I kept to myself my first few weeks in the Kraft house. Around Ruth and Lucy, I feigned ignorance as though I had no idea they knew I was carrying a child. But I discovered that Henry rather liked talking with me about the baby. At night, we’d lie on our mismatched twin beds and have long conversations about names—he liked Andrew after his grandfather while I favored Philip after my father. If it was a girl, I wanted to name her after my mother—Maria—but Henry refused to even consider it. “Mary” was as close as he was willing to come. I was so certain my baby was a boy that I didn’t make an issue out of it. It was clear that Henry thought his claim on naming our male child was stronger than mine. It would be a Kraft, after all. We ultimately decided on Andrew Philip Kraft.
“Not Andy,” Henry said. “Never Andy.”
Secretly, though, I thought of the little charmer inside me as “Andy” all the time. I loved the cuteness of the name. I loved imagining what he would look like. My dark hair and Henry’s blue eyes? What a handsome combination that would be. And I loved Henry’s excitement. He was dreaming of the future with our child, just as I was. Finally we had something in common. It was thoughts about my baby that got me through those early days in the Kraft house. He—or she—kept me going.
When Henry and I weren’t talking about the baby, though, our marriage felt empty and false. Henry touched me only in front of others, as though he wanted people to think we were a close and loving couple when we were anything but. In his bedroom, there wasn’t even the pretense of us being husband and wife. He was not unkind to me, but rather … businesslike. Our marriage had been a business arrangement right from the start, I realized. I shouldn’t have expected anything else. Might I someday fall in love with him? Would he someday fall in love with me? I prayed that would happen, yet how could I ever give my heart to a man when it still, deep down, belonged to another?
When Ruth and Lucy were out and I felt free to poke around, I explored the house. I read some of the books in the well-stocked library, and I felt some warmth toward Ruth when I paged through the family scrapbook she kept on the small table by the library window. The scrapbook was filled with photographs and newspaper clippings that obviously had meaning to her. Her wedding announcement was in there. Henry’s and Lucy’s birth announcements. The whole history of the Kraft family told through newspaper articles, starting with the building of the factory in the late nineteenth century. I couldn’t believe I was now a part of that family, although I imagined there wouldn’t be a mention of me in the book until baby Andrew—or Mary—was born.
Outside the Kraft house, I felt conspicuous. Once I took a cab into town while Henry was at work, wanting to get to know Hickory better. I walked past the shops and restaurants, learning my way around, and I felt as though the gaze of everyone I encountered was on the middle of my body. Everyone suspected, yet no one said a word—to me, at least. My girdle had become unbearable and I knew that soon I would need to buy maternity clothes and people would then know what they’d already guessed. Although she never spoke to me about my condition, Ruth stared at my stomach every time I walked into the room, and she spoke to me with a politeness that I knew masked her disdain.
Lucy, on the other hand, didn’t bother to hide her feelings. She was downright derisive of me. She criticized my hair, which I always struggled to tuck neatly into a bun and victory roll.
“You need to cut it,” she told me over the breakfast table one morning when it was just the two of us. “And you should really have it thinned. It’s too much hair to do anything with. Plus, you need to tweeze those eyebrows.”
I’d been tweezing my eyebrows since I was fifteen. I was confident they were well shaped, but even so they were thick and dark. They’d always been my curse. My dark looks had fit in perfectly in Little Italy, but here they set me apart, as though I needed anything else to make me feel like a stranger in Hickory.
I struggled to find a way to respond to Lucy’s insults. I put up with a great deal, not wanting to alienate her. I usually smiled and agreed with her about my terrible eyebrows, my ornery hair, my unstylish clothing, laughing at myself along with her while inside I seethed. I couldn’t say what I truly thought or felt in this house. I was losing myself here. Losing Tess, day by day.
I was stir-crazy toward the end of my second week in Hickory and decided to visit the public library. Wearing one of my new skirts, new blue cardigan, and new cream-colored coat, I took a cab into town and was contentedly exploring the library’s fiction shelves when I came across A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I’d found that book on my mother’s night table a few days after her death, a bookmark close to the end, and I’d donated it to St. Leo’s along with all her other belongings. Now, I pulled the book from the stack and cradled it in my hands. My mother must have enjoyed it to make it nearly to the end. She had a habit of starting books and not finishing them.
At the front desk, I filled out a form to get a library card. The middle-aged woman looked at my information, but didn’t seem at all interested in the fact that I was a Kraft and I was relieved. She gave me my card and the book and sent me on my way.
Outside the library, I hugged the book close to me, not only because the day was cold. I couldn’t wait to start reading. I wanted to feel close to my mother.
I was walking toward the main street where I hoped I could find a cab, when one of the city buses pulled to a stop on the other side of the street. Across the front of the bus, above the broad window, the sign read RIDGEVIEW. Big blue house, Hattie had said. Can’t miss it. Maybe it was because I was holding the book my mother had been reading and she was much on my mind and in my heart, or maybe it was because I was bored and in need of an interesting way to spend the afternoon, but something made me run across the street and hop on the bus. Only as it pulled away from the curb and I turned to search for a seat did I realize mine was the only white face among the passengers.
Crazy crazy crazy, I thought to myself as the bus traveled from the familiar streets of Hickory to a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. Ridgeview was a world apart from the rest of town. The bus passed coffee shops and a launderette, beauty shops and a little movie theater. I spotted a funeral home, two doctor’s offices, a pool room, and several churches. Passengers—mostly women in housekeeping uniforms—got off the bus at each corner. I watched the street signs, looking for Second Avenue. Finally, I spotted the lopsided street sign and realized that Second Avenue was nothing more than a narrow dirt road. I stood up and walked to the front of the bus. Two women, obviously maids or nannies, got off the bus with me, and they glanced at me curiously before they headed briskly up the road.
My own pace was slow as I began walking along the narrow dirt road in search of the blue house Hattie had told me about. The afternoon was clear, the air sharp and cold, and the sky a vivid blue. Children playing in the yards stared at me as I passed and I smiled and waved. They waved back at me uncertainly, giggling. I didn’t think I’d ever felt so out of place in my life. What on earth was I doing here? I didn’t see a single car other than a couple of old trucks parked in dusty driveways. On either side of the street stood tiny houses, barely more than shacks. Some of them were shacks, I thought, made of unpainted wood, the siding cracked and warped. Most of the yards had trees but no lawns, just dirt swept smooth, brooms leaning against sagging porches. I saw a few victory gardens, idle for the winter.
I spotted a house that stood out from the others, but it wasn’t blue as Hattie had said. No, this little house was pale yellow with white trim and the roof appeared to be newly shingled. Someone had taken good care of this particular house and I admired it as I walked by.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn was still clutched to my chest and my cheeks were beginning to burn from the cold when I finally spotted the blue house a short distance ahead of me on the left. I knew it right away. It was far larger than the others on the street—two stories tall with a broad front porch—and it was painted the color of the sky.
Before I had a chance to change my mind, I walked across the bare yard and up the five porch steps. I pulled off my gloves and knocked on the heavy wooden door. No answer. I put my ear close to the door and listened, but there wasn’t a sound from inside. This is a sign, I thought. I should simply turn around and go home. I wondered when the next bus would come through the neighborhood. I was about to leave when the door abruptly opened and I was face-to-face with a man about my height but many years older.
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t think anyone was home. I’m looking for Reverend Sam.”
“You’ve found him,” he said. “Can I help you, miss?” His skin was several shades darker than my own and he had a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His short cropped hair had the wiry texture of most Negro hair but it was reddish brown in color and turning gray at the temples. He wore a knowing smile, as though he’d been expecting me. As though he already knew me. For a moment I couldn’t speak and he raised his eyebrows in an invitation. “What can I do for you?” he prompted.
My own smile was sheepish. “My name is Tess Kraft,” I said. “Our family’s maid—Hattie…” I realized I didn’t know Hattie’s last name, but he nodded. He knew who I was talking about. “She told me about you,” I said. “And I wondered … I recently had a loss and I—”
“Come in,” he said, stepping back to let me pass him.
I hesitated only a moment before walking inside. The house was dark and it took my eyes a few minutes to adjust after being in the sunlight for so long. We were in a cool, dusky living room cluttered with furniture. Two sofas and several overstuffed chairs. Tables and overflowing bookshelves. There was a scent in the house that was strong and peculiar, though not unpleasant, like firewood that had burned for a long time before being extinguished. I glanced toward the brick fireplace. There was no fire burning now.
“May I take your coat?” He sounded almost courtly.
I took off my coat and hat, and he hung them from hooks near the front door. I held on to the library book, though. I didn’t want to forget it.
“Follow me to my office,” he said.
I wasn’t sure why I trusted him enough to follow him down a long dark tunnel of a hallway, but I felt certain I had nothing to fear. I was comforted by the thought that Hattie, whom I’d quickly come to like very much, had spent time with him and trusted him. Yet when he opened the door to his office, I gasped. In front of me stood a life-sized skeleton, the bones almost aglow in the dim light. I stopped in the doorway.
“What…?”
He chuckled. “This is my anteroom,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. Those old bones can’t hurt you. That fella’s been dead for hundreds of years, if not thousands.”
I stepped into the room, my eyes warily on the skeleton on my left. It stood on some sort of stand so that it was upright, a few inches taller than me. “This is real?” I asked.
“If you mean was it once a man, yes indeed.” He swept an arm through the air, taking in the shelves and tabletops covered with other objects. “All of these are real,” he said. “Indian funerary relics.”
I turned in a circle, beginning to make out the objects around me. Ceramic bowls. A headdress dripping with feathers. A framed collection of painted arrowheads. A couple of skulls.
“My.” I heard the shiver in my voice and was acutely aware of the door behind me. The way out of this strange little museum. I tightened my grip on the book where I held it against my chest.
“Relax, child,” he said, seeing my trepidation. “These treasures were my great-uncle’s. He was a free black man and an adventurer. And now they’re mine.” He chuckled. “I don’t know where Uncle Porter got them. All I know is that I can only connect well with spirit when I’m in their presence, so they stay.” He must have seen the uncertain look on my face because he quickly continued. “But this isn’t where you and I will talk, so nothing to fear.”
He opened a door I had not even noticed until that moment and stepped into another room, but I hung back, not sure I wanted to see what other “treasures” he had hidden away.
“Come along, now. Nothing to fear,” he said again.
I’d come this far and, despite being unnerved by the “anteroom,” I was intrigued. I followed him into the smaller room. There was barely enough space for an enormous desk, nearly twice the size of Henry’s desk in our library. A tall, ladder-back chair stood behind the desk and two smaller wooden chairs were in front of it. Reverend Sam sat down behind the desk and motioned to the chairs. I lowered myself into the one closest to the door, my damp hands folded on top of the book.
I took in a deep breath. “I’m here because I—”
“Hush.” He leaned toward me, his arms outstretched on his desk, his hands motioning for me to put mine in them.
In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. I set the book on my lap and leaned forward to rest my hands in his warm, dry palms. He closed his fingers lightly around mine and shut his eyes.
“Dear Lord,” he said, “with your protection and if it’s your will, help us open the door between two worlds today. Bring us only peace, and lift our hearts and souls.” Then he let go of my hands and sat back in his chair.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-three.”
“Ah,” he said with a slow nod, as if my answer revealed far more than my age.
“I don’t want to know the future,” I said quickly. I hadn’t thought of that. That he might tell me something I didn’t want to hear. What if he said my future would be even worse than my present? Not that I believed anyone truly had the ability to predict the future. Still, I didn’t want to know.
He chuckled again. “That’s very fortunate,” he said, “because I don’t know how to see into the future, although spirit will sometimes give me a glimpse into what’s coming. But I personally have one gift and one gift only: I can connect with the spirit world. As far as gifts go, that seems like more than enough for one man to be able to manage, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” I said, “though I’m not sure I believe that you—or anyone—can do even that.”
“And yet, you came here.” He hadn’t lost his smile. “You’re hopeful.”
“I guess I am,” I said. “Although…”
“Although?”
“The person I want to … to talk to was angry with me when—”
“Hush,” he said gently, and he closed his eyes again. “Let’s just see who will come. It’s better that way.”
He mumbled another short prayer, then raised his head, eyes still closed. “Ah, yes.” He spoke very calmly to the air. “I hear you. I hear you.”
I thought he was putting on quite a performance and felt foolish once again for being there. I was glad I wasn’t expected to pay for this.
He opened his eyes to half-mast. “I’m not sure yet who’s coming through,” he said. “Do you pray?”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”
“Beseeching prayers?”
“I … yes.” Every night I prayed for my baby’s health and safety. I prayed for Mimi and Pop and Vincent and Gina. I didn’t pray for Henry. Odd. It hadn’t occurred to me to do so.
“Prayers of gratitude as well?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, though I realized I hadn’t offered prayers of gratitude in a while. I was not feeling very thankful these days.
He suddenly shut his eyes and sat up straighter, eyebrows raised. “What?” he said into the air. “Yes, I hear you.” Eyes still closed he leaned a few inches toward me. “Someone is here,” he said. “I see spirit … I see … Maria?”
My heart gave a thud. I sat forward, holding my breath. “Who?” I whispered, wondering if I’d misheard.
“Maria,” he said again, then added, “Spirit is beautiful. Very peaceful.”
Tears stung my eyes and my body began to tremble. This couldn’t be real. Yet I felt myself getting roped into his game in spite of myself. I wanted to be roped in.
“Maria was my mother,” I said.
He didn’t answer. He seemed far away from me. Could he truly be connecting to my mother? If so, I needed to talk to her. “Please tell her I love her,” I said. I heard the intensity in my voice. “Please tell her I’m sorry I disappointed her.”
“Maria,” he said, “your daughter loves you very—” He stopped, tilting his head as if listening. Then he nodded, his eyes still closed. “Yes, of course.” He leaned toward me again, his closed eyelids fluttering slightly. “She says she loves you. And she asks you to finish the book for her.”
“Finish the…?”
“Do you know what she means?” he asked me. “Was she a writer?”
“No, she … Oh!” I looked down at the book in my lap. “Tell her I will.” I laughed, pressing my hand to my mouth. I felt a ridiculous surge of joy. “Tell her I’ll let her know how it ends.”
Reverend Sam opened his eyes then. “She’s gone, dear,” he said. He looked a bit drained. “What was that about the book?”
I lifted A Tree Grows in Brooklyn from my lap. “I just got this from the library,” I said, speaking quickly in my excitement. “When she died, I found the same book on her night table. She hadn’t finished it yet. I can’t believe this just happened. How did you … how is this even possible? It’s not possible,” I said, suddenly deflated. Surely this was some sort of trick. “Did Hattie tell you about me? About my mother?” Though Hattie didn’t know my mother’s name, did she? And she certainly didn’t know I’d picked up A Tree Grows in Brooklyn at the library.
“No, child,” he said patiently. “I haven’t spoken to Hattie in a couple of months.”
“Were you really talking to my mother?”
“To the best of my knowledge, I was. She knew you very well. And loves you deeply.”
“How do you do it?” I asked. “And who are you? Are you really a reverend? A minister?”
He smiled at my rush of questions. “I grew up in the next town over,” he said calmly, and I had the feeling he was accustomed to responding to doubters. “Newton. My mother was born a slave in a family that lived not far from there. They gave her a paid job after emancipation, most likely because she was a favorite of the man of the house, if you understand my meaning.” He gave me a questioning look, and I nodded. “He was almost certainly my father,” he continued, “and he sent me to a Negro boarding school and then Bennett College in Greensboro. My degree’s in philosophy, and no, I’m not a minister, but the folks around here have called me ‘reverend’ for as long as I can remember.”
“But how do you…” My voice drifted off as he nodded, knowing what I was about to ask.
“I’m not sure, is the truthful answer. When I was a little boy, I had an older sister. I was very close to her. She died of scarlet fever when I was seven or eight. One night, I was lying in bed thinking very deeply about her and I suddenly felt her spirit with me. She told me she’d been trying to contact me to let me know she was fine. I told my mother, who gave me a whippin’ for talking nonsense.” He chuckled. “So I kept my visits with my sister to myself, but I knew I’d found a way to reach her. I learned that I had to concentrate hard on her, and most of all, I had to believe she was there for me to reach out to.”
“Do you still talk to her?”
“Oh, all the time,” he said. “She’s still only nine years old, but she’s very wise.”
I nodded, disbelieving. Yet hadn’t he just talked with my mother? I couldn’t explain it.
“How did you end up here? In Hickory?”
“My father left me money and I bought this house. Mama lived here with me until she died. I married a lovely girl and we have three sons, all of whom think I’m off my rocker.” He winked at me, and I smiled. “I have five grandchildren. Two of them are fighting in the Pacific right now.”
“You must worry about them,” I said.
“Indeed.” He nodded.
“I’m glad you have a family,” I said. I didn’t want to think of him alone.
He smiled. “You’re a sweet girl,” he said. Then he sighed. “I’ve had a … shall we say, a difficult life, in some ways because of my gift. I’ve been sued. Once I was even put in a colored hospital for the insane and I would still be there if my father hadn’t fought to get me out.” He leaned back in his chair. “It’s wonderful to be old now,” he said. “I’m enjoying it. Everyone simply thinks of me as the crazy but harmless old man in Ridgeview. I suppose every neighborhood needs one of those.”
I laughed, and he looked at me intently. “But returning to you, Tess. How do you feel?”
I thought about the question, taking inventory of my emotions. “Good,” I said simply. “I feel good. And I feel grateful.” I looked at him warmly. I’d nearly forgotten that outside this house I had a life that worried and distressed me. A life that challenged me at every turn. I didn’t want to leave, but Reverend Sam got to his feet and I did the same, still clutching the library book in my hands. I felt slightly disoriented. When we walked into the anteroom, though, I was jarred back to reality by the skeleton. It seemed like hours since I’d first seen it and I moved past it quickly.
We walked quietly through the hallway and the living room. I put on my coat and hat, then turned to face him. “Can I come back again sometime?”
“Of course, child,” he said. “I’ll be waiting for you.”