Chapter Thirty-Five

thirty-five

SEVERAL DAYS LATER, TOWARD THE end of March 1963, as protestors marched down the same streets floats had traveled weeks before, Magdalene helped Jemma pack several outfits inside a new suitcase. She'd spent the past couple of days buying clothes for the spring—although the shops here didn't stock the heavier jackets and sweaters she was used to—as well as a new handbag and shoes. Jemma had also paid a visit to Henry Marsbrook and told him about the bodies at the Duchons'. He reassured her that his grandfather had died at least a decade before the fire at the Duchon home and that he'd accepted he might never know the truth of what happened to his ancestor.

"How am I supposed to get in touch with you, to let you know where I am and how I'm doing? And to see how you are?" Jemma asked Magdalene, folding Inès's quilt on top of her clothes and fastening the straps holding her belongings inside. She gave everything a once-over before snapping the case shut.

"You send it to the post office with my name on it, I'll get it," Magdalene replied from her place at the counter. Her arms were folded across her chest, a small crease on her forehead.

Jemma straightened up and faced her friend. Magdalene felt more like family than any of the relatives she'd met here.

"You sure about this?" the woman asked. Jemma assumed Magdalene's doubt was the cause of her frown. "They could be anywhere."

Jemma nodded. "I have to try at least. My mother didn't want to leave here, not really, but I think…after being trapped here for so long and going through all she went through, when she was finally able to leave, she took the chance to do it. My brother is dead. She lost her oldest child. I can't judge her for her actions because of that. She wants a relationship with me. It just can't be here. There's too many bad memories for her to want to stay here."

Magdalene nodded, but she didn't look happy or relieved. Just resigned to what Jemma felt compelled to do.

"Besides, I have enough money to hire a private investigator, at least to get a head start on where they might have gone. After that…" Jemma shrugged. She had nothing to tell Magdalene about what she'd do after that because she still wasn't sure where she'd go. "If I come back here, it'll only be for you."

For the third time since Jemma had met her, Magdalene cried.

Then, after her friend had asked Jemma, several times, if she had everything and Jemma had assured her, several times, that she did, they hugged. Jemma cut it short, not wanting to cry any more than she already had, afraid that if she continued to cling to the other woman she might not leave.

"I ain't saying goodbye," Magdalene said, leaning against the doorframe as Jemma stood in front of the cabin, taking in the image for the last time. "I'm saying, ‘?'Til next time.'?"

"?'Til next time, then."

Jemma hoisted the suitcase in one hand and made her way along the tree line until she was on the far side of the Duchon property. As she passed the house, she wondered whether any of her family might be staring out a window and watching her solitary trek.

Instead of wearing her new dress shoes, she wore canvas sneakers for the walk ahead, white shoes that would surely be dusty by the time she made it to the bus stop. Her head was covered with a blue scarf knotted below her chin, the best way she could camouflage a head of hair that needed a good, hard press. That would have to wait. She'd decided not to linger in New Orleans. She was headed for the train station. Once she got there, she'd decide where to go.

The bus spit Jemma out at a little past noon. Remembering that there would be no dining car for her, at least until she got out of this region of the country, she looked around for a place to eat.

Maybe she'd gotten used to the heat, because it didn't seem nearly as oppressive as it had when she'd arrived in New Orleans six months ago.

Jemma figured she'd gotten used to a lot of things.

As she settled herself in a café, she took a moment to get her bearings. Dennis's voice drifted through her mind: Running is easy, until it ain't. How many times have you run from something?

But now she was running toward something. Not leaving something behind, but stepping into her future, whatever it held.

The waitress slid a plate of fried chicken and mashed potatoes in front of Jemma, along with a glass of water. Jemma had grown tired of shrimp etouffee, baguettes, white rice, oysters and all the other small rotation of meals she'd eaten at the Duchons. Fried chicken sounded deliciously exotic.

Loud laughter made her turn her head just as she cut into the breast. A young couple sat at a round table to her right. The man wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief, a wide smile on his face.

He reminded Jemma of her brother.

She turned back to her food, not as hungry now as she had been just a few short moments ago. Still, she remembered that it might be a while before she had the chance to eat again, so she made herself enjoy the crispy greasiness of the chicken and the buttery fluffiness of the potatoes. When the waitress stopped by to ask how she was doing, Jemma asked for a cup of chicory.

She left a sizable tip before leaving for the train station. Unlike last year, she wore a dress appropriate for the climate, a plaid number with a roomy skirt and short sleeves. Her hands were bare, but she did have a cardigan draped over her shoulders.

At the train station, she bought a map and sat on a bench to study it. People swarmed around her, people alone and people with families. Jemma's gaze roamed over the map of the United States, instantly ruling out anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Still, Chicago was too full of ghosts, those of people and those that clouded her mind. She didn't want to step back into those memories, at least not yet.

Her gaze moved west. She wanted to go somewhere where she'd see no colored signs hanging in train cars or over water fountains. No nice bathrooms set aside for white people while her people had to use rundown shacks, if they had anything to use at all.

She'd thought of California once, land of beaches and sunshine. A balm to soothe all that needed soothing.

So Jemma bought a ticket to Los Angeles, giddy with the spontaneity of it.

"That train don't leave until eight o'clock tomorrow mornin'," the clerk said, his blue eyes big and round behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

"Oh," Jemma said, surprised by the flicker of disappointment that arose in her. She'd have to wait overnight. And while she had plenty of money for a room, she didn't want to leave the station.

Her suitcase at her head, she slept on a bench, feeling stiff and achy but still excited for what lay ahead. She rested on top of her handbag; it was uncomfortable, but she had forty dollars in cash inside it, plus a cashier's check made out to herself, which she'd gotten from the bank when she closed her account.

The Jim Crow car, of course, wasn't a sleeper. The next morning, she crowded into the train with other passengers, most of whom looked like her, while a couple reminded her of the Duchons. She tried not to stare or feel too much pity for them.

After a long, hot couple of days, the colored signs were removed and Jemma upgraded to a sleeper car in New Mexico, enjoying the rest of her journey in comfort.

It was on her last night on the train, as she lay awake, watching the countryside zip past under the slowly darkening sky, that she saw something flicker out of the corner of her eye. Jemma looked, to see a young girl materialize in the aisle, her hair in two plaits with ribbons on the ends; she was wearing a white dress with a wide sash at the waist, the color striking a pleasing contrast to her deep brown skin.

Instead of counting to herself and focusing on her breathing, Jemma, resting her chin on her two fists, gazed down at the girl. The girl gazed solemnly up at her.

"How did you die?" Jemma asked.

The girl didn't answer right away, but eventually she spoke in a clear voice. Jemma knew that the spirit didn't speak more distinctly than the ones at the Duchons'. She hadn't been able to hear them clearly at first because she hadn't wanted to.

"Got runned over on the tracks."

"I'm sorry."

The girl shrugged. For the rest of her trip, the girl stayed put, even as the Pullman porters walked through her on their way up and down the train. Jemma asked her some questions. Sometimes she answered; other times she didn't.

It seemed that even spirits didn't want to answer everything. Or maybe they couldn't.

"Los Angeles, California, next stop! Next stop, Los Angeles!" a porter called in a loud voice.

Jemma gathered her belongings. Looking out the window, she saw nothing but blue skies.

Before she left the car, Jemma made sure everyone else was gone, then turned to the girl.

"What's your name?"

"Dottie."

"Nice to meet you, Dottie. I'm Emmaline Duchon."