When I asked Uncle Root why he’d purchased a house in a neighborhood where he knew he wasn’t wanted, he replied it had been 1985, not 1885. Further, he liked to stomp on people’s last nerves, and since he’d retired and didn’t have a job to keep him occupied, fighting with racist white folks gave him pleasure. Those things left on his porch were harmless, he told me. Nobody had burned a cross on his lawn or tried to hurt him. And he wasn’t scared of violence anyway. If one of those crackers decided to actually come for him, well, he’d lived a good, long life. Whenever God called him, he’d be satisfied.
But Uncle Root’s mother might have fainted if she’d lived to see her son owning a house in an all-white neighborhood. Even the father of her children hadn’t lived in the same house as she had. There had been a racial dividing line on the farm, which was the road that edged the lawn of the old plantation house. Once you crossed that road, you were in the African American portion of the farm.
The other advantage of where the old man lived was that his very good friend lived close by. The day we visited, a younger Black lady answered the door.
“Good afternoon, Miss Sharon! You’re looking stunningly beautiful as ever.”
When she smiled, there was gold at the front. “Mr. Root, you a mess!”
“I take that as the highest compliment.”
In the living room, a silver-haired white lady sat on the sofa. She wore a fancy paisley dress. Her earrings might have been diamonds, too, but she wore slippers over stockings.
“Jason! Come hug my neck.”
He kissed both of her cheeks, European style. “Ailey, this is Mrs. Cordelia Pinchard Rice. You met her a very long time ago.”
I didn’t remember her, but I shook her hand. “Hello, ma’am. It’s so nice to see you again.”
“It sure is! It’s six months of Sundays since I’ve seen you. You were so little. And don’t you have the nicest manners? You sit with me, honey.”
Miss Sharon served sweet tea in crystal glasses and slices of pound cake on china plates. She left the pitcher, and I drank two more glasses while the old man and Miss Cordelia talked. The library wanted to add another room and was begging for money. That big oak in front of City Hall was eaten through by rot.
On the return walk, he told me that the old white lady was his niece.
“Nobody else would call us relatives, least of all Cordelia. But yes, we are related. Big Thom Pinchard was her grandfather. His wife died in childbirth, but the baby boy lived. Tommy Jr., named after his father. When he grew up and married, his wife had Cordelia.”
“Ladies died having babies? For real?”
“Ailey, women always risk their lives in labor. That’s one reason it’s so important to cherish mothers always. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“After his first wife died, Big Thom met my mother, Lil’ May, and fell in love with her. Because she was Negro, she couldn’t be his legal wife, but she had my sister and me. That was a big scandal in this town, but my father didn’t care. I was eleven when my mother passed away. The Spanish influenza epidemic, don’t you know? I’ve never loved another person the way I loved her, not even Olivia. I don’t think my heart ever recovered from my mother’s passing.”
He was sharing a secret, like a friend. I needed to respond, to let him know I understood the moment. I tried one of the phrases Mama often used talking on the phone with our relatives.
“Shonuff?” I walked closer to him, brushing against the seersucker jacket.
He cleared his throat a few times. “Yes, indeed, sugarfoot.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I appreciate your saying that. Your mother is named for mine. Did you know that?”
“Yes, but she changed it last year. She gets cranky now when Daddy calls her Maybelle Lee. He does it to tease her.”
“Sugarfoot, let me ask you, what kind of name is ‘Belle Marie’？ Doesn’t that sound pretentious to you?”
“Well . . .”
“Look at you. So loyal. How about we go back to my house, and I’ll try to teach you how to beat me in chess?”
He put his arm around my shoulders, and I put my arm around his waist. We slowed down our stride, as country folks like to do. At the house, he pointed out the pictures on his credenza, naming everyone. Many of their subjects had passed on, now only living within the frames. He pointed out the largest image of a man, a girl, and a very little boy. The man and boy were white.