Read an Excerpt
Eatonville, Florida
September 29, 1956
Granddaughter:
Every day since I was fourteen, the scar on my left hand reminds me of your grandfather, my dear Teddy. He told me that the scar would fade, and he was right — it mostly did. But when I hold my hand up in the bright noonday light, a shadow of that 1905 scar survives.
Everyone in Eatonville suffered terribly that year, including my best friend, Zora. Grief and loss afflicted us both. It chased us through a grove in the lightning and rain. At kitchen tables and on porch swings, at swamp banks and in dark cabins, loss bore down on our necks with icy blue and stinging breath. The faded scar on my hand is a testament to how Teddy and Eatonville helped me to heal in place. They were my anchors, my salve, my proof of miracles.
Grief prodded Zora to reject miracles. She insisted, instead, that earth and life on it make sense. Stories are the thing that anchored her. Eatonville itself couldn’t give her peace, but stories about Eatonville might.
She carried the story of Eatonville with her around the world. Stories protected her, healed her. And the summer of 1905 was Zora’s last in Eatonville.
And now you, her namesake, are leaving. I offer the story of our parting as a goodbye. I hope this story will be for you a harbor in the storm.
The final thing I must say is: fear no loss. Despite our efforts, loss touches us all. Stand brave, dear girl. Loss will not be your undoing. Loss cannot hold a candle to love. Love is our story.
Your grandmother,
Carrie Baker
Part One
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Chapter One
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Mama’s employers, the Brays, had gone on summer vacation to the South Carolina shore. Usually, when the Brays went away, Mama looked after Mrs. Bray’s old aunt, Miss Pitty. But in the summer of 1905, Mama had somehow convinced Mrs. Bray to take the elderly Miss Pitty along with them. It was the very first vacation she had ever been granted in a lifetime of labor. Triumphant, Mama declared her intention to keep right on working full days, but with me. Working with me, working for us, was different.
It’s almost hard to believe now that I was just thirteen when I started taking in laundry from Lake Maitland. A couple days a week, I boiled water in a zinc barrel and dropped tablecloths and sheets in with the lye soap I made. I stirred, I rinsed, I wrung. Then I hung the large white squares on the line alongside our house. On hot days, I stewed in stifling tedium. On windy days, the linens billowed like clouds and the sight gave me pride in my work.
With Mama’s help that summer, I could complete twice the loads in half the time. I was able to earn more, too, with leftover time for relaxing. Instead of unpinning sheets from the line and ironing in the early evening, I could sit beside Mama on our porch swing, cross-stitch, and watch the deepening sky coax out the first stars. That summer, Mama’s oval face glowed with health and peace. I remember feeling the only way you can after spending a perfectly sorted day doing good and honest work beside someone you love: grateful.
On one such evening, the sound of an engine and a small black cloud announced the speedy approach of a horseless carriage. We squinted into the setting sun to make out who it was.
“It’s Mr. Baker,” Mama said. I stood, overjoyed, certain that Teddy would be with him. Teddy hadn’t mentioned dropping by. No matter. Whether he appeared at my door, we met at the Loving Pine, we crossed paths in the forest where there were no paths, or we bumped into each other on Joe Clarke’s porch, where it felt like all paths led, Teddy, in my heart and in my home, was always welcome and always new. Teddy waved from the front seat, beside his father.
The horseless drew very close now. Mr. Baker parked it next to a spiky, squat palm in our yard and killed the engine. There was another surprise! Zora was riding in the back.
“Hello there,” Mr. Baker called, his silver spectacles catching the light. His friendly, routine words were one thing, his tone another. He sounded as if he were trying to keep down a roaring cough, stifle something. Teddy got out of the automobile in a hurry, but Zora still managed to beat him to the dooryard. They were both electric with some sort of news. I couldn’t tell if it was bad news, exciting news, or both.
Mama picked up on it, too, and got straight to the point. “Alan, what’s going on?”
Mr. Baker took off his hat. “A white law man came to Joe Clarke’s today,” he said cheerlessly, “a sheriff from Sanford.”
“What about?” There was dread in her voice.
“There’s a man on the run by the name of Terrace Side,” Mr. Baker said. “This white sheriff says this Mr. Side escaped from a chain gang stationed in Georgia, at the border. The authorities suspect the fugitive’s trekking all night and hiding out all day. They even suspect he’s heading to Eatonville, for refuge.”
“Why?” Mama asked. “Does he have people in Eatonville? Ain’t no one here called Side, is there?”
“No, ma’am,” Mr. Baker answered. “But that sheriff thinks Side would come here, counting on the protection of something more formidable than a single colored family: an entire colored town.” Mr. Baker paused. “You know what Joe Clarke told that white man to his face?” he asked, a small grim smile on his lips. “He said, Eatonville doesn’t harbor murderers, black or white.”
“That’s just what Mr. Clarke told him,” Teddy said, awe and respect in his voice and expression.
“So is that what this Side fellow got put away for, murder?” Mama was more businesslike than impressed.
“Yes,” Mr. Baker answered, “according to that sheriff.”
“But do we know for sure?” While I reeled, Mama’s common sense raged. “For all we know, he might have knocked over a houseplant in some rich white lady’s house. For all we know, this man may be guilty only of running for his life.”
“We don’t know,” Mr. Baker said, somber and defeated-like. “The one thing we know for sure is that the white law man says anyone who dares to abet the fugitive will be punished, severely. Search parties from Georgia will be coming through, looking for Side’s hideout. So we’ve got to get the word out to everyone, including folks in Blue Bay and Lake Catherine. Keep your door and windows locked, a lantern lit,” Mr. Baker advised. “A house with the lights on won’t look like a good hiding place to either a fugitive or a mob.” Mr. Baker looked at Teddy. “We better get on. We’ve got the ride of Paul Revere ahead of us and still got Zora here to drop home.”
An awkward silence followed.
John Hurston was on the road and had been for weeks, traveling the borders of Alabama, Georgia, and Florida on a preaching tour. Lucy Hurston had been taking to her bed on and off since he’d gone. More than ever, Zora was needed at home.
“This is all precaution,” Mr. Baker tried to reassure. “That’s all, precaution. I’m not sure that Side man is here in Eatonville. The poor man may very well be apprehended even before the search parties get here.” Mr. Baker shook his head. “Heaven help him if he is.”
“I’m no martyr, so I’m not going out looking for Side tonight,” said Mama, “but if Side finds his way to my house seeking refuge, it’s my Christian duty to help him.”
Teddy blinked, rocked back on his heels by my mother’s bravery. Zora got incredibly still. In admiration, I think, for Mama’s Christian virtue. My lips quivered. Mr. Baker pursed his. “Be careful,” he cautioned, “very, very careful.”
“I will,” Mama answered quietly, “by putting my faith in the Lord. Tonight, I’ll be praying for everybody in Eatonville, everybody.”
