The Eves

by Grace Sammon

  Gabler circles and makes herself comfortable among the photos and Roy’s papers. I go to the phone to call Tia.

  joan

  O

  n my way to meet Tobias I try to frame my still unclear thinking. I want to appear clear-headed and purposeful when we meet. Sonia says they need help. Help doing what? I know I’m supposed to convince him to let me and Sonia “intrude.” But intrude to do what? To allow me to ask questions, write about his land, interview the women, and write about them? Document their stories? It’s not a very focused request.

  Maybe I should first try to build common ground with Tobias as a man of science. As a doctor he would probably “get” my obsession with DNA, but it isn’t exactly a conversation starter.

  My “nerdy DNA thing,” as Erica calls it, began in undergrad school when DNA really began to be understood. My particular interest began when they discovered that a part of each woman’s DNA, the mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA), is passed from a mother to her offspring equally, male and female, sons, and daughters. However, only the daughters carry that same DNA successfully into reproduction and the next generation. Her son’s mitochondrial DNA does not make it through fertilization, and so her genetic footprint does not carry to her son’s offspring. Meanwhile, her daughter carries her mtDNA to her daughters, and her granddaughters carry to their daughters in an unbroken chain.

  Most surprisingly, regardless of the size of our world, or our diverse cultures, experiences and preferences, scientists have determined that there are only nine differences in this mitochondrial DNA across all of humankind. They can reach back to pre-history and can link us to our nine ancestral mothers. Nine, just nine. Passed to us only by our mothers, and carried forward only by our daughters, I can’t help but to believe our stories, like our genetic helix, are closely intertwined. There’s even talk in the research of one day being able to identify a “Mitochondrial Eve” by being able to trace the mtDNA back to the origin of humanity. It doesn’t matter to me whether this happened by the hand of God or pure evolution, I love the idea of a Mitochondrial Eve.

  What I wonder most about is who were those nine women, what are their stories? Why their DNA? Did they have any understanding of their uniqueness? I guess it is a “nerdy DNA thing,” as Erica tells me. But, with such a small number, how closely related must we be, as women, to almost anyone we meet?

  Despite its awesomeness, I doubt DNA is the place to start with Tobias. History, then. I would love to learn more about The Grange and get a sense of place. And the aged women, they will have stories! I can ask for stories of the war, civil rights, and immigration, of Ellis Island, and of a whole history of the women’s movement—their breaking of glass ceilings, or they’re not caring to do so. I’d love their perspective on how America has changed. Maybe I can capture what they would want to leave behind for the next generation. Thinking of my own mother, maybe I could capture the conversations they wish they had had with their own mothers, or those they would want to have with their children. This approach feels more comfortable.

  Throughout the hour or so drive, I retrace the ride down Route 4 and, predictably, as DC falls behind me, I reconnect with the land. I’ve made the trip down to this part of Maryland so many times. Although greatly changed from even a few years ago, the shopping malls and housing developments haven’t quite erased Maryland’s rich history as a major tobacco grower. Tobacco growing, once the highest paying cash crop per acre in colonial times, has virtually stopped here after the big tobacco companies paid the farmers to stop growing it. Sad to me, the land is now mostly sold off to developers making places like The Grange as unique as Sonia says it is. However, tobacco barns, drafty buildings that appear to be ready to collapse, still dot the increasingly hilly landscape as I drive south. At this time of year, the tobacco leaves have been harvested and will hang to dry for another month or so before they are ready. It’s probably lost on most, but as I drive past the towns of Upper Marlboro and Lower Marlboro, I appreciate that this is the real Marlboro County, and that the tobacco leaf is still at the center of the county flag.

  Driving south, the landscape rises. Off to my left, invisible from the roadway, I know there are the cliffs that tower over the sparkling Chesapeake Bay. I used to bring Ryn and Adam when they were little to collect sharks’ teeth and chase sand crabs. We’d come this way to explore the nuclear power plant and to wonder at its hydroponic gardens. There’s a road sign suggesting “Visit Historic St. Mary’s.” It’s just a bit further south. This was the bus route for the mandatory fourth grade school trip to learn about Maryland state history. The trips, the bus rides, the chaperoning, those were very good days.

  I find myself recalling the docent’s speech about George Calvert, the first “Lord Baltimore.” Escaping England’s persecution for his Catholic faith, he came here to a settlement he called St. Mary’s and claiming the land as Mary’s land—Maryland. It was 1631.

  Fast forward two hundred and fifty years. Make friends with Indians, displace Indians, establish a colony, grow tobacco, fight a revolutionary war, establish slavery, fight a civil war, abolish slavery, give Tobias and Delores Thatcher land. Fast forward one hundred and forty some-odd years and four generations. We’ve arrived at today.

  As I near Martinsburg and the small bend in the road, I’m still not clear on an approach. Just north of the power plant, the road sways gently east before swinging west and continuing south to the end of the of the peninsula. There was a small town here. Now, however, the only landmark for what was the center of Martinsburg is the small market across from the turn to The Grange. Glancing over at the market, I make the left onto Tobias’ road and property. I drive up the gravel path past the field we just harvested and think of it as gently resting for the winter. Coming to the house, I decide to wait a minute before exiting the car.

  Deep breath, one step. I hear Sonia’s oft spoken words, “Things either work out, or they make a good story.”

  Okay then, here we go.

  The house is, as Tobias described, large with a wraparound porch encircling the cross-shaped footprint it makes on the site. Tia has told me to just enter by the side door and call out. No need, I am immediately in the kitchen. Pavarotti, lying at Elizabeth’s feet, raises then lowers his head. His size seems to have doubled in this smaller space. Tia is mixing something in a large wooden bowl. My quick impression of the room is that it’s a truly splendid space for cooking and sharing time. There’s the genuine feel of the original house but with all new appliances, Sub-Zero fridge, great lighting that mimics old gas lamps, both wood and granite countertops and a deep, trough-like sink. The cabinet tops are decorated with vintage items—an old wash basin, baskets, and a milk jar. Next to Tia, on the counter, is a good-sized piece of Native American pottery to hold kitchen implements.

  As they both greet me, I realize I am grateful that Elizabeth is here. Even the shortness of our meeting at the harvest gives me a sense of familiarity that eases the knot in the pit of my stomach.

  Tia warmly invites me to sit as she hands me coffee and asks me directly if I’ve decided how I am going to approach Tobias.

  “Actually, Tia, I thought I’d start with you. You seem to be the go-to person, at least according to Sonia. So, I thought it would make sense to start with you. I have to be honest—whatever Sonia has in mind isn’t clear to me.

  “On the drive down, I thought of a lot of options and then I settled on you. I know your mother just passed and I know what a hard time I had after my mom died. I’m wondering if you’d tell me about your mother. It can’t be that common a story for an African American woman of her day to have gone to college and graduate school and also to be a huge landowner. It isn’t that common for a bi-racial gay couple to be living openly with the parents of one of the partners. And I’m wondering if there isn’t some slant on a mother-daughter story we could capture.”

  I can tell from her face that I’ve said this all exactly wrong. It sounds like I am here to make
a documentary. “Tia, I’m just trying to figure out what Sonia and Erica see here and figure out my place. Here’s what made me come.”

  I open the folder I’ve brought with me and slide Erica’s photo of the empty chair across the kitchen counter to her. She takes it, gently tracing the chair.

  “Jessica, there are those with a story here,” Tia says, “but I’m not one of them, and theirs are not mine to tell. Like I mentioned on the phone, you have to start with Tobias.”

  Elizabeth shakes her head at Tia’s words and locks eyes with me. “You come-a with me. Tia doesn’t mean to sound so harsh.” Elizabeth flips her palm from a flat position to one of a raised palm. Without her saying a word the Rottweiler is on his feet. She grips his harness and he pulls forward enough to help her stand. “I will take you to Tobias.”

  Elizabeth, with a limp, and Pavarotti close by her side, leads me through a small maze of narrow hallways. She nods her head in the direction of the room on the right and tells me that Tobias will be waiting. With some difficulty she turns to leave me. She puts her hand, briefly, on my shoulder, and sighs, “Whatda ya hafta do.”

  The room I enter timidly is a tidy art studio filled with strong, crisp light overlooking the ridge of cliffs. You can see the great Chesapeake sprawling for miles ahead of you. Tobias appears to be asleep in a soft, floral upholstered chair. Even asleep he establishes a presence. Dark skinned, freckled. Old, but also, somehow, ageless. Short, trimmed beard. Closely cropped hair, receding hair line. Elegant hands folded in his lap. His lanky legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. I don’t want to disturb him so take time to get a sense of the room. It is clearly a woman’s room, the floral upholstery, the daintiness of the few knickknacks. There’s a picture of what must be Tia as a baby, and one more current of Tia with a lamb in her lap and CC holding the harnesses of two llamas. Next to the easel there is a sepia-toned picture of what must be a very young Tobias. He’s in a smart Army uniform, casual, field service cap placed dapperly towards the side of his head, tie tucked into the shirt just between the third and fourth buttons. I reach for it and hear behind me, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t touch that.”

  Tobias is awake. As he sits up, he takes his wallet from behind his head, takes his cane from the side of the chair, stands, and tucks the wallet into his back pocket.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s alright,” he says, looking around the room as if bringing it into focus. “I’d come in here most mornings and watch her paint. This is such a peaceful spot that I’d sometimes fall asleep. Joan, my wife, liked things a particular way. She didn’t want to put any slipcovers on the chairs to protect them from my hair oils. I took to putting my wallet behind my head. Been doing it for decades.

  “Sorry, I was asleep when you came. Welcome. It’s Jessica isn’t it?”

  I understand in an instant why he’s asked me not to touch anything. He doesn’t invite me to sit in the other chair. So, we both stand, Tobias listening patiently as I go through pretty much the same spiel I gave Tia, hopefully more tactfully. I talk about my stream of consciousness in the car, minus the DNA side of things. I feel like I’m still not finding the footing I want. I can’t read his face. I end flatly with stating that I think I am supposed to come and help in some way and I know I need his permission to do that.

  After a bit, he moves to the bay side of the room with long low bookcases under a full wall of windows. He pauses, just for a moment, to stare out at the bay, wide enough here to extend as far as you can see. Turning, he sits upon the case and smiles.

  “Jessica, I appreciate you asking my permission, but Joan and I always wanted this to be a place where everyone felt comfortable, where everyone felt they were at home. Like I said the other day, we never really felt we owned the land, more like we just get to use it while we walk this earth. We wanted the type of place where Tia’s friends would want to come after school and have sleepovers. We accomplished that. Now I will admit that I never imagined all this communal living, but that too seems to be turning out pretty well, although it will be a lot better when the other house is done.

  “I am sure there are things you can help with, I am sure there are things you can learn and document about these women, and this land. But for me, even with all our generations on this land, the most remarkable thing was simple. Joan.

  “I’m sorry I snapped at you about not touching that old photograph of me. We can talk about my time in the Army and being ‘colored’ back then sometime if you think it’s of interest. But Joan was the one who really made all this happen and it pains me more than I care to say that she is not here. Doesn’t seem right. Will never be right.

  “Her laughter would fill this house. Every touch here is hers. But, as the others came, naturally, things had to shift around. This room was hers and I want to leave it exactly as she left it. I don’t even like the way that sounds, but I like the feeling that I can sit here and wait for her and she can come in at any moment, pick up a brush and paint.

  “Her love of this place was so simple, pure. She gave birth to Tia here because she wanted the next generation of Thatchers to be born on this land like all the others before her. I think that’s why she kept Tia’s baby picture so close. She welcomed CC, too, and loved her well.

  “I think you would have marveled at her. Behind you there are some paintings of her. She’s captured herself pretty well.”

  Turning I see there are a series of three fairly large paintings. Each is of a woman in a near identical pose. Full face to the artist. Broad brimmed straw hat. Coffee colored skin. Intense, piercing, smiling eyes. Narrow, flat, nose. Closed-mouth, content smile. There’s an inscription on the frames, but I’m too far away to make them out.

  I actually gasp, she is so beautiful. The eyes so perfectly set as to meet your own as you meet her.

  Each of them is painted decades apart. I gawk at them as I hear Tobias saying that she gave him the first one when he returned from World War II and they came here to visit with his family. He was twenty-nine, Joan seven years his junior at twenty-two. The next was for their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. She had just completed some work at the local community theater. She would be roughly my age. The one on the far right she painted just six years ago, on their fiftieth anniversary. They had renewed their marriage vows. It had been Joan’s idea. She was seventy-four then, eighty when she died. The paintings are so honest. She is beautiful in each and she has not hidden her aging. The signs of aging I’ve already come to notice in myself, lines, the under-chin slackness, the sagging jowl, slightly wilted breasts. In the last picture her shoulders are slightly rounded and there is a small scar on her right cheek.

  Inexplicably, I feel my eyes fill with tears.

  “Tobias, she’s lovely.”

  “Indeed, she is the most perfect woman I’ve ever seen. Met her, fell in love on the spot when I looked into those eyes, and I never looked away. Selfishly, I’m the one who should have gone first. Sheer mathematics would have led me to believe that. That, and she was just so alive.

  “I don’t like being left behind like this. I always thought we’d be together until they folded my hands in the box. I worry we didn’t do enough for her, but Tia, CC, and I, we did our best. She had that same great smile on her face as she passed into eternity.

  “I’m told there were four hundred people at her funeral. I can’t say that I noticed. I was just focused on making sure she got safely and gently tucked away. It was a beautiful service and the community did right by her. Afterwards, we took her body to where generations of Thatchers rest. Mr. Oliver and his niece Miss Caroline are up there, too, but not with the colored folk. They have their own gated area. But as far as I can tell, none of the generations of Black folk who worked this land wanted a fence to keep them in.

  “We wrapped her in a shroud and covered her with one of Margaret Mary’s quilts. Some of the boys from the community college
helped us put her on the wagon. I drove that mule Oliver as gently as I could, not trusting anyone else to give my love a smooth ride. I drove her from the church, by the house, past the sheep and llamas, over to the cliffs to look out on the bay, and finally, to her resting spot. I may have imagined it, but those llamas in with the sheep stood tall as she passed.

  “Still, there’s no way to drive a mule and a wagon across this land and have it be smooth and I cringed at every bump. We placed her up there, just in the ground, no box, just as she wished.

  “It’s hard to think of her there, not because she’s dead but because her body is so still. She was always so active, so involved in the church and the schools, always heading a committee, inviting folks here to work, to stay if they needed. She got involved in the community college, did some teaching, but mostly she mentored the young faculty there. That’s how we really got involved in so many of the projects we run. She was always thinking, always being creative and always trying to get people involved. She loved to golf. Not a lot of Black women in that sport. She thought of building a small executive course on this land to get more Black girls involved in that, too. Probably one of the few projects we never embarked on before she died.

  “Mostly, she was a woman of great faith. I like to consider myself a religious man, but she had something special in that department. She faced her illness and all the treatments, pain, and nausea that went with it with more grace and dignity than it deserved.

  “She was already sick when she painted that last painting, but none of us knew it. I don’t know if you noticed the scar at the top of her cheek.”

  I want to tell him I noticed the scar, but I don’t want to interrupt.