Intaglio Publications

Excerpts

Sisters' Treasure- Excerpt

By Mary Jane Russell

“That’s my girl.” Tracey Stephens raised her can of Coke in a salute to the television screen. She was a creature of habit—as soon as she entered her apartment after a day’s work, she turned on the television for background noise and went to the refrigerator for an ice cold Coca-Cola. She was fortunate that her metabolism was such that she burned off the sugar and caffeine with no ill effects to her weight or ability to sleep. She still wore the same size jeans as when a senior in high school seven years earlier. It didn’t hurt that she played golf every weekend unless there was drenching rain falling or snow on the ground.

She set the can on the end table next to the sofa and pulled her hair back in a ponytail using a wide elastic band from an ashtray that had never been used for smoking. Her hair stayed a light blond year-round, thanks to her time outside playing golf, and reached midway down her back. She faced the sofa and pushed aside the pile of laundry that needed folding. If clean clothes stayed on the sofa too long, Tracey simply washed them again.

She purposely kept the living room furniture to a minimum so there was no interference with the treadmill set against the back of the kitchen cabinets that divided the room or the golf clubs and water skis propped against the front wall. Her nonfiction books were in stacks on the floor of what was intended to be a second bedroom that had two folding tables piled high with papers instead of a bed. She considered herself a historically minded jock. She settled onto the sofa to watch the local evening news. Once the news ended, she’d switch to Netflix and her obsession with BBC programs. She tolerated cable television for The Weather Channel and ESPN. She refused to pay for premium channels yet hated sitting through commercials. She was halfway through Doc Martin, fascinated by how obtuse the main character was as she crushed on the schoolteacher. A typical winter evening was spent glancing at the television while reading a book or cataloging documents from the previous two centuries, or both.

Ginny Daniels stood with microphone in hand, leaning toward Alese Walthall with genuine deference that emphasized a stark contrast of different generations of black women. Ginny was twenty-three, slim, and not born in Virginia. Alese was seventy, plump, and a native of Danville.

“You’re a retired schoolteacher who now works at Southside Museum and volunteers at local historical sites?” Ginny asked. She nodded attentively during Alese’s summary of her careers and current activities.

“You’ve no idea.” Tracey shook her head and sipped her drink, waiting.

Mrs. Walthall had been one of Tracey’s elementary school teachers. She’d retired after three-and-a-half decades of teaching. Retirement bored her, so she joined the Southside Museum at its inception as its first museum educator. She’d been an excellent teacher, more so for riding out the first wave of soft integration in Virginia. She’d also been the first black professional woman Tracey’s mother had experienced when placed in her classroom in 1965. Alese survived the system to be Tracey’s teacher thirty years later. She was a gentle taskmaster who made her pupils work for the knowledge that lasted them a lifetime.

Tracey credited Alese with her decision to be a history major. Tracey’s mother teased her that the only surprise was when Tracey decided not to follow her mentor’s footsteps and become a teacher. Tracey had been thrilled to reunite with Alese at the museum when she was hired as its curator three years earlier.

“I hope you did your homework, girlfriend.” Tracey felt herself tensing as she sensed that Ginny was about to make the point of the interview—Black History Month justifiably came across as a double-edged sword in the South. Especially poignant was the impending anniversary of the start of the Civil War. So far, Virginia was the only state to appropriate funds for commemorative events. The NAACP was already cautioning members and organizing demonstrations against celebrating slavery.

Ginny was an anomaly to the area and Tracey’s life. She was born and raised in Ohio with a strong family and upper middle-class neighborhood support structure. Her childhood friends were a mixed bag of Toledo’s population where no one paid much attention to last names. Both her parents had earned doctorates.

Tracey lived in the shadow of generations of tobacco farmers who passed land but not money to the next generation. Danville had briefly served as the Confederate capital during the closing days of the Civil War. It was a city strongly rooted in country music, tobacco auctions, textile production, and its adjoining county’s annual cantaloupe festival. Tracey’s parents had been the first generation not to attend racially separated schools.

Tracey had never had a black girlfriend. She’d been too shy during high school to be anything more than friends with anyone and had watched the girls she grew up with move away for college and careers. Tracey had been too focused on her golf scholarship and college curriculum to seriously date anyone, knowing her parents couldn’t afford the cost of another daughter’s undergraduate education.

Once home and employed by the museum, Tracey concentrated on work. She’d been interviewed a little over a year before by Ginny and hadn’t been able to get her off her mind since. She’d thanked Ginny for the increased foot traffic to the textile exhibit by taking her to dinner and been delighted to discover that Ginny had an ulterior motive for the interview that had begun with a nudge from a mutual friend who thought they needed to meet. They’d been a couple ever since, traveling to North Carolina’s nearby metro areas for concerts and women’s basketball.

“Was there Underground Railroad activity in this area in the decades before the Civil War?” Ginny held the microphone toward Alese.

“None that has been documented this far inland. The Tidewater area had churches linked to steamship routes.” Alese folded one hand over the other, clearly displeased that research was lacking or she was being manipulated.

“My ancestors fled Virginia in the eighteen fifties and served the North during the war. Yet here you are, a native, working on the preparations for the one hundred fiftieth celebration of the beginning of the Civil War as part of Danville’s tourism effort.” Ginny held up a recent brochure from the state office of tourism.

Tracey groaned.

Alese stiffened. “I’m a guide at the National Cemetery where the federal soldiers from Danville’s Confederate prisons were buried and at the Freedman’s Cemetery that once was part of Green Hill Cemetery. I work at the museum to bring to light the wealth of African-American artifacts hidden amongst family collections. We’ve commemorated the pain and suffering of the labor force, as well as the strides made since the time of Abraham Lincoln. Some of us stayed here to make it easier for successive generations rather than being lured away from our heritage by anonymity and paychecks in Northern factories.”

“Danville—a contradiction to itself.” Ginny walked with the camera as the adjoining cemeteries were panned. The newscast went to commercial break.

“She did not just say that.” A man’s voice was raised to be heard through the dividing wall of the duplex.

“Oh, yes, she did.” Tracey went to the refrigerator for two more Cokes, then dashed from her front door to the adjoining unit without a jacket to ward off February’s chill.

Adam Bruffy held the door open. His apartment was as sparse as Tracey’s was cluttered. He resisted all urges to decorate after his divorce other than adding a bar in the corner of the living room to display his beer bottle collection. It also served to hide empty liquor bottles en route to recycling. He’d amassed a collection of bean bag chairs that he piled together in the middle of the living room. His bed was a mattress thrown on the carpet of the master bedroom. His one furniture purchase had been a race car bed for the second bedroom. Adam lived for his visitation rights with his son.

Tracey handed off the cold Coke to Adam, continuing into his kitchen to transfer groceries from bags to cabinets. He was as bad about food as she was clothing, often leaving plastic bags along the wall until the contents were used. Tracey made it a habit to check the contents—laundry didn’t spoil.

“Wonder how many people are watching this.” Adam directed his voice to the kitchen while his eyes focused on the screen. “I haven’t seen that look on Mrs. Walthall’s face since I mooned the audience of the sixth-grade play.”

Tracey chuckled. “I forgot she was your teacher also. I just remember you being the star high school quarterback that most of the girls, including my big sister, had a huge crush on. I was so jealous.”

“Who’d have ever thought I’d end up as the divorced land surveyor who drinks too much?” Adam set the Coke aside in favor of the bottle of beer he was half through. “Thanks for reminding me that I’m older and of the same romantic persuasion as you.”

“I wonder how many people are looking for the parent station’s telephone number in Lynchburg. Ginny’s days as a one-woman affiliate may be numbered.” Tracey held up one of the cans of chili. “I’m assuming you don’t have any hot dates in your future.”

“Lesbian buddies and pay-per-view are my bestest friends.” Adam flashed a toothy smile at her, then waggled his mustache.

“Eww.” Tracey shook her head. She teased Adam about being a throwback to a Burt Reynolds wannabe. His black hair was shaggy on his collar, and his mustache was heavy on his upper lip and corners of his mouth.

Adam laughed. “I’m betting you won’t be taking Ginny home to meet the parents this weekend.”

“I’m not closeted, just very private about my social life. I had enough of a don’t-ask-don’t-tell reaction from Paula to learn my lesson.”

“I never would’ve guessed your sister was so uptight.” He tried the Coke again and made a face. “I think this needs more sugar. How do you chug these things?”

“Paula went to college to nab a husband and earn a degree she had no intention of using. Poor Ashton built her a huge house and fathered her prerequisite—and I love them dearly—two children, so she could climb the ladder with the Baptist Young Women and support the Republican Party.” Tracey shuddered. “Don’t waste any of that Coke. At least my addiction is legal.”

“I heard that.” Adam crushed the can and threw it behind the bar.

“I’m hoping Alese won’t hold this against me. I introduced Ginny to her to set up the interview.” Tracey took her cell phone out of her pocket and hit the speed dial for Ginny. She waited through the voice mail prompt. “You looked great on the news tonight as always, sweetie. Isn’t Mrs. Walthall something? Don’t forget dinner Friday night.” Tracey closed the phone with a snap.

“Chicken shit.” Adam was engrossed in the five-day weather forecast that determined how much he’d be able to work.

“You betcha. That’s chicken shit with a date, thank you.” Tracey thumped Adam on the crown of his head in passing.