Our guide smiled brightly, and then he left us at the entrance.
Dr. Oludara and I didn’t have that long of a walk. The quarters weren’t deep in the woods, only fifty or sixty yards away from the plantation house. The three cabins were huddled together, a few paces between each. There was a plaque in front, telling us that the thirty-nine slaves who had worked the fields of Moss Road Plantation had lived in these three cabins. Perhaps as many as fourteen individuals had crowded into each structure, living and sleeping in one room.
The first and second cabins were empty. Nothing on the walls or the floor, though light peeked in through tiny holes in the wood planks. The stone fireplace took up most of the north wall. The third cabin had furniture, such as it was. There was a rope bed with no mattress, and a chair with the bottom missing. Propped against the stone hearth was a large pot that would have been black, if it had not been covered in rust.
When I pulled out my notebook, Dr. Oludara told me, put that away. Just stand here awhile and look at this place. Think about the people who had lived in this one room. That’s all I needed to do. She’d been to this cabin four different times, though the guide didn’t remember her. She’d even taken pictures.
On our return drive, we stopped at a homestyle diner. The meal was on her, even after I told her I was really hungry. I ordered a whole catfish and hush puppies. Four sides, and I took two rolls out of the basket and smeared margarine on them.
“Gosh, I’m starving. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I had that fried pie. And I ate a huge breakfast before that.”
“Don’t you even worry, Ailey. I’m about to grub myself, when my plate comes. The catfish is outstanding here.”
We didn’t talk much on the rest of the drive. I was sleepy from all the food I’d eaten, and Dr. Oludara didn’t start a conversation. It was evening by the time we arrived back on campus, though the summertime sun was high. She wheeled the car into the parking lot, but when I opened the door, she asked, could we sit a spell? She’d keep the car running so we could sit in the cool air.
“So, what’d you think, Ailey?”
“You want me to tell you the truth?”
“Definitely.”
“I hated that tour guide! He was so rude. No, not rude”—I tilted my head—“something else I can’t put my finger on.”
“He was dismissive.”
“Yes!” I bounced in my seat. “That’s it! It’s like, he didn’t even care about the Indians or the Black folks. And when he said we should be proud that slaves had built that plantation? Ooh, I wanted to choke him!”
She laughed. “I know! I’m glad I was there. You were about to catch a case.”
“You said you’ve visited four times. How many of these other plantations have you toured?”
“In the past five years? Twelve. And I’ve gone to each at least twice.”
“Oh God.”
“That dude back at Moss Road is one of the nicer ones. I’ve had other guides stop the tour when I asked about slavery. A couple of the plantations, they’ve literally whitewashed the quarters and put in furniture and throw rugs, like a slave cabin can be gentrified.”
“How do you deal with that?”
“You get used to it. But there’s something about the sadness I feel, whenever I go those places. It’s all on my skin. But you must know what I mean. Your family lives on a former plantation. You must feel those people every time you step on the land.”
I moved my purse onto my lap. I liked this lady, but I wasn’t going to tell her my business. I didn’t want her to think I was crazy, and she would, if I told her my dead sister talked to me.
“I guess I don’t really think about it much.”
“Really? Dr. Hargrace took me on a tour of the place a few years back. None of the original cabins are still there, but there’s the old general store and the plantation house ruins.”
“Did he take you to his pecan tree, too? He loves that tree!”
She didn’t join in my laughter. “He did take me, Ailey. And I was very respectful. Dr. Hargrace tries to entertain people with that story, but one can only imagine the trauma of that experience, that he narrowly escaped a lynching. I’m sure he has nightmares about that.”
“You think so?”
“Of course he does! And the fact that a Black man of his generation stayed in the deep south and had to struggle with that memory? And then continued to do such important work for his students, even for the Black community in Chicasetta? How he’s kept your family church intact? Do you know that the original wood floor of that church is still there, from back in 1881?”