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  “I was beginning to think you never intended to call, you know,” she said.

  “Yeah, sorry about that.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Took me longer than I thought to get enough time in a darkroom. I can’t develop on Sundays—church and all—and I’m on the line at Detroit Assembly six days a week making Cadillacs.”

  “And how did they turn out?”

  “The Cadillacs? Real good.”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes. “The photos, of course.”

  “Oh, those!” he said with feigned stupidity. “Beautiful.”

  Nora tried not to seem too eager as she said, “Can I see them?”

  William nodded. “Absolutely.”

  She waited for him to produce something—a box, a folder, she didn’t know what. But something. “Well?”

  “Oh, I don’t have them here with me now.”

  “I thought you said—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “I’ve got them, don’t worry. They’re back at my house.”

  “But isn’t that why we’re here?”

  William shook his head. “I didn’t think it would work to show them to you here. They’re not real . . . portable.”

  “They’re photos. They’d fit in your pocket.”

  “No, I sized them up a bit. They’re bigger than you’re thinking.”

  Nora couldn’t hold back a sigh. “Then why did you suggest we meet at a diner rather than just meeting at your house?”

  He shrugged. “Because I wanted to have lunch with you.”

  William smiled at her and Nora realized she’d been tricked into a date. She narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

  “Would you have said yes?”

  Nora stopped to consider. Across the table William raised his eyebrows and waited for her answer.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I guess we’ll never know. But in the meantime, here you are.”

  The waitress glided up to the table, glanced nervously at Nora as she set down their meals, and then disappeared again. William pounded on the bottom of a ketchup bottle.

  “You’re doing it wrong,” Nora said. “You only have to shake it a bit.”

  “No, you have to hit the bottom of the bottle.” He demonstrated it for her. “You can’t just shake it.” He shook the bottle mockingly.

  She held out her hand. “Give it to me. You’re not doing it right. You’re shaking it too much.”

  “Okay, you try.”

  Nora positioned the bottle over his hamburger and shook. Nothing came out.

  “See? Give me that thing. My food’s getting cold while you’re ‘just shaking it a little bit.’” He reached for the bottle, but she pulled it away.

  “No, this works.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It does.”

  “It don’t work. Look at it.”

  Nora shook the bottle a little harder and a little harder, but still nothing came out.

  “Can I have that ketchup now, please?” William said in a tone that suggested he was talking to a child.

  “No.” She was determined now.

  “Then can you at least try it my way so maybe I can eat sometime today?”

  “Fine.” Nora smacked the bottom of the bottle hard with her right hand, and half of its contents emptied out onto William’s burger. She gasped as she righted the bottle too late.

  “You see? I told you,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  “Nah, don’t worry.” He smashed the bun down. Ketchup oozed out the sides and onto the plate. “But now we know, don’t we,” he said through a smile, “that just shaking it up a little doesn’t work. You gotta smack it.”

  “I’ll buy you a new burger.”

  “That your solution for everything?”

  “What? No, I just—”

  “Look, it’s fine.” He scraped the excess ketchup onto the lip of the plate. “Now eat your sandwich.”

  Nora and William ate in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.

  “So where do you live?” she finally thought to ask.

  “Just down the street off Seward.”

  She nodded, though she wasn’t quite sure where that was.

  “What about you?”

  “I live in Bloomfield Hills.”

  “Of course you do.”

  She put down her sandwich. “Why ‘of course’?”

  “Beautiful, well-bred white girls always live in Bloomfield Hills.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “True enough.”

  She wiped her fingers on her napkin. “Do you dislike white people?”

  A few heads at neighboring tables swiveled her way.

  “I like you,” he said.

  “That’s not what I asked,” she said, quieter now.

  “Do you dislike black people?” he said.

  “No.”

  “None of your daddy rubbed off on you?”

  “What? No! I would never—” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I would never use that word.”

  “Don’t matter if you’d never say it. It’s what’s in your heart that matters.” He gave her a look of challenge. “What’s in your heart?”

  She looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you think I’d come to this neighborhood and meet you for lunch if I was a racist?”

  “Does your father know you bought that camera for me?” he said with a provocative smirk.

  She hesitated. “I’m an adult.”

  “So you didn’t tell him?”

  “It’s none of his business.”

  They were both quiet for a moment. In her mind, Nora traced the conversation in reverse, trying to figure out where she’d made a wrong turn. She had been looking forward to this all week, remembering William’s charm and ready smile. But it was obvious that this was not going well. She picked up her sandwich again but couldn’t bring herself to take another bite.

  William regarded his burger. “So what did you do with that picture? You burn it?”

  She wanted to say yes, but the truth was that hardly a day had gone by that she had not unrolled the print and stared at it. She kept hoping she would see some minute detail that had previously escaped her notice, one that would prove to her that it wasn’t her father, that perhaps it was just someone who looked like him. But each examination only confirmed his identity.

  “No, I didn’t burn it. I’m not sure I’d ever do something so dramatic as that.”

  twelve

  Lapeer County, August 1861

  Before anything else, Mary was aware of a strange, low voice mumbling in the dark. Then the suffocating sensation of an enormous stone upon her body. Every muscle seized. A groan escaped her lips, and the voice stopped its murmurings and drew close to her ear.

  “Mrs. Balsam? You hear me?”

  Mary groaned again.

  “Ma’am, you gonna be all right.”

  The events of the day began to trickle back through Mary’s mind. The letter. The trunk. The man. Then they came in a rush of fear. The straw. The blood. The blackness. Nathaniel was reenlisting and she was having their baby too soon.

  “You want some water, ma’am?”

  She opened her eyes then. The dark face of the man from the trunk hovered at the side of the bed. What was his name?

  Mary nodded and the face was gone. She glanced around the room to get her bearings. The curtains were drawn, but in the weak candlelight she saw the red damask wall coverings, the fireplace, the armoire, the table by the window, the walnut bedstead. Her room.

  The man—what was his name?—appeared at her side. He set the water on the bedside table and gathered up a couple of pillows. Grasping her sweating body under her arms, he lifted her like a child and propped her up to drink. It was then, as she felt his hands upon her bare skin, that Mary realized that she was wearing only her chemise and her petticoat.

  She gasped and fumbled for the sheet. “My dress!”

  “It’s hang
in’ up over there. Didn’t think you wanted to ruin it with birthin’, but I can get it if you want.”

  She lessened her grip on the sheet but kept her arms crossed over her chest and shook her head. He held the glass of water out. Mary took it in shaky hands. Water sloshed over the side and onto the bed.

  “I got it, I got it,” he said as he took it back. He held it to her lips. “There, now. You feelin’ better, ma’am? You’ll be all right.”

  But Mary could tell by the tone of his voice that he was trying to convince himself of this as much as her.

  “Where is Bridget?”

  “Your girl gone to get the midwife.”

  She was alone with this stranger, this unexpected and unwanted delivery from Nathaniel.

  “How long has she been gone?”

  Then the pain returned and Mary clenched her teeth. The man caught her hand in his and she squeezed it hard. The pain settled in, lingered too long. When Mary was sure she could not bear it another moment, it stopped.

  “How long has she been gone?” she asked again.

  “Don’t you worry. She’ll be back soon. Midwife’s comin’. On her way.”

  “How long?”

  He looked at the curtained window with troubled eyes. “Not too long. They’ll be here soon.”

  Mary noticed that she was gripping the man’s deep brown hand in hers, which was deathly white from the effort. She unfurled her fingers and pulled her hand away, tucking it underneath the sheet. He rubbed at the deep indentations where her nails had been.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  He got up and turned the clock face toward her. Eleven? But the trunk had been delivered in the afternoon. What could be taking Bridget so long? Mary didn’t have much time to consider the question as pain swept over her once again. Now, though, it was not as a stone suffocating her. This pain was sharp, pointed, fiery. It pulsated from between her legs. She emitted a long, low growl that became a yell.

  The man sprang up and began to pace. He looked to the door as if he were debating whether he could make a nighttime escape from the house as he must have from his ramshackle slave quarters. Mary trembled at the thought that he likely had no experience with delivering babies, perhaps not even any experience with helping livestock with the task. Probably all he knew how to do was to pick cotton as fast as possible from the dark of morning to the dark of evening.

  Mary screamed again and writhed upon the bed. The man tore the covers from her and seemed about to lift her petticoat when he stopped cold. She clawed at her petticoat at the same time he scrambled to cover her once more, but his efforts were too late.

  Her bloomers were pink with blood and water. A sinister wet circle crept out from beneath her. Mary had no notion of whether this was normal. Why hadn’t she called upon her mother-in-law, Catherine, to come stay with her? Where was Bridget with the midwife? A glance at the man’s shocked face revealed that he too was at a loss.

  The pain throbbed, relentless. She screamed, shaking him from his stunned trance.

  “You gonna have a baby, ma’am. Women been doin’ it since Eve. You okay. You okay.”

  He mumbled something to the ceiling and pulled the soiled bloomers from her body. Mary was in too much pain to care about the scandalous indecency of it all.

  “I see him now. He comin’ now. You almost there.”

  She clenched every muscle she had, bearing down hard until her body went limp.

  “No, no!” The man leaned up over her exhausted form and slapped her cheek. “Don’t you go faintin’!”

  Mary was brought back from the brink by a rush of indignation. She would have chastised him had she been able to squeeze an intelligible word past her throat.

  “Come on, now, ma’am.”

  She let out a tortured holler as she bore down hard once more.

  “Here he come!”

  Another breath. Another push. Another scream. And suddenly the fire was quenched, replaced with a throbbing ache.

  “You done it!” the man yelled from the end of the bed. He met her eyes with a relieved smile and then looked back at the child who had emerged from her body. His smile faltered.

  “What?”

  He schooled his features and would not meet her eyes.

  “What?”

  Then she realized that the baby did not cry.

  The man leaned in and wiped at the baby’s face with the sheet. He put his ear to the baby’s chest. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and a tear tumbled down his cheek. He wrapped the tiny child in part of the bedsheet and laid it, still bound with the cord, on Mary’s heaving chest.

  “A girl.”

  Mary looked at the silent child, almost the same color as the sheet in which she was wrapped. She placed a shaking hand on the baby’s head, nearly obscuring it. It was so small. Then she wept bitter tears until she was delivered of the afterbirth and exhaustion overtook her.

  When Mary came to, the light of dawn crept through a crack in the curtains. There was no baby on her breast. Her once round stomach was flaccid. The midwife was closing up her bag while Bridget hovered nearby. The man from the trunk was nowhere to be seen.

  “I’m so sorry, my dear,” the midwife said. “Rest now. Your girl will call on the town doctor if needed, but I’m afraid my work here is done.” She disappeared into the hallway.

  Bridget burst into tears. “I’m so sorry it took so long. Anna was already attending someone else. I didn’t mean to leave you to go through this trial all alone.”

  Mary hushed her. “I was not alone. Where is the baby?”

  “In her cradle. Just there. Poor little thing.”

  “Please bring her to me and then go find that man.”

  Bridget carried the dead child like an overfull cup of tea. Mary took the baby in her arms, and her maid rushed from the room.

  Looking at the small, cold face poking out from the blanket, Mary thought she might cry again. Instead she felt a frightening void in her heart. As she traced the features of her baby’s face, Mary traced the hollow feeling back beyond the events of the night before, beyond the delivery of the trunk and her fear for Nathaniel’s life, beyond the months of laboring to feed the animals and keep the house, beyond the loss of Mrs. Maggin, beyond the telegram about John Grouse enlisting, beyond the sound of the carriage disappearing as it carried her Nathaniel away. She traced it all the way back to the newspaper article declaring that war had begun.

  For years Nathaniel and Mary had read abolitionist newspapers, prayed for the cause, encouraged others to take up the banner of freedom. Nathaniel had declared that she should not buy cotton for her dresses, and so she walked about in silk and wool and sewed him shirts of linen. They had done what they could from afar. And she had been satisfied.

  Nathaniel had not, and that terrible headline in the Detroit Free Press back in April had stolen him from her. Some reckless man at a printer’s tray had wantonly placed a lethal string of letters together, rolled the poison ink across, and stamped out a death sentence. Nathaniel may yet be alive, but that headline had killed his child just as surely as it had already killed thousands of young men in battle. Had he been home to work the farm, had he not sent an escaped slave curled up in a trunk to her doorstep, had he not sent word of his reenlistment, her baby would still be safe in her womb instead of lying dead in her arms.

  At that moment she hated them all. The Southern slaveholders, the power-hungry Confederates, the Northern men all too happy to rush off to war. She’d been wrong to resent the fugitive who had shown up at her kitchen door. It was not the fault of those wretched souls. It was pale, blue-eyed men who were ripping her world apart, whether they had in their hands the slave driver’s whip or the liberator’s rifle.

  Finally a tear overflowed from her eye. The door opened and she looked up to see the man from the trunk standing in the doorway. She wiped the wetness from her cheek. “Please sit by me.”

  He moved a wooden chair to the side of the bed and sat, but he did not lo
ok at her.

  “I want to thank you for being there . . . with me.”

  He nodded.

  She examined his face. It was haggard and exhausted. “Have you slept?”

  He shook his head.

  “Where have you been? Why did you leave?”

  “I heard the midwife comin’, and I run out and hid in the barn.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head. “Shouldn’t a been in here with you.”

  Understanding dawned. “I see.” After a moment of silence she said, “You couldn’t sleep out there?”

  “I’s busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  He looked at the baby. “Gettin’ things ready.”

  Mary shut her eyes tight to hold back her tears.

  “I hear that midwife tell your girl she gonna tell the minister to come see you. I got a spot dug and a box made. But I’ll make myself scarce when he comes.”

  “I want you to stay. Please?”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mary placed a tender kiss upon the baby’s small, cold lips. “Please take her away. I’m sorry, what is your name again?”

  “George.”

  “Thank you for not leaving me alone, George.”

  He took the child from her. “I’s never going to leave you alone, ma’am.”

  thirteen

  Lapeer County, August

  That evening after dinner, I expected to be regaled by the story of the cots in the attic, but Nora apologized, saying she was quite tired and thought she’d go to bed.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Just tuckered out. I had a lot of orders that needed working on. Everyone’s digging out their fall clothes and realizing they’d meant to get something fixed or they’ve lost weight and everything needs to be taken in.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  Nora waved a dismissive hand. “I’m perfectly fine. And I’ll tell you all about the cots tomorrow.”

  My initial disappointment at the deferment was quickly supplanted with excitement. Now I could take a look behind that locked door in the basement—provided the key worked.

  I tidied up the kitchen and imagined what I might find. A wine cellar, locked since the days of Prohibition? The Balsam family fortune, perhaps in gold bar form? Or—and this macabre thought began to encircle my brain like the Virginia creeper on the house—perhaps the bodies Nora had joked about?