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.