Roots of Murder (46 page)

epilogue

Hattie Jacobs stood at
her window, watching the three women get out of their two cars. They had been easy to spot, out of place on the block. The newspaper woman had called, asking if they could come by.

As they entered, the cold wind of February came with them.

Hattie motioned them to sit, but she didn't offer coffee or tea. Part of it was pride; they had taken enough from her. Part of it was shame; she had no milk or honey, and it would be a few days before she had the money to again buy any.

“Mrs. Jacobs,” Nell McGraw said, “this is Desiree Hunter …”

The pale white woman extended her hand. She was tentative, as if Hattie might not be willing to shake with her.

Hattie took her hand, but said nothing.

“… and this is Samantha Dumas,” Nell continued, introducing the other woman.

Samantha Dumas was a black woman, a lawyer. There was an awkward silence as they seated themselves.

Finally, Desiree Hunter said in a voice barely above a whisper, “Mrs. Jacobs, I'm very sorry for what my family did to you. I know an apology … isn't much.”

Still Hattie was silent. It wasn't much. It wouldn't get Daniel out of prison or Daisy out of her grave.

Desiree faltered and Samantha Dumas took over. “The reason we're here, Mrs. Jacobs, is to attempt restitution. Mrs. Hunter is aware of what her father did. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right. Mrs. Hunter is offering half of the proceeds of the sale of her part of that property. She is making this offer to get this taken care of without years of litigation, years that would probably benefit lawyers more than anyone else.”

“Like yourself?” Hattie asked. She wondered if this
African-American
woman had been brought in to convince her this was fair, on the assumption that Hattie would trust her just because of the color of her skin.

“Yes, like myself. Except most of them will be white men.”

“Mrs. Jacobs,” Desiree said in her timid voice, “I have two little girls. I … need to take care of them. My parents' estate is all I have to do that with.”

Hattie kept her silence, although she was tempted to tell this young woman all she'd had to care for her children was scrubbing floors on her hands and knees.

“It will mean you'll have a good amount of money soon. Legal action could take years,” Samantha, the lawyer, said.

“Is this a fair deal?” Hattie turned to Nell and asked her directly. She wanted to hear what Nell would say, not necessarily take it as guidance.

“What's fair?” Nell asked softly. Then she said, “You can fight, and you might do better, but it's realistic a lot will go to lawyers. And it will take years.”

“Under the circumstances, Mrs. Jacobs,” Samantha said, “this is not a bad deal. Mrs. Hunter has initiated this offer—rare enough in itself, and she's giving you as much as she's getting. The choice is sign now and get a check soon, or go to court and fight for a long time with the chance you may not do as well and could even lose, given the statutes of limitation.”

Or not even be still alive, Hattie added silently. She thought of fighting. Because she could. Finally, she could strike back at Mr. Andre Dupree, at his grave, at his children.

But she was tired. She had fought her whole life, fighting every day to vacuum another hotel floor, empty someone else's trash; fighting the bitterness of being a maid instead of a woman who owned property and had no clock to bend to, save that of the land. Hattie knew she would sign, but she couldn't say that yet; she wanted to hold on to this bit of time when she finally had power. The money would help Rosa get though law school, give Emmett a new car to replace the one he could barely afford to fix. It could help her grandchildren go to college so they would never have to clean up after anyone. Honey and milk when she wanted them.

Then Desiree Hunter said softly, “I know you must think me a hypocrite for keeping for myself what my father didn't allow you and your children. I probably am. But I have to take care of my children.”

Hattie did think she was a hypocrite, a woman of such privilege that making a living with her back and hands and knees was a foreign idea. But she was also a mother with children to take care of. She was the only one in her family to attempt recompense.

“Do I have to sign right now or can I look these papers over?” Hattie asked. “My daughter Rosa is in law school.”

“The sooner we get this taken care of, the sooner we can put this behind us,” Samantha Dumas said.

“My life isn't long enough to put this behind me,” Hattie told the young lawyer.

“It's been fifty years,” Nell said. “If Mrs. Jacobs wants some time, she should have it.”

“Of course,” said Samantha Dumas. “Here's my card. Please call me as soon as you've made a decision.”

“Please take my offer,” Desiree Hunter said as she again shook Hattie Jacobs' hand. “It's all … for my children. To take away their sin. Original sin; all the children of the South should know what it is. Our parents teach us to hate before we're old enough to know how hatred poisons the soul.”

“I can't absolve sins,” was all Hattie said to her.

Nell hung back as the other two women returned to their car, the wind of winter blowing their hair in their eyes.

“You think I should take it,” Hattie said, not even a question.

“Would you find any consolation in fighting them? Desiree can only offer funds from her part of the estate. The Duprees have another child, a son, and you could fight to get part of his.”

“I'm an old woman, Mrs. McGraw. I will take her offer.” Hattie tried to keep the resignation away.

“Do you feel bought off by the Duprees once again?”

“It's a better deal this time,” Hattie said bitterly. “Still, only money. It won't buy back a single day of those years. I can't call up Michael and tell him I'm going to fly up to New York and visit him. Or see Ella and Dora dance again, this time at a party with real cake instead of sugar on bread.”

“No, it won't buy back a single day.”

For a moment, they were silent.

Nell said, “He went to jail, the man who killed my husband. Maximum sentence.”

“Was it a comfort?”

“Not enough.”

Hattie caught the disconsolate look that passed over the newspaper woman's face. “The man that hit my Daniel was white. Nothing happened to him.”

“Hell isn't enough,” Nell said.

They said goodbye. Hattie wondered if they'd ever see each other again. They made soft promises: if Hattie wanted to return to Pelican Bay and see what had become of her property, or if Nell got back to New Orleans again.

Hattie stood on the porch watching her drive away. Then she retreated to her kitchen, the warmest room in the house, and made herself tea with a little
half-slice
of lemon still left.

It was cold, getting so cold these days.

the end

Acknowledgments

No one writes a book alone, except for the staring-at-the-screen part and turning down invitations to do fun things. Below is my long list, with hopes that my less-than-always-perfect brain hasn't left anyone out.

I need to thank all the people at Midnight Ink for letting an old(er) writer try a new trick. Terri Bischoff for accepting the book, Sandy Sullivan for her painstaking editing (but all mistakes are mine, trust me on that), Katie Mickschl for publicity, and the people there whose names I don't know but who have done their best for this book.

I also need to thank my writing community, those who have encouraged me or at least not told me I was insane to write a different series. Especially Greg Herren, Ellen Hart, Gillian Rodger, Carsen Taite, Anne Laughlin, Ali, Vali, V. K. Powell, Shelley Thrasher, Nathan Burgoine, Jeffrey Ricker, Rob Brynes, Fay Jacobs, Mary Griggs, Lindy Cameron, Felice Picano, and everyone who trekked out to Treme for the pitcher of Cosmos party or bought a round of drinks at the bar—another book is another reason to celebrate, right, Rob, I mean, y'all? Also some fab book people: Susan Larsen, Candice Huber, Connie Ward, Chris Smith, Paul Willis, all the booksellers, literary festival folks, and librarians. I especially want to thank Jessie Chandler for help above and beyond the call of duty with connections.

While this book is a work of fiction, I have tried to hew as closely as I could to the realities of the history that's part of the plot. Many conversations happened, from brief ones in the street to longer ones; there are too many to name, but thank you all: Neely, Robin, D.J., Nicky, Elizabeth, Doris, and others. A number of books helped guide my way as well, also too many to name, but especially
Freedom's Daughters: The Unsung Heroines of the Civil Rights Movement from 1830 to 1970
by Lynne Olson,
Eyes on the Prize: America's Civil Rights Years, 1954–1965
by Juan Williams, and
Beaches, Blood, and Ballots: A Black Doctor's Civil Rights Struggle
by Gilbert R. Mason M.D. and James Paterson Smith.

I also need to thank my
day-job
folks for being supportive of my quirky writing life, especially those who keep things running while I'm away: Allison, Joey, Narquis, and Lauran. Also Reginald, Noel, Dr. Ron, Jeannette, Josh, and Mark for their help and support. Everyone in the Prevention Department for making me look like I know what I'm doing, and the rest of the staff for being the kind, caring people you are.

Finally, the cats, because cats notice if they don't get thanked, and Spouse B for learning to make Sazeracs.

About the Author

R. Jean Reid lives and works in New Orleans. She grew up on the Mississippi Gulf coast.
Roots of Murder
is the first book in the Nell McGraw series. As J. M. Redmann, she is the author of the award-winning Micky Knight mystery series.