“Guilt demands its pound of flesh.”
“You kept this from Dad, Azizi, and me, and—did Mom know?”
“I don’t think she did. I thought she figured it out once, but then she got sick, and everything having to do with the old woman was forgotten.”
“Not everything. My father visited her twice. After Mom passed and then again after Azizi died.” I wiped my mouth. “What happened with you two that made you so angry, so bitter, so unforgiving?”
Suddenly, she’s talking about Norman White, her first husband. I can hear it in her voice, how she still grieves for the man. Her mother hated him, but Maggie didn’t marry him to please her.
“Doesn’t explain what happened between you and Honoree,” I interrupt. “Doesn’t explain why you waited until Mr. Hendrickson died to take care of her.”
“Your grandfather was a good man but a white man. He never knew what it meant to be Black in a world ruled by white men. So I kept things from him. Some things he didn’t need to know.” A weary sigh. “I found her in a broken-down slum apartment.” Her voice loses steam. “The same flat where I found the box.”
“When you moved Honoree into the Bronzeville Senior Care Facility in 1985.”
“Yes, Sawyer. You’re right.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“In 1985.”
“How about the last time you talked to her?”
“Also 1985,” she says. “I do not need to speak with her—I needed a clear conscience.”
“Maggie, who was Bessie Palmer?”
Silence.
“Maggie. You know that name, don’t you?”
“I’m not answering any more questions, Sawyer.”
“Come on, Maggie. Why should any of this be such a secret? It happened decades ago.”
“It happened a hundred years ago, ninety years ago, yesterday. I don’t know my father’s name.” She huffs. “Ask the old woman what happened to Bessie Palmer or any of those people she once knew. Anything more you need, you’ll have to hear from her lips.”
CHAPTER 35
HONOREE
Thursday, December 10, 1925
On top of the dressing room counter at the Dreamland Cafe, where Honoree kept her makeup and hairpins, was a long white box tied with a lush red ribbon.
After only a month, and six parties, six new dresses, and more than a dozen private rehearsals, Honoree had impressed the dance master and won Mr. Buttons’s confidence. Tonight would be her first solo performance—and the white box was a gift of congratulations.
She untied the ribbon and tossed the lid on the floor, revealing a dozen long-stem red roses. There was also a note, in a small white envelope. The signature, written in a bold, cursive hand, belonged to the renowned Oscar Micheaux.
Honoree covered her mouth but felt her cheeks flush. She never expected him to show, not after just one night of flirting, flirting and promises. Micheaux was Lil’s friend, and Honoree, just another bimbo at a house party.
“Stop gushing over those flowers,” Colethea said. “Let’s go see who else is in the audience other than your admirers.”
Honoree pulled back her hand. “Why should I stop? These are the first flowers I ever received in my entire life. It’s a moment to enjoy.” She glanced from Colethea to Hazel, who had strolled up beside them.
“The moment’s up,” Hazel said with her usual effortless charm. “We can also find where your admirer is sitting and where to toss that extra shimmy.”
Each girl grabbed an arm and pulled her through the hallway to the edge of the stage. The three dancers peeked around a black curtain, spying on the VIP tables. Honoree rose onto her tiptoes, but her view was still blocked.
