We Hope for Better Things Page 7

  “Been waiting for weather like this,” Daniel said as he shook Ray’s weathered hand.

  “You and me both, sir.” Ray gave Nora a nod. “Glad to see you survived the winter, miss.”

  Nora smiled. “Barely. I thought I might go mad in February.”

  “Mm-hmm. We’re all a little mad in February.” Ray laughed.

  “I thought you were supposed to be managing this year, and here you are out raking the sand and trimming the bushes,” Daniel said.

  Ray glanced around. “Boss just don’t think a Negro can do the job, I guess.”

  Daniel scowled. “I’ve half a mind to write a letter.”

  Ray put up his hand. “Don’t go doing that. I like my job and I’d like to keep it. I’ll see you two again soon, right, Miss Balsam?”

  “Probably next week.”

  “Excellent. You both have a good evening now.”

  Ray went back to his duties and Daniel drove on, frowning the entire way.

  “What’s the matter?” Nora asked.

  “Ray’s been here fifteen years. He should be a manager by now.”

  Nora tried to reconcile the egalitarian before her with the angry man in the photo. “You think he could be a manager?”

  “Of course! If a man has the experience, the color of his skin shouldn’t matter.”

  Nora scoffed at his hypocrisy.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t be such an elitist, Nora. It’s unbecoming.”

  Nora bit her tongue all the way to her parents’ house. The garage was empty when she and her father pulled in.

  “Where’s the Corvette?”

  “Your mother has it.”

  “I thought you said she needed to ask me something.”

  “She’ll be home soon.”

  Nora rolled her eyes and trudged into the kitchen.

  “Hello, Miss Nora. Good to see you. How did you do your first time out this season?” Wanda pulled a clean glass from the cupboard and began running the cold water before Nora even had time to ask for a drink.

  “Two under par.”

  Wanda flashed a grin. “Nice job, girl.” She set the water down in front of Nora and wiped her hands on her apron. “Having roast tonight.”

  “That seems pretty elaborate for just Mom and Dad.”

  “That’s what your mother wanted. She’s expecting guests.” Wanda pulled open a drawer and counted out four forks, four knives, and four spoons. “I assume you’re one of them?”

  “I have plans tonight.”

  Wanda laughed. “Your mama got plans too.”

  She rarely slipped into such informal speech anymore—and never in the presence of Mallory Balsam. As a child Nora had been fascinated by the maid’s two personas.

  “Why do you talk like that?” she’d asked when she was five years old.

  “Like what?”

  “All funny like that. Like you don’t know how to talk.”

  Wanda laughed. “Honey, I speak two languages.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, I do.” She leaned down to Nora’s height and whispered conspiratorially, “Sometimes I forget where I am and I use the wrong one. What you just heard there was my home language.”

  Little Nora chewed on this a moment. “Where do you live?”

  “I live in Detroit.”

  “Don’t they speak English there?”

  “Sure do. And here in Bloomfield Hills they speak Snobbish.”

  Wanda had laughed at her own joke, thinking perhaps that Nora was too little to understand it or repeat it. And she was. But later in life that conversation resurfaced in Nora’s memory and she did understand. She lived in a city divided. There was us. And there was them.

  “Do you need help with anything?” Nora asked as Wanda arranged the silverware on the table.

  “You can take these flowers into the kitchen and cut off the dead ones if you want.”

  Nora retrieved the vase from the center of the dining room table and set it on the kitchen counter. She opened and closed three drawers before finding the scissors.

  “You’ve rearranged everything.”

  “Your mother thought it made more sense this way.”

  “But you’re the one who uses it.”

  Wanda muttered something Nora couldn’t quite make out. The sound of a door opening put an end to Wanda’s commentary, whatever it was. Mallory Balsam’s arrival in the kitchen was like a wasp visiting a picnic. Maybe if they just kept still, she would get bored and go away.

  “Evening, Mrs. Balsam.”

  Mallory’s answer to this greeting was a heavy sigh. She plunked her purse onto the counter and tossed a set of keys next to it. “Wanda, I wonder if you would be a dear and see if you can get the box out of Mr. Balsam’s car. The shop boy somehow got it in there, but I can’t get the infernal thing out now. I don’t know why he couldn’t have gotten an Impala.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Wanda disappeared into the garage.

  Mallory patted her hair and looked at her daughter with disapproval. “Nora, what are you doing?”

  “I’m just freshening up the centerpiece.”

  Mallory waved her away. “Wanda can do that.”

  Nora continued to trim browned petals and leaves from the arrangement.

  “Oh, never mind,” Mallory said, pinching the bridge of her nose with two perfectly manicured fingers. “I can’t argue with you right now. I’ve had a trial of a day. Where is your father?”

  “He went up to shower and change.”

  Mallory took hold of her daughter’s shoulders and spun her around. “You’re not wearing that to dinner, are you?”

  Nora looked down at her cropped pants and golf shirt. “I hadn’t planned on it, no. Diane and I are going out tonight, but Dad said you had to ask me something about a charity event.”

  Mallory waved her hand. “We can talk about that later. Why didn’t you bring other clothes?”

  Nora went back to the centerpiece and lopped off the head of a dying rose. “I didn’t even know I’d be coming here today.”

  Mallory’s nails drummed on the counter. “I guess there may be something suitable left in your closet you could wear.”

  Nora closed her eyes and turned her face to the ceiling, bracing herself for what was coming. “For what?”

  “For dinner, of course.”

  “I told you, I have plans.”

  A buzzer sounded. Nora walked over to the stove and turned it off, then opened the door to the garage. “Wanda? The buzzer went off! What should we do?”

  No answer. Nora walked back into the kitchen, but Mallory guided her out the other way.

  “Go on up to your room and see if you can find something to wear. And do something with your hair.”

  “But—”

  “Diane will understand. I need you here tonight. Now go.”

  Nora headed for the stairs. On her way up she met Wanda coming down. “A buzzer went off.”

  In her old bedroom, a few forgotten dresses hung limply in the dark corners of the closet. Nora flipped through them and considered the four places Wanda had been setting at the table. A few minutes later, her hair brushed but not particularly becoming, Nora walked down the stairs in a too-formal green taffeta dress just as the doorbell was ringing. Now she wouldn’t even have time to call Diane to apologize for standing her up. Balsam house rules were unbending when it came to entertaining, and the primary one was that you never leave your guest. When Nora opened the door, she was met with a tall, handsome, undoubtedly eligible young man, and everything became clear.

  “You must be Nora,” the man said, his eyes roaming her body. “I’m Michael.”

  The next two hours traveled the spectrum of boring to embarrassing, as Mallory Balsam attempted to sell Nora to a potential husband and Daniel Balsam tried to determine how much of his great-uncle’s fortune Michael Kresge might have at his disposal.

  When the roast and potatoes and pie and coffee were
all consumed and a lull developed in the conversation, Nora jumped in. “Mother, I need to get up early tomorrow. Can you take me home now?”

  “I can take you,” Michael offered.

  “Lovely.” Mallory beamed before Nora could utter a word. “That’s so kind of you, Michael.”

  The drive was made in awkward silence, and Nora wondered if Michael realized the plans her mother had for him. When he stopped in front of Nora’s apartment, she put her hand on the car door and said a quick but polite thank-you.

  “That’s it?” Michael said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Thank you, good night, and then you’re gone? No time for a little good-night kiss?”

  “I hardly know you.”

  He leaned closer. “How about you get to know me then?”

  Before Nora knew what was happening, he’d grabbed the back of her neck and captured her lips with his. She pushed on his chest until he released her.

  “Come on!” he intoned with a playful leer.

  Nora slipped out of his grasp, escaped to the sidewalk, and slammed the door shut. Her rejected chauffeur sped off in anger, tearing the hem of her taffeta dress where it had caught in the door. Nora stomped up the steps to her apartment, ready to throw the dress in the garbage can the moment she got inside. Then she remembered that her golf clubs were in Michael Kresge’s trunk. She stifled a scream and pounded on her door in frustration. The phone rang inside.

  Nora scrambled for her keys and made it to the phone on the fourth ring, expecting to hear Diane’s irritated voice wondering where she’d been and what was so important that she stood up her best friend.

  Instead a vaguely familiar silky voice awaited her on the other end of the line.

  “William?”

  nine

  Lapeer County, August 1861

  The barn door squeaked, drawing Mary from the dark precipice of sleep and back to the light.

  “Ma’am?”

  Mary pushed herself up on one elbow and swiped at a piece of hay that stuck to the trail of drool on her cheek. “Yes, Bridget?”

  “I have letters for you.”

  She sat up as straight as she could, resting her pregnant belly upon her thighs. “Anything from Mr. Balsam?” The question was automatic, uttered without much thought to the answer that would follow. It was nearly always no.

  “Yes.” Bridget reached out for her mistress’s hand to help her up, but Mary waved her away.

  “Where is it?”

  The girl fumbled through her apron pockets and produced a small envelope. “But it’s not the only thing.”

  Mary snatched up the envelope, aching to hold anything Nathaniel had touched. “My girl, all I want in this life is a word from my husband. It’s been two weeks since that horrendous battle was in the papers, and this is the first certain sign I’ve had that he is alive.”

  “But there’s a package. A trunk. A man brought it for me on his wagon, and he is waiting at the house to take it down. It’s very heavy.”

  Mary struggled to her feet. “What on earth can it be?” But in her mind she feared she knew. Letters might be delayed in times of war. Was it possible that the trunk was Nathaniel’s? That it contained his effects, sent back after his death, and that the letter in her hand had been penned in haste the night before battle? That he might be dead even now? With every step toward the house, Mary’s heartbeat quickened, both at the effort it now took to do such a simple thing as walk twenty yards and at the dread that was building in her chest.

  As she rounded the front of the house and the wagon came into view, her knees buckled. It was Nathaniel’s trunk.

  Bridget caught her arm and slung it around her own sturdy shoulders. “This is too much strain for you. You need to sit down. You’ve been working too hard for any woman, let alone one in your condition.”

  Soon Mary found herself seated in the parlor as Bridget helped the man drag in the heavy trunk.

  “I trust you have the key?” the man said as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “I do. Thank you, sir. Bridget, please find this nice man something to eat in the kitchen and pay him from my reticule.”

  “I thank you for the pay,” the man said, “but I’m afraid I must pass on the food. I need to get back to town.”

  Moments later, the two women sat staring at the trunk as the sound of the horses’ hooves faded.

  Mary forced her breath into an even rhythm. “Fetch the spare key from Mr. Balsam’s desk drawer, please.”

  Bridget hurried off, and Mary looked at the envelope in her shaking hands. Which should she open first? The letter that was surely meant to arrive before whatever heartache the trunk held? Or should she save the last words of her husband to her as a small comfort after facing the reality of his death?

  Bridget returned too quickly and Mary was still undecided. With the letter in one hand and the key in the other, she felt on the brink of tears.

  “Perhaps you should read the letter first,” Mary suggested, holding it out to Bridget.

  “Heavens, no! I wouldn’t dare.”

  “I don’t know—” Her voice cracked. She breathed deeply. “I don’t know how I could bear it if he—which should I open?”

  “The trunk.”

  The answer came in a muffled voice that didn’t belong to her maid.

  Mary’s eyes locked upon the trunk, then flashed to Bridget’s. She slid to the floor, thrust the key into the lock, and flung open the lid. The act released the foul stench of urine into the parlor, but it was the sight of the contents rather than the smell that shocked the senses. Both women screamed.

  Inside the trunk, folded up into a grotesque shape and littered with bloodied straw, was the lacerated body of a Negro man. His eyes squinted against the sudden light, and he took a shuddering, groaning breath. Bridget was still screaming.

  “Stop, Bridget! Stop!”

  The girl clapped her hands hard over her mouth and exchanged her screams for shallow wheezing.

  Mary attempted to gather her scattered wits. “Wh-who are you?”

  The man groaned again and twisted in the cramped space. Scarred brown fingers curled over the edge of the trunk.

  Mary reached for them. “Bridget, help!”

  Together they extracted the man and laid him out upon the floor. He moaned as joints that had been bent at severe angles for who knew how long struggled to straighten themselves. Straw was everywhere, stained red and sticking in clumps. Mary snapped her fingers at a pillow, and Bridget helped her slide it beneath the man’s bleeding head, then ran for water.

  “Who are you?” Mary asked again.

  The man coughed. “Mr. Balsam . . .”

  “You’ve seen Nathaniel? Where? Where was he? When did you see him? Were you in the battle?” Then she remembered the letter. She tore open the envelope and unfolded three small pieces of paper, all graced with her husband’s distinct penmanship.

  My Darling Mary,

  I know you are anxious for news of how I fare, but before I share with you my adventures south of the Ohio River, I must mention a practical matter. I’ve sent you a large package, and I hope that this letter reaches you ahead of it. I’ve devised a clever way of keeping my belongings in a smaller space and so have sent my trunk home to you. Please open it immediately and remove the contents, for nothing could abide such confinement for long, and its contents are precious to me. They came to me here in Maryland from parts south, and though they were damaged I vowed to myself that they should find a place in our home, even if just for a time. They will surely be a help to you, and I know that you will take good care of them.

  I am sure you read in the newspapers of the Union’s troubles at Bull Run. I did as well. I was not there and, as you can plainly see, am very much alive and well. However, our cause is floundering. Thus—and I know it will come as a cruel disappointment—I have decided to reenlist. I know you expected me home at the end of my three-month enlistment, but I’ve not yet had the opportunity
to fight for the cause, and I would feel disgraced coming home with nothing to show for my time beyond a few amusing stories of our training camp. I am sure that when you see what I have sent you, you will not begrudge me the chance to fight. Do not despair. God has seen the end of this war—indeed, He has written it.

  Now, my dearest one, it is with tears in my eyes that I close this letter to you. I know it is a bitter thing to hear that I will not be home to kiss our baby when it is born. But I want this child—and all the many children we will have—to live in a country that is united in truth and justice, and to know that their father did not retreat in the face of the great evil of slavery but fought to destroy it. That is the legacy I desire for our family. And I must, for a time, put this above my desire to see you and touch you again.

  Your Loving Husband,

  Nathaniel

  August 1, 1861

  Mary looked up from the letter, her vision clouded by tears. Bridget was steadying the broken man before her as he attempted to slake his thirst. He was shorter and slighter of build than the fugitive slave she had met back in the spring, but Mary still did not see how he had managed to fit into the space of the trunk. What terrors could possess someone to commit himself to what might become his coffin, to risk death as nameless cargo aboard a northbound train? What if someone had opened the trunk en route? What if delivery had been delayed and the man had suffocated? Any number of dreadful things might have happened in this desperate escape.

  Mary felt a sharp pain in her abdomen and pressed her hand against her side. She wanted the full story from this man—to hear every word he had exchanged with Nathaniel—but even in times of war one must attempt to retain some sense of decorum. Perhaps especially in such times.

  “Bridget, will you please prepare a bath for . . . I’m sorry, what is your name?”

  “George,” the man said in a still-parched voice.

  “Please prepare a bath in the kitchen for George and then freshen the pitcher in my bedchamber for me. And we must take this trunk outside at once.”

  George attempted to stand.

  “No, no. You stay there. We can manage it now that it’s empty. Bridget?”

  The girl helped her off the floor. They closed the lid to suppress the rank odor and each grasped a handle.