidence strongly suggests that the author of the masterful Bell works was not Lu Anne Bell but in fact her house girl, the adolescent slave Josephine. Josephine Bell’s parentage remains unknown, as does her fate following Lu Anne Bell’s death in 1852, but her legacy may live on.
The Calhoun Gallery is proud to present this compelling exhibition, The Art and Artifice of Lu Anne Bell. On display for the first time anywhere will be newly discovered paintings now believed to be the work of Josephine Bell. Alongside them will be major works previously attributed to Lu Anne Bell. We will have on hand art historians and authenticity experts to lead discussion and evaluation of the new and previously known works that will permit you to reach your own conclusion: Who was the master? Lu Anne Bell or Josephine Bell?
Please join us for this landmark show.
On view will be the iconic Bell paintings Lottie, Jackson with Whip, The House at Dawn, and Children No. 2, as well
as other rarely seen Bell works from private collections.
Special lecture by Porter Scales, critic, art historian, and expert on the work of Lu Anne Bell.
Opening night, June 24, 2004
7:00 P.M.
Lina knew of Lu Anne Bell’s work from a college art history class. A woman born into privilege on a Mississippi cotton plantation. No formal artistic training. Disowned by her family after she eloped with a man deemed unsuitable, Robert Bell, the son of an itinerant fundamentalist preacher. She died young, only forty-three years old, after a debilitating illness, childless, living the last years of her life in virtual seclusion, never reconciling with her family. Her paintings were said to portray the humanity of the slaves her husband owned, a tacit challenge to the southern plantation society into which she had been born.
“What do you think?” Oscar said. “Maybe there’s something in there for your case? A Josephine Bell descendant for your plaintiff?”
Lina gave a tentative nod. “I could see Dan getting into this,” she said. “He likes controversy, and publicity. But it doesn’t say if Josephine had any children. Or if she’s got any descendants alive today.”
“I can call Marie, if you’re interested. I’m sure she’d know.” Oscar pushed himself up from the table. “I haven’t seen Marie in years,” he said, half to himself. “It would be good to reconnect.” He began to clear away the plates, sticky with syrup, and Lina jumped up to help him.
UPSTAIRS, STILL IN HER PAJAMAS, Lina opened a search on her computer and typed: Lu Anne Bell; Josephine Bell; Virginia. Pages of information about Lu Anne appeared. Scholarly articles, reproduced images, art journal pieces, feminist theories on her life and work, fan websites, even a site apparently established by and for artistic, angst-ridden teenage girls. Finally Lina brought up the website for the Bell Center for Women and Art, a museum and artists’ retreat located at Lu Anne Bell’s former home in Lynnhurst, Virginia. Lina clicked through photos of Bell paintings and the Bell Creek grounds, biographical information about Lu Anne, and financial statements released by the Stanmore Foundation, the organization that funded and operated the Bell Center.
