“Miss Cordelia, please forgive me. Will you accept my apology?”
She sighed and put the fan in her lap. “I suppose so, Ailey. As long as you promise not to repeat any more nasty gossip.”
“I promise. You know, we historians have to track down every lead, even the false ones. We’re like detectives.”
“Like Agatha Christie?”
She laughed, and I joined her, relieved.
“Yes, ma’am! Exactly. Only, without all the trains and fancy clothes.” I reached to the coffee table. I placed my hand on the recorder. “Would it be all right if we got back to your story, Miss Cordelia? Or are you too tired? Would you like to rest?”
“You are so sweet. No, I think I’m all right.”
“Thank you so much. Gosh, I really appreciate you. Now, can you remember what happened after the fire at the big house?”
“Yes, I think so. After everything burned up, I was not sad at all to leave the country, but Mother never got past leaving. She said it was a shame not to try to rebuild the old house back up. She died when I was still a girl. I was heartbroken, but I was happy she passed on before Daddy did. She would have been so angry to find out the farm doesn’t even belong to us anymore.”
“It doesn’t? Who does the farm belong to?”
“Why, Ailey, it belongs to your family.”
“My family?”
“Yes, Ailey. Didn’t you know that?”
“Um . . . no, ma’am.”
“Well, I’ll be. I thought Root or Miss Rose surely would have told you. You mean to tell me, after all these years, people think it’s still mine? Daddy had sold about half the land and left that money to me. It was a lot. The other half, he willed to Root and Pearl.”
“Did everyone know it was our land?”
“Oh my, no! It was a secret. Even my husband didn’t know.”
“Why do you think no one was told?”
“I guess because some people weren’t very nice to coloreds—Black people—and such back then. And Root and Pearl and me, we didn’t want any fuss or trouble. But I think things worked out just fine, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess they did. All right, I think that’s it, Miss Cordelia. Thank you so much for your time.”
I turned off the recorder and slipped it into my bag.
“We’re done already? I swan, I haven’t had this much fun in years! The next time you come back, we’ll have to talk more about Horace. He was a rascal, but so good-looking! I’ve lived an exciting life for an old lady. I don’t have any complaints.”
“Well, I just thank you so much again, Miss Cordelia. You are so wonderful to talk to me.”
I rose, but she grabbed my hand. I couldn’t hover over an old lady; that wouldn’t be polite, so I sat down on the sofa.
“Ailey . . . I want to say I’m sorry. About . . . you know . . . all the things that happened . . . you know . . . slavery and that.”
I suppressed a sigh. I was tired. I didn’t feel like playing my role in this script.
“It’s all right, Miss Cordelia. It’s not your fault. Slavery happened before you were even born.”
“No, Ailey, I really mean it. I’m just so sorry. But colored and white—Black and white, I mean—don’t you think there’s always been love between our families? Because I love Root so much. And I loved Pearl when she was alive. My daddy did, too. Pearl was . . . she was . . . she was my daddy’s baby sister, and Root was his baby brother. Did you know that?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did know.”
The times had changed so much, ever since Miss Cordelia had been born, but she was trying to give me something here. She wanted to ease a weight off her conscience. What she was offering me wasn’t going to alter history or bring anyone back from the dead. But at least she finally had acknowledged that my family was her family. What could I gain from berating an old lady who couldn’t even walk across the room without help?
“And yes, ma’am, Miss Cordelia. There sure has been love between us. All the love in the world.”
But when I stood again, she still wouldn’t let my hand go. She asked, I wasn’t leaving just yet, was I? It was almost time for her afternoon soap operas. Miss Sharon always watched with her. We could all watch together, and there was plenty cake, if I wanted another piece.
I’d been looking forward to typing up my notes from the recording that afternoon. Then, too, when I arrived back at the old man’s house, I was planning to fuss at him for keeping information from me, once again. Uncle Root thought he was slick: all these years, the family farm had belonged to him and no one else knew it. But I couldn’t just grab my historical information and rush off. That wouldn’t be kind.