Journals of the Secret Keeper (7 page)

Martha felt an old hankering that she had
been fighting for many years. She wanted some
whiskey. It didn't matter the brand, just as long as it
could do what it was supposed to do. Numb her to
everything. The few months she had spent back in
Mississippi had almost undone all her powerful
reserve and painstaking changes. The sight of
tractors, pine trees, dirt roads, rundown shacks, and
cotton fields grated on her nerves.

Martha remembered her last conversation
with Mama Jean. She was too old for rage now, but
just seasoned enough to feel real sorrow for what
was said and done in the past. The kind of sorrow
that comes from understanding too much about a
thing, knowing both sides, and having sense enough
to know that nobody won.

"Martha, Stanley is gone have to marry
Anita. She pregnant and he did say he want to
make up for what he did," Jean had said.

She had a white handkerchief balled up in
the palm of her hand. The dress she wore hung
from her loosely. Martha had never seen a more
grief-stricken woman. She had lost down to bone
since the accident one week ago. They were sitting
in the old metal chairs on Jean's porch. The funeral
was over and the townspeople had brought their
pies, cakes, and casseroles and headed back to town
before the night fell.

"Now Jean, you know I loved my nephew,
but Stanley just about done gave hisself heart and
soul to Maureen Jones. It was an accident. He
loved Richy too. Don't make this no harder than it
already is."

The transformation that came over Mama
Jean had been something to see. Martha never
forgot the raw hate that swept across her face as she
stood and stared down at her.

"You ain't nothing but a drunk. You don't
know nothing about lovin a child. Aunt Willetta
raised Stanley. Stanley alive and Richy dead.
Stanley got that drinkin habit from you. You gave
him his first taste. We all know that and if he hadn't
been three sheets to the wind out driving that
tractor, my son would still be alive. You tell
Stanley what he got to do and then I don't want to
ever see your face again."

Martha had stumbled to her feet. She was
only slightly inebriated. She understood the
conversation, but was having trouble keeping a hold
on it.

"Now wait a minute. You can't tell me to
leave my own land and my own house. I know
what you tryin to do. You just mad cause grandma
left you and your momma them journals and my
momma got the land and Aunt Oliva got the money.
You can't have my inheritance, Jean."

Jean turned slowly and stared daggers
through Martha. Martha stumbled backwards under
the fierceness of it.

"Them journals done gave me sight. I got
power over Aunt Olivia's money and your land. I
could tell you, Aunt Willetta, and Aunt Olivia some
stuff that could make you hate grandma and
grandpa and wish to God you were never born. So,
do as I tell you. Get Stanley to marry Anita and you
leave Mississippi." Her eyes narrowed to thin slits
before she finished. "It's for your own good,
Martha," she said finally in an eerie whisper.

Martha shifted onto her side and pulled the
covers underneath her chin. The light from the
moon reflected off the wallpaper. She could see the
little flower designs of the paper and she had a
strange thought. Jean had lost her sight in the end.
Some old people lose their ability to walk, to think,
and to hear, but Jean had lost her sight. What did it
mean, if it meant anything at all and what had she
done with those journals? Andrik had to have them.
He was Jean's grandson. He didn't seem to know it
though. He certainly didn’t know who his daddy
was. Now why would Jean not tell him?

Martha had done just what Jean had asked
all those years ago. She had made Stanley marry
Anita and she had left town for good. She had been
such a coward back then; drunk, cowardly, and
irresponsible. She never asked a question, just ran
away because Jean sounded like she knew
something real awful.

Martha's momma had died a couple of years
before the accident and Jean's words reminded her
of the last conversation she had with her momma.

"I'm dyin, Martha. I need to tell you about a
memory I done had since a small child. I don't
know if it's a real memory or devil trickery, but I
needs to tell you." She had asked for a cup of water
and then took a few breaths before she continued.
"I seem to remember your grandma Etta grabbing
me up from a bed and stealing me away from my
own momma. I don't think your grandma was my
real momma and I don't think Willetta is the name
that was given me. I ain't tryin to scare you baby. I
just want you to know about that memory that's
done tortured me my whole life."

Martha remembered staying cold for days
afterwards. Her momma died within hours of that
conversation. After the funeral Martha had peered
into the faces of her family. She stared at pictures
of her momma and Grandma Etta. She saw the
resemblance between Etta and her momma just as
clear as day.
She put the thought of a kidnapping
to rest that very same day of the burying and there it
lay until Jean started talking about how much power
those journals gave her. Well, Martha was no
longer a coward. She was eighty years old and
could still see fine enough to read and she wanted
those journals. There was some reading she needed
to do since Jean wasn't here to stop her.
CHAPTER 15

Volume 14, pg.1 (January 1911):
"Etta
going to see her sister in Atlanta, Georgia. I'm
glad she gettin away. She been too quiet here
lately. She missin Willetta and blamin herself.
Maybe some time away will help her heal and
help me forgive."

Willetta sat in the porcelain tub and watched
the steam rise around her. The four mauve-colored,
musk-scented, bath oil beads she dropped in the
water were now dissolving before her very eyes.
The scent filled the room and promised to relax her
taut muscles.

The clock sitting on the edge of the antique
dresser and face bowl showed the time to be tenthirty. Mama Jean hadn't even been dead twentyfour hours and it seemed a whole week had passed.
Surely not enough time for an eighty-year-old
estranged friend or relative to show up with tales of
being Willetta's grandmother and Stanley's mother.

The hours had also drawn Willetta closer to
Andrik in the oddest way. They were both victims
of some past confusion and were without a clue as
to where they stood in the foray. They had come
together quietly and inexplicably as one united
force against whatever mysteries the future held.

When Willetta had returned from Mama
Jean's with the journals safely hidden in the trunk of
her car and one hidden between her stomach and the
waist of her pants, she found Andrik standing in the
yard not unlike the first time she had seen him.
He
demanded that she never leave him alone again with
Martha. Willetta had meekly apologized for
sneaking away and promised never to do it again.
She would have promised anything to keep him
from asking her any questions. It was an indicator
of the extent of his discomfiture that he hadn't.

Willetta stood from her bath and let the oily
water run down her skin. The temperature in the
room was just right. Fall was just around the
corner and the weather in Mississippi was
seasonally mild. She thought she could possibly
have most of the journals read before wintertime.
She could tolerate the hot temperatures of
summertime, but absolutely loathed being cold.
Winter was her least favorite season.

She suddenly realized that her dry towel was
on the bed on the other side of the screen. She
would have to get out of the tub and wet the floor.
It was wood and newly waxed so she couldn't do
too much damage. But before she could lift a foot
out of the tub, the towel appeared over the top of the
screen dangling from Andrik's hand.

Willetta reached for the towel and wrapped
herself in it hurriedly before she climbed out of the
tub with no regard for the floor and splattered her
way around the screen to face Andrik.

"How long have you been in here?" she
asked wildly.
Andrik was stricken dumb by the sight of
Willetta in the wet towel. Her hair was plastered to
her scalp and sticking to the wetness of her neck.
The dark brown of her skin glistened and she was
the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
"I just came in. You didn't hear me," he said
quietly.
Willetta had never in her life been more
sensitive to her naked state. Her skin seemed to
take huge gulping breaths of air and she felt
skinless, raw and overly exposed. The huge towel
was little to no comfort.
"Why didn't you knock?" She wanted to
know.
"We're supposed to be lovers. Remember,"
Andrik said. He felt foolish the minute it came out
of his mouth. He had been pacing the hall and had
impulsively walked into her room to ask her
questions regarding Martha Thompson. The old
woman gave him the creeps. He couldn't
understand why she was here under the same roof
with them. He needed Willetta to remind him and
convince him they were doing the right thing. He
had no idea Willetta would be up at this hour taking
a bath.
Willetta was at a loss for words. She had
forgotten, but it served no purpose, in her mind, for
him to be in her room at the very moment, when
there was no audience. Martha had been in bed for
hours. She had refused to eat with them and had
taken herself off in a huff.
Willetta pulled the towel tighter around her
body and looked up into Andrik's face. He was
staring at her feet and looking a little loss. He
would not look into her eyes. This was not the first
time Willetta had witnessed this lack of confidence
in him. He was tall, extremely handsome, and
educated, but she often felt that he wasn't exactly
sure of himself or his abilities.
"Do you need to talk, Andrik," she asked
softly.
"I just don't know if it’s a good idea to have
that woman here," he said finally looking into her
eyes.
She understood his reticence and felt a little
of it herself, but Willetta had seen a resemblance
between herself and the old woman. It was enough
to convince her that the woman was her
grandmother. Martha Thompson's hands were
identical to hers. Willetta could see it even though
her skin was old and crinkled. The nail beds and
bone structure were the same as her own. There
were other similarities, but none as convincing as
the hands.
"Let's go sit on the back porch in that
wonderful swing of yours and talk. I'll be down to
meet you in a minute. Just let me get into my
pajamas please. And Andrik, please knock before
you come into this room," she said.
Andrik stood his full height and slowly ran
his eyes along her entire frame before grinning. He
turned away and walked to the door. Willetta
watched as he opened the door and made a big show
of locking it, before closing it. Willetta shrugged.
Yes, she should have locked it. It was an oversight
that would not be repeated in the future.
#
Andrik's hands shook as he filled two mugs
with hot water and stirred in cocoa and cream. He
pulled out some apple fritters and placed it all on a
tray. The musk-scented steam from Willetta's bath
still clung to his skin and he trembled. Walking
uninvited into her room had been a colossal
mistake. He was not a lustful man, but he had
exacting and unchanging tastes. He found Willetta
extremely desirable and that would not change or
lessen. He would have to be careful.
It was anyone's guess why Mama Jean felt
that a union between him and Willetta was
plausible. The fact that she even suggested such a
thing to Willetta bothered him.
A connection
between Mama Jean's request that Willetta marry
him and Martha Thompson's sudden appearance
was unlikely, yet very suspicious.
The only thing
he knew for sure was that Willetta didn't know
anymore than he did and that Mama Jean was dead.

CHAPTER 16
Volume 14, pg.5 (January 1911):
"She back
already from Georgia. She got a child with her
and say we gone call her Willetta. The child is
scared to death. I'm scared too. I think she
done lost her mind. She got this wild look in
her eyes."

Willetta sat next to Andrik in the wide swing
and sipped hot chocolate. It was creamy, thick, and
absolutely delicious. She wanted more as soon as
she finished, but satisfied herself with a few apple
fritters instead.

"Where did you get these?" She was
surprised at how good they were.
"I made them," Andrik said.
Willetta believed him wholeheartedly. He
was a man of many hidden values. She sensed that
he was completely self-sufficient and his cooking
skills were inevitable. He seemed perfectly capable
of taking care of himself in every way.
"These are really good," she murmured with
her mouth full.
Andrik's eyes never left her lips as she
chewed on his apple fritters. All cooks liked to see
people devouring their food. Willetta's bliss over
his fritters was giving him a bliss all of his own. He
laughed when she licked her fingers and reached for
another one to find the plate empty.
"Now maybe we can talk about your new
grandmother," he said.
Willetta sighed and settled against the
pillows. Her pajamas were made of cotton and
covered every inch of her body except for her head,
hands and feet. She curled her feet beneath her and
folded her hands in her lap.
"I believe she is my grandmother," she
began slowly. "But I don't know how Martha and
Mama Jean are connected. She talks like she knew
Mama Jean pretty well. It bothers me that Mama
Jean never mentioned her. There are a lot of
questions that need to be answered."
Willetta was talking to Andrik, but her
thoughts were more meditation than conversation.
She almost forgot Andrik was sitting beside her
until he spoke.
"I've known Mama Jean all my life and I
don't recall her having any relatives around, which
is kind of strange don't you think," Andrik asked.
"Did she always live in the little house down
the road," Willetta said.
"Yes. One time I asked her why she
wouldn't come live with us in this house and she
laughed and said she couldn't watch over me if she
lived right under me." I never knew what she meant
by that.
"Well, that was a very interesting answer
she gave you. You probably should have asked. I
know what you mean though. She always did say
strange things." Willetta said.
They settled into an easy silence as Andrik
made the swing glide smoothly to and fro. Willetta
felt herself slipping off to sleep. She was tired. It
had been a very long and emotional day. She was
glad for Andrik's company. Death was never a
pleasant thing, but death down a Mississippi
country road with buried journals, mysterious
grandmothers, and century old Victorian houses
was not a thing for the faint of heart or the lonely.
#
Willetta awoke the next morning to find
herself alone in the swing. Andrik had thrown a
blanket over her and she was very comfortable.
Cool air filtered through the screens. She snuggled
further into the swing and under the blanket. She
looked out across the fields and thought the golden
brown blades contrasted nicely with the emerald
blue of the sky. She heard knocking at the door and
realized it was the noise that had awakened her.
Willetta hurried upstairs and changed into a
pair of dark jeans and an orange, silk blouse. She
slipped into a pair of sandals and arrived downstairs
in time to hear the young woman in the foyer
explaining to Andrik who she was.
"My name is Olivia Townsend and this is
my grandmother, Mrs. Octavia Townsend. She is
first cousin to the late Mrs. Jean Myers. We have
come to pay our respects and to renew family ties, if
possible."
The young woman and older woman held a
striking resemblance to one another. Their hair was
red as fire. The skin on their faces was pale, almost
white with freckles across the bridges of their noses.
Full red lips adorned both faces. Willetta was at a
loss for words. The women could pass for
Caucasian any day.
Andrik cleared his throat and stepped back
to lead them into the living room, which was once
called the parlor. "Please excuse me. Come on in.
We've been trying to get a foothold on things since
Mama Jean died."
"It's okay young man. Your grandmother
was a handful in life, she can't be no better in
death." The elderly woman spoke softly and kindly.
Her eyes twinkled up at Andrik. "So, handsome.
Just like your daddy. Splitting image."
Willetta squeezed Andrik's hand to keep him
from saying anything further. She felt strongly that
it would not serve him well to reveal that he didn't
know Mama Jean was his grandmother. Something
was happening on the Thompson Estate and
Willetta was sure it had everything to do with the
secrets in the journals and Mama Jean. She would
give nothing away to anyone, not even Andrik and
she would help him keep his own counsel too. Only
time could give them a lead as to what to do next.
Mrs. Octavia's eyes lit on Willetta and she
chuckled. "Well, things didn't work out quite like
Jean wanted now did they? If you aren't Martha's
grandbaby, I'll eat my shoe." She leaned heavily on
Olivia's arm and took a deep breath. "Well, sir, tell
me this. Did Martha beat me here?"
"Yes ma'am, she did," Andrik said tightly.
Mrs. Octavia wasn't one to miss a beat. Her
eyes searched Andrik's, before she shook her head
sadly. "Well, I'm here now. My aim is to bring an
end to the rift in this family. I need to talk to you
two before Martha comes down."
Olivia made sure Mrs. Octavia was
comfortable before she set at her feet. Her face was
solemn and she was quiet. Willetta thought it
strange that she didn't speak unless spoken to. She
acted more like an employee than a grandchild.
Willetta and Andrik set together on a small
settee. They were so eager to hear what Mrs.
Octavia had to say that they were unaware of how
suggestive their positions were. Their bodies were
flush to one another. Willetta's hip was half way on
Andrik's thigh and he had his arm around the back
of her. They certainly looked like lovers but were
totally unaware of it. Their complete interest was in
finding out more information. So, they sat staring
and waiting, while Mrs. Octavia fought against
reprimanding them for their indecent behavior.
That would come in time. Olivia's eyes were to the
floor where they stayed.
"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,"
she began. "My momma, Mrs. Olivia Thompson,
was given the money as an inheritance. She was the
baby. She had two sisters. Martha's momma, Aunt
Willetta, was given the land. She was the firstborn.
Aunt Sylvia Jean, Mama Jean's momma, was given
the journals. She was adopted"
She quietly let that
sink in.
Willetta's heart beat wildly. She knew
Andrik would be devastated if he knew his own
grandmother had not only refrained from claiming
him, but had given his inheritance away.
"Granddaddy loved Sylvia Jean more than
he loved my momma and Aunt Willetta. He didn't
have much to do with them. When he died in the
field from a heart attack, grandma started writing
her own journals. My momma thought she gave
Sylvia the journals and nothing else to get back at
granddaddy for not loving his other two daughters,
but we believe it was a little more to it than that
now."
"That's another reason why we're here,"
Olivia spoke softly from the feet of her
grandmother. "We came because of the journals.
They need to be read by the entire family.
Money
is perishable and land is easily accessible, but
knowledge about your past and where you came
from is priceless."
Willetta felt the feeble hands of a thousand
grandmama's tightening around her neck and she
fought to breathe normally. She knew now why she
hated secrets so badly.
CHAPTER 17
Volume 14, pg.1 (February 1911):
"She got a
letter from her sister. She tried to burn it, but I
saved it from the fire. That child is her sister's
child. Po Mable think her baby dead, when
she here in Mississippi with us. Etta stole her
own sister's child. I'm gone wait on her to
make it right. I pray to God she will."
#
Martha was glad to see her cousin Octavia.
She wasn't too happy about her having "found the
Lord," but refrained from saying so. They sat
around in the living room passing old memories
around and filling in where they had left off many
years ago.
"How did you get here so quickly, Martha,"
Octavia asked.
"I was already here. I came to visit Aunt
Olivia. She didn't tell you I was out there," Martha
asked.
Andrik and Willetta listened in disbelief.
Could it be that one of the great aunts was still
alive? Olivia sat quietly on the couch and her face
gave nothing away.
"Me and momma don't talk. We haven't
talked in years. When I found the Lord, I had to
give her up. Matthew ten! The Lord came not to
send peace, but a sword. Daughter against mother.
Momma couldn't let go of that money. She and
Amos almost drove me crazy. I had to let both of
them go. Amen," Aunt Octavia said.
Martha rolled her eyes and shook her head,
"Now Octavia you ought to be shame of yourself.
Aunt Olivia don't care no more about that money
than my momma cared about this land. She just
knew that ole Amos was after the money instead of
you."
"Shh," Aunt Octavia hissed. "Get thee
behind me, Satan. Matthew sixteen." She raised a
hand to the sky and waved it.
"Octavia if you don't stop, I'm gone pull out
my whiskey and get drunk enough to not be able to
see or hear you. I'm warning you. I can't stand too
much more," Martha said.
Willetta's whole body shook and tears filled
the corners of her eyes as she tried to control her
laughter. Olivia's lips were pressed tightly together
and were thin slits. Willetta knew that she too was
struggling not to laugh. Andrik was staring straight
ahead. His hands were balled into fists on either
side of his thighs. He refused to look at her and
Willetta knew he too was trying not to laugh.
"For the drunkard and the glutton will come
to poverty. Proverbs twenty-three. Martha, have
you a farthing? I know you don't, if you still
drinking," Aunt Octavia said loudly.
"Well, I think we should all go to town to
see the body and get the arrangements made,"
Andrik interrupted. He stood abruptly and stepped
in front of Willetta, who had lost all control.
"That's a good idea, baby," Aunt Octavia
said. "Olivia help me out of this couch. It sure is
low. Too low for an old woman like me to be
sitting on."
Willetta didn't know much about the Bible,
but she knew that Jesus taught forgiveness. Aunt
Octavia had to be all of seventy and Aunt Olivia
must be in her nineties. It was unthinkable that
Aunt Octavia was holding a grudge against her
ninety-something-year-old mama. She must be a
pious old woman with no forgiveness and somehow
that put her right in the same category with Martha.
Both Martha and Octavia were bad women. One
was worldly and amoral and the other was a
hypocrite. She was afraid to find out what Mama
Jean had been.
#
"She look like she smiling," Martha said.
"Genesis twenty-five verse eight! Then
Abraham gave up the ghost and died in a good old
age, an old man, full of years. Amen." Aunt
Octavia said.
"Did you commit the whole Bible to
memory, Octavia or have just lost your mind,"
Martha said irritably.
"Please be patient with grandma, Aunt
Martha. She reads the Bible day and night and she
hasn't been out much in years. Her conversation is
often filled with scripture," Olivia said quietly.
Jackson Funeral Home had been in
Clarksdale for years. It was the only funeral home
for black people and the room had six more people
laid out. The carpet was red and the walls were
paneled. The room smelled of formaldehyde.
"Who gave instructions to lay her out,"
Martha snapped.
"I did," Andrik said.
Everyone looked at him in surprise. Willetta
couldn't remember when he had time to make such
arrangements.
She wasn't surprised at his
efficiency. She had learned a few things about
Andrik Thompson over the past few days.
"Well, young man, when and where are the
burial services," Martha asked.
"I will let you decide," Andrik said
amicably. "Mama Jean had no particular affiliation
and I thought the conference room here would be
fine on Saturday morning at eleven o'clock," he
finished.
Aunt Octavia and Martha conferred with one
another in loud whispers and agreed the
arrangements were acceptable. Olivia stood to the
side and said nothing.
#
With the funeral arrangements made and
lunch behind them, the elderly women were ready
to settle down and put their feet up. Andrik,
Willetta, and Olivia brought in the luggage and set
up a room for Olivia and Mrs. Octavia. They also
made the menu for the evening and menus for the
rest of the week. It was Tuesday and there were
four more days before the funeral.
Andrik asked Willetta to accompany him to
the store and left Olivia in charge of Mrs. Octavia
and Ms. Martha. Olivia agreed without much show
of emotion. She was truly a bland individual with a
very insipid personality.
The minute they were on the country road
with red dust rising behind the car, Andrik began
speaking. His voice was gritty with emotion.
"Mama Jean was my grandmother. She
never said a word," he said. His hands held the
steering wheel in a death grip. "She never said she
had a son. She never told me who my father was.
Why, Willetta? Can you please tell me why?"
"Stop the car, Andrik. Stop at Mama Jean's
and let's talk," she said softly.
"I don't want to talk anymore. Not unless
you have some answers. I don't want to
understand." He said the word "understand" so
keenly that Willetta jumped. "I just want the truth."
He hit the steering wheel forcefully.
Willetta had never seen a grown man cry
and certainly not one as huge as Andrik. His
shoulders shook and he bit hard on his lower lip as
he tried to restrain the tears.
They seeped out of
the corner of his eyes.
"I was hated as a child. That man, your
father, hated me. I didn't know why and I still don't
know why, but they knew. Those old women at that
house could have made a difference in my life and
yours too. Mama Jean patched me up, but she
didn't tell me what I needed to know. I needed to
know I had a father who could have loved me and
that I had a grandmother, not a nanny, who loved
me too. It was just a waste. This whole thing is a
waste," he cried.
"What are they covering up?"