Travelers Rest (28 page)

“I’m ready now, Mamma, if Aunt Bess will just let me get started.”

“Don’t be blaming me for the holdup, young man—”

“Shh, Aunt Bess,” Laney chided. “Let Eugene speak.”

“Well!” Bess pressed her lips together, arresting any errant words that might be left on the tip of her tongue.

As the corner of Truman’s mouth twitched, Jane chuckled softly under her breath. Clapper’s cough barely concealed his laughter.

Eugene looked out at his audience and said, “All right, now. Mamma called me earlier today and asked me to show you this. Took me the better part of the afternoon to find it, but here it is.” He looked down at his laptop then up again. “Oh, I’d better explain. This was filmed while I was doing a project on Jim Crow in the Upcountry. I interviewed a lot of the older folks around town here and some even down in Greenville, the ones who remembered the days before civil rights. It was for a filmmaking class I took a few years ago, back in college. What you’re going to see wasn’t in the final documentary. I left it out because . . . well, you’ll see.”

He pushed a button on his laptop, and an elderly woman appeared on the screen of the television set. She wore a lavender cotton dress and a colorful beaded necklace with matching earrings. Her gray hair was combed neatly away from her face and held back by some kind of clasp. Her dark cheeks displayed a hint of blush and her lips were a fiery red. She sat outdoors in a rocking chair, fanning herself with a funeral parlor fan. The sound must have been turned off, because her lips were moving but the screen was silent.

Truman leaned forward in his seat, squinting as though trying to make her out. Then quietly, almost under his breath, he whispered, “Maggie.”

Eugene looked over at him and nodded. “That’s right. I’m interviewing Grandma right here on the porch of the inn. I’m glad I did too, because she died less than a year later.” He pushed another button on the keyboard. “Let me turn up the sound here.”

“ . . . and there was danger in those days, real danger,” Maggie was saying. “You didn’t take a threat lightly back then. Wasn’t anybody going to be arrested for hate crimes in those days. Killing a black man, that wasn’t even considered a crime, not by the whites. Some of them, anyway. Not all of them were like that, but many of them were.”

She rocked and fanned herself. She seemed to be waiting. From off camera, Eugene’s voice: “So did you ever know any black folks who were killed by whites?”

Maggie’s eyes shifted out toward the yard, back at the camera. “Sure I did. I remember several, killed for small things. Laughing at a white man. Talking back. A man named O’Neil Hopper, he was killed for lighting a white lady’s cigarette when she asked him to.”

Maggie paused and looked pensive.

Eugene’s voice: “I find that hard to believe, Grandma.”

A curt lifting of her chin and a flash in her eyes. “Whether you believe it or not, it’s true. I knew O’Neil personally. That poor man was put in a no-win situation. He knew he might be killed if he lighted that white woman’s cigarette, and he knew he might be killed if he didn’t, seeing as how she asked him to. So he lit the cigarette, and that was it. No man deserves to die for something like that.”

A third voice, off camera. Laney’s voice: “Mamma, you know he didn’t die for lighting a cigarette. He died because he was a black man, plain and simple.”

Maggie looked beyond the camera and nodded. “You’re right, of course, Laney. All the Jim Crow laws, they were just an excuse. They made it easy for whites to do to us whatever they wanted, even kill us and get away with it.”

Eugene’s voice: “Well, now, Grandma, you told me there were good white folks. Whites who helped blacks, defended blacks even.”

“Well, sure there were. Plenty of good whites and plenty of bad ones. Just like the Negroes. Good ones and bad ones both. Evil isn’t color-blind. Still and all, Jim Crow was a terrible time for us. A terrible time.” She shook her head, rocked quietly a moment.

Eugene: “You told me before, Grandma, about how some black folks fled the South.”

Maggie gave a small reluctant nod. “That’s right. They had to go north just to try to stay alive.”

Eugene: “And you told me about that one man you were engaged to before you married Grandpa. What was his name?”

Maggie cast a stern look at the camera and fanned herself with brisk flicks of her wrist. “Truman,” she said. “Dr. Truman Rockaway.”

Eugene: “Yeah. Now, you said he had to go north. Tell me about that.”

A surly frown on Maggie’s face. “You already know the story, Eugene.”

Eugene: “Well, tell me again, Grandma, so I can get it on tape.”

A quick glance at Eugene, then away. “I’m not sure I want it on tape.”

A sigh from behind the camera. “Come on, Grandma. You said you’d help me with the project.”

“And I already have,” Maggie snapped. “We’ve been at this for more than an hour.”

Laney’s voice: “If you don’t want to tell Eugene the story, Mamma, I will. That way I can be in his movie.”

“Fine. You can tell it. You want to sit here?”

Eugene: “No, Grandma, no. Just stay where you are. Listen, so you and Dr. Rockaway were having a picnic by the Saluda River, and you found the man who’d been shot, right? The white man.”

Her eyes narrowed. She gave a resigned sigh. “That’s right. Tommy Lee Coleman.”

“Some other white guy shot him?”

“His own cousin.” Maggie’s eyes widened, and she looked suddenly animated. “Can you believe it? His own first cousin shot him over a gambling debt.”

“So what happened to the cousin?”

“He served time. Ten years for attempted murder, something like that. Eventually he got out and came back to Travelers Rest. By that time, he and Tommy Lee had gone and made up. They went into business together, just like the shooting never happened. Just like nothing ever happened.”

“But something did happen, didn’t it?”

Another glance at the camera. “You might say so.”

“Truman Rockaway took off.”

Quietly, almost imperceptibly, “That’s right. He couldn’t stay here after that. No, he surely couldn’t stay here after that.”

“Why didn’t you go with him, Grandma?”

Her eyes lowered, she shook her head slowly for a long time. She didn’t answer.

“Weren’t you afraid to stay?” Eugene prodded. “I mean, Tommy Lee Coleman had seen you too. He could identify you.”

Maggie looked up sharply. “I wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t me he wanted. I wasn’t the one who refused to help him.”

“But Dr. Rockaway did?”

“Yes.”

“Refused to help him?”

“That’s right.”

“And why was that?”

Maggie looked out over the lawn. “You know that story too, Eugene.”

“Come on, Grandma, it’s for my assignment.”

Maggie sighed heavily.

Laney’s voice: “Maybe you could take a break for now, pick it up later.”

“Later’s not going to make any of it any easier, Laney.”

“Well then, Mamma, you don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

“But you said you would, Grandma, to help me with this project.”

“Let’s let Grandma rest, Eugene, and finish this another time.”

“Just one more question for now, Grandma.”

“What is it, Eugene?” Maggie sighed again and turned reluctantly toward her grandson.

“Are you sorry you didn’t go with him?”

Her jaw worked, and she opened her mouth a time or two before finally saying, “There’s only one thing I’m sorry about, Eugene.”

“What’s that, Grandma?”

She fanned herself. Her eyes glistened. She gave another small lift of her chin. “I’m sorry I never asked him to forgive me.”

“To forgive you? For what? For not going?”

“No. For not understanding why he did what he did. For loving my own virtue more than I loved him.”

“So, Grandma, did you ever forgive him? I mean, for not helping that white guy?”

The glistening eyes looked directly at the camera. “Eugene, I forgave him before he even left town. I was just too proud to tell him. Now he’ll never know.”

A pained expression settled over Maggie Dooley’s face like a shadow at dusk. With delicate hands she pushed herself up from the chair and exited the porch. The chair went on rocking without her. The screen faded to black.

41

F
or several minutes no one spoke. It was a poignant silence, sweetened with grace. Jane looked in wonder around the room. Laney wept quietly but openly. Eugene gazed at his laptop while Clapper pondered his hands. Bess, who sat close enough to Truman to reach him, covered one of his hands with her own. Truman sat motionless, his face without expression.

Finally Eugene said, “So Mamma thought you might like to see that, Dr. Rockaway.”

Several more seconds passed before Truman leaned forward in the wing chair. “Son,” he replied, “I’ve been waiting forty-four years to hear those words. I thought it was too late.” His brow furrowed; he paused to wet his lips. “Eugene, thank you. And Laney, thank you.” He patted Bess’s hand, then eased himself up from the chair and took hold of his cane. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone for a little while.”

He looked at Jane but only fleetingly, his eyes like sparrows unwilling to land. He turned and stepped slowly out of the room. Jane watched him go, her heart both full and weightless.

Clapper dug around in the pocket of his slacks and offered Laney his handkerchief. She took it gratefully, blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes. Eugene tapped at his keyboard with an index finger, then unhooked the laptop from the television set. Bess cleared her throat and straightened her back. Her mouth was a small tight line. “Well,” she said, “I’m big enough to admit when I’m wrong. I don’t think that was a blooper. Lord knows, I don’t think that was any kind of mistake at all.”

Clapper laughed softly. “Aunt Bess,” he said, “I hate to admit it, but for once I’ve got to agree with you. What just happened here, that was surely no mistake.”

———

An hour later, Jane found him alone in the library. The door was open, but she knocked anyway. “Truman?”

He looked up and smiled. “Hello, Jane. Come on in.”

The library was a cozy room with built-in bookcases, a fireplace, several comfortable chairs, and small tables. Truman sat in one of the leather club chairs, his hands folded in his lap.

“I don’t mean to disturb you,” Jane said.

“Not at all.” He waved toward a second club chair, separated from his own by a small table. “Join me.”

She sat down, returned his smile. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

He shut his eyes, nodded, opened them. “I’m far better than all right. I’m . . . I’m . . .” He looked around the room, as though looking for the right word. He shrugged, unable to find it. “Now I know why we’re here, why we had to come. Jane, if I hadn’t met you—”

“But you did.”

“Yes. That’s what I’ve been sitting here thinking about. If I hadn’t met you, if you hadn’t known Laney, if Maggie hadn’t always said her two cents’ worth about life’s gearshift . . .” He paused and chuckled quietly. “But here we are. I’ve been thinking about how all the small steps finally fit together to bring me to the right place. I have no doubt that each one was orchestrated by a divine hand.”

She gazed at him intently. “So that your unanswerable prayer could be answered,” she said.

Truman nodded slowly as the small muscles in his jaw worked. “That’s the amazing thing. I heard Maggie say it herself, the words I’ve wanted to hear all these years. She forgave me.”

Jane reached across the table and laid a hand on Truman’s arm. “I’m happy for you, you know.”

“Thank you, Jane.” His dark eyes glistened as he covered her young hand with his old weathered one. “Thanks for your part in bringing me here.”

“You’re welcome. But listen, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.” Giving his arm a squeeze, she rose and stretched. She glanced at the cherrywood clock on the mantel and saw that the hour was getting late. “What are you going to do now, Truman?” she asked.

With that, he sank a little lower into the worn leather of the chair and smiled contentedly. “I’m going to bask in Maggie’s forgiveness. I’m going to breathe without pain. If I could dance on these old arthritic knees, I’d get up and dance.” He laughed out loud, his eyes raised toward the ceiling. “I’m going to enjoy this feeling of happiness for as long as it lasts.”

Jane nodded happily. “Then I will leave you to it,” she said. Strolling to the nearest row of books, she tilted her head to read the spines. She pulled a paperback from the shelf and opened to the first page. “This looks like a good one,” she mused.

“What is it?”

“Just a love story of some kind. I’m sure it has a happy ending. Maybe kind of like yours.” She turned back to Truman and gave him another smile. “I guess I’ll go read awhile, then call it a night.”

“All right. Sleep well, then. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Truman.”

She headed for the door, but he called her back. “Jane?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll find out too. Before we leave.”

“Find out what?”

“Why Travelers Rest called you.”

Jane thought a moment. “Do you think so? Maybe I’m just the chauffeur, the one who was supposed to bring you here.”

Truman shook his head. “No, I think there’s something for you here, something real.”

“Well . . .” Jane lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. Good night, Truman.”

“Good night, Jane.”

She held the book close to her heart and ascended the stairs to the Rose Room.

42

A
t breakfast the next morning, Jane flipped open her cell phone to see if there were any messages. The screen came up empty. She frowned at Truman, who was sipping coffee beside her. “My phone’s dead.”

Truman settled the cup back in the saucer. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. It was working last night when I talked with Jewel.”

“Did you plug it in overnight?”

“Yes, it was charging all night.”

“Here, let me take a look.” Truman held out a hand for the phone. He looked at it a moment, snapped it shut. “Your battery must have given out completely.”