Like Agatha Christie
After twenty years, Miss Sharon, Miss Cordelia’s maid, had stopped pressing her hair: gray dreadlocks fell to her shoulders. There were glasses, too, but the smile with the glint of gold remained. She led me into the living room, where Miss Cordelia sat on the claw-foot sofa. There was a blanket over her legs. Her own hair was thinner, tinted a bluish color.
“My, you’ve grown, Ailey!”
“I’m thirty-four, Miss Cordelia.”
Her arms shook a bit when she reached for me. I leaned and pecked on her cheek, hoping I wouldn’t sneeze from her face powder. I didn’t pull out my tape recorder yet. That shouldn’t be the way, so I thanked Miss Sharon when she brought in the tea and the pound cake. I chatted about my family and graduate school. Waited until Miss Cordelia asked, did I still want to interview her?
“Yes, ma’am, I sure do! But only if that’s all right.”
“It sure is. I’ve been looking forward to this all week, ever since Root called me.”
“Is it all right if I record you? I don’t want to forget anything.”
“Oh, this is so exciting!”
I pulled out the recorder. “This is Ailey Pearl Garfield. I am interviewing Mrs. Cordelia Pinchard Rice, a resident of Chicasetta, Georgia. Today’s date is July 25, 2007. Mrs. Rice, do you give me permission to record our conversation?”
“I do, but you don’t have to be so formal. You can call me Miss Cordelia.”
We ran through the preliminary questions, beginning with her date and place of birth.
She laughed. “A true lady doesn’t tell her age, Ailey. But all right, I was born July fifteenth, 1925.”
“We have the same birthday, Miss Cordelia!”
“Well, I’ll be!”
Then we turned to her parents’ names and first memories.
“My mother’s name was Lucille Sweet Pinchard. My father’s name was Thomas John Pinchard Jr. I was born on Wood Place Plantation and lived there until it burned down. I was about nine then.”
“Were you there when the fire started?”
“No, we were out of town. Mother and Daddy and I had driven to Atlanta to visit some people, and when we returned two days later, the plantation house was burned to the ground. Our furniture was in the house, our clothes, all our belongings. Mother took on something awful. ‘My fur! My fur!’ she screamed. Daddy had bought her a fur coat for Christmas, which was rather silly. How often can you wear a fur coat in Georgia? But Mother just loved that coat. Her daddy owned a few houses in town, and he gave this house to her. He was a rich man. After the fire, Daddy used to take me out to the farm to visit with the coloreds—I mean, Black people—and I would play with their children.” She looked at me, blushing. “I’m an old lady, Ailey. Please forgive me.”
I pretended to be clueless, furrowing my brow.
“Forgive you for what?”
“I have a hard time remembering what to call your people. There have been so many changes over the years. It’s so hard to keep up.”
“Miss Cordelia, don’t you even worry about that.” I was just grateful the lady didn’t know any other names for Black people, because I needed this interview for my dissertation.
“You are so sweet.”
“Thank you, Miss Cordelia. So are you.” I picked up the recorder from the coffee table, moving a touch closer. “So . . . you used to play with the African American children on Wood Place?”
“Oh yes, but Mother didn’t like it. She was very old-fashioned, but Daddy, he got along with everybody.”
“Miss Cordelia, do you remember any of your other ancestors, before your mother and father?”
“Let’s see. Big Thom’s wife was Sarah Dawson Pinchard. They called her ‘Sally.’ She died having my father. Big Thom’s father was Victor Thomas Pinchard, and his mother was named Grace. I don’t know her maiden name. Big Thom had a twin sister, Petunia. Victor’s father was Samuel, and his mother was named Eliza, but they called her ‘Lady.’ They said she was very beautiful, but we don’t have any pictures of her. Samuel was the first person in these parts. There was nothing here when he came. Nothing but a bunch of trees and some savage Indians.”
I needed to finish this dissertation. I really, really did, so I couldn’t get insulted. And I repeated my need to myself when Miss Cordelia told me she never could have children, and since there weren’t any other Pinchards besides her, she was the last of the line. I knew better than to bring up Dear Pearl’s children. To mention that I was a direct Pinchard descendant.