Every time I gave her a handful, she told me I was amazing. I didn’t know whether she was flattering me or not, but my first four weeks of work, she bought large rib plates for me at least a couple times a week. I would set the grease-stained bag aside and walk over to the refectory to eat a free lunch. The ribs and French fries would be for the old man and me that night, and I’d pretend to make it healthy by putting together a large salad to go with. Uncle Root would tell me I sure was helping him save grocery money.
The day I cleaned off the office floor, I decided to celebrate by eating lunch early. I walked over to the Rib Shack, ordering extra ribs and French fries. I had ripped open the bag when I remembered there was a closet in the office. When I opened the door, I saw another stack of banker’s boxes in the closet, as tall as I was, and I decided it was time for a walk, before I began to cry.
When I returned, I was relieved that none of the boxes in the closet contained research materials. Instead, they were filled with office supplies: Paper-and binder clips, file folders, accordion folders, small and medium index cards, reams of copy paper, and brightly colored rubber bands, which were wrapped around each other, until they formed a ball.
That afternoon, Dr. Oludara came down to the office. She wanted to sit a spell. She grabbed a rubber band ball and threw it against the newly clean floor.
“Don’t you just love these?” she asked. “They bounce! Isn’t this fun?”
“Yes. Totally. So cute.” I caught the ball and put it on the table. “Dr. Oludara, may I make a strong suggestion, as your new research assistant? With the greatest of respect?”
She sat up. “Yes, Ailey. Of course.”
“This might be a time for you to take a break from buying office supplies. You have enough for now.”
“But, Ailey—”
“Dr. Oludara. Please.” I lowered my voice, the way my father used to. I put out a hand, in his signature style. “Look at this office. Are you happy with what you see?”
“Oh, Ailey! You just don’t know! I never thought—”
“—I have cleaned this office from top to bottom. And it was a lot of work. I cried, several times. Like, sobs.”
“I’m so sorry, Ailey.”
“It’s fine. But now that I’ve gotten everything clean, please don’t come back with more office supplies. Please, Jesus. My nerves can’t take it.”
She cackled. “Ailey, you sound like an old lady!”
That was the day she paid me. She placed my monthly check in a cream-colored “Routledge College” envelope, sealed it, and handed it to me, telling me, be sure to leave early so I could catch the bank. I didn’t want to open it in front of her, so I waited until I was in my car. Inside the envelope was a personal check for four hundred and sixty-four dollars. On the enclosed note, she’d written that she didn’t know how to calculate a half cent, so she’d rounded up the mileage reimbursement to thirty-three cents a mile.
When I arrived back in Chicasetta, I stopped first at the bank and deposited the money in the account Uncle Root had opened in my name. Then I drove to the Pig Pen and used my checkbook to buy groceries: a raw chicken, instant oatmeal, a head of garlic, soul food seasoning mix, two loaves of whole wheat bread, butter, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, salad dressing, and a quart of chocolate-chip ice cream. I carried that out to the car, then decided to go back and buy a gallon of milk, a pint of heavy cream, a half gallon of orange juice, and a twelve-pack of toilet paper.
When I walked into his house toting my plastic grocery bags, the old man was on the settee, reading. I told him that I’d be buying groceries every week. I knew I couldn’t cover everything, but I wanted to contribute something. He nodded, inquired about our dinner menu, and went back to reading his book.
After four months of working for Dr. Oludara, her research office was finally organized. No longer were there unlabeled boxes with unfiled articles tossed inside, books sitting on the floor, or plastic bags of unopened office supplies crowding the closet, but she hadn’t gotten used to the sight of order. Every time she knocked on the door and entered, she marveled at what I had done. How I had helped so much, because her book project was so complicated.
She hadn’t intended to write a book on the largest slave auction in the history of the United States, an event that had taken place in Savannah, just a two-and-a-half-hour drive away. Scholars called it “the weeping time,” because of all the enslaved Black families that had been separated. Initially, Dr. Oludara’s project had been for more personal reasons. She’d only wanted to compile a family history on her ancestor, the slave woman her father had named her for. All anybody in the family knew was that the ancestor had been called Mother Belinda, and that she’d talked about the weeping time auction until the day she died. When Dr. Oludara had started doing her research on her ancestor, she’d become interested in the four hundred other enslaved folks who had been sold during the auction as well. She’d known about that auction since graduate school. But now it was personal.