Last in a Long Line of Rebels Page 10

  “I’ve been talking to you for five minutes. Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  I swallowed a bite of squash casserole. “Sorry, I was thinking about something else.”

  “Bertie asked if church was good today,” Daddy said.

  “Oh, yeah, not bad. Everybody was talking about Isaac and the fair, of course.”

  Bertie laughed. “He really gave Coach Peeler a soaking.”

  “Well, I think it was a mistake, and not like Isaac at all,” Mama said.

  “Lily,” Daddy said, “Isaac’s a good kid. He’s just frustrated.”

  “I understand, but it didn’t change anything. Coach Peeler is still dumb as a box of rocks. Only now people are starting to get ugly with Isaac—and with Drew Canton, and it wasn’t his fault either.” She paused to drain her glass. “Let’s just hope the whole thing blows over.”

  “I hope it doesn’t,” Bertie said. “Coach Peeler needs to be dealt with.”

  “I’d be frustrated if I were Isaac too. How is anything going to change if he can’t actually do anything?” I asked.

  “You have a point,” Mama said. “But honestly, things have come a long way. Tennessee colleges were segregated until the late fifties. I know you don’t believe it, but there are worse things than not going to UT.”

  I dropped my fork on the plate with a clang. “And that’s supposed to be comforting? This is all so wrong I can’t even stand it.”

  Mama’s shoulders drooped. “I’m sorry, Lou. You’re right. Things are still bad for Isaac and a lot of folks.”

  I nodded, still thinking about the fair and how angry Isaac had been. I wished there was something we could do to change things.

  “Daddy, do you believe in God?”

  Mama laughed. “Boy. That’s a change in subject.”

  Daddy leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “I’d say I believe the basics—God, do unto others… . What about you?”

  “I think so. I mean, I want to believe in God, but I don’t know how he could let so much bad stuff happen in the world.”

  “You’re not alone. That’s a question a lot of people struggle with.”

  “Pastor Brian always says God’s for us and not against us.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Bertie. “’Cause there’s plenty that aren’t.”

  I settled back against my chair. Pete Winningham sure wasn’t for us. And maybe George Neely wasn’t either. Maybe God would smite them or something. Now, that would be a good story.

  From the diary of Louise Duncan Mayhew

  June 1862

  Mother is ill with fever, and Father is often away gathering news. Olivia and I are nearly faint with exhaustion. Jeremiah is our rock, and without him and the others, I fear we would be finished. I thank the Lord daily for them.

  A stranger was standing at the door. I held out my hand as I’d practiced with Daddy.

  “You must be Mr. Vinter. Daddy said for me to show you around. I’m Lou.” His huge hand swallowed mine.

  “Nice to meet you, Lou. Is he here?”

  “No, sir. He’s out on a delivery.” I stood back to let him inside.

  He seemed to hesitate. “Are you here by yourself?”

  “Uh-huh. I mean, yes, sir. But I’m practically thirteen.”

  He slowly moved inside, pulling a notebook out of his shirt pocket. “I see. Well, I won’t be here long. I just need to take some quick notes and measurements.”

  I sat on the bottom step of the staircase. “Parlor’s on your left, kitchen’s straight back, all of the bedrooms are upstairs.” I did my best to make sure my voice was steady. I knew why he was here. Franklin had explained that an appraisal would help keep the county from offering too little for our house!

  The phone in the hallway started to ring. “Can I get that, or do you need me?”

  “You go ahead. It won’t take me long.” He straightened his tie and started toward the kitchen.

  I ran down the hallway and grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

  “Louise! This is Thelma Johnson. Are you okay? I’m over at the library returning a book, and I thought I saw a large black man in your driveway.”

  I leaned against the wall, digging in my pockets for a stick of gum. “Mr. Vinter? He’s a friend of Daddy’s.”

  “Is he really a friend, or is he standing there making you say that?”

  For crying out loud, I could not believe her. “He’s really a friend.”

  “Well, I’ll be watching,” she said. “You just yell if you need me.”

  Yeah, right. Like I’d ever need her for anything. “I have to go now.” I hung up as Mr. Vinter came back into the room.

  “Did you say the living room was this way?”

  “Yes. Can I get you a glass of water or some of Mama’s cookies?” Daddy had told me three times to be polite.

  “No, thank you. I had plenty at lunch.”

  I had started down the hallway when the phone rang again. “Hello?”

  “Lou, what is going on over there?” It was Aunt Sophie.

  “Nothing much, why?” I could see Mr. Vinter taking notes as he walked around the room.

  “Thelma Johnson just called all worked up about something.”

  “Good golly! What is wrong with that woman?” I pulled the phone cord and walked as far down the hallway, and away from Mr. Vinter, as it would reach.

  “He’s doing some work for Daddy,” I whispered.

  “Why do you sound so garbled? Do you want me to come over?”

  “No! I’m just chewing gum. It’s fine, really.”

  “Are you scared? This scholarship thing has a lot of people riled. You should trust your inner gut, you know. If it’s telling you something is wrong.”

  “Aunt Sophie! The only thing wrong,” I hissed, “is with Thelma Johnson’s brain. Call Daddy if you want. He’ll explain.” I hurried back down the hallway and gently hung up the phone.

  “Everything all right?” Mr. Vinter asked.

  I could feel my face turning pink. “Sure, no problem.”

  “Okay, then. Can I see the upstairs?”

  He followed me up the landing. “There are two baths and four bedrooms on this floor.” I opened the doors as we reached each one. “This is mine, Bertie is in what used to be a parlor across the hall, my parents are right here, and the one down at the end is the new nursery.”

  Mr. Vinter walked into each one, took a quick look around, made some notes, and came back out.

  He pointed to a small staircase at the end of the hall. “Anything up there?”

  “The attic. It’s got a couple of small rooms in it. Daddy says they’re bedrooms, but I can’t think of why anyone would want to sleep up there—it’s hotter than an oven.”

  He nodded. “Probably servants’ quarters. This house is pretty typical for the time period.”

  “Then I was born too late. Having servants would be cool.”

  He wrote on his pad. “I guess I’ll go outside now and look around.”

  I was still thinking about being waited on hand and foot by maids. “I can’t believe anybody in this family was ever wealthy. I thought we lost everything after the war …” I trailed off. The bill of sale for “A Negro Man Slave” I had seen at the library suddenly floated into memory. Those rooms weren’t where the servants slept. They were where the slaves slept.

  I headed down the stairs, taking them two at a time. “I mean, not that I would make servants sleep up there in the heat. That would be terrible. They could have my bedroom. I’d sleep up there. It’s only fair, since they’d be doing all the hard work. And all.”

  Mr. Vinter smiled. “You want to show me the outside?”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumbled, and hurried to the back door. The slave bill of sale kept flashing before me, making me feel sick.

  We walked across the yard, dodging the holes Patty and I had made when we’d used the metal detector. We went through the gate to the junkyard. “We’re closed today, but normall
y Isaac or Daddy would be back here working.” I looked at the piles of cast-off metal and tried to imagine it the way Mr. Vinter saw it. “So you know my dad from college?”

  He looked around, making more notes in his pad. “Yes. We went to Tennessee Tech together. Met in art appreciation class.” He laughed. “Of course, I was there for the art. He was there because of your mother.”

  “That’s Mama’s studio over there.”

  I watched him walking around, making notes, putting a price on all our stuff.

  “It doesn’t look like much,” I offered, “but it has a bathroom in it. It’s practically a whole ’nother house.”

  “Right. I was in it once, back when your dad and I were in college.”

  “You were?”

  “Sure. My minor was in history. You don’t see a lot of slave quarters in as good a shape as those.”

  I stood gaping at the building. Slave quarters? In our backyard! I wanted to cry.

  “Well, I think I’ve got what I need,” Mr. Vinter said. “Tell Tucker I’ll call him in a few days.”

  I recovered enough to show him around the side of the house, past Mama’s flower beds and the rusty birdbath she’d welded out of two broken wheelbarrows, into the front yard.

  A police car drove by the house at a crawl. Thelma Johnson was peering out the library door. I glared at them both.

  Mr. Vinter couldn’t have missed what was happening, but other than a soft sigh, he didn’t react. “Thank you, Lou. It was nice meeting you.”

  Stupid Thelma Johnson. I wanted to pick up a rock and throw it at her. “Nice meeting you too,” I said. I held out my hand, and he shook it, smiling. Let Thelma Johnson chew on that awhile.

  As he pulled out of the driveway, I stared at the library, where Thelma still stood.

  “You can go in now, show’s over!” I yelled across the street. “I made contact with a black man and survived—call the newspaper!” I marched up the steps and slammed my front door loudly. I hoped the old bag’s teeth rattled out of her head! I snatched the phone off the hook. Benzer was never going to believe this.

  After Mr. Vinter left, I felt sick to my stomach. I sat on the back stoop and stared at the roof of Mama’s studio. It was one thing to say we had “servants’ quarters.” That made it sound like the people working here were maids or something, but the truth was they weren’t. They were slaves. Real people, owned by my ancestors, had to work here and live out in that tiny building. Mrs. Hall said she wished walls could talk, but I was beginning to be glad they couldn’t.

  Daddy drove into the driveway and, a few minutes later, came walking around the back of the house.

  “Where’s your mama?”

  “Still shopping with Bertie.”

  He sat down next to me. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I lied. I stared down at my tennis shoes. I wasn’t one to bawl, but suddenly it felt like I might start.

  “C’mon,” Dad said. “I can always tell when something’s bothering you.”

  “Daddy, I can’t believe our family used to own slaves.”

  I was beginning to think he wasn’t going to answer, when he said softly, “Yeah, it’s terrible. I remember finding out about it when I was about your age.”

  “How did you stand it? I don’t want to even look at Mama’s studio now that Mr. Vinter said it was slave quarters! Can’t we get rid of it?”

  “No, Lou. Those quarters were part of the original property, back when our family owned a large swath of town. When we sold the land, my grandfather had to take it apart, board by board, and rebuild it behind our house.”

  “But why would he do that?”

  Daddy stared off into the distance. “I’ll tell you what he told me: It’s important that we never forget our history and the awful things that man is capable of.”

  “Then why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “It’s complicated, Lou. Remember a few years ago when you did that Abraham Lincoln project for school and learned about how Tennessee allowed slavery? You were so upset. I sure didn’t want to add to it by telling you about our own family’s involvement.”

  “Daddy, that was years ago! There have been plenty of times since then you could have told me. It’s my family. I should know the truth about it.”

  “You’re right. But the truth isn’t very pretty, is it?”

  “No.” I shivered in the heat. “And it makes me feel so bad. Like if Isaac knew, he wouldn’t like us anymore.”

  “I get that—but Isaac knows that you have a heart as good as anybody’s in this world. You should talk to him about it. I think you’ll find that he wouldn’t judge you for something your ancestors did.”

  At the mention of my ancestors, I made a decision. “Daddy, there’s something else. I know about the county trying to take the house. I know we might lose it.” I bit my lip to stop it from quivering. Even though I was about to cry, it felt good to finally spit it out.

  “I’m sorry you had to find out, Lou. The last thing I want is for you to be worried about grown-up stuff at your age.”

  “Dad, I’m almost a teenager. I keep telling you I’m not a little kid.” I picked up a pebble and threw it into the grass.

  “I know you’re not, but even teenagers shouldn’t have to worry about losing their house. You ought to be thinking about boys, and your hair, and the latest fashions.”

  “You’ve just described Patty to a tee,” I said, attempting a smile.

  He put an arm around my shoulder and hugged me close. “Listen, I’m hopeful we’ll come up with the money we need to fight this thing. I’ve got a couple of deals I’m working on, and the appraisal will probably buy us some time.”

  My eyes started to water again. “But what if we lose? The house has been in our family forever.” I buried my head in his shirt, unable to hold the tears back any longer.

  “Shh,” he whispered into my hair. “It’s going to be all right. Don’t you know by now what’s important? A house is just wood and nails, when you get down to it. It doesn’t mean a thing without you and your mama.”

  I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “But I love living in town! I don’t want to go to school somewhere else. I’d miss my friends.”

  He hugged me harder. “I know, Lou. Can we make a deal? I’ll promise to do everything in my power to stop this if you’ll promise not to worry too much about it.”

  I sniffed. “I’ll try. But only if you also promise to start telling me what’s going on. This is my life too. I deserve to know what’s happening. I’m not Patty. I think about more than just fashion and boys.”

  “You’re right. I haven’t given you enough credit. I promise to do better from here on out, okay?” He stood up. “Now, you want to help me weigh some of the scrap I just picked up?”

  I nodded and followed him across the yard. I may not have aged much in the last few minutes, but I sure felt a lot more grown up.

  “Slave quarters?” Benzer asked. “And no one thought to mention it?”

  I took a long sip of my milk shake. We were at the Dairy Barn celebrating his baseball team’s victory. “Surprise! This summer has been one big Whac-A-Mole game. Every time I poke my head up, I get hit with something new.”

  Patty placed her tray on the table and motioned for me to scoot over. “You know what really stinks? If you save the house, you at least get something out of all this. I just get the shame of having slave-owning relatives.”

  “C’mon, Patty. If you looked hard enough at any family, you’d probably find something bad,” Benzer said.

  “Yeah, but there’s bad, and there’s slave-owning bad,” I said.

  “I’m just saying the shame ought to be on the ones that actually did it.” Benzer stole a French fry from Franklin’s plate. “What do you think, Franklin?”

  “Sorry.” Franklin looked around. “I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about the slave quarters and wondering if they’d help get Lou’s house on the registry.”

  I
sat up straighter. “Oh, yeah! What do you think?”

  He shrugged. “It can’t hurt. I’ll put it on the application.”

  “But it’s another place to search, right?” asked Patty. “Maybe the gold was hidden in there!”

  “No,” I said. “Daddy said the building was moved board by board. If the gold had been there, it would have been found by now.”

  Patty slumped down in her seat. “So back to square one.”

  I pulled my notebook out and put it on the table.

  The Verified Truth about the Mayhews

  Ancestors of steel, according to Mrs. Hall.

  Family has lived in the same house for 175 years.

  Relatives sold off most everything at an auction.

  WM may have been a thief.

  WM wrote a letter to Louise telling her to be careful. (Maybe she was a thief too?)

  The house will be demolished unless I figure out a way to stop it.

  Walter may have killed Brody Kimmel.

  The gold has not been found.

  “We’ve learned something new, so that’s something. Franklin, can I borrow your pen?” I quickly wrote out number nine.

  Mama’s studio used to be slave quarters.

  Benzer stared at the list. “I wonder why he told her to be careful. Be careful stealing the gold, hiding the gold, or what?”

  I pulled my copy of the letter from the back of the notebook, along with the photo Franklin had taken that day at the museum. “It could mean anything or nothing. There was a war going on, remember? He could have meant be careful and don’t get shot crossing the street!”

  “The old-school version of Whac-A-Mole,” Benzer said, laughing.

  “Maybe we’ll learn something useful when you get Neely’s book,” Franklin said. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

  “No!” I answered. “This is too important. No one is changing their mind.”

  If any of them felt differently, they were too smart to say so.

  From the diary of Louise Duncan Mayhew

  September 1862

  Olivia and I went to nurse Dode today. He passed out while chopping wood a week ago and still hasn’t recovered. Molly and Lainey have been busy preserving what few apples the Union left us, and I fear Jeremiah and Singer make for poor nursing aides. I’d never seen inside their home, and had Dode been well enough to forbid us entry, I’m sure he would have. What is propriety at this point when we are all striving to live another day? I was shocked to see they had but one chair between them.