I slip into the Bronzeville Senior Care Facility late at night. I’m not sure how to say what I have come to say, or whether it matters.
“Who’s there?” Honoree’s hoarse voice pierces the darkness. “Lula?”
“No, ma’am, it’s Sawyer.”
“What are you doing here? What time is it?”
“Around midnight.”
“They catch you in here, you’ll be in trouble. Not even my Lula can save you.”
I turn on the table lamp and sit in my chair, noticing the veins and the soft, paper-thin brown skin of Honoree’s hands. “Do you remember when Ezekiel died?”
She looks fragile, less in charge than she did two days ago. “I lost track of him sixty years ago,” Honoree says gruffly.
“We can’t find a record of his death. Do you recall when or where he passed? That might help.”
“Rest assured, he’s dead. What difference does it make when?”
I move to the other side of the bed.
“I don’t mind talking about Jeremiah. He was the nicer of the two Bailey brothers I met.” She narrows her eyes. “I spent a lot of time with Jeremiah. He liked me the most in the beginning.”
This late at night, her room has a different aura, and yes, I use that word on occasion. Mystical—no. Magical—not. Mysterious—could be. The corners of the room seem alive. “I heard from the restoration company today. The reel of film I found in Maggie’s long-ago box—it’s been authenticated as a lost Micheaux.”
“Been what?”
“They proved the reel was from one of Micheaux’s films, a motion picture made in the 1920s. That included you in a nightclub scene, filmed in 1925.”
“Are you sure it was me?”
“That’s an intriguing question,” I say, smoothing the stubble on my chin. “The answer is complicated. Yes, I’m sure it’s you. But you aren’t the woman you say you are.”
“I’m your great-grandmother.”
“Yes. Maggie confirmed you are her mother and my great-grandmother.” I press my lips together. You see, part of me has reached my limit. “You and Maggie love secrets.”
“I could give less than a good goddam about secrets or love. Although I’ve enjoyed keeping secrets from you, one of which, I’ll keep until the day I die.”
“Your real name?”
She cackles, that crazy, breathy laugh-grunt people make when they are too full of vinegar, as Maggie would say.
“I don’t care about that,” she blurts. “But since you’re asking, I wager you already know.”
“What is it?”
“I used to be Bessie Palmer. Bessie Louise Palmer was my birth name if I recall.” Her lips tremble. “You should’ve figured that out a week ago. Once your father told you about the deed. Maggie never owned a house in Baton Rouge. I told you so. You should’ve listened. You should’ve taken my word.”
CHAPTER 43
HONOREE
Wednesday, December 30, 1925
It was early afternoon when the Bailey household—Honoree, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, and Bessie—entered Archie’s office. Honoree figured if Ezekiel and Jeremiah had to keep an eye on Bessie and Honoree, they would keep an eye on the Bailey brothers, too.
An unusually dark, dank day, a cast-iron table lamp provided some light for the filth on the floor and the scratches on the desktop where Archie trimmed his cigars. Honoree was bothered by the smell. Sweat and spilled hooch filled her nostrils along with cigar smoke, and whomever Archie had diddled the night before.
