Sweet Karoline (18 page)

"
Memé would only have been two at the time. I wonder if her parents ever told her how he died."

"
Maybe he drowned in the river," Dembi says.

"
Why would you think that, honey?"

He
shrugs his shoulders, but he has that furtive look around his mouth. I wonder if he found some information that he's withholding. Dembi isn't exactly good at hiding his thoughts.

"
At least he couldn't be our father," I say and instantly regret the gaffe, my siblings' faces reflect such shock. I must remember that Canadian sensibility. "Sorry. It just slipped out." Which is the truth.

David:
October 9, 1921. No death date listed.

Philip:
September 7, 1920. Died April 11, 1954.

John:
July 15, 1919. Died April 11, 1954.

Cornwall:
July 23, 1918. No date of death listed.

"
Two of the brothers died the same day," Miriam says. "I wonder if it was a farm accident or something. Maybe we could look it up in the local paper archives."

I
think of the C. Johnston listing in the Vryheid history book. Was it Cornwall back then, too? Did its origin have an exotic counterpart or had the enslaved ancestor taken a location for his name? Why does Cornwall Johnston sound so familiar?

"
Somebody kept this Bible up to date until 1954. I wonder if it was Larue. He's not listed here anywhere."

"
None of the other spouses are listed, either. He could've been Memé's lover or even her husband and still not be here," I say. "Maybe you're right. Maybe Larue was our father. Memé would have been twenty-three when she had us. I would think she'd have made her own choice of lover or husband by then."

"
True. Perhaps Larue and Memé were married. You're right, there are no marriages listed for anyone of her generation. David and Cornwall might still be alive. They'd only be in their sixties. And all of them would have been old enough to marry before 1954. I wonder why nothing's recorded about their marriages."

"
Maybe they had all left the area by then. In the case of Vera, she ran away and never looked back. She pretended that she had no siblings. Instead she built an entire legend for herself. Indian princess intermarried with black slaves who were undoubtedly descendants of African kings."

Dembi
smiles at me. "Joseph Brant's slaves married his family."

I
laugh. "Yes, I guess Vera's story is almost true, Dembi. She just left out the part of her dysfunctional family and poor Memé. Not to mention the fact of my real birth and the two of you."

"
They thought they were protecting you," Miriam says.

"
I know. But I still think it was wrong. I'm angry with Vera and Ian Williams, I must say. Your parents never told you either, did they?"

"
No. They didn't. And I have to admit I was angry, too, once Anne—sheesh, I mean Karoline—found me. But don't you think it's odd that Karoline discovered us and we didn't?"

"
We weren't looking. We didn't know we had anything to discover."

"
Other Anne looked in the book," Dembi says, startling us both.

"
What book?" we ask in unison.

"
The book of Vryheid."

Miriam
and I look at one another.

"
How on earth did she get here in the first place, though?" Miriam asks.

Dembi
shrugs, as though the question is moot. Other Anne simply appeared and that was good enough for him. Same with Triplet Anne.

Our
grandparents are listed as Cornwall Johnston and Margaret Fredricks, married in 1904, born in Vryheid. Cornwall had five brothers, all carefully noted, with birth, marriage and death dates. Every single one of them had been born in Vryheid and every single one was deceased.

I
wonder which of these uncles were among poor Memé's rapists. Curiously, no offspring are mentioned for any of Cornwall Senior's brothers. Perhaps this Bible belonged solely to Cornwall Junior and Margaret. Maybe Grandma planned to keep better records, but got sidetracked by booze and shame.

The
tree ended, or began, I should say, with our great-grandparents. Once again he is called Cornwall. I wonder where the name originated and how many Cornwalls there had been. Was the name handed down over generations or is this some anglicized version of an African name? Like Dembi to Donald. Maybe the slave's owner hailed from Cornwall, England. I want to know more about the Cornwalls, especially Junior Junior.

Now
I place Elizabeth's pictures down one at a time. We are able to discern Grandpa Cornwall and Grandma Margaret as young parents, the wide expanse of the farmland behind them. My sister is as shocked at the images as I had been. This house, which now looks so quaint and well preserved, is strewn with garbage and discarded bottles. The porch, half the size of the one now out front, leans dangerously.

The
young ones are barefoot. Tangled hair erupts over their heads. Tiny faces are unscrubbed and dirty. Babies appear in diapers scrabbling in the dirt. Every year a new face. Their expressions don't reflect the normal carefree nature of children their ages. In most of the pictures the adults laugh, drink, list with drunkenness, while the kids hang around at their feet or in the background. There are lots of adults, mostly men, presumably Cornwall's brothers. Strong farmer bodies designed to hold a lot of food and booze. Did they still work the fields in those insane days?

We
debate, at least Miriam and I do, the origins of our mother and her siblings. The older generation suffered through the depression, despite the fact that they were farmers. Perhaps they hadn't gone hungry, but had they been damaged in other ways? Did their drinking and carousing reflect a desire to drown their previous sorrows? From what Miriam had been told, they had slowly sold off all the land. Every time they needed a new room in the house for another child or an uncle, whenever the booze ran dry, the crops failed or the jobs were scarce, they sold an acre.

As
we leaf through the photos, we discover the dazzling images of our mother as a long legged youthful beauty. She has the same coffee-with-cream complexion as we triplets, wavy luxurious hair, thick lips and come-hither smile. Her eyes are wide and guileless. The countenance of a naïve innocent unable to think deep thoughts. No wonder the poor child was abused so easily. She must have melted into any male's arms, searching for attention and love. Unable to tell the difference between that and sex.

Is
this the origin of my disrespect for men who tried to woo me? I suddenly remember one suitor's excuse for stalking me. "No man can resist you, such is the power of your beauty." He mistakenly thought I would consider his statement poetic and flattering. Instead I had spurned him with even greater alacrity. Was beauty and its allure the excuse my mother's family used for incest and rape?

Gazing
at these photos and comparing her to the skeletal shape in the bed, I can scarcely believe this is the same person. The one whose face launched a thousand sins.

Despite
the tragic reality of her background I refuse to forgive Memé. She split my trio. The one I was meant to have at my side all my life. Instead I unconsciously substituted the disappointing Giulio-Karoline combination, which had not exactly worked out well.

My
brother and sister ooh and ah. Lament our mother's loss of beauty. Mutter sweet responses. Even Dembi recognizes her from her youth and appears to understand that she is gravely ill with a disease that has robbed her of any real life. He has easily transferred his affection to his sisters. Perhaps he suffers from the same mental affliction as our mother and many of our other siblings. They are merely simple creatures formed from too many duplicate genes. Maybe they don't have very complex emotions.

"
I wonder why there are no picture albums here in the house," Miriam says. "You'd think there would be lots, especially since Margaret seems to have been somewhat of a record keeper."

"
That is weird. Seems like Vera was the only one who had any photos. And she hid them at my sister's so I'd never see them."

I
know I sound bitter, but as the days go on, anger builds inside me for the deceptions Vera perpetrated. Memé, Vera, Ian, my sister/cousin Elizabeth, Karoline, Giulio. Were they all complicit, all guilty, of hiding the truth from me? And if so, why?

Once
Dembi, Miriam and our mother are tucked into bed, I call Ethan. My conversation doesn't exactly feel intimate, since the only telephone in the house is located in this parlor room, but for some reason I trust that my siblings respect my privacy. Again I jabber on about the day and my discoveries.

"
I wish I were there with you," Ethan says when I take a breath.

The
longing in his voice makes me feel both guilty and happy. I haven't felt as lonely as he. My day has been filled up with two new people. Yet I'm glad to my core that he misses me.

"
I wish you were, too," I respond and I mean it. How amazing it would be to share this adventure with him. "I'm so sorry we're apart. But I have a feeling that I have to do this on my own. Especially now that I've discovered Miriam and Dembi. And Memé, of course, though I'm still so…I have to admit that I'm angry with a dying woman. That's really horrible of me, isn't it?"

"
No, I'd say it's really human of you. What would be horrible is if you acted on the anger."

I
flush with the thought of my hateful whisper in her ear. Ethan's right. My actions will make the difference between the new me and the person I used to be. I am suddenly ashamed and vow to clean up my behavior.

"
You're so wise," I say out loud. "I'm still a bitch learning to be nice."

He
laughs and the sound sends shock-waves to my toes.

"
If you could see me at work these days, you wouldn't think I'm wise. Honey, I do understand that you have to do this journey on your own. I would just be in the way of your new relationships. Anyway, even if you were here I'd barely see you. I've been working on this damn case twelve hours a day."

"
Oh, Ethan, you must be exhausted."

"
Trust me, I am. But we're close, so close. We'll be rounding up the perps any day."

"
I'm picturing you on a white horse riding down Ventura," I say, just so I can hear that laugh again.

As
I walk down the quiet hallways to my room, I hear the shifting of the trees in a night wind. Little mouse feet scratch behind a wall. A squirrel or a raccoon tramps across the roof tiles. It's so quiet in the country that the background noise of other inhabitants sounds like drum beats in an empty tavern.

Suddenly,
I am almost certain I can hear Memé whisper 'Diable' in my ear. I race back to my bedroom, shut the door and lock it, then bury myself under the covers. I'm not sure I like my new life. It's frightening and haunted. It takes a long time to finally reach unconsciousness.

Dear Diary,

I
may sound bitter. But I'm really not. I exacted my revenge and I'm content. It's too bad I didn't see her face when she realized what I'd done, though.

Chapter
17

The next morning Dembi and I resume our gold-seeking adventure. We are even better prepared than last time. Drinks, snacks, as well as lunch are packed in the picnic basket. Insect repellant, sun lotion, hats and trowels in a backpack. Shovels in our hands and rubber boots on our feet.

"
You look like real explorers," Miriam says.

Dembi
holds up his shovel. "Gold diggers!"

We
don't dare laugh in the face of his seriousness, but we smile indulgently at one another. Miriam stays back with Memé. Hopefully, she'll receive some word from the agency about a caregiver.

The
low cloudy ceiling keeps the insects buzzing around our faces as we plunge into the forest once more. I'm glad we sprayed repellant, but I still find the helicopter-ing by my head annoying. Once seated on the rock in the cool dry church, birds complaining above, I feel far more relaxed. Dembi lets me hold the Book of Vryheid on my lap.

What
a curious inheritance we have! Descended from one of fifteen very brave families who left their comfortable, though sometimes abusive, situations. It must have taken a great deal of courage for the lot of them to break away from the relative safety of Brant's protection to strike out on their own. How ironic that our branch tumbled down over the decades to become drunkards and half-wits.

I
flip quickly through the pages from the early 1800's. More angst, crop failures, deaths, disappointments. The handwriting of those who kept the records changes constantly, getting steadily less flamboyant and neat. In 1954, the records stop altogether. Over two hundred years of history abandoned in a hole under a church altar.

Each
of the fifteen original families have several pages devoted to their trees, as long as anyone cared to fill it in over the years. Some are meticulous and detailed, while others are pretty sparse. But every one of them ends on April 11, 1954. I don't bother dwelling on that date. I am here as a treasure hunter for my brother's happiness.

Dembi
and I search, dig and talk for a couple of hours. We eat our lunch under the noisy canopy of birds inside the abandoned church. The flat section of the altar rock is becoming very comfortable indeed.

My
brother turns out to be really good company. His knowledge of the history of slavery in Canada is astounding. My mother Vera always led me to believe that her birth country is a haven for all people, devoid of racism or hatred. Naturally, that isn't true. Human beings are simply not perfect, wherever they may live. And of course, Vera is certainly capable of embellishing. A polite way of saying that she's a liar.

Dembi
loves delicately searching through the Book of Vryheid. Some of the stories are tales told by visitors to the area. Perhaps people who are traveling further up river in search of nirvana. There are mentions of flights through 'de underground railway, on de Abolition line', up the Grand River from Buffalo and Niagara Falls, often landing in nearby Paris, Ontario, where there was a 'safe house'. They used the Quaker Quilts, in which secret directions were sewn, to guide them.

I
wonder if some of the quilts at Memé's could possibly date from that period. Maybe the original farmhouse was a beacon of safety, too. They'd be very valuable if they were.

The
descriptions from these fugitives portray far more difficult and treacherous lives than the slaves of Joseph Brant experienced. Perhaps old Joe was a hero, after all. Perhaps this is one thing that Vera got right.

There
are many pages of sketching done by a very talented artist. One picture depicts a long dress with lace at the neck and sleeves. It's all in pencil, with no color, but I imagine a lovely mauve. A penciled pail hangs on a hook over an old fireplace. A kettle and frying pan huddle on the shelf. An old weigh scale.

The
drawings are fascinating. Their placement in the book, plus the objects themselves, suggest they were drawn in the early 1900's. So far we have traced one hundred years forward in little Vryheid's history. Over the years, some of the families left and several fugitives from slavery took their places. The population, however, remained fairly small. Most people likely went to the larger centers for work or land.

The
Millers moved to Burford to open a grocery store in 1856. The Cotters relocated to work as 'skilled laborers'. Nowadays, Burford feels like a stone's throw away but that's by car. On foot or horseback would've been a very different trip.

The
city of Brantford must have seemed like another world. Some enterprising soul had recorded a few noteworthy news items from the 'big city', such as the execution of two ex-slaves. Perhaps the writer was trying to deter any more Vryheid inhabitants from moving out of the safe little enclave.

Whenever
I get bored and antsy reading the book, which is often, Dembi and I scamper out to dig for gold. I have never experienced such exhilaration. Though I don't have much faith in really uncovering a treasure, I enjoy the physicality of the adventure and the fresh air. The activity constantly reminds me of Bell Canyon, out on the trails with my other trio, the sky filled with birds and the air with the scent of flowers.

We
discover a small cemetery at the rear of the church, mostly overgrown with weeds. Stone monuments have crumbled back into the earth. Grave markings are now indistinguishable. We spend a long time in the graveyard, wondering if this was a good place to bury gold.

When
we return to the church for our afternoon snack, driven inside by the intense sun, we look at some of the parchments and pictures that are jammed inside the book. A few of the scrolls have crumbled into tiny pieces, an aged ash left behind. One has been preserved in a kind of leather sleeve. It's a deed bequeathing the land upon which the actual village of Vryheid stood to Cornwall Johnston, dated 1920, and 'in perpetuity'. I sharply suck in my breath. Obviously Vryheid was not sold off along with the rest of the parcels. Does Memé now own everything?

I
wonder what happened to the other residents. Had the village been abandoned in 1920? But no, here are further news reports. Life in the early 1900's described in detail by various authors. No more mention of slavery by then, thank goodness. Canada had had her birth. Wars had been fought. Vryheid had struggled on. Had it ever been incorporated as a village, or had it merely been a gathering of clans? Eventually to be owned by only one of them. No wonder the historian in Burford was interested. And she hadn't even seen the Book of Vryheid.

In
1918, there is a list of men who'd gone off to war and beside them, whether or not they returned. This battle really decimated the male population. It's difficult to tell how many people would have been left in the village, especially since the tradition of mentioning only the males continued. Maybe the dearth of males was the reason Vryheid had been purchased by or given to the Johnstons?

If
the entrenched tradition of male ownership continued into the 1920's, how had Memé inherited everything? Or had she? Was she living on the land through her missing brother's charity?

The
tiny squares I spied before indeed turn out to be pictures. Delicate little pieces of black and white history. Dozens of them, mostly of indistinct faces, men with arms crossed or pitchforks or shovels in hand. Others of wooden houses that surrounded the stone church. Some of the church itself in all its newly constructed glory.

Despite
the lack of success in the gold department, Dembi and I are in a great mood as we trek back home. We are tired and hot, covered with dirt. Grass-stained but happy. We stand for a long while above the gushing river, basking in the breeze that trails through the little valley shaded by the chestnuts and oaks that lean over the water. When we finally turn up the lane toward the farmhouse, the sun streaks over the trees toward the west.

"
Hey, Dembi, let's see if Miriam got a helper for Memé," I say. "If she did, then next time Miriam can come gold digging with us."

"
Yippee!" He claps his hands. "Let's go see Miriam and Memé. Maybe Other Anne will come back."

He
obviously hasn't absorbed the fact of Karoline's death.

When
we enter the cool dark house we are met with silence. Dembi skips along the hallway calling out for Miriam. I don't hear her answer but she must have, for my brother whistles his way toward Memé's bedroom. I don't plan to go anywhere near there. I stop in the kitchen to deposit our picnic paraphernalia. I am washing my hands at the sink when I hear Miriam walk through the door behind me.

"
Did you get a response to your helper request?" I ask without turning around.

My
sister says nothing, so I continue to dry my hands and swing around to face her. She is stiff and silent, her face pinched and furrowed.

"
They finally got one candidate who will come out here," she says, as though she has spent days on the project, slogging uphill to no avail.

"
That's good," I say, as though it's a question.

"
No one else would come out here. We won't have much choice."

"
What do you mean?"

"
I mean I was told by the supervisor that most of their casual staff are too afraid to come out to our place."

I
sit down, clutching the towel, and stare up at her lovely troubled face. Her eyes are clouded by something. Mistrust? Fear? I'm not sure.

"
I don't understand."

She
sits down across from me. "They believe the place is haunted."

"
That's ridiculous. It's the 1980's, not the 1880's."

"
Most of the casual workers are older women who have lived here a long time. Some of them are retired nurses or assistant nurses. They're native to Burford. They have only one person who will agree to take on the job."

"
Did you ask what they meant by haunted?"

Miriam
nods. She still looks odd.

"
They say a witch burned down Vryheid in 1954. April 11. And two people died. After that, everyone deserted the village and the farm except our mother."

I
almost laugh but choke on it instead. Miriam's look is too fierce to brook any levity. I haven't even had a chance to tell her about Vryheid and the fact that it's attached to the farm property.

"
But that's ridiculous," I repeat. "How can people these days believe in witches? Even in 1954, it seems…"

I
suddenly recall the death dates of our uncles, Philip and John. April 11, 1954. I stop talking. The silence is weighty.

"
Do we at least have the opportunity to interview this single candidate?"

"
She'll be here in a few minutes, as a matter of fact."

"
Good. Maybe she'll be able to tell us something. Miriam, what is it? What aren't you telling me?"

"
I'm just freaked out. I didn't tell you this before, but there have been weird things happening. Doors slightly ajar to the outside. Little things missing, like an ornament that I could have sworn was there the day before…stuff like that. I'm spooked, to be honest."

Uncertain
about how to react, I pat her hand. "It's probably Dembi. He wanders a bit, as you know. Plus even though I've only been here two nights, this place is pretty spooky in itself. Memé has been behaving strangely, then hearing this crap about a witch…" I stand up and replace the hand towel on its rack near the stove. That's when I notice the slow cooker is bubbling, a rich gravy underneath its glass lid.

"
Miriam, you're not alone now. You have me. We're in this together." I put my arms around her in an awkward hug, but I feel her relax a little.

"
You made dinner, too, I see. You are so thoughtful, you know that? Do you think we have time to eat before the candidate comes?"

Miriam
glances at her watch. "Not really. But we should feed Dembi. Can you wait 'til after?"

"
Absolutely. I'll just go and change."

"
I'll set him up in the television room. He'll be thrilled that he can break the rule of not watching TV while eating. Then we can do the interview in peace."

At
last, she smiles.

In
my room I change into clean shorts and a golf shirt, one that has a Grace Productions Crew stitched into the pocket. Nervously I check the outside door and the windows, but they are locked tight. I am beginning to get spooked too, which is, I repeat to myself, ridiculous. I do not believe in witches and I do not think the ghost of one is prowling through the house. Another thing to research besides gold and slavery. Where did this witch story come from? How was the Vryheid fire started?

Back
in the front hallway Miriam introduces me to a large black woman dressed in a flowered smock. She has a round, motherly face and eyes that shine with mirth. Her soft enormous hand encircles mine firmly. Her hair is a ball of tight dark curls that harkens back to the sixties. She's the kind of woman that everyone must instantly like.