Chapter Twenty-Nine

twenty-nine

LAURENCE HAD STUFFED HIS NOTES in the gray ledger. While the book contained information on who lived and worked on the family's plantation, dating back to the 1840s, it also contained drawings and blueprints of the house and other buildings on the property. The author, Corentin Duchon, had also included random musings that read like diary entries.

Apparently there had once been a blacksmith shop located across from the chapel, but it had been torn down in 1858, although there was no mention of why this had been done.

Just as in the family Bible, there were lists of names of people who had been enslaved on the planation. Jemma recognized Adam and Jane among them. She found bills of sale, her heart growing heavy when the names of children were listed, sold alone or with other people who were likely too old to be their parents.

As Jemma read over Laurence's notes, she realized he'd told her nearly everything in them. But there seemed to be something new on one scrap of paper with almost illegible scribbling on it, as if her brother had been in a hurry writing it.

Who died in the fire?

A tiny ache arose as Jemma remembered Laurence telling her about some of his translation work: At some point there was a fire here that burned the old kitchen.

According to his last note, it seemed someone had died in that fire.

Jemma studied the blueprints, looking for the small room next to her mother's old sleeping room. At first, there seemed to be nothing. It took her a while to realize that the home that stood today wasn't all the original Duchon home. And while the earliest Duchons had been white, ownership of the house had eventually been transferred to a free Black man: Corentin Duchon. And like his white forebears, Corentin had kept slaves, all of them with the surname Duchon, so it was sometimes difficult to tell who had been enslaved and who had been free.

She returned to Laurence's notes, remembering an odd diary entry that listed the approximate birth dates (or sometimes just ages) of the family's human chattel as well as the dates of their deaths, and the death date was the same for several people: June 14, 1864.

As Jemma sat hunched over on Magdalene's mattress, she ran a finger down that list, the same date next to names like Adam, Jane, Ruth, Marie, Tomas, Thérèse and Suzette. Something must have happened, but what?

Who died in the fire?

Could this be what had happened?

She riffled through more notes.

One translated entry dated December 10, 1860, read:

Arthur's suspicions about an uprising proved correct. It was imperative that I make an example out of one of them to deter any of the slaves from similar leanings in the future. There will be no repeat of German Coast. Arthur suggested that I choose Adam. However, after much thought, I decided on Suzette. What better way to frighten them into submission than to punish a supposed innocent? Had I chosen Adam, I am afraid they would have looked upon him as a martyr. Therefore, it was Suzette who received twenty lashes on the front lawn, as the rest of them stood in a line and watched. With every lash, I hurt like she hurt, but I hoped it would show élisabeth that I put no slave woman before her, as she has so often accused me of. I warned them that the next one of them to breathe a word about escape or revolt would be lucky to die like John Brown. Hanging is a simple way to die and often quick. Anyone attempting escape or insurrection does not deserve such an easy death.

Another, dated January 18, 1861, read:

I have had another, rather frank, discussion with Arthur about the treatment of the slaves. I feel he resents me, as I am a freeman and he is just one step up from the white trash of his branch of the family. I have caught him looking at me as if he would love to see me in chains myself instead of living in this house with my wife and children. There is little difference in the color of our skin, but there is much difference in ownership when it comes to property. He forgets that if it were not for me, he would be eking out a meager existence in the boggiest part of the swamps. I have allowed him to live here with his own family because he is a distant cousin. I believe that he wishes the branches of our particular family tree had gone another way from our great-grandfather, his in an even less crooked line than my own.

"You find anything interesting?"

At Magdalene's question, Jemma jerked to attention to find her friend standing in front of the woodstove, smoke encircling her head. The door and all the windows were open wide to prevent the cabin from getting even hotter.

"When did you get back?" she asked, pressing a hand to her chest, her heartbeat quick beneath her palm.

"Just now. You were really into something there."

Jemma stood and leaned her butt against the table, her arms folded. "I can't believe I'm related to someone who used to own slaves."

"Every family got skeletons. Besides, a lot of us in this country got white somewhere in our line, like it or not, so we gonna have ancestors who used to own slaves."

"But most of those ancestors weren't Black. That makes it worse somehow, owning your own people."

Magdalene nodded, handing Jemma a small knife and three carrots. "Because of how things were back then, the family might have felt like they had no choice."

Jemma paused chopping carrots. "What do you mean?"

"Girl, you know some people thought it was better to pass and pretend than face a life that was going to be hard. Sure, there was plenty of us who were light enough to pass who didn't, but we got no idea how many of us left the rest of us behind just so they could slip into that world where nobody was calling them ‘nigger' and beating them just for being Black. Then you got the slave masters dividing us up and putting names on the ones that looked more like them. Quadroons, a quarter black. Octoroons, one-eighth. Mulatto, half. Or griffe, more Black than white. They wanted an easier life. I ain't say ‘better.' I said ‘easier.'?"

"That's some cowardly shit."

"Hey, I ain't talking about them like I admire them. I'm just saying that's how things was. For some people, like your family, that's how things still are. Think about how much pain somebody got to be in when every time they look in the mirror they hate what they are?"

Jemma had never considered that before.

"You saying I should feel sorry for them?"

Magdalene scoffed. "No. Not if you don't want to. They did a lot of terrible things to you and your mama because of how much they hate themselves, and I doubt they want your sympathy."

"Good, because I don't have any left to give. Forgiving is one thing, but letting people continue to shit on you after they've done it before is something else."

—

LATER THAT NIGHT, AS MAGDALENE'S soft snores indicated the woman's deep slumber, Jemma lay awake, her eyes open to the darkness. Not until she'd moved down here had she discovered just how dark night was. Even in her bedroom at the Duchons', the dark—once the house quieted for the night, when everyone had retired to their own room—had seemed so much more absolute than in Chicago, where streetlights and even the faint light from other apartments and the hallway outside her door had always seeped in. Compared to what she saw now, those nights up north were as bright as noon.

But Jemma had been in Magdalene's cabin long enough to know how to move around without any light. It helped that they occupied only a single room. Jemma rose from the mattress and deftly moved around the table and to the door. She stepped outside, the damp air settling on her bare arms and feet, dressed as she was in one of Magdalene's old cotton shifts. She crept toward the tree line. Although she knew no one in the Duchons' could see her, even if they were awake in the middle of the night, she hung back, her hand loose on a nearby tree, the firm presence steadying her.

She thought of them, sleeping in their beds. How beautiful they'd seemed to her when she'd first arrived! But if Magdalene was right, if they all did hate themselves, Jemma supposed she should feel sorry for them.

They were light enough to pass, if not as white, then as close to it as they could get. But they weren't white and they knew it. Further, they probably hated being so close to something they wanted badly (despite Honorine's insistence on their being "proud" to be "colored") and still falling short. How confusing that existence must be, to be happy to be Black and yet happy that they didn't look it. Like Jemma. Like Dennis. Like Carl and Mabel Barker. Jemma had told herself that growing up with her adoptive parents hadn't been ideal, but it had taken coming here and meeting her real family to show her that there were probably no perfect families anywhere.

A light went on on the second floor. Jemma counted the windows from what she knew was her old bedroom. Fosette must be turning on her lamp at what was maybe two in the morning. She wondered what her cousin was up to. Perhaps she, like Jemma, couldn't sleep. Maybe she was reading or had simply gone to the bathroom.

Or perhaps she was up there opening the trunk at the foot of her bed and pulling out the corpse of an infant who'd been dead for years, cradling it and singing to it.

Jemma shivered, but she remained hidden in the trees, not returning to the cabin and an uneasy sleep until the light in Fosette's room finally went out.

—

THE NEXT MORNING, THANKFUL TO be alive to see another day, Jemma studied the ledger again. As she looked at one blueprint, ready to turn the page because it looked like the ones she'd already studied, she stopped.

Something about this one was different.

She turned back to the previous drawings, flipped back and forth to compare. In the last blueprint the location of the kitchen had changed, although not by much. In the original layout the kitchen had been smaller. In whatever renovation had taken place, the room had been made larger, although there was no indication of the small space where Inès had slept. The room had also been moved to where it was today. On the latest blueprint, Jemma looked for the room beside her mother's but found nothing, although that space had been the kitchen in the old plan. Although it wasn't being used anymore, Jemma found it odd that it wasn't included on the new blueprint. It was as if the room didn't exist.

After she set the book down, it fell open where the page had been torn out. Jemma ran her finger down the uneven edge, her curiosity a greedy—and at this point, mostly unsatisfied—beast.

She pored through receipts, a stack of them dated between 1861 and 1865. It appeared Corentin had sold everything from livestock to people, probably just to survive during wartime. There were no more dated receipts until October 1866, but then he bought instead of sold: several pallets of lumber. She recognized his handwriting in one word, written in English, scribbled across the paper: kitchen

This had to be when the kitchen was renovated, but there was no explanation as to why the old one had been closed off. Jemma turned back to the list of death dates. June 14, 1864, was over two years before this lumber purchase. She tapped her finger on the date. The two events were connected; she was sure of it, although she didn't know where this certainty had come from.

Jemma realized that she didn't have to go back to the house to get an answer, though. She needed only to get back on the property.

—

THAT NIGHT, AFTER JEMMA TOLD Magdalene what she had planned, the older woman insisted on accompanying her.

"I don't like the idea of you being out there all by yourself" was all her friend said.

They slipped onto the Duchons' back lawn after all the lights in the house went out. To avoid being seen, they didn't carry a candle or lantern, simply walked along the line of bushes and trees until they were halfway between the woods and the house.

"Adam?" Jemma whispered. "Jane?"

She didn't know if this would work, as the spirits didn't always come when called. Next to her, she sensed Magdalene's presence, felt the rigidity of her friend, held in place by anxiety and fear. But as she moved closer to the house, the soft crunch of grass let her know Magdalene was moving alongside her.

"Adam?" After several moments of hearing nothing except crickets, and trees swaying in a slight breeze, Jemma tried again. "I need your help. I need to know how to set us free. And then I can set you free, too."

Two spirits emerged from the back of the house, from the kitchen, a man and a woman. Once they'd stopped about five feet in front of Jemma and Magdalene, she recognized Adam and Jane.

"Can you help me?"

Neither responded. Jemma felt uneasy waves coming from Magdalene next to her, but the woman stayed put, although she rubbed her bare arms and glanced around.

"I want to help you—you and the others—so that you're not stuck here. You want to move on, don't you?"

"Move on," Jane repeated.

"What did you mean when you said to ‘set them free'? I thought you meant the Duchons, but you didn't, did you? What did that mean, Adam?"

"Cold," Jane moaned.

Jemma wanted to shush her or soothe her. Of the spirits she'd spoken to so far, Jane was the most timid, the one most likely to quickly disappear.

"Set them free," Adam said.

"Who?"

"Them."

Jemma felt her frustration growing, so she tried another tack. "Adam, are you buried over there?" She turned slightly and pointed to the old slave cemetery. "Jane, are you buried there? How did you die? Do you remember?"

She doubted either of them would be able to give her the date they died, but if they did and it was June 14, 1864, she'd know she was on the right path.

"So cold," Jane whispered. "So dark."

Without a word, Adam turned and began walking to the house. Jemma called after him, but he only stopped for a moment, turned to look at her and continued on his way. Jane followed him, looking back at the two women before moving on.

"They want us to follow them," Jemma whispered.

"They who?" Magdalene asked.

Jemma didn't even hear the question. "But they're going back to the house. I can't go in there. What if someone's up and they see me?"

The two ghosts stopped outside of the kitchen window for a moment before disappearing through the wall.

As Jemma debated whether to return to the house where her presence would possibly be met with violence, particularly if she ran into Simone, she noted that the house was dark. If someone was in the kitchen, getting a drink or a midnight snack, a light would be on. She turned to Magdalene, ready to tell her friend that she didn't have to come with her, but the other woman was already moving, so Jemma followed.

The back door was unlocked and emitted a soft squeal that made Jemma stop and listen for any other sounds, like footsteps. Satisfied that none of her family was awake, she and Magdalene slipped inside. Adam and Jane's faint forms waited in the small room where Inès had slept. Adam moved through the curtain, while Jane stayed in place.

"It's a window through there, not a door," Jemma explained. "I'll go in, but you might want to stay here."

"All right," Magdalene agreed quickly. "If anyone comes downstairs…"

"Just go back home. I'll find you."

Jemma maneuvered herself through the small opening, landing on the dirt-packed floor. Adam's faint glow provided the barest illumination. He pointed to the floor.

"Free them."

"Who?"

An earsplitting scream tore through the air. Jemma slapped her hands to her ears, sure that the noise would wake the entire house. Though now muffled, other screams rose with the first one. A chorus of voices jabbered incoherently, some in English, others in French. Perspiration bloomed under Jemma's arms. She had to get out of here before the family came downstairs, but when she tried to leave the room, she found her feet stuck.

"Let me go," she panted, turning as much as she could to face Adam.

She could barely hear his repeated "Free them," but it was easy enough to read his lips.

"Please. They can't find me here."

"Free them!"

A rush of heat washed over Jemma, blowing her hair back. She was sure her eyebrows had been singed off. At the same time, something feathery brushed her face, and she instinctively reached up to grab what felt like thick paper. And as dark as the room was, it grew even darker as the thick scent of smoke filled the space, rushing into her mouth and choking her. Jemma coughed, covering her mouth.

The screaming stopped and Jemma was finally able to move. She scrambled out of the window, with Magdalene helping her. There was no sign of Jane, but footsteps pounding downstairs spurred the two women out the door and across the back lawn, neither of them stopping until they reached the cover of the trees.

"What happened in there?" Magdalene asked once they were inside her cabin and they'd caught their breath.

Jemma realized she held a sheet of crumpled paper. Smoothing it out, she asked the other woman to light a lantern, and once she could see, her eyes immediately went to the torn edge. All she could read was the date of the missing ledger page: October 8, 1864.