Query Letter / query - In the Hearts of Men

27726 70th Ave NW
Stanwood, WA 98292

September 22, 2008

Laurence J. Kirshbaum
LJK Literary Management
Via Urbis website

Dear Mr. Kirshbaum,

My name is Andrea Wyatt Detrick, and I have long been interested in the story of my family’s background. When researching the family’sgenealogy, I came across a little secret that I couldn’t seem to find answers for within my family circle, so I wrote a fictionalized story about what could have happened, titled, In the Hearts of Men. I would like to invite you to review my manuscript and consider representing me.

In the Hearts of Men is written as commercial/family saga fiction, featuring the issues of race during the beginning of the twentieth century. It follows the life of Regina, a young half-black, half Cherokee girl, loosely imitating the true-life documents I discovered in my family’s history. Regina’s spirit becomes stronger as she matures, and she discovers the strength in herself to overcome the many obstacles life has presented to her, even in death. It is a personal work for me, even being fictionalized, as it so deeply touches the issues of race that have affected my life for so long.

This is my first completed novel. My background has consisted of working in marketing and advertising, where I managed photography shoots and learned photography techniques, wrote press releases, ad copy and editorial content, purchased advertising, and managed contracted advertising agencies. After having another child, I decided to stay home, started a portrait business partnership and began writing In the Hearts of Men. I have lived most of my life in Washington State. I have two children and one on the way, and I have been married to my husband for seven years. I am writing In the Hearts of Men under a pen name so as not to injure my family relationships.

Attached per your instructions is the first chapter of In the Hearts of Men.

I would be happy to have you represent me. If you are interested to read the manuscript, please contact me as soon as possible. I am sending out several queries, but will be showing the manuscript to one agent at a time. You can reach me at 360-629-5347 or my cell at 360-941-3569, or by email at rdadlwd@verizon.net.

Thank you for your time, and very truly yours,

Andrea Wyatt Detrick

In the Hearts
of Men

By Andrea Wyatt Detrick
Writing as Christine Plato
27726 70th Ave NW
Stanwood, WA 98292
360-629-5347, 360-941-3569 cell
rdadlwd@verizon.net

Prologue
After the Powwow - 1987
It was late morning. I was sitting in my grandparent’s little dining room, sipping hot black coffee (with just a hint of sugar, careful to not let my grandfather see,) and playing the dice game. Grandpa was sitting in his chair listening to the emergency scanner and Grandma was at work. She worked at the only little gas station and convenience store on the reservation.
My uncle was showered already; I had wondered who was in the bathroom, but I thought it was my brother or sister. The three of us were visiting for a month during the summer, a regular occasion since my parents’ divorce eight years before.
The White Swan reservation is about an hour’s drive from Yakima, Washington, and since we lived on the other side of the mountains in Washington, it seemed like a world away. Everything was different. Anything that could be different was. That’s why we liked it.
When my uncle sat down at the table with me, he smiled and asked, “Did you have fun last night?” His tired blue eyes sparkled, recalling the evening.
I had, and told him so. It was the first time I had been to a Powwow, and it was thrilling! To see the drum circles, the dancers, the tobacco cloud floating overhead (at least I think it was tobacco,) it was just like stepping back in time. The only thing that ruined my step-back-in-time reverie was the prevalence of western-style shirts or t-shirts and jeans. I had an irrational thought that anyone attending the Powwow should dress more reverently, dressing in only traditional native Indian clothing. Of course, Uncle Rob and I were both in t-shirts and jeans, too.
Uncle Rob seemed to know everyone at the Powwow, and I was introduced to what seemed like half of White Swan, although there were some neighboring tribes there, too. One of Uncle Rob’s friends, Rory, was dressed in jeans and a western shirt, but had his hair braided in one single braid down his back, a large feather stuck into it. He normally just kept his hair long or in a ponytail, so it seemed very mystical to see him this way tonight. He smiled at me, his white teeth flashing happily, a sharp contrast to his dark skin that was even darker than usual because of his summer tan. He and my Uncle Rob worked for a local rancher, herding the cattle, just like old time cowboys. I swooned over Rory, but tried hard to not let either of them notice.
Since I was with Uncle Rob, we seemed to be totally accepted here at the Powwow, but otherwise I think I would have felt pretty out of place. We looked white, both of us. Because we are more white that native Indian.
Now, looking across the table at Uncle Rob, smiling and recounting the evening, he suddenly stood up and said, “Let’s go into town and I’ll buy you breakfast. I have a couple of errands to run.”
He walked out to his truck and started it up. I ran to put my shoes on, careful to not wake my brother and sister who were still asleep on the floor in the back room. I ran back to the front room, kissed my grandpa, then slammed out the screen door and jumped down the porch steps. My uncle’s truck was dusty and dirty, lots of Man Stuff all over: chewing tobacco, newspapers, gloves, tools of various design, a couple of colored bandanas, and a worn cowboy hat. And that was just what I could see right away.
We rode in mostly silence, Uncle Rob switching the radio station back and forth from country to rock, switching gears now and then. We stopped a few times, once at a Mexican family’s house, where Uncle Rob helped load some hay into the man’s trailer, then again at Rory’s house where Uncle Rob told me to stay in the truck while he went inside. That was fine with me, since Rory had two mean-looking Healer dogs, one red and one blue, who kept snarling at me. Uncle Rob walked by them as though they weren’t even there.
Uncle Rob appeared in the doorway shortly and we were on our way again. We were just getting out the driveway when Uncle Rob handed me a little leather pouch.
“This is for you and your sister,” he said.
I opened the pouch and drew out two beautiful leather bracelets with intricate beadwork. They were different, one in turquoise, white and black, the other in red, yellow and orange. I put the turquoise-colored one on my wrist.
“These are cool, who made them?” I asked while tying the bracelet.
“Rory’s mother,” he said absently, steering through an empty intersection, brown dirt fields surrounding in every direction. “When we get back home, I’ll let you drive up the hill, if you want.”
“OK,” I murmured, still admiring my bracelet. I would be getting my drivers license in the spring, and Uncle Rob had been letting me drive his truck on old back roads.
We were finally arriving into civilization. We stopped one other place before reaching our breakfast destination, a farm and feed store. I stayed in the truck again. Uncle Rob appeared shortly, carrying two large bags of livestock feed on his shoulder. He threw them both into the back of the truck where they made a loud thud and the truck shook when they hit the bed. In moments the truck was in motion again, but only for a few blocks. We stopped outside a Perkins restaurant, parked and both got out this time.
A worn-out looking waitress showed us to a booth immediately and sloshed coffee into two of the mugs, leaving two others at the table, turned over, waiting for the next set of customers. We sat there, sipping coffee. I put whatever I wanted to into my coffee this time – cream and sugar. Uncle Rob wouldn’t care.
“You’re grandma is pretty pissed at me for taking you to that Powwow last night,” Uncle Rob said, stirring cream into his own coffee.
I looked up shocked. I have never seen my grandmother mad at anything. She rolled her eyes and disagreed with my grandpa from time to time, but I had never seen her angry.
“Why is she mad?”
He wouldn’t look at me. Instead he looked at the menu, scrutinizing every single line of print, or so it seemed. Finally, when I picked up my own menu and began my own search for food, he kinda swallowed hard and cleared his throat. When I looked up at him, his clear blue eyes that match my own were looking at me, with resolve.
“She wants you to marry a white man,” he said, his face unclear.
I didn’t really know what to say. So I said nothing. He obviously thought that was his cue to keep going.
“She sees you hanging out with the kids in the neighborhood, and it makes her nervous, I guess,” he went on. “She thinks that maybe you’re getting a little too close to that one boy, Bobby.”
The waitress appeared. I gave my order for Swedish pancakes and scrambled eggs, my tone subdued. I felt like I was being chastised, but I didn’t really understand why.
My uncle placed his own order for sunny side up eggs and white toast. When the waitress went away, he sat there quiet for a minute. My own head was messed up, confused. I didn’t know that my grandma had any feelings at all about whom I hung out with or dated, and it was surprising to me to hear that she had strong feelings about it. Bobby was a black kid, probably one of the only black kids in White Swan, and by far the best looking kid in town. And nice. He gave me rides on his motorcycle, taking me one time up to the top of a hill where an old Indian burial ground was, makeshift markers with strange names dotting the fenced area. He kissed me up there, surprising us both, I think.
Sitting here in this burgundy Perkins booth, my butt sinking into sticky vinyl that tried to look like leather, my thoughts must have been written all over my face, because my uncle just smiled at me apologetically, sympathetically.
“You know, she made it difficult for me to keep dating Samantha,” he reached across the table toward me and patted my hand with his huge, weathered one. “Her father, Runs With Wind, has been a little cold toward us all since I broke it off, but Mama keeps saying it’s for the best. He and Daddy have always been pretty good friends, too, and I guess they haven’t talked much since. I don’t know… maybe Mama’s right. Samantha’s been dating Rory’s little brother now, and they seem better suited, like they understand each other’s life already.”
Uncle Rob shrugged a little, the sadness there just under the surface.
We didn’t say much more. I ate my food in silence, hardly tasting my favorite breakfast meal.

Family Research - 2005
It was after 1 in the morning and I still sat at my computer, completely wrapped up in my search. I had finally found a link to the Heston side of my family, from my paternal grandmother’s side, and I was so eager to find more that I couldn’t seem to force myself to turn off the computer and go to bed, despite the aching in my back from sitting at the computer for hours after everyone else had turned in.
A few nights before, I had found a link for one of my dad’s relatives that ended up taking me on a long online journey to 1300s England, putting fantastic thoughts in my head about what
Salisbury and the Isle of Man must have been like during those times. I was euphoric at discovering such a find, and on this night I was hoping to find another genealogical treasure.
I put the name “Heston” and location “North Carolina” into the genealogy search engine, as I knew that’s where my Grandma’s family had lived before moving out to Washington State. Several names popped up, but they didn’t look familiar. I clicked on Hettie Heston, a name I knew well because my Grandma’s eldest sister was named the same. The link included a basic birth certificate for a Hettie Heston from North Carolina, but I couldn’t find other links to her at first, so I simply wrote down her name in my notebook and the catalog number for her birth certificate. I found a few other Hestons, all from North Carolina, one of them being my grandmother’s father, which I excitedly printed for my notebook.
I looked at the clock, 1:55. Five more minutes and I’ll stop for the night, I decided. The search tonight had yielded very few results, but I was so addicted to the search for my roots that I just kept clicking away on new prospects. I sat now, my head in my hands, leaning over the keyboard, rubbing my eyes. Suddenly I was very tired.
I looked up again, resolved to turn off the computer, defeated. But something caught my eye. It was a listing from the 1910 census in Gatlin, North Carolina. The entire household for my great-great grandfather’s family was on the screen. Moses Heston was listed at the top, age 38, widowed. Just below his name were my great-grandfather and his brothers and sisters, 9 of them. My great-grandfather, Johnson, was the oldest, 16 years old in 1910. And at the bottom was Regina Riddick, a Negro-Cherokee girl who was listed as a Kitchen Stewardess, 14 years old.
The next listing I clicked on was for Johnson Heston, wife Regina Heston. The census was 1912. They were no longer listed in the same town, but in a town called Harrisburg, NC. I clicked a link on Johnson Heston’s name and it sent me to the 1918 census, but this time he was listed back in his hometown of Gatlin. His age was listed as 24, and his wife was listed as Anna Jean, age 17 years old. Four children were listed, Hettie, age 10, Thomas, 5, Emma Jean, 2 and Hartford, 1.
I was perplexed. If I was to believe what I was reading, my great-grandpa Johnson, whom I remembered pretty well from my childhood, was married first to a young Cherokee Black woman for somewhere between 1 and 4 years, according to the census of North Carolina. Then he married Anna Jean, whom I know was my great-grandma.
I recalled the two of them sitting on their front porch together in Concrete, Washington, rocking back and forth, great-grandma spitting from her chewing tobacco into a brass spittoon and great-grandpa whittling some little something out of soapstone. He made some really beautiful little sculptures, and one time made a miniature likeness of our two dogs running side by side. It still sits on my mantle.
The two of them – Johnson and Anna Jean – had gone through the Depression together, moving out to Washington so that Johnson could get a job in lumber. An old neighbor from North Carolina had written, telling him of the work to be had in Washington. Johnson had told Anna Jean, “It’s worth sleepin’ on.” The next morning when Anna Jean awoke, she found Johnson gathering their belongings to sell. He told her that he had decided to go to Washington, and they would have to take the train. He had already been around to a couple of the neighbors, letting them know that the Hestons were selling all their household belongings to make the move. Over the next couple of days, Anna Jean watched her favorite dishes be sold to her neighbor for $2. She cried when her mother’s lace wedding dress that she herself had married in to Johnson sold for less than $5. One by one, their treasures were given away to the highest bidder. But Anna Jean loved Johnson, and knew that he was doing the best thing for their family by moving where there was work. She and the children had been picking tobacco to make ends meet while Johnson had been looking for work, and he couldn’t find anything more than just a couple days’ work at a time doing odd jobs around plantations, fixing plows and mending fences.
Everything had been sold, and Johnson packed up his growing family and wife who was heavy with another child, and they headed west. They lived a short time with Johnson’s brother who had moved out ahead of him, and then homesteaded a plot of acreage close by the small town of Concrete. He worked at a nearby lumber mill until he was too old to work with lumber anymore. His wife, Anna Jean, worked part time in a cannery and also part time in the Baptist Grange of Birdsview, getting the roles together and preparing for a revival. They had 2 more children in addition to the 6 that came out west with them, and all 8 stayed in the area, living close by each other, vowing to stay close, as Mama and Daddy Heston, as they became known as, decreed.
I sat there at my computer, at now what was almost 3 in the morning, trying to understand just what I had stumbled onto. I decided to call my grandma in the morning to see what she could remember about the family history, if her father had been married before to anyone else.
* * * * *
“Hi Grandma,” I said into the phone the next morning. She asked about the weather on this side of the mountains, laughed with me a little about my cousin’s wedding and told me about her recent doctor appointment. She had been diagnosed a year or so ago with macular degeneration.
“The sight is now completely gone from my right eye,” she explained. The doctor told her there may be a procedure to keep the left eye from getting any worse. Until that time, she was still allowed to drive and work, which outside of mowing her lawn and going to the casino to play bingo, was the only thing keeping her going. We chatted a little about my dad, no I hadn’t heard from him in awhile. My uncles and aunt were all fine. Since Grandpa died, we don’t talk of him at all.
“I’ve been doing some genealogy research on our family,” I began, explaining the link I had found on her mother’s side that went back to Sweden. She seemed politely interested in what I had to say about it all. Finally I came to the reason for my call.
“Hey Grandma, do you know if your dad was ever married to anyone else?” I asked, trying to act nonchalant, as if I really was unsure of what I had found.
She was silent for just a moment and then said, “Nu uh, Mama was his one and only, his one and only love.”
She said it so absolutely that I didn’t question her further. We talked of the upcoming reunion briefly, and I told her that I would be bringing a potato salad. There was a reunion now just about every year, and fewer and fewer people came. It was sad. We went as often as we could, but sometimes we were on the East coast visiting my husband’s family for the summer. After hanging up, I briefly told my husband about what I had found and about my grandmother’s denial. He confirmed my next course of action by suggesting that I try looking for birth, death and marriage certificates next.
* * * * *
Later that night, the house was enveloped in quiet, all except for my mad typing away at the computer, my husband and our dog snoring in unison. Rubbing my eyes, I saw that it was again nearing the 2 o’clock hour, and I knew I would have to stop again for the night. Staying up so late had become a very bad habit for me, and the early mornings always made me vow to get to bed earlier.
I printed out birth records for Johnson Heston, born May 8th, 1893, several of his siblings, his parents. Lastly, I printed the birth record for Hettie Heston, the same one I had seen the night before, born September 15th, 1912 in Harrisburg, NC. Parents were listed as Johnson and Regina Heston; Johnson Heston’s birthday was not listed but his city of birth was Gatlin, NC. Regina Heston was listed as born July 4, 1896, Atlanta, Georgia.
I used the clue provided and did a search for Regina Riddick, based upon the Heston family census from 1910, which had listed Regina Riddick, Kitchen Stewardess, 14 years old. Immediately I found a listing for a Riddick family from the 1898, father Thomas, race listed as Black, age 33; mother Liza, Cherokee, age 31. My eye went straight down to the bottom of the Riddick family to Regina, 2-years-old, among 5 other children listed. Occupations for Thomas, Liza and their two oldest children, Charles, age 14 and Samantha, age 13, were listed as farm laborer. Then, looking ahead to the 1900 census for Atlanta, I found a list that included the Riddicks, but this time Charles was listed as head of household, now 16 years old, still a farm laborer, married to a Rachel, farm laborer, also 16 years old. No children were listed for the two, but 5 other children, listed as brother or sister still appeared: Samantha, age 15, Moses age 12, Elizabeth age 9, Elijah age 8 and last on the list was Regina, age 4.
I sat back and wondered what must have happened to the Riddick family in two years, wondering if perhaps mother and father, Thomas and Liza, had perhaps left to find work. In searching further, I didn’t see another listing for Thomas or Liza Riddick for Georgia.
Sometimes the needle in the haystack is the first thing you find, and then your job is figuring out who put it there and why. That’s how I felt, sitting there with tired eyes staring at a blue computer screen, too excited to turn it off. I wanted to keep on searching, but something told me that I wouldn’t find too much more over the genealogy sites on the internet, and I was trying to come to terms with that fact.
Life in Black and White – 1909
Regina walked down the dusty street of this new little town, feeling small. Her eyes remained downcast, as was expected and the only way she knew to be in public. The smell of pine trees invaded her senses, a scent she had never experienced before. It was dry here, like Blessed Hill, but she could feel a difference in the air. She could see the rolling hills that surrounded the little town, and she was overwhelmed by the trees that surrounded everything. She looked no one in the eye, said nothing unless spoken to. She knew her place, had been shown her place too many times by Master James or the Missus.
Master James was not really her Master, but he had still insisted that the Negroes, or as he called them, the Africans, refer to him as Master. He had been a big plantation owner before The War, owning nearly 300 acres of prime Georgia land. Most of his land had been confiscated by first the Confederate Army for camp and shelter, then by the Union Army as a spoil of war. What was left had been practically destroyed, hardly producing a ¼ of the tobacco it used to. Master James “employed” a couple of his ex-slaves, or the offspring of his former slaves. The compensation to these ex-slaves was to be able to live on Blessed Hill property in the shacks that used to shelter slaves. They all had to grow their own food in the communal plots that were behind the row of shacks. Once a year in the summer, the men were allowed to hunt for wild boar, rabbit and deer, which they then cured and stored for the remainder of the year. They didn’t have it as bad as some, but still they didn’t feel free.
Regina’s ma and pa had disappeared quite suddenly when she was 3 or 4 years old, she didn’t know for sure of her age. There were lots of rumors about their disappearance, maybe they had just run away together, knowing they couldn’t afford to care for their huge brood of children; or maybe they had been murdered. No one seemed to know for sure. But Regina missed them so much. She remembered everything about them still – their hugs, their smiles, their laughter, their love. Her brother, Charlie, tried his best to look after her and her brothers and sisters, but he didn’t know how to be a dad yet.
He’d married, Rachel, the only eligible girl left on the plantation who was around his age, but he didn’t love her. He even treated her badly, calling her “Blacky,” on account of her skin color. She was so dark she was almost purple. Regina doubted they would ever have children since he despised her so. He seemed to resent everything about her. Regina’s family was different in appearance from the other workers at Blessed Hill - lighter-skinned, higher cheekbones, finer noses, hair not so curly. Rachel always said it was on account of their momma being full Cherokee, whose father had been part of the Confederate army, but deserted when he found out he would have to fight against the Creek Indians. He was hung in Georgia, and Regina’s grandmother brought her young daughter, Liza, to Georgia to witness his hanging, telling her daughter that he was a hero for not fighting. They were taken in at Blessed Hill, where they had been put to work caring for the remaining Confederate soldiers, and then stayed on after the war. And that’s where young Liza Deupree met Thomas Riddick, the son of a slave.
Regina was now walking down this dirt-covered brick street in Gatlin on account of her purple sister-in-law. I think I hate her as much as Charlie does, she thought to herself, looking up through her eyelashes at the storefronts. Rachel had sent a letter to Gatlin, North Carolina, to a lady named Martha Cromwell, whom she said she knew from her pa. Mrs. Cromwell had helped her pa find a job when he moved north, and also helped him to send for her ma and younger sister when he had a place to live. By that time, Rachel and Charlie were already married, but she longed for the day when they would be able to leave, too.
“You need ta get off’n this land,” Rachel had told her when she finished writing the letter. “Ain’t nobody fo ya ta marry here, an’ the Master been eyein’ ya somethin’ terrible. Don’ need no more Master’s babies runnin’ round, an’ you too good fo that. Yessum, we gettin’ you outta his sights right quick.”
Regina wasn’t stupid; one couldn’t help but notice that every young black girl who was sent up to the house ended up pregnant. But she also saw the life they had afterward – a place of their own to live, they didn’t have to work the fields anymore, and their children were well cared for. She was thirteen years old now, and Lenita was just a year older than her with a new baby. Lenita now lived in a little shack on the edge of the plantation and had asked Regina to come over for tea. Tea! Regina was so jealous that she could hardly drink more than a sip of the tea out of the chipped china. Lenita had served her tea like she was a lady in a fine dress, sitting in a fine parlor. She actually was dressed in an old hand-me-down dress with lots of lace and ruffles, that had belonged to Mistress Jeanie, Master James’ eldest daughter, but she wore it like she was the Queen of Sheba. When Master James had suddenly shown an interest in Regina, Rachel had quickly sent a letter off to the North. Regina had never been out of Georgia, had really never been off of the plantation, other than the times she accompanied Missus to the market that was near town. Actually, it was no more than a ½ mile down the dusty dirt road that ran along their plantation, and Missus had taken Regina because she was the prettiest Negro girl they had. The tobacco crop had not done well over the past few years, and there was much that wasn’t good enough for the tobacco man who came from Philip Morrison Company. The substandard tobacco would be sold to the town’s crackers. Missus couldn’t be expected to stand there at the cart selling tobacco, which is why she brought Regina. Missus sat regally inside the coach while Regina stood outside in the blazing sun, sweating, feet and back aching, with a little cart where she sold the wilted tobacco. The farming men came and bought the tobacco, some of them letting Regina know they wanted more than just tobacco, but Tobias, the huge Negro who drove the coach, was nearby always. The cracker farmers were afraid of Tobias, and Regina was grateful for that. Crackers were thought even less of than the free Negroes, and that was really saying something.
The Missus was an angry woman. She took any opportunity to beat whatever Negro was nearby, and for whatever reason. There had been too many Negro girls to take care of after her husband’s weaknesses had been wrought on them. There were more young Negro girls with ½ white blood babies on their plantation than workers in their fields, and Missus was tired of seeing their money and resources squandered. She knew it was not her place to tell her husband to reign in his urges, but she also knew that if her father were alive, he would take back the land he had given her and James when they had married. She could hear him bellowing, “No land of mine will be populated by a bunch of half-breed Negro children!” It was a disgrace. She had thought that once her husband’s age caught up with him, his filandering would stop, but instead it seemed to spur him on, as if to say, ‘my life is almost done! I must spread my seed as far as possible!’ She, Nasticia, had not been able to birth James a son, and he was especially proud of the 3 sons that the Negro women had given him. She had watched Regina that day from the coach, peeking from behind the curtain and drinking cool lemonade from the pitcher that had been packed for her. Regina really was a beautiful girl for a Negro, she thought to herself. Regina’s mother had been beautiful as well, and Nasticia shuddered as she thought of the regal bearing of Liza Riddick, whom every man in the county wanted for himself. James wanted her, too, even mentioned divorce at one time, since Liza had been a Cherokee, and it would be easy to marry her. It was no wonder that James had been telling Molly, the head housekeeper, to find something for Regina to do at the house. And, she was young, which was exactly how James liked them. The poor cracker farmers who stopped to buy their leftover wilted tobacco all turned an appreciative eye toward Regina’s figure, which was still childlike but held the promise of a woman inside. Tobias made his presence known, and Missus was glad for that; she didn’t want any cracker farmer taking advantage of one of her plantation’s best assets. After a long grueling day of sitting at her post and selling the tobacco, Regina was tired and hot, streaked from sweat. Missus decided to give her a drink to show her appreciation for selling the last of the tobacco. Nasticia was smart enough to know that the tobacco would not have sold out if it weren’t for the beauty standing at the cart.
“Thank ya, Missus,” Regina had said, taking a grateful drink from the tin cup that was offered her. The lemonade was no longer cold, but it was still the best thing Regina had ever tasted. Missus eyed her in a curious way, watching her movements that were far too graceful for a field worker, in her opinion.
“Regina, the Master has asked that you come up to the house to help out, now that Lenita is out of commission,” she said without the slightest hint of reason why Lenita was no longer part of the house staff. “What do you think of that, working inside with Molly?”
Missus tried to look nonchalant, but Regina was aware of the snake’s coils when she saw them. Everyone knew why a young girl was asked up to the house to work; she knew the right answer here would be disinterest in working at the house, no matter how she really felt.
“Thank ya Ma’am, I am happy working in the fields with my brothers and sisters,” Regina answered, looking into her nearly empty tin cup.
“Hmm, yes, well, if we require your assistance up at the house, I hope you will reconsider your decision,” Missus said, sniffing in satisfaction. “Now, it’s time we’re off to home. Tobias, please assist Regina with the cart.”
They loaded the cart up into the back of the coach, Tobias doing most of the lifting as he definitely didn’t think Miss Regina should be doing any outside work. She is a delicate flower, Tobias thought wistfully, knowing he was far too old for a young pretty girl to ever think twice about. He helped Regina into the front bench, checked the coach doors, then jumped up to the bench to sit beside Regina, but careful to not sit too close. He clucked to the two horses, the only two creatures on earth with which he had ever shared his secret desire for Regina.
When they arrived back at Blessed Hill, Rachel rushed up to meet Regina, who was walking slowly, tired from her day of standing in the sun, forlorn from her conversation with Missus. When she saw Rachel’s dark face coming quickly toward her, a huge white smile gleaming in the early evening sun, Regina groaned inside. She knew that smile could only mean one thing – she had heard back from her friend in the North.
* * * * *
That night at a supper of greens, corn cakes and a side of bacon that Master James had sent out as thanks to Regina for her work that day, Regina’s brothers, sisters and their families all crowded around the porch, eating and discussing Regina’s good fortune at being able to leave Blessed Hill. Not one of their family had been able to leave the plantation, save their parents under mysterious circumstances, and they were all excited about being able to say that one of them had finally left.
“I jus cain’t believe how the Good Lord has bless’d our Regina,” said Regina’s oldest sister, Samantha in between bites of her corn cake. They were all smiling and happy, except Regina, which nobody seemed to notice. Before long, Moses had brought out his old fiddle that used to belong to their pa and everyone was dancing and singing.
Regina sat quietly, watching the activity that was all in her honor. The only one who noticed her melancholy was Rachel, the cause of it. She sat beside Regina silently for a moment, smiling and laughing at the rest of the family dancing around. Her own husband had smiled at her tonight, and she was thrilled to finally have done something that pleased him. Her heart soared with pride and happiness, even though she saw the sadness on Regina’s face.
“I know righ’ now ya hate me fo sendin’ ya away, Regina,” she said now, still looking at the dancing. “I understan yo sadness. I want ya ta know that I’m doin’ this ta get ya away from this here plantation. Else’n ya be stuck here fo’eva, havin’ half white babies till Master tires of ya, then ya go back ta the fields, growin’ old. I jus want better fo ya.”
Regina said nothing. She couldn’t help but still feel jealous of Lenita, and the other girls who were now raising their light colored children in their own shacks at the back of the plantation. She knew that there were a few older women who now worked the fields with their light colored older kids, their clothes tattered just like hers, but it had not occurred to her that they were treated the same as Lenita and the others while they were still attractive to Master James. In fact, she knew that there were two old barns that had been converted to house these older women and their half white offspring. They no longer had houses of their own to ask their friends over for tea in chipped china cups; they were thrown together into a large communal house, usually living with other women whom they rivaled for the Master’s attention.
“Ya know Master’s gettin’ old,” Rachel spoke again quietly. “And when he gone, Missus gonna put an end to the half white babies all over her land.”
Regina looked at Rachel, saw the concern on her face. Suddenly Charlie came over and grabbed his wife’s hand, and swung her around the yard that had turned into a dance floor. Regina watched her family dancing and realized their happiness was all for her. They all smiled at her, relief and hope shining in their eyes. Regina smiled back, but her heart was still filled with sadness.
* * * * *
Regina approached the store that said “Cromwell’s Mercantile.” It was a large building that sat loosely between two smaller buildings, one a bank and the other a telegraph and postal station. When she walked in, she kept her head down, looking up out of the corner of her eye for the mistress of the shop. There was only one customer in the store, and he was being assisted by a plain-looking young white woman. A middle-aged light-skinned Negro woman was in the corner at the back of the room and she gestured for Regina to walk forward. Regina did as she was told. As she approached the woman, the woman smiled and said, “You must be Regina,” in perfectly spoken English. She didn’t have a drawl like a field worker, like Regina’s family, nor like herself. Regina felt self-conscious about her muttered, “Yes Ma’am,” and she put her head back down.
“Mrs. Cromwell is expecting you,” she said, standing up and smiling down at Regina. Her smile was welcoming and warm, and for the first time, Regina felt as though perhaps her trip north was not a mistake. Her long train ride had been tiring, her body aching and her soul crying out for home, but she smiled back at this handsome Negro woman who towered over her.
The woman led her behind a curtain to the back storeroom, talking the whole time. Regina followed the tall shapely woman, whose green dress was of the finest muslin. Regina couldn’t help feeling ashamed of her own worn, brownish dress and apron that never seemed to get clean. The woman introduced herself as Miss Granger, Mrs. Cromwell’s business partner. She had been with Mrs. Cromwell for forty years, since shortly after the end of the war, and her family had always been free. She briefly told of how her family’s fortune had been made in the New World, pride filling her voice.
Her great-grandfather had come over of his own will to Cuba as a goodwill gesture from his tribe in North Africa. He was a prince from his tribe, and he had brought slaves of his own with him on his travels. He traded his own slaves to the Cuban sugar growers for their slaves and sugar. He made alliances, acquired supplies and made his way north to what is now Alabama, and then moved on to New York. He had set up a sugar importing company with a white partner, which was still half owned by Miss Granger’s oldest brother. She was proud of her family’s lineage, even proud of the fact that her family had once owned their own slaves. She explained how she had grown up in a freethinking household, taught by a private tutor and been given a sum of money to begin her adult life.
She and Mrs. Cromwell had met at a dinner party held by a politician who was eager to show his liberal views on white and black integration after the war was over. He had invited the Granger family, as they were the wealthiest black family in New York, but most of the white guests invited were barely middle class, with a few exceptions, like the Judges, Mrs. Cromwell’s family. The Judges had suffered huge financial setbacks during the war, as well as losing all three sons in battle. At the time of the dinner party in 1875, Mr. Judge, Mrs. Cromwell’s ailing father, had hired Mrs. Cromwell’s new young husband to help run a new mercantile business that he was setting up in Gatlin, North Carolina. Mrs. Cromwell and her husband had invited Miss Granger to go with them to North Carolina as Mrs. Cromwell’s personal assistant. Mrs. Cromwell’s father died shortly afterward, and then her husband died from a bee sting in 1880, leaving Mrs. Cromwell and Miss Granger in charge of the booming business in Gatlin. The two women had done very well for themselves, and Mrs. Cromwell gave a good deal of the credit to Miss Granger’s keen eye for business.
Miss Granger carried herself regally, her gestures sweeping and grand. She smiled often, the easy smile of someone who had never wanted for much. She seemed happy with her life. Regina could understand why.
Miss Granger led Regina to a small desk at the back of the storeroom where a small, sagging woman sat. The woman – no taller than a child, but wider than her chair could really hold – looked very tired. Regina thought that her body looked lived in, like the way you’d explain a house that was always dirty because the inhabitants never had time to clean. If she were a sofa, her stuffing would be showing, Regina thought to herself and smiled.
Mrs. Cromwell smiled back at Regina, thinking the secret smile Regina had shared with herself was for her, not really at her expense; but it served them both just as well. Mrs. Cromwell stood with more liveliness than Regina thought possible from such a tired-looking person. She looked up at Regina and Miss Granger, beaming and looking as though she had found new purpose in her life.
“I’m so happy to see you made it here so quickly,” she said, coming around the desk and grasping Regina’s hands in hers. “Rachel told me what was about to happen at your plantation, and I am so relieved to be able to help you out of that situation!”
“Why, look at this beautiful girl,” she said to Miss Granger, admiring Regina’s features by lifting her chin slightly to see Regina’s face a little closer. “Rachel wasn’t exaggerating a bit when she described you,” she smiled at Regina.
“Now, let’s get down to business, shall we?” Mrs. Cromwell said, going to sit again behind the desk. “I’m sure that you’re tired and hungry from your long train ride, and I’ll keep this brief so that you can go freshen up and rest a bit before supper time.”
Mrs. Cromwell’s face was now all business, pinching slightly at the nose and eyes, her mouth pursed into a bow, and her body took on the tired, wilted look that Regina observed when she came in. Miss Granger stood there the whole time saying nothing, nodding when spoken to and stoically looked over the proceedings as though she were a princess observing her subjects.
“I’ll continue to find you gainful employment at a household, but in the meantime, you can work here at the store stocking shelves. We will provide you with a room and meals, and a small wage. We will leave you a list of items each day that need to be restocked.” Mrs. Cromwell paused to make sure that Regina understood, then smiled again, changing her whole face and demeanor. “We welcome you to our home and the Mercantile.”
With a final warm smile and a nod, Mrs. Cromwell looked down again at her pile of papers, signing this and that. Miss Granger nodded to Regina, indicating that it was time to follow her. Regina did as she was told and followed Miss Granger up a short flight of stairs to a roomy loft over top of the Mercantile.