Chapter Two

two

IN THE brIEF SECOND BETWEEN the door opening a crack and widening further to reveal a woman, an unshaped wisp flitted by, escaping the house and whipping around Jemma before disappearing in the air. She shut her eyes, breathed deeply and then focused on who'd opened the door.

A maid stood there, her black dress and white apron announcing her station. Her slick hair was divided down the center of her scalp with a pin-straight part, a bun sitting at the nape of her neck. Hazel eyes shined out of her bright face.

"Hello," Jemma said. "I'm Jemma Barker, the tutor."

The maid stared at her, neither extending a hand nor opening the door any wider and stepping aside. Her light eyes barely moved, and yet it seemed they took in all of Jemma, from the sweat lines that had disintegrated her carefully applied powder (the little that was left on her face instead of on her handkerchief) to her heat-frizzed hair to the wool suit. Compared to the Duchons' maid, who looked to be in her early forties, Jemma's shabbiness all but crowed.

"Agnes!" came a voice from inside the home. "Are you going to let our visitor in or are you going to stand there all day? Either let her in or shut the door. The last thing we need in here is more flies."

The door opened just enough for Jemma to squeeze inside, her suitcase bumping the frame. In the next moment, another woman approached, swathed in deep pink silk all the way to the floor, heels clicking and right hand out.

"Honorine Duchon. We spoke on the phone," she said, shaking Jemma's hand.

Now Jemma had a face to match the voice. She took the woman to be in her seventies. Her eyes were dark green, and beneath a heavy dusting of white powder, freckles dotted her cheeks. Thinning silver hair was pulled into a French roll. She stood only a couple of inches taller than Jemma's five foot three, but the woman's erect posture suggested much more stature.

"Ah, Miss Barker, you've finally arrived. The heat doesn't seem to have agreed with you." A gentle chuckle at the end did nothing to lessen the sting.

A warmth unconnected with the climate flushed Jemma's cheeks as she wondered how poor she must look. Before she could even think of a reply, the woman continued.

"Not like our ancestors in Africa, hmm?"

Jemma blinked. Our ancestors in Africa?

A high voice carried into the room. "Oh, you must excuse Grandmère! She forgets herself sometimes." And a younger woman swept into the foyer, just as pale as Honorine but with black hair trailing in loose waves down her back. "Here you are, only just arrived, and she's already started in on Africa, as if we've forgotten we're all colored. You must be Jemma Barker. I'm Fosette." She clasped one of Jemma's hands in both her own.

Jemma's mind stumbled over the word "colored." These pale ghosts of women were Black? The three of them stood almost shoulder to shoulder, even Agnes the maid continuing to stare. Fosette's gray eyes danced. Jemma took her to be about her age, but as she studied her face more closely, just beneath the face powder fine lines tried to hide, as if too ashamed to be seen. Like her grandmother, she dressed in a style that hadn't been in fashion in twenty years. Her blue dress draped to midcalf, soft gathers sweeping across the wide shoulders. A double strand of pearls hung to her waist.

Nothing about them suggested that they shared her race. Their skin color served as an unpleasant reminder of even harsher times in the nation, when terms like "octoroon," "quadroon" and "house slave" often hinted at a life that wasn't quite as cruel as it was for people who looked like Jemma.

"Agnes," Honorine said out of the corner of her mouth, "her bag."

Jemma wilted under their direct gaze until Honorine turned to the maid, her stare finally prompting the woman to move. As Jemma started to follow Agnes, to see where she would be staying, Fosette slipped her arm through Jemma's, directing her deeper into the space of the first floor as Agnes carried the suitcase up the wide, grand stairway, red carpet under her feet. Fosette led Jemma past the banister, dark wood showing through chipped white paint, while Jemma thought how desperately she wanted to freshen up, to wipe the moisture from under her arms, to blot her face.

"The trip must have been brutal," Fosette said. "You're sweating like a field hand." A light tinkle of laughter, like a knife tapping crystal, flew from her.

"I…I'd like to visit the washroom first, if that's all right."

"We'll get there—don't you worry." Fosette glanced behind them, where Honorine remained in the same spot, watching Agnes, as her and Jemma's shoes clacked on the dusty hardwood floor. "I wanted to apologize for Grandmère. She's used to doing things the old way. She doesn't understand that some of the things she says can be…ridiculous. I mean, Africa! And she doesn't mean to say such silly things sometimes. She's just…old. Ah, here is the kitchen!"

She allowed Jemma a quick peek inside the expansive space. A slightly burnt odor hung in the air. Jemma had time to see only the white Philco refrigerator, the stove, the sink and the black-and-white tiled floor before Fosette directed her onward, to the parlor, the dining room with its table for ten, the living room and the solarium. Jemma looked longingly at the water closet they passed, and then Fosette threw open the French doors off the solarium to reveal a large back garden.

Squat magnolia shrubs lined both sides of the flat green lawn, the drone of bumblebees an undercurrent to the conversation between a group of three people farther out, a woman and two men. The magnolias drooped, the edges of many of their petals curled and brown. As in the front, dogwood trees crowded together behind the shrubs, and in the far distance, about a hundred yards out, more oaks formed a line in front of wild woods.

"Who are they?" Jemma pointed to the group. From here, they appeared white, but she assumed they were Black, just very light-skinned like everyone else she'd met thus far. The woman held a croquet mallet in her hands, her slim neck bent, the toe of one foot on top of a red-striped ball.

"My uncle, mother and brother. You'll meet them at dinner."

"And the child?"

A blank stare met this question. "Child?"

"Who I'm tutoring." At Fosette's continued confusion, Jemma went on. "What I was hired for."

"Oh!" That tinkling laugh again, all champagne bubbles and sparkling gems, contrasting with the hot press of her hands. Jemma wanted to shake her off. "Of course, your job here. We'll get this all sorted out at dinner. Come on. I'll show you your room."

As the two of them walked up the stairs, their footsteps muted by the thick rug while they passed tall portraits of Duchon ancestors in gilded frames, Fosette apologized. "Forgive me for saying what I said back there, about you being a field hand. Sometimes I'm as bad as Grandmère! We don't get a lot of visitors and I'm afraid we've forgotten how to talk to people. It's so wonderful having someone younger here. Besides Laurence, I mean. You're twenty—?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Right." She stopped Jemma with a light touch on her arm at the top of the stairs. "Please don't think the worst of us."

"It's all right," Jemma said. "I've said things out of turn plenty of times."

Perhaps it had been a taxing day for Fosette, too. To have a stranger in the house could upset all sorts of things. Jemma looked into Fosette's eyes and offered a small smile. Yes, let this first day at least be a drip of honey and the brush of soft fingertips. Maybe things could stay that way.

"It would be wonderful if we could be friends." Fosette gave her hand a quick squeeze and led Jemma to the left, passing several closed doors, until they reached the end of the hallway. To the right was a small bathroom. "You can have this washroom all to yourself. And this is your room. It's right next to mine."

When they entered, Agnes straightened up from smoothing the covers, placing her hands together in front of her. The maid's gaze moved across Jemma's face, her eyes eager and quick, making Jemma think of little insects crawling over her skin.

"Agnes, if you're done here, it's time to get back to the kitchen," Fosette said in a tight voice completely unlike the light one Jemma had heard for the past fifteen minutes. The maid gave a brief nod and left the room, Fosette's narrowed eyes watching her go before she turned to Jemma, her smile reappearing in fits and starts. "She doesn't talk. You'll get used to it. Well, this is it, where you'll be staying." She swept a slim arm in the air. "Dinner is at six. Sharp. So you have time to freshen up and rest a bit. We're so happy to have you here."

Fosette shut the door on her way out, leaving Jemma in blessed silence. She sank onto the soft white chenille bedspread, under the mournful eyes of Jesus hanging on a small silver cross. Agnes had placed her suitcase in front of the green chifforobe in the corner. A small desk and a high-backed chair faced the open window, where no breeze disturbed the gauzy curtains or the yellow brocade drapes.

Jemma slipped her hat, shoes and gloves off, wishing the languid spinning of the ceiling fan would do more than move the heat around. She placed her watch on the nightstand, under a milk glass hurricane lamp, yellow flowers dancing across its surface. She stood and grabbed the towel and washcloth from the bench at the foot of the bed and went to the bathroom.

When Jemma returned to her room, her face and underarms wiped clean, she removed her clothes and hung them in the chifforobe, enjoying the cooler sensation now that she was just in her slip. Movement outside caught her attention and she went to the window, wondering if the rest of the family was still out there, playing croquet. She hoped to get a better look at them, but the lawn was empty.

No. It wasn't.

A ghostly figure walked out of a shrub and crossed the short expanse to another shrub, disappearing inside it before emerging again and continuing on her way. Jemma swallowed, her eyes following the form, unable to tell the age or color, simply recognizing that it was a woman, her long skirts trailing over the grass without disturbing it. Sweat beaded along Jemma's forehead and bloomed under her arms, the tangy musk of fright rising in the air. She backed away, her hands over her chest.

Ever since she'd boarded the train in Chicago, she'd been seeing them. She'd tried to ignore them, had practiced the breathing Mama had taught her, had averted her eyes…but they were still here.

This was her chance at a fresh start, her opportunity to leave the ghosts of Chicago behind—the real ones and the ones that haunted only her mind—and they'd followed her. Jemma rubbed the scar on her wrist, trying to calm her ragged breathing. She wouldn't let them ruin this chance for her. The only chance she had.

The idea of a nap had slipped away, much like the way that lost soul had slipped through the shrubs.

Jemma sat on the edge of the bed, facing the chifforobe in the corner but not seeing it.

What she did see was Marvin in the pool hall back in Chicago, smoke so thick she could taste it. He was leaning on the bar and talking to a woman in a tight red dress. Jemma saw Marvin's fingers on the woman's thigh, rubbing in small circles. She saw the wide eyes of two other men around the pool table as Jemma grabbed a cue and swung it with all her might across Marvin's back. The damn thing hadn't broken, but she'd thought it might if she could only get another crack at it, but by then someone had wrestled the stick out of her hands, while Marvin stood up straight and backhanded Jemma so hard she was afraid she'd lose a tooth.

Her tongue moved to that spot now, the tooth in place although still a little wobbly.

The chifforobe came back into view, pushing aside brick row houses, housing projects reaching for nothing, broken concrete and the green tiled floor of an elementary school.

Checking her watch, she had half an hour before dinner. On her way back from the bathroom, she'd found no one in the hall, heard no voices. Jemma washed up again, patting her hair, which had completely given up in the face of the humidity. Unlike the Duchons', at least the ones she'd met so far, her hair didn't lie in gentle waves. She doubted any of them even owned a hot comb, let alone used one. There was no time to do anything more than get ready for dinner, so she slipped into the lightest cotton dress she owned and hurried downstairs, getting turned around and walking into the empty parlor before she remembered where the dining room was.

Six pairs of eyes met hers when she walked in, all varying shades of gray or green or hazel. Like Honorine and Fosette, the remaining members of the family were all incredibly light, their hair either straight or barely waved.

Jemma wasn't late—she had a good five minutes left—but with everyone else already seated, she felt uncomfortably like she wasn't on time.

"This is Jemma Barker," Honorine said from her place at the head of the table. "Jemma, do come in and sit down."

There were five empty seats at the gleaming table, wood shined to a bright glare. A lacy runner extended down the center, and six places were set, silverware and crystal shimmering. The sticky gazes of the Duchons and Agnes pressed against Jemma's skin as she settled next to Fosette, at the opposite end from Honorine. A rich smell hung in the air, reminding Jemma of Lulu's, but underneath, she detected that same old burnt odor.

Across from her, a young man stared, his dark hair slicked back, curiosity widening his hazel eyes for a brief moment as Honorine introduced him as her grandson, Laurence. He gave a quick nod. He was about Jemma's age, so not the child she'd come here to tutor. Next to Laurence sat a green-eyed older man with salt-and-pepper hair.

"My eldest, Russell Duchon," Honorine said before finally gesturing to the woman sitting closest to her, a woman whose dark hair was swept into an unfashionable updo. "And this is Simone Duchon Lemont, my daughter, and Fosette and Laurence's mother."

Jemma tried not to stare at these people, who wore their beauty like comfortable designer coats. It took an effort to pull her gaze away, to resist the enchanting pull of them.

"Pleased to meet you all," Jemma said, nodding to the others in turn. She unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap, more to direct her attention down and still her shaky fingers than anything else. The family members' gazes scuttled over her. And although they were Black, she felt as out of place in their company as she would in a roomful of whites.

Childish voices sounded in her head:

If you're light, you're all right.

If you're brown, stick around.

If you're Black, stay back!

How many times had she heard that on playgrounds and row house stoops? And how many times had she felt relief to be brown enough to be able to stick around?

"I was hoping to meet my student. Is he here? Or she?" she asked, looking toward Honorine. On their phone call a few weeks ago, the woman hadn't mentioned anything about a student. Jemma had been so stunned by the pay, and now it was too late to ask for details like a name or sex. She should have been paying more attention.

But who noticed the color of the life preserver when one was drowning?

"Who, my dear?" Simone asked, leaning forward, the thick blue lace on her ill-fitting gown bunched around her neck and shoulders. Next to Jemma, Fosette's hands twisted the napkin in her lap.

"My…my student? I'm sorry—I've forgotten the name." Jemma's gaze darted over to Agnes, standing in the corner, her eyes downcast. The maid suddenly disappeared through the doorway to the kitchen.

"Ah, that," Honorine said, folding her hands in front of her empty plate. "What made you think you were hired to be a tutor exactly?"

"I thought…you said there was a…" Her voice trailed off, the word "child" slipping back. Because Honorine hadn't said there was a child. Jemma thought of the letter. The phone call. At no time had a child been mentioned. Or the title of tutor. How presumptuous she had been.

"We will get to your duties in due time, Miss Barker. For your first dinner with us, why don't you get comfortable and settled? We have ample time to discuss what you're here to do."

Before Jemma could reply, Agnes returned, rolling a cart in front of her. She placed covered silver tureens and platters on the table, and once she left, the family blessed themselves in the Catholic fashion and said grace.

Amid the heady aromas filling the room, Jemma's hunger pushed any questions out of her mind. Bowls and platters of steaming red beans and rice, gumbo, fried shrimp, stewed okra and tomatoes, crawfish etouffee and French bread covered the table. But from the first bite, the difference between Agnes's cooking and Lulu's at the café was distastefully evident. The curious undercurrent of smokiness that hung in the air came across in the gumbo, the etouffee, even the bread. And yet opposite Jemma, Russell and Laurence ate as if this were their last meal. Although Simone took only tiny bites of everything, she did eventually clear her plate, as did Honorine. Fosette had only a small amount of food, and despite her spending much of the meal pushing it around, she managed to eat most of it.

"Do tell us about Chicago," Honorine invited, patting the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

At that, everyone turned to Jemma, Russell's mouth half open, a crumb hanging off his bottom lip. Laurence and Fosette appeared unnaturally interested.

Jemma didn't know what to say at first, as the family stared at her like she was a specimen on a microscope slide, but a quick glance at Fosette's open face warmed her.

"It's nothing like here, especially the weather." A short laugh escaped Jemma's lips, too loud in the quiet room. "Not a lot of big houses like this, at least not where I grew up."

"What are they wearing up there?" Simone asked.

"What kind of foods do you eat?" That was Russell.

They lobbed questions at her, some of them odd (like Honorine's "What type of jobs do colored people do up there?") and some intrusive (Fosette: "How many boyfriends have you had?").

And then, without warning, as if Jemma had provided them all the answers they needed, the Duchons talked among themselves, shutting her out with a simple, subtle turn of their faces toward one another. She listened as they discussed Thurgood Marshall's finally being confirmed as a judge in a US appellate court and President Kennedy's promise to get a man on the moon. They talked about croquet and the weather, and argued over whether the priests should speak English at Mass.

"They've spoken Latin since the beginning," Simone said, pulling a cigarette from a slim silver case. "It's scandalous that the council is even thinking of changing things."

"Maman," Laurence said, the first time Jemma heard him speak, "you know that things are changing, not just with the church, with everything."

"And you want to be one of those radicals, do you?" she asked with a small smile, and blew a stream of smoke out the side of her mouth. "You want to go to those sit-ins and demonstrations and marches? And how would you take part in any of that?"

"Those demonstrations and marches work," Jemma said, tearing her eyes away from Laurence to address his mother. "You see what they did in Montgomery."

"Why am I not surprised that you'd say such a thing?" Simone turned to her.

"What does that mean?"

"I've never ridden a bus, so I damn sure wouldn't know how it feels to ride in the back."

Jemma's hands tightened around her napkin. "Reverend King isn't just fighting for people who look like me, if that's what you mean. We're all Negroes here, whether you like it or not."

"We're very proud to be colored," Fosette chimed in, the words skipping out in an irregular beat.

"?‘Colored'? Why do you keep saying that?" Jemma asked.

"There's nothing wrong with the word," Simone said. "Are you not colored?"

Jemma looked at the woman's frumpy dress, her hair. She then took in Honorine's gown, a deep blue number with style details from the thirties. Fosette, the youngest of them, seemed afflicted by the same old-fashioned dress sense, as were the two men at the table. None of them, it seemed, embraced what was happening now, so of course they'd still refer to themselves as colored.

"I'm a Negro. That's the term I prefer," Jemma said.

Russell, whose second helping was now eaten, sucked his teeth before jabbing at them with a toothpick. "What difference does it make, huh? ‘Negro,' ‘colored,' ‘Black'—they're all words that mean the same thing."

"But words matter, Mr.Duchon. Not that long ago, white people were calling us ‘nigger' like it was our names. Even now, especially here, they still do. Surely you all know that."

He waved a hand at her. "As long as you know who you are, does it matter what anyone else calls you?"

"To me, it does." And it seemed she was alone in this, as Russell continued his tooth picking, Simone her smoking, Laurence his studying an empty plate and Fosette her napkin twisting. Only Honorine seemed engaged with Jemma, her cool green eyes locked on her.

"We are a proud family, Miss Barker, colored or Negro. The Duchons were free people of color in this city when Africans were still setting foot on this land, chains around their ankles. We may have a slave ancestor somewhere, but his name certainly wasn't Duchon. All this debate has been most interesting. As this is your first day here, I've granted you a little leeway. Beginning tomorrow, however, you'll be expected to behave as an employee, with the exception of dinner. You'll dine in here with us and I'll expect you to be on time."

Jemma opened her mouth to ask for details on her employment, but the five Duchons pushed their chairs back as one, rose from the table and filed out of the dining room, leaving her alone.

She stayed in place for several moments, her mind working to process the meal and the conversation. The family was certainly backward, but it wasn't her first time dealing with different types of people. Maybe, if they liked her enough, she would influence them to come into the present and stop using terms like "colored." Perhaps even help them update their style.

As Jemma tossed her napkin on the table and rose out of her seat, an amorphous form flashed in front of her. She worked to still her trembling, following the spirit's movements as it meandered along the wall, until she remembered to shut her eyes and count.

Five, four, three, two, one.

Go away. Please .

When she opened her eyes, it was gone. On a wave of relief, Jemma raced upstairs and shut herself in her room, peeling herself from the door only when her breathing slowed to normal.

Later, settled in bed but unable to sleep, Jemma listened to the quiet sounds of Fosette's humming through the wall. She pretended the lullaby was for her.