River

by Shira Nayman

  Mama allowed us each to buy something from the gift shop; Billy chose a baseball cap and I chose a backpack, both emblazoned with the NASA logo. We were a little surprised, since Mama had been telling us since we were little that we were not a family who “endlessly buys things in gift shops,” emphasizing that we visited places for the experience, not to waste money with “mindless consumerism.” Mama handed her credit card to the cashier—and this time, there was definitely something different about her, something big and worrisome, though I could not put my finger on what.

  “Why not stay here?” Mama put it to Papa, her eyes full of fun.

  We’d just come from a wonderful Nashville lunch of hot chicken and biscuits slathered with gravy and were pulling into the parking lot of the famed Belle Meade Plantation. The plan had been to do the tour and then head back to the Hampton Inn.

  “Why not, indeed?” Papa said, patting Mama’s arm.

  I loved the look that passed between them, the silent language they had. But there was something else—a flash in Papa’s eyes of pain, and then Mama replying with a calm look and a reassuring stroke of his arm.

  We were amazed at the splendors of the mansion, with its high ceilings and massive fireplaces, intricately carved period furniture and tall windows with heavy silk drapes in vivid jewel colors—garnet, amethyst, jade. Greek-revival style, the tour guide explained, pointing out which bits were added on when, and recounting stories about the wealthy Harding family who’d owned the plantation through several generations. They’d built a vast enterprise that included a cotton gin, grain mill, and most famously, the breeding and racing of thoroughbred horses.

  Historically, the plantation drew an illustrious crowd of visitors, including General Grant and President Grover Cleveland and his wife. Though the Civil War interrupted operations, the plantation continued to thrive through to the end of the nineteenth century. Later, however, the vast fortune dissipated and eventually, the plantation and its grounds were sold. I was struck by how common this story was: a great rise to success and riches, followed by an equally dramatic decline. But then, of course, the reverse was equally common; I was familiar with the stories my mother had told of her many childhood friends, growing up in Melbourne, Australia, who were children of Holocaust survivors. Often the lone surviving members of large families murdered by the Nazis, thousands of these concentration camp refugees had started from nothing and taken whatever jobs they could find. They built businesses, entered professions, had families of their own, beginning a new chain of history—against all the odds, from the terrible ashes of destruction and despair.

  Our friendly tour guide was relaying the plantation’s history in her singsong southern twang. Her face darkened as she began talking about the workforce at Belle Meade—the enslaved people was the term she used—who had worked the land and served the family.

  When she talked about how Harding brought in enslaved workers as horse trainers and jockeys, Mama muttered under her breath, “Slave jockeys. My god.”

  Billy chose that moment to raise his hand. The guide fixed him with a friendly, indulgent smile.

  “What mean ‘slaved people?’”

  “Enslaved people,” the woman began, enunciating carefully, as if it were important that Billy know how to correctly pronounce the term. “This was a long time ago, we’re talking about history.”

  “History,” Billy repeated. Mama spoke again in that frustrated half-whisper, under her breath, “Not that long ago, really.”

  “Back then, some people were bought and sold, they were made to work. They were denied their freedom and lived in very hard conditions.”

  The young woman seemed flustered, like she’d never been directly asked this question before.

  Billy nodded, but I could see the confusion in his face and imagined he had no idea what the guide was talking about.

  Later, in the gift shop, Mama took a stab at answering Billy’s question.

  “I know it’s hard to understand,” she said. “Our country had a very bad time. Our guide was trying to explain to you about slavery. White people were in charge and they stole people from their homes in Africa, in countries very far away. They took people away from their families and put them on ships and brought them to America. And they made them work very hard for no money, and they hurt them very badly. Very, very terrible.”

  Billy’s eyes grew round. “Did they see their families again?”

  Mama shook her head. “No, they didn’t.”

  Tears filled Billy’s eyes. “People can’t steal people! Why did they do that? Why were those people so bad? Did they say sorry?”

  Mama’s mouth was tight and grim.

  “No, they didn’t say sorry. They still haven’t said they’re sorry. I don’t know why they did it. People do very terrible things, Billy. They were cruel and wrong.”

  “Why don’t the police put them in jail?”

  “You’re right, Billy,” I said. “They should have put them in jail. But they didn’t.”

  I wanted to offer Billy words of comfort, but there were no words to offer. The truth was unspeakable, but it had to be said.

  Mama took Billy’s hand and we walked around the gift shop.

  I heard Mama lean over and say to Papa, “This place—doesn’t look quite so beautiful now.”

  Papa nodded, his eyes directed toward the ground.

  “All of this,” Mama said, gesturing toward the window, through which we could see the mansion and glimpse the wide sweep of expansive grounds, “built on the backs of slaves.”

  A startling image came back to me, one that had haunted me since reading Toni Morrison’s Beloved: the chokecherry tree on Sethe’s back, the knotted clumps of scar from repeated whippings she’d endured as a slave.

  We walked toward the rear of the gift shop and Mama stopped by a large rack that held local artwork on display for sale. She stood for a while, examining the offerings. She spent several long minutes examining a series of photographs, lost in serious thought.

  “Hey, kids,” Mama said after a time, holding one of the enlarged photographs out for us to see, “this looks very pretty, doesn’t it?”

  Billy and I peered at the photograph; it looked like the main living room of the mansion we’d just walked through with the guide. But the photograph had been double-exposed, a second, translucent image superimposed over the lush draperies and elegant furnishings.

  “Trees inside!” Billy said. “How’d they do that?”

  “Look more closely,” Mama said. I scooted around Billy to take a look as well.

  “It’s the slave quarters,” I said.

  Mama nodded. “Interesting, isn’t it,” she said, almost to herself. “The photographer, her name is Annie Hogan—oh, how interesting, I see she’s Australian!—well, she had the idea of superimposing an image of the reconstructed slave cabin over the interior of the mansion living room.”

  The image was beautiful; light poured in through the high windows, fanning out to a broad gleaming swath on the parquet floor. Trees in full leaf from the second image cut delicate shadows from the fallen light around the ghostly outlines of the slave cabin, also shown to us by the guide, which hung suspended in the middle of the frame, vague and heavy.

  “Built on the backs of slaves,” I said.

  Mama reached out her hand and rested it gently in the middle of my back.

  We had hot chocolate and cake in the visitors’ restaurant. Mama tried to act cheery, but her mood had clearly changed.

  “I don’t know, maybe we should just go back to the Hampton Inn,” she said.

  “I hear you,” Papa said.

  “What?” I asked. “What do you hear?”

  “This kind of place really isn’t my cup of tea, I guess,” Mama said with a weary smile.

  “Does this have something to do with the slave quarters?” I asked.

  “Yes, I suppose it does,” she said. “Now how about giving me a taste of that carrot cake? It looks delicious.”<
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  That’s when it clicked. Behind Mama’s slightly forced smile, her face was gray, and her usually bright eyes were dulled to a smoky yellow. It all came together in my mind—the growing knot of fear within me, the dark shadows I’d seen crossing Mama’s face and sometimes Papa’s, and the most telltale sign of all, Mama’s awful pallor. Mama is ill—and it’s something serious.

  Back at the hotel, Papa took Billy and me down to the pool. Mama said she was tired and needed to rest. The pool was packed to capacity, kids jumping in and out, playing with pool toys, the room ricocheting with happy shouts and the slap-splash of water. Billy found a boy his age and they did doggy-paddle races along the edge; I watched their bobbing heads inch along the side of the pool. Billy’s face was like a cartoon rendition of joy: ear-to-ear grin and flashing eyes. Reaching the steps, he climbed out of the pool then hurried over to where I was hanging on to the pool’s rim, kicking my legs underwater. Billy’s new friend swam to the other side of the pool and also got out, walking slowly toward his parents, as if reminding himself of adult instructions to be careful on the wet tile.

  “We both won, Sis!” Billy shouted with glee.

  “You mean it was a tie,” I said.

  “No. Both of us got there at the same time. We both won.”

  He leaned down, came close up to my face and whispered loudly. “He’s my new friend,” he said. “His name is Connor. And he isn’t a slave.”

  I jumped up out of the pool, took Billy’s hand, and walked him over to where Papa was sitting by the table where we’d left our things.

  I leaned down to look Billy directly in the face.

  “What do you mean? About Connor?”

  “I saw the pictures.” He pointed through the window. “At the big house. In the gift shop.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of the slaves. They have black skin. I asked Connor if he was one, and he said no.”

  “Billy! That’s a terrible thing to say. You shouldn’t have said that!”

  “Now, kids,” Papa said, “what’s going on?”

  “Papa! Billy asked that little boy if he was a slave!”

  Papa’s face went pale. Carefully, kindly, Papa asked Billy to tell him what he’d said. He wasn’t able to get much more out of him. Resolve in his face, he took Billy by the hand.

  “Come on, son. We’re going to go and talk to Connor and his family.”

  Connor was on the other side of the pool with his mother and a girl of about my age. They greeted us in a friendly way when Papa introduced us. The girl was Connor’s sister—her name was Monique.

  “Look, I’m sorry to say, my son said something rather odd to your son. Perhaps Connor told you about it?”

  “Actually, no,” Connor’s mother said. “He told me he made a new friend and had a fun race and that they both won!” Smiling warmly, she leaned down a little. “Billy, right?”

  Billy nodded, very serious, now.

  “I shouldna ask him if he’s a slave. I’m really sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Papa said, looking mortified. “We’ve just come from a tour of the Belle Meade Mansion. Billy learned about America’s terrible history. He didn’t know about slavery … I suppose we … well anyway, it made a big impression.”

  Connor’s mother let out a little laugh.

  “Well, kids do say what’s on their minds,” she said. “It’s a lot to take in. Really, don’t give it a second thought.”

  Papa looked relieved.

  “Listen, Connor only learned about slavery this past term, in pre-K,” she said. “Let’s just say, the teacher is very, well, passionate. She did this exercise—I thought it was a bit strange, especially for kids that young. She had all the kids wearing colored sneakers go to one side of the room. And for a couple of hours, they weren’t allowed to do anything fun and they had to sit still and not speak. She was trying to demonstrate racism, and then she told them about how people were enslaved here, in our own country.”

  “Challenging way to make a point …” Papa said.

  “Well, Connor came home pretty upset. It’s so terrible what happened to black people, is what he said. I feel so bad for them. I told him, Honey, you’re black, too, and then he said, I know I’m African American, is that the same thing?”

  Papa shook his head sympathetically.

  “Actually, my husband and I talked about taking him out of the school—it’s a private school. The population is not at all diverse. There’s only one other black kid in his whole grade. We worry that if he stays there, he’s not going to know who he is.”

  I was taken with Connor’s mother’s directness.

  “It’s a complicated world, isn’t it?” Papa said.

  “Sure is.” Connor’s mother gave a wry smile. “Especially for kids.”

  The two boys had jumped back in the pool, and now she looked over at them wistfully.

  “Maybe their generation will make a better go of it.”

  The phone call came the next morning as we sat in the hotel breakfast room eating waffles. When Mama saw the incoming number on her cell phone, she gave Papa a knowing look, then jumped up and walked out into the lobby to take the call. Papa stood as well.

  “Keep an eye on Billy,” he said, his voice flat.

  I watched them through the glass partition; Mama was staring into the middle distance as she listened to whoever was talking on the other end of the phone. Papa’s arms hung down loosely as he waited, his eyes fixed on Mama’s face. The call over, she leaned into Papa and said a few words. I saw him grit his teeth and clench his eyes shut for a moment. Then, he took Mama’s hand and caressed it. In that moment, I realized the something serious must have been going on for some time. They just hadn’t told us about it, though I was certain that this was about to change.

  Back at the table, Papa launched right in. “Kids, I have some news that will come as a disappointment. We have to return home. We’re not going to be able to continue our trip. And we need to get back quickly, so we’ll be flying instead of driving.”

  “Oh boy, a plane!” Billy said, though I could see anxiety in his eyes. Even Billy knew something was up.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What’s happened?”

  Papa told us Mama was ill. Cancer, he said. They’d been waiting for final results, something to do with what kind of treatments she’d need. The news she’d had on the phone was clearly not good. I didn’t know the precise details. I only knew that Mama was ill and that our big adventure had been snapped in two.

  Billy piped up. “But what about our car?”

  “You don’t need to worry about that, Billy. We’ll take care of the car.”

  We packed in awkward silence. No one tried to make light of the situation. I could see Mama was struggling with that. She was always the one with a funny take on things, looking on the bright side, cajoling one or the other of us out of a cranky place. Now and then she gave either Billy or me a hug. I felt like the world had given me a great punch to the stomach. I’d never been faced with a situation that my family wasn’t able to cast in a positive light; I’d had drilled into me the notion that glitches and difficulties were part of life, were always an opportunity to learn or “build character,” clouds had silver linings, and that coming together as a family to face hardships could actually be one of life’s bountiful gifts. Now, there was no sign of any of this kind of talk. No mention of silver linings or exciting challenges. Only gray, gray, everywhere gray, roiling in the air around us.

  On the plane, Billy asked, again, about the car. Papa mustered a quick reply in his best reassuring voice.

  “We found a nice young man who’s going to drive it back for us.”

  “Do we know him?” Billy asked.

  “Well, we met him. We know him now.”

  “A stranger,” Billy said, persistent. “If he’s a stranger, how do you know he’s nice?”

  “Son, trust me, you don’t need to worry about
the car. The car will be okay.”

  “What about Mama, will Mama be okay too?” Billy asked.

  “Why yes, Billy,” Papa said with a forced smile; his eyes were not smiling, though, only his mouth. I don’t know if Billy had heard it, but I had—the instant of hesitation before he answered, a quick breath of silence.

  Mama always told me that mothers sleep with their ears open; I suspect she could also see through walls. She knew things about my brother and me that normal eyes or ears, asleep or awake, could not possibly have known. Like exactly when either of us was about to wake up, or when I was harboring a troubling secret or when one of us was especially sad.

  But daughters, I’ve discovered, also hear and see in unusual ways when it comes to their mothers. In the past, my mother had occasionally felt far away—when her work piled up or when she had to deal with a troublesome situation. But since returning to Brooklyn, she had a new kind of faraway—not the sort she’d snap back from; no promise that a tale from my day or a joke or scene recited from a school play would alter that staring, pained look in her eye. I was unable to bring back the sparkling smile that made her dark eyes dance and her face flicker with joy. The faraway place had a grip on her and there was nothing I could do to change that.

  We were home for less than two weeks when Papa took us for Italian ice and told us that Billy and I would be going to Australia to spend time with our grandmother. The treatments for Mama’s cancer, he said, were going to be harder than they’d thought. Mama needed to focus on staying strong, and he needed to focus on taking care of Mama.

  “But we can help!” I said. “We can help you take care of Mama.”

  Papa took my hand and held it the way he’d done when I was little. Something plunged within me as I realized that I still felt little—that I still was little! The lump in my throat didn’t let me say anything. I concentrated on the word treatments. Tried to think of a mountain resort with hot springs, where young women lie about getting mud wraps and massages and gossiping while waiting for their nails to dry. Then pushed my mind to picture teams of friendly medical professionals, determined to hunt down every offending cancer cell in my mother’s normally strong body, never resting until they could resolutely declare my mother cured.