New Mercies (33 page)

Now Caroline said, “But you aren’t sure who your grandfather was.”

“Most people think he was Bayard Lott, the man who killed her.”

“And you?”

I shrugged. “How would I know?” And the truth was I didn’t. When I asked Aunt Polly if Ezra was my father’s father, she replied, “No way could I know that. Even Miss Amalia don’t know for sure. And no way do you need to know. It easier for you in that way.” I mulled that over for a long time and decided she was right. What did it matter whether Ezra’s blood or Bayard Lott’s ran in my veins? If it were Bayard’s, I was the descendant of two old Natchez families. And if it were Ezra’s, then
my father was the son of two people who loved each other, no matter their color. I never asked Ezra about it, but he knew what Aunt Polly had told me, because things between us softened. We kept our distance, just as he and Amalia must have, but we treated each other with affection and kindness, as if we were family.

I put the old car back into gear and we bumped along the road to the billiard house. I had finished remodeling it in the spring, adding electricity and plumbing, a kitchen and a bathroom. Now I divided my time between Colorado and Mississippi. I had arrived back in Natchez just a few days earlier to make sure everything was in order for my friend when she visited for a few days on a trip to the East.

I parked beside the cottage and unlocked the front door. “You should have seen the original key—impressive but not very effective. Most of these old doors open with a screwdriver or a skeleton key. Ezra put in a good lock.” He’d also cleared the underbrush around the building, opening up the long view across the meadow to the woods.

We left Caroline’s luggage in the guest bedroom, which was bright with one of Amalia’s quilts, and Caroline followed me down the hall into what had been the billiards room, now my living room. Buckland had taken the billiards table, but I’d kept the heavy old furniture, which had been reupholstered. I’d added floor lamps, a radio, draperies, a scrap picture of Avoca that I had made; my Natchez friends were demanding I make them similar pictures of their homes, which pleased me. The room had been designed to be both grand and cozy, although I wasn’t sure it was either. It was comfortable, however.

Sitting down in one of the big chairs, I pulled out my hat pin, then removed my hat and fluffed up my hair. Caroline toured the room, exclaiming over the fireplace and the jib windows, the books and the odds and ends that I had salvaged from Avoca. She checked the hem of her dress in the petticoat mirror I’d saved from Avoca, then stopped for a moment in front of the framed “Wez Free” sampler that Aunt Polly had stitched long ago and given to me the day I moved into the billiard house. “The whole thing’s swell, Nora.” She sprawled on a chair, stretching out her long legs. “Would you ever move here for good?”

“I don’t think so. It’s too far from Mother and Henry.”

“Be that as it may, what about this Holland fellow?”

“What about him?”

“Don’t be coy, sweetie. I’ve known you forever.”

I leaned my head back against the chair. “Okay. I honestly don’t know, not that I haven’t thought about it. We’re taking it slow.” Both Holland and I were wary of marriage, had talked only vaguely about it, but we had developed an affection for each other. “He’s different from David.” At the mention of David’s name, I touched the aquamarine drop at my throat—the necklace that he had given me in Central City and that I had begun wearing again.

“Is that such a bad thing?”

I glanced at her to see if she were being sarcastic, but of course I had not told Caroline why I left David, and she had not figured it out. “I suppose not. You’ll meet Holland tomorrow, when we go to Pickett’s for dinner. You brought that slinky frock, didn’t you? We want to show them how uptown two girls from Denver can be.”

“Do they still wear hoopskirts?”

“Only on special occasions.”

“What kind of a name is Pickett anywho?” Caroline put her feet on top of a footstool.

“Oh, all the women here are named after dead Civil War heroes. Except for Odalie, who’s named for a Prussian goose, for all I know. She wears rings over her gloves, and her diamonds look like peach pits. They’re almost as valuable. Not like this.” I held out my hand so that Caroline could admire Amalia’s champagne diamond. “Her family made their fortune in used motorcars in Jackson.”

“Oh my, you’ve certainly gotten your snap back,” Caroline observed. “I’ve missed it.”

“Don’t let Odalie bait you. She adores to do it,” I continued.

Caroline frowned. “Why in the world invite her?”

“Oh, you don’t understand Natchez women. They are slow to forgive hardness of heart and unkindness, but they tolerate it in someone who is amusing. And you will adore Pickett. She is just like you—only with better manners.”

Caroline swatted my hand, then kicked off her slippers and arched her back. “I’m tired, even though I went Pullman.”

“Lucky you. The berths were all booked when I came, so I rode coach.” When Caroline rolled her eyes, I added, “It was fun. I sat across from a man in overalls, whose hair looked like a stubble field, and I thought I ought to buy him breakfast in the diner, since he’d probably spent his last nickel on the ticket. But I didn’t, because he pulled out a dinner pail. When he got off the train, he was met by a chauffeur. I spent the rest of the trip making up stories about him.”

My friend looked at me curiously. “You really are back to normal.”

“Applesauce,” I protested mildly.

“Yes, you are. Like I said, you’re snappier.” She paused. “And you’re not as sad.” She reached for my hand and squeezed it. “I’m glad.”

Caroline was right. I had not expected to be happy again, but I was. I did not want to discuss it, however, because it meant talking about David. I preferred to keep my thoughts of him for my quiet moments, when I could remember the better times. The other times . . . well, they were not so wretched now, more bittersweet. I was glad the conversation was interrupted by a tap on the front door, a sound so faint that Caroline didn’t hear it. But I had grown used to listening for it, and I looked up when Ezra came into the room carrying a tray.

He set it on a table, and I saw that he already had put out the tea things. “Aunt Polly make you a ginger bread.” He lifted the napkin over the cake so that we could admire it. “I fix the tea.” He went into the kitchen and in a few minutes came back with a silver teapot. “It steep yet.”

“This is Miss Caroline, Ezra,” I said, then turned to my friend. “Without Ezra, I could not live here.” I added, “Ezra and Aunt Polly. How is she today?” Like Avoca, the old black woman had deteriorated over the past year, and she’d been relieved when I told her that I would prepare my own meals at the billiard house. In fact, I sometimes cooked for Ezra and Aunt Polly. Still, when Mother and Henry or other guests visited, Aunt Polly sent up cake and biscuits and pots of stew, and when I gave my first dinner party, Aunt Polly made chicken shortcake.

“Best to be expected this time of year,” Ezra replied. “She got dark shadows ’fore her eyes.”

“Does she feel up to meeting Miss Caroline? We can walk down to the quarters later.”

Ezra nodded. “Her head is tired, but the sight of you pleasure her. All her friends has left her, and you and me all she got left. You want you a fire?” When I nodded, Ezra struck a match and laid it on the kindling. The dew was still frozen on the grass outside, and the wind rattled dead leaves against the windows. The blaze took the edge off the chill. Ezra looked around the room to make sure everything was in place, then said, “By and by, I fotch you more wood. Aunt Polly say you come one of these week-a-days and help her finish her quilt ’fore Old Death put out his hand in the night for her.” I had gotten in the habit of stitching with her one or two afternoons a week when I was in Natchez.

“I will, Ezra. Thank you.”

“And thank your aunt for the ginger bread,” Caroline added.

Ezra chuckled and sent me a sly glance. After he left, I said, “Aunt Polly’s Ezra’s mother. Old Negro women are called ‘aunty’ in the South. Shoot, at first I thought Aunt Polly was Ezra’s wife.”

“He’s colored?”

“It takes only one drop.”

Caroline got up and stood before the fire, rubbing her hands.

“They were both slaves,” I said softly.
“Our
slaves.”

Caroline’s hands stopped moving. “Not
your
slaves. You didn’t even know you had family here.”

“I do now, and they’re my charge. We take our responsibilities seriously.”

Caroline turned and studied me to see if I were joking, but I was not. “What do you have to say about miscegenation? It’s obvious Ezra wasn’t sired by any colored man.”

I remembered Pickett’s answer to the same question, and I said, “We pretend it didn’t happen. Pretending is one of the things we in the Old South do best.”

“ ‘We’?” Caroline asked. “
We?
It sounds like you’ve become one of them.” She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to laugh.

I picked up a pillow fashioned from lace and scraps of silk that I’d found in Amalia’s workbasket and plucked at a thread. “Of course not. It takes a lifetime to become a southerner.”

Caroline turned back to the fire as the wood popped, sending up sparks like fireflies.

I went to the table where Ezra had set the ginger bread and put the pieces onto Amalia’s Old Paris plates. Then I poured tea as I thought about Amalia and Ezra and Aunt Polly, and how my life forever would be intertwined with theirs. I handed Caroline a cup of tea and the ginger bread. “As we say, here’s you your corner piece.”

Caroline laughed and said, “I believe a corner piece of you really has become southern, kiddo—or at least it wants to.”

I thought that over while I sat down and sipped my tea and tasted the cake, savoring the bite of ginger mingled with cinnamon. And I told Caroline, “That’s not worth denying.”

1. Nora Bondurant is a woman with secrets. At what point in the story did this become clear to you? How do her secrets mirror the secrets of Avoca?

2. In what ways does Natchez of 1933 cling to its past? In what ways has it shed its past?

3. Nora is an outsider when she first arrives, and views this town with an outsider’s eyes. What are some of the more surprising aspects of the South that Nora discovers?

4. What is the “old South” and what is the “new South”? Which does Pickett Long represent? Which does Odalie represent?

5. What was your initial impression of the relationship between Ezra and Aunt Polly, and at what moment did that impression change?

6. Was Amalia a victim in any way? If so, how? If not, why not?

7. Were you surprised at Nora’s reaction to the revelations at the end of the book and do you agree with how she responded?

8. How does the theme of “memory” play in the book? How does each character receive his or her own “new mercies”?

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