If she wasn’t working, eating, or sleeping, Juniper was emptying her mother’s house. The task wasn’t easy. Her mother had lived outside Charlottesville, nearly a three-hour drive from Juniper’s D.C. apartment. Mavis had been not so much a hoarder as a saver, the family archivist so to speak. The house was spotless. Even as cancer ravaged her body, Mavis would run a rag over the sills. But the closets, basement and attic were another story. Hat boxes filled with sepia-colored photographs. Reels of home movies. Recipes scribbled on the back of water bills.
It had been two years since Mavis passed on and still the emptying continued. Since the mortgage was free and clear, each week that dragged on meant another week that the house wasn’t listed for sale. Juniper and her fiancé rented a one bedroom, and they both knew what that sale meant. Cash. Lots of cash. Enough cash to buy themselves a small house. But each time Juniper opened her mother’s door, it was like opening a time capsule. She felt like an archeologist sifting through the rubble looking for that one elusive thing. Of course, she had no idea what that thing was. All she knew was that it was somewhere, lost and screaming to be found.
Meanwhile life as she knew it demanded her attention. She was an associate at a topnotch law firm. And after meeting in law school, she and Sam were finally making plans. Six months earlier they had moved in together. He had given her a ring. All the gears seemed to be clicking. Naturally, she panicked. She always panicked. Life was good. Too good. And Sam was nearly perfect.
He was the anti-Juniper, the sunshine piercing the clouds, the antidote to her angst. While she tended toward peaks and valleys, Sam was middle-of-the road, a Hamburger Helper Minnesotan. He ate whatever was put in front of him, liked whomever he met, and worked hard at whatever task came his way. Of course, being affable had its disadvantages. Sam never turned down a cocktail party or a meet-and-greet he was invited to. He actually liked people.
It was a Saturday night. They were sipping wine at the newest trendy restaurant. She could never keep track of the neighborhoods. Adams Morgan. Dupont Circle. H Street. Who could remember? The bar was crowded with young lawyers jockeying for position, elbows splayed, tossing out money for over-priced drinks they could barely afford. The hot topic on everyone’s tongues was the Georgetown reparations. The students had just voted to set aside money for the descendants of slaves. Sam whispered in her ear.
“There’s a bill of sale, names, receipts. It’s all documented. In 1838, the Jesuits sold 272 men, women and children to plantations in Louisiana. Then they used the cash to keep the college afloat.”
Juniper never held her alcohol. Just one drink made the room spin. Glass in hand, she felt her face grow hot, her chest damp. Then voices starting surging–from the walls, the air ducts, the floor.
“They’re demanding one billion dollars.”
“Plus preferred admission.”
“They’re swapping the names on the buildings.”
Juniper closed her eyes. Somewhere behind her lids, hiding in the recesses, was a long- buried memory. She was sitting in her great-grandmother’s kitchen. The house was warm and yeasty, perfumed with peach pies cooling on the rack. Her great-grandmother died when she was ten but the memory was clear as a photograph: a miniature person not much bigger than she was, crosshatched with wrinkles, her white hair tied up in a bun. A large porch brimmed with begonias. And behind it–beyond the pond and the fruit trees and rows and rows of pink azaleas– was a cabin, a tiny cabin with dirt floors, a sky blue ceiling, a wooden pallet lying on the floor.
“Buildings?” said Juniper. “They’re renaming buildings?”
The words, when they came out, were louder than intended. A group of heads turned in her direction. She never knew if it was the alcohol or the noise or the press of flesh. But all of a sudden, the world tilted. Seconds later, a tunnel narrowed and darkness fell. The last thing she remembered was Sam cradling her, her body limp in his arms.
She had no recollection of the ride home. But hours later, she woke up in bed with a tender stomach and a pulsing headache. She was dressed in her favorite flannel pajamas, the shades drawn and the lights dim. She thought it was Sunday. Was it Sunday? The neon numbers of her clock shrieked 10:03 while the other side of the bed was empty. A steaming cup of coffee sat on her nightstand. In the distance she heard the clang of pots and pans. Reluctantly, she shuffled into the kitchen cup in hand.
Just the thought of her appearance made her cringe. A swollen face. Tousled hair. Puffy eyes. In typical Juniper fashion, she was cranky, upset at being cranky and unsure of why she had been cranky in the first place.
On the counter sat two heaping plates of eggs, a stack of toast, an assortment of jams. Sam’s standard Sunday breakfast. He smiled and wiped his hands on his apron. The words “I’ve Got Hot Buns” ran straight across.
Sam glanced at her and blinked. “It looks like someone needs a hug!”
Little tidal waves of liquid sloshed in her cup. She stood a little straighter, steadied herself.
“I need to drive to Charlottesville. Again. Sorry.”
He looked down from the stratosphere and kissed the top of her head. The anti-Juniper was as tall and sturdy as the oak trees outside her mother’s home. Meanwhile Juniper was what kind people called “petite.” To save money, she shopped in the kids’ department. She was never insulted when people thought she was twelve years old. Waitresses handed her children’s menus. Usually it was all her appetite could handle.
And while Sam bloomed like a impressionistic painting–blue-eyed, plum-lipped, and rosy-cheeked– everything about Juniper was wheat-colored. Eyes. Hair. Skin. If she laid down in a field, she’d vanish–just like a lizard on a leaf.
“You just went last week,” said Sam. “Is this some kind of penitence? You know. Like Sisyphus and the rock?”
She dipped a fork into the eggs and swallowed, the eggs not sure which direction they were heading. For reasons she never plumbed, she never included Sam on her expeditions. Nor had he ever met her mother. Anyone who knew Mavis would have understood. Past-her-prime Mavis was too vain to have gentleman callers. And when she was sick, public exposure was out of the question. Besides. What interest would Sam have with an old house with milky windows and creaky doors?
“Sisyphus? No. More like Hercules cleaning the Augean stables.”
Was it penitence? She turned the question upside down and sideways. The honest answer was no. For as long as Juniper could remember, her mother had Calpurnia. Calpurnia was far more competent than Juniper. Everything Juniper had learned, from tying her shoe to cooking oatmeal, was at Calpurnia’s knee.
And now–for the first time in her life–Calpurnia was jobless. The woman was seventy years old, for Christ’s sake. Once Juniper sold the house, she’d be homeless as well.
***
The old woman was outside, sitting in the rocking chair when Juniper pulled into the driveway. Even though she had no idea Juniper was coming, she always acted like company was on the way. A clean housecoat, her hair tamed with thick combs, a pitcher of iced tea clinking on a table. Calpurnia never answered phones. Everyone she cared about had either died or moved on. But she knew that sooner or later–like the delayed rays of a star–she’d see their light in days to come.
Juniper gazed up at the porch. A lone bulb burned while a cloud of moths circled overhead. Each foot slowly climbed the steps. In her arms were shopping bags. “I stopped at KFC on the way,” said Juniper. “Got us some fried chicken.”
Years ago, the old woman’s hands were never idle. A human locomotive dressed in orthopedic shoes. Black. Strong. Powerful. Now gnarled and arthritic, hands like tree roots gripped the chair.
“You know I don’t eat that crap, June Bug. My cholesterol’s through the roof. You trying to kill me? I’m getting my blood tested next week. You trying to give Doc Schwartz a heart attack?”
Juniper smiled. “I thought you might be recalcitrant. So I stopped by the Quik Stop and got you some of that old lady yogurt you like, too.”
It wasn’t until that last year that Juniper’s mother let her take over the bills. And when she laid that first check in Calpurnia’s hands, the astonishment couldn’t be hidden. And suddenly it occurred to Juniper that Calpurnia worked without a salary. Of course, Mavis splurged for the groceries. Filled the tank filled with gas. Kept a roof over their heads.
But once Juniper’s father died, a salary would have been out of the question.
Juniper plodded to the kitchen and put away the groceries. A pile of mail, as usual, was lying on the table. The typical bills and advertisements. But that day, a peculiar envelope stood out. On the front, in loopy cursive writing, the letter was addressed to the daughter of Mavis Flynn. Juniper tore into the envelope. Condolence notes had stopped ages ago.
Dear Miss Flynn,
My name is Shelby Washington. You don’t know me and I don’t know you but I believe we’re cousins. I’ve done the swab test for that DNA company, checked the census records, and the birth certificates, too. They all point me in your direction. I’m pretty sure that my great great grandmother was the property of your great great granddaddy years ago.
I am hoping I can persuade you to take the test as well. I will be more than happy to pay the $90 if it places an undue financial burden. I am enclosing a photo. I have three kids. Do you have kids? Sincerely, Shelby.
Juniper sat down. Then she read and re-read the letter. And all at once it occurred to her that the thing she was looking for all along may very well have been found.
***
By the time she got home that night, it was nearly midnight. Though she tiptoed through the front door, there was no reason to be quiet. Sam was waiting up.
“I had visions of you stranded on the turnpike,” he said. “Eating dinner out of vending machines. Picking up truckers.”
“Why would I pick up a trucker when I have a nice Jewish boy waiting at home?” Then she disappeared into the hallway and lugged back a huge carton. “I’ve got a whole trunkful of stuff if you can help.”
Ten minutes later, with the car unloaded, she carefully unpacked each of the boxes. Then she lined up her mother’s possessions from one end of their small living room to the other. Rag dolls with plaited hair. Face jugs. Statues of black jockeys holding little lamps.
“I’m thinking of opening a museum,” said Juniper. “The Flynn Antebellum Museum of Politically Incorrect Objects.”
Sam gawked with his mouth open. “Is there more?”
“Chifferobes more. Attics more. You know how some families have books on bookshelves? My mother stored jars of chutney. And where there wasn’t chutney she had all these knickknacks and vessels and things that probably served a purpose a hundred years ago.”
Sam walked up and down the row of objects performing a calculus, his long arms reaching, his fingertips brushing. “I’d suggest a yard sale but we’d be tarred and feathered.”
It felt good to confess. “All these months I was hoping to find something special,” said Juniper. “You know. Maybe stocks and bonds. Keys to safety deposit boxes. But it seems that my history is my inheritance. It’s a history I don’t particularly cherish but it’s my history nonetheless.”
For the first time in two years, Juniper was moving forward. Somehow she felt lighter, bouncier, buoyant. But she never told him about the faces in those sepia photos. Or the letter from Shelby Washington. Or the dirt floors, the sky blue ceiling, the wooden pallet on the floor.
***
The week slipped by and when Friday night came around, once again it was time to head to Sam’s sister’s house for dinner. Lisa was a stay-at-home mom with four kids scurrying around. Her husband Frankel was a lobbyist on The Hill. Juniper usually fasted the whole day in anticipation of the world heaviest meal. A brisket braised with carrots and celery. A homemade twisted bread. An apple cake if she were lucky.
They were eating the cake when the conversation started. The younger children had been put to bed. Micah, the ten-year-old, sat quietly on the sofa, eavesdropping on their conversation and pretending his bedtime had not already come and gone. Once again, the topic was reparations.
Frankel sat at the head of the table holding court with a glass of red wine. “My grandfather fought with the Russian army. My grandmother survived Auschwitz. They came here to America with nothing. Less than nothing. Their family murdered. Their belongings ransacked. But within a few years, nothing became a pushcart, then a pushcart became a store, then a store became the biggest clothing franchise in Chicago. The point is if you work hard, anything’s possible.”
Juniper glanced at the boy. He was listening now, his neck turned, his eyes wide.
“Reparations are not a matter of if or why,” said Sam. “It’s a matter of how much and when.” Then wiping his mouth on his napkin, he rose to leave. “This country’s tainted, and slavery is our original sin. And if expiation costs a few dollars, I say we’re getting off the hook cheap.”
On the ride home, the two were quiet. Never had Juniper seen Sam so agitated, so outside of himself, so irate. His behavior left her gobsmacked, unsure of who the man sitting at that dining table actually was. But it wasn’t until later, after they punched their pillows and nestled into their blankets, that they finally spoke.
“My family owned slaves,” said Juniper. “At one time twenty-seven of them. My mother saved the lists, journals, ledgers.”
In the corner, the clock cast an electric haze. Juniper felt blind reading his face.
“In Charlottesville?” he asked. “They had them in Charlottesville?”
“No. Not in Charlottesville. My daddy bought the house in Charlottesville. The big farm was outside of Richmond. That’s where my grandmother lived.”
If only she knew Brail! She wanted to run her hand over his eyes, nose, mouth.
“And her mother,” said Juniper. “And her mother’s mother before that.”
***
In the days to come, their roles reversed. It was Juniper who spoke like butter, whose hands searched for his, who woke up extra early to get the coffee on. Her history was part of her DNA and just like her DNA, out of her control. She could not help who she was or where she came from. She could only pick her future paths.
Meanwhile, inside Sam’s brain a switch had flipped. She’d catch him kicking at the dust bunnies under the coffee table, gazing at the damp stains on their ceiling. Even food had lost its taste. Suddenly, just when she was getting a grasp on one part of her life, the other seemed to be slipping away.
So like all good lawyers, she turned to her computer and charted a to-do list. Some burdens were easier to address than others. Set a wedding date. Check. Buy a dress. Check. Interview florists. Check. And on the top of the list was a letter to Shelby.
Dear Shelby,
I appreciate your kind intent. Unfortunately, I’ve been busy cleaning my mother’s house. It’s not easy. There’s forty years of assorted detritus to wade through. I wish I knew one of those water witches. You know a water witch? That’s what I need. A guide. Someone with a dowser, trying to tap the wellspring buried underneath.
My mother, of course, knew where everything was. She had her own method of categorizing, her own logic when rhyme and reason failed.
When my daddy got killed in a car accident, she drove straight from the hospital to my school. I was in fifth grade, in the middle of a spelling quiz, and she just marched into class, scooped me up and carried me out. Then we spent the rest of day picking blueberries, filling our buckets and our mouths until our stomachs ached. Daddy’s gone, she said. But the sun rises and God’s green grass still grows.
Is your mother still alive? Cordially, Juniper.
When she finished it, she placed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and licked on a stamp. Then she slipped the envelope into her underwear drawer, making sure it was fully buried.
***
Sam, to her consternation, showed no interest in wedding planning. His salary working for the government made barely a dent in his school loans, and his parents were trying to retire. In his new Sam voice, he started lecturing Juniper about fiscal responsibility. Unfortunately, he chose the Friday night dinner.
They were attacking a platter of Juniper’s favorite cookies, the kind where one half has black icing and the other white. Juniper, as always, took her time, holding the large cookie in two hands, licking the icing like a cat.
“So,” said Lisa. “Have you set a date?”
A sugar rush always made her happy. In a burst of confidence, she ad-libbed a reply.
“We’re working on it. Obviously, we need someone to officiate. And the flowers…the food…everything’s so expensive.”
“The problem is,” said Sam.
Then he counted down on his fingers, a gesture Juniper had grown to hate.
“One. I have zero money. Less than zero if you count the loans.”
Then he shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands, another hated gesture.
“Two. Who has time? I’m always working and Juniper’s never home. She spends half her time in Virginia. God knows what goes on in Virginia. It’s all very secret and hush-hush.”
She brushed her tongue over her lip and caught an extra taste of icing. Then she put her cookie down on the plate. When she was clean out of options, she glanced at Lisa. Any support to be garnered was coming from that direction. “Sam’s being theatrical. It’s one day a week tops.”
That night they had a terrible argument. While Sam slept on the couch, Juniper took the bed. She tried to sleep. But sleep was just an acquaintance, not a friend. The more she willed the relationship to happen, the more distant it became.
Wide awake, she wrote another letter.
Dear Shelby,
I have a squatter living in my mother’s home, and I have no idea what to do. My fiancé is begging me to sell, urging me to sell, coercing me to sell. But then where would Calpurnia go?
She’s the closest thing I have to kin. When my grandmother died, there was a huge fight over the farm in Richmond. My mother Mavis had seven siblings and each one wanted the estate sliced and diced. Mother wanted no part of it. That farm was who she was. The sap of every magnolia, every dogwood, every sycamore ran like blood inside her veins. Thanks, but no thanks, she said. You can keep the money.
Instead my mother and I rented a U-Haul truck, and in the dead of night, went to the farmhouse and packed as much stuff as we could carry. I felt like a Musketeer or The Scarlet Pimpernel, hiding in shadows, sneaking tea cups under my shirt.
Things don’t define us, Mavis would say. They’re not who we are. But like a book, they tell our stories.
Sure enough, my aunts and uncles never complained. They were more than happy to just keep the cash. But after that night, they never spoke to us again. Not one birthday greeting. Not one Christmas card.
I’ve learned in life that some things are easy to rectify and some things fall to rot. It’s important to know the difference. Yours truly, Juniper
***
All at once they started squabbling over money. Their household items were always split fifty-fifty. Utilities. Rent. And even though Sam consumed more than his share of the groceries, Juniper paid half the bill. She never complained. Even checks at fancy restaurants were divided in two, though Sam ate and drank twice as much.
Then their car, an AutoNation special, needed a new transmission.
“$1200!”
Sam was nearly apoplectic.
“There’s no way I can afford this. I wear the same two suits over and over. My dad needs a new hip. I work endless hours doing mindless work. And I can’t remember the last time I took a vacation.”
They were sitting on their thrift store couch, the stuffing worming its way out of the good side of the cushions. The words sailed in and out of Juniper’s ears. All she heard were a bunch of I’s. Nowhere did she hear a we.
“So what are you saying?” said Juniper.
“I’m saying that you ought to pay for the transmission. I’m saying that the car would be working fine if it weren’t for the mileage. I’m saying all those trips to Virginia have taken their toll.”
***
Dear Shelby,
Thanks to Google Earth, I can check the satellite photos of what used to be my great-grandparents’ farm. The house was a white clapboard with a wraparound porch. Now there’s a Hampton Inn. Instead of tobacco fields, there seems to be a strip shopping center. I imagine that quite a number of your relatives and mine are buried out there, maybe underneath a dry-cleaner or a Quik Stop.
There used to be cabin, a tiny cabin with dirt floors, a sky blue ceiling, a wooden pallet lying on the floor. My mother saved a photograph. Looking back, I remember walking along the pond, the peach trees, the berry bushes. And there it was!
But sometimes my memories fool me. I’ve stared at that photograph so many times there’s no discerning the difference between the picture and the place. I can still taste those berries. I can still glimpse those trees. And I can still see that wooden pallet tucked into the soil like a coffin rising from the grave.
***
The old woman was sitting on the porch, rocking. Juniper carried in the groceries. Then she went and sat on the floor by her side.
“Tell me again,” she said. “Tell me about my daddy. Tell me about the day I was born.”
Calpurnia laughed. Then she wove her crooked fingers through Juniper’s hair.
“It took your mama ten years to get pregnant. And when she finally did, you nearly killed her. You tried to make your way out at twenty weeks. At thirty weeks. Finally, Doc Schwartz sent Mavis to bed. And that’s when your daddy hired me. I was working for the Wyroughs a mile down. Wheeling their babies to the park. Walking their dog. Taking old Mr. Wyrough for his constitutional. And your daddy says, I see the way you treat people, Calpurnia. Kindness comes easy. Whatever they’re paying, I’ll double.
But a month before you were supposed to come, you made a surprise appearance. One day your mother keeled over, had one big cramp, and out you came. I caught you like a football. You were tiny and slippery but perfect.
One look at you and your daddy was smitten. It was like he could see the future. My little girl, he said, will be the smartest girl in the whole school. And you were!
My little girl, he said, will get a scholarship to college! The colleges will fight over her! She’ll go to any one she wants! And you did!
My little girl, he said, won’t work in no hardware store. My girl will work in a fancy office. With a French purse on her arm and high heels on her feet! And here you are!”
For a minute they listened to the cicadas chirping. It was hard to think let alone talk. The ice in the pitcher had melted. Calpurnia’s eyes were half closed.
“After Daddy died,” said Juniper, “did Mavis ever pay you? You know. With cash? I remember how she learned computers and bookkeeping and drove downtown every day. But there was never a whole lot of money.”
Calpurnia tucked in her chin and started chuckling. “Whatever she had, she shared with me. If she bought herself two pork chops, she gave me one. If she bought herself a dress at Kmart, she bought me one, too.”
Juniper glanced at her watch. It was time to head back to her D.C. apartment. To face Sam. Her job. Her life. For some reason the drive north seemed a lot longer than the drive south.
“And what happens next?” said Juniper. “What would Daddy’s crystal ball say next?”
The old woman yawned. “Happy is for fools, June Bug. The most we can ask for is content.”
***
It took Juniper months to finally empty the house of her family’s antiques. She carried all the dolls and knickknacks and papers to a storage facility. Then she locked it up, put the key on a silver chain and looped it around her neck. She felt safer that way. The key would lie on her chest and remind her of her mother. Not a day went by when her heart didn’t ache.
The rest she left. The furniture, the rugs, the curtains. And when it was time, she sat Sam down on their old ratty couch and told him her decision. She was giving the house to Calpurnia. No, she wasn’t renting it or lending it. She was handing over the deed. And when Calpurnia eventually passed, whether that happened in one year or twenty, the rightful heir would be Calpurnia’s choice. The old woman had endured a lifetime of two-for-one specials, Juniper told him. She deserved more.
***
Dear Shelby,
It’s been a big week. My ex-fiancée Sam moved out. You want the books? he asked. How about the waffle maker? You need the iron? How about the pots and pans?
Thanks but no thanks, I answered. At the end of day he took everything but this hateful couch.
I never knew lonely could be this lonely. That’s why I like the law. It’s clear-cut and sharp while the rest of the world mixes lumpy.
Lastly, I can finally report my DNA results. I have no doubt that your great-great grandmother was among the slaves my family owned. Not only are we related but I seem to have a decent share of African blood as well.
The mystery is why that one cabin remained. In my mind, it was old and worn and mildewy. When it rained, I imagine water dripped right through the slats. But on clear days, when the clouds parted, perhaps the sun crept in.
I look forward to our meeting. Your friend and cousin, Juniper
