Free Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing by Morgan James Page A

Mrs. Allen and explained I couldn’t be positive the little girl was real, because I hadn’t seen her. However my sense wasthat Mrs. Allen did not show any signs of dementia, and I believed there was a little girl. Where she came from was another issue, because I also sensed Mrs. Allen was not telling the truth about the child being a relative, and was holding back some piece of information about the child. I didn’t mention Mrs. Allen and the burning kitchen chair. I don’t know why. I just didn’t.
    Susan listened, her concern obvious. “I know Daddy, and all of us, will be glad if she’s not making up imaginary children. But still, that’s something weird going on when MaMa is so secretive about where the child came from. I vote we give her another few days, and if she doesn’t volunteer the truth, we go over there and confront her.”
    I didn’t relish the idea of being part of a confrontational committee, though I agreed with Susan. Once we’d exhausted the subject of the mysterious child, I gave Susan the short version of everything I’d learned from Rev. Kolb and Mrs. Allen about my McNeal relatives in Perry County. Susan ran both hands through her close-cropped black hair, making the spikes she’d moussed in that morning stand straight up at attention. “Good Lord. That is really creepy. You must have been gobsmacked when old Rev. Kolb told you about the grave robbery.”
    “I don’t know what gobsmacked means, but I probably was. Wait. Wasn’t a gobsmack one of those amazing candies from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory ?”
    Susan rolled her eyes. “No, those were Gobstoppers. If you’re gobsmacked, it’s like somebody slapped you in the face with whatever it is you’re hearing.”
    I nodded, glad we’d cleared up that bit of confusion, and Susan continued. “So, how do you feel about your great granddaddy maybe digging up his wife and child? Or about Reba being the granddaughter of a slave? Isn’t it amazing that MaMa Allen kept that letter all these years, like it was sitting in the suitcase waiting for you?”
    Yes, amazing was one word for it. How do I feel? For the first time, I could empathize with my counseling clients. So many times over the years I’d asked the same question. It wasn’t an easy one to answer. I munched on the chocolate bar and thought for a few moments.
    “Okay, here is the thing: I’m happy to know that my great grandmother Reba was raised by Joab and Enid Sorley. They seemed to have wanted her, and what was best for her. It’s like your MaMa Allen said to me, ‘family is who loves you and takes care of you.’ The slave part? That was so long ago that it seems strangely detached from me, and who I am. When I look in the mirror all I see are my Irish and English ancestors looking back at me, though I know Reba and her grandmother are there, somewhere. We are all an accumulation. Aren’t we?
    “I don’t even have a name for Aiken Beauchamp’s mother…just that she was a mulatto woman, and a slave. I’d like to know her name. Not knowing seems to make her a non-person, and I don’t want to do that. She deserves more respect than being just ‘a mulatto woman.’ The thing that bothers me most about her is that, as a slave, she probably had no choice about the sexual partner that producedAiken Beauchamp. It’s hurtful to think that one of my white ancestors would force himself on a woman just because he could, yet I know that is the reality of history. Sure, history shows there were some partnerships between blacks and whites that were based on love, but not many. And were those truly equal relationships? I doubt it.” Thomas Jefferson, and the more recent Senator Strom Thurmond, came to mind.
    “But you know, it’s January McNeal who disturbs me, not Reba and her side of the family. His behavior seems so bizarre.” I let my remarks hang in the air and watched Susan’s face for a reaction. I wanted to tell her about January and my dreams, but felt