The Color Of The Soul (The Penbrook Diaries)

The Color of the Soul

By Tracey Bateman

Text Copyright 2013 Tracey V. Bateman

All Rights Reserved

Part One: Shame

My confusion is
continually before me, and the
shame
of my face hath covered me.
(Psalm 44:15 KJV)

1948

Andy should have known better than to
walk alone on a country road in rural Georgia. Lord, that was just asking for
trouble. A black Ford sped toward
him,
then slowed to
a crawl. Andy kept his focus ahead, his heart beating a rapid rhythm against
his chest. Anxiety clutched at him, squeezing tighter with every forward step.

“What do you think you’re doing on our
road, boy?”

Andy sucked in his cheek and slowly
removed his brown, felt fedora. He turned toward the car, dropping his suitcase
to the ground. Three white boys of probably no more than eighteen years, hung
out of open windows, grinning in a stupid cracker way that bugged the fire out
of him.

He refused to give in to the instinct to
drag the loudmouthed idiots out of that car one by one and stuff them in the
trunk. Everything inside him screamed for one thing: survival. He racked his
brain, trying to remember the proper stance and facial expression to show
respect.

“You deaf?” A fat, red-haired mongrel
stuck his head out farther and shoved Andy’s chest with his fingertips. “Or
just too stupid to answer?”

Andy went with the shove and stepped back.
Don’t fight
. Fighting back had consequences. No matter who was right,
he’d come out the loser. Stupid was he? These fellows had no idea what stupid
was.

“I asked you a question, nigger.” The young man’s ruddy face grew redder.
“You lookin’ for trouble?”

“No,
suh
. I
ain’t lookin’
fo
’ no trouble.” Andy dummied up his speech,
knowing the repercussions for educated black men in the south. “Just headed up
the road there.” He nodded in the direction he’d been walking.

 
“We know that, you ignorant fool.
Where
are you headed? I ain’t never seen
you around these parts before.”

“No,
suh
. I
ain’t never been in these here parts
befo
’.” At least
not that they had any need to know.

The “sir” served its intended purpose and
seemed to mollify the aggressive youth. Andy sensed the
tension
inside the car relax
. But he kept up his guard.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted
movement and heard the telltale rattle of a wagon coming closer.

“Hey, Gabe,” said the driver of the car.
“Looks like we got company.”

“Move it, you cockeyed mules,” muttered
the old man in the wagon. His disgruntled voice gave the boys a good laugh.

Andy kept his wary attention focused on
the car, despite his curiosity over the expletives coming from the wagon.

The redhead scowled and turned back to
Andy, more than ready to resume his fun.

“Come on, Gabe,” the driver groused.
“Roll up the
dadgum
window. I’m getting wet, here.
Besides, I don’t want to miss the matinee over some colored. Just let him be.”

The
red-headed
boy sneered, his lip curling to reveal a wad of chewing tobacco.

Andy had a split second of premonition,
enough to know what was about to happen. Nevertheless, he stood his ground as
the young man spat a stream of tobacco juice on his pant leg.

The engine revved amid shouts of
laughter. The wheels spun and mud whipped up, dousing Andy’s clothes.

Lord, he hated the South.

He yanked a handkerchief from his front
pocket and wiped the rain from his face, bent and swiped at the brown spit on
his pants, then turned his attention toward the wagon.

The old-timer tugged the mules to a stop.
“This ain’t
no kinda day to be
walkin
’.
Get up in this here wagon and I’ll take ya wherever ya need to go, young
fella.”

Andy nodded his thanks to the old man,
tossed his suitcase into the back, and climbed onto the wagon seat. “I hadn’t
anticipated rain when I started out.”

“There ain’t no
anticipatin
’
to be done this time o’ year. It jus’ comes and goes at the
Lawd’s
command.”

“I suppose.”

The wagon lurched forward as the animals
strained against their bits. Andy hadn’t stared at the backside of a mule since
he left Georgia twenty-six years ago. And he wasn’t crazy about the view now.

Returning to the rural county of his
birth had been like going back in time a hundred years.
At
least from a Negro perspective.
The whites still owned all the cars.
Blacks either walked or took the bus. Or in the case of old-timers like this
one, hitched a wagon to a pair of mules.

“You ain’t from around here, is ya?”

Well, he was and he wasn’t, but no sense
starting a story he had no intention of sharing to its conclusion. He shook his
head. “Chicago.”

“
Ooo-eee
.
That far?
Ain’t
every day you see a
stranger from Chi-
ca
-
gy
walkin
’ down this here road. Can’t help but think on jus’
why a
fella’d
do that.”

“I’m on my way to Penbrook House. You
know the place?”

A toothless grin split the old man’s
face. “Sure do.” He nodded toward the two gray mules slogging through the red
mud. “Ol’
Pru
and
Pete’ll
have us there in a jiffy.”

“I’m obliged.”

“You
hirin
’ on
to help old Miss Penbrook with the harvest?”

“Hardly.” Andy cringed at the sarcasm in
his own voice. But did he really look like a field hand?

“You got somethin’
agin
honest work?” The old man gave him a look of hard scrutiny.

Heat rushed to Andy’s ears. “I’m a
writer. Miss Penbrook hired me to write her memoirs.”

His face scrunched. “What’s that?”

“Her biography.”

“That right?” He pulled against the
reins, yanking the mule on the left to counteract its tendency to pull toward
the right side of the road. “This bi–
og
–.
What’d you called it?”

“Biography. Her life story, in other
words.”

His face lit with a smile of
understanding. “Why didn’t ya jus’ say so, ’stead of
usin
’
that fancy talk?”

The old man turned the wagon onto the
long lane heading up to Penbrook House. Mammoth oaks lined each side of the
road as if watching over them, escorting them in. The mules seemed to feel
safer and pulled in the same direction for a change.

A canopy of leafy branches hovered over
the road and offered a respite from the rain. Andy looked down at his wet,
muddy suit and mud-caked shoes and grimaced.
So much for
making a good first impression.
Under other circumstances, he’d dry off
and change his clothes before meeting the woman. But he hadn’t thought to find
a rooming house or a hotel before setting out for Penbrook. Now he had no
choice but to face the famous author in disgrace. Then again, the woman was
more than a hundred years old. There was a pretty good chance her she eyesight
was gone or going.

He lifted his gaze and took in the
impressive sight of Penbrook House. The one-hundred-fifty-year-old mansion
stood before him in regal splendor, a monument to all that was beautiful about
north Georgia, past and present.

His memory of the old place didn’t do it
justice.

The old man pulled the mules to a stop in
front of the house. “There ya
be
.”

“Thanks for the ride.” He climbed down
and grabbed his suitcase from the back of the wagon.

“I was pleasured to do it. Like me to
wait and drive ya back to town?”

Andy hesitated a moment, then shook his
head. The rain had stopped and the skies seemed to be clearing. “I hate to
impose on your generosity. Besides, no telling how long I’ll be.”

The old-timer nodded. “Ya take care, now.
An’ don’t git
yerself
in
trouble with them white fellas. They’ll likely be lookin’
fer
ya when they ain’t got nothin’ better to do.” Without waiting for an answer, he
flapped the reins and fought the mules to get them turned back to the oak-lined
lane.

Andy moved toward the mansion. Towering
columns graced the wrap-around porch. Above him, a balcony spread across the
front and wound its way around the two sides of the house. He climbed the stone
steps leading to an ornately carved wooden door and rang the bell.

While he waited, he turned to watch the
old man and his mules slog away from Penbrook House.

He shuddered at the thought of what his
future might have been if his mother hadn’t sent him away. His heart clenched
at the painful memory. Emotions that belonged to the ten-year-old boy he’d been
when he boarded the train headed for Chicago sliced at his heart. Miss Penbrook
was part of the memory, the emotions. He remembered her kitchen, lessons at the
table with a plate of cookies and lemonade. He just couldn’t remember why. Or
maybe he never knew. Back then, he just did what his mama told him to do, and
most days, she told him to run along to Penbrook, so he did.

With his attention diverted, he jumped at
the sound of the mammoth door creaking open. Feeling like a fool for being so
easily distracted, he straightened his tie and flashed his best winning smile
at the stern face of the Negro woman standing before him.

She gave him a suspicious once-over,
then
frowned as her gaze settled on his suitcase. “We ain’t
takin
’ in
no
strays.”

“I have an appointment with Miss
Penbrook.”

Her brow rose dubiously.

Heat warmed Andy’s neck. “I can imagine
how I must look, ma’am, but I can explain.”

She folded her arms and waited.

“I walked from town in the rain, and some
boys drove by in their car and splashed me. That’s why I’m covered with mud.”

“What’s your name?”

“Andy Carmichael.”

 
The housekeeper nodded and stepped aside,
swinging the door wide open. “Don’t take all day gettin’ in here.
We don’t need no more flies.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” Chills slid down Andy’s
spine as he stepped inside. “This is quite a house. Not as big as I remember.
But then, I haven’t seen it in twenty-six years.” Small talk really wasn’t his
strong suit, but tight nerves always made him ramble.

She ignored his observation anyway. “Set
down that bag and follow me. Miz Penbrook’s
ailin
’
and can’t get out of bed. You’ll have to go to her.”

Andy felt like a ten-year-old boy again,
wide-eyed and overwhelmed by the enormity of his surroundings. The housekeeper
led him through the expansive foyer and up a winding, plush-carpeted stairway.
A crystal chandelier sparkled in the sunlight peeking through floor-to-ceiling
windows. Andy allowed his fingertips to trail along the smooth mahogany rail,
his gaze taking in the richness surrounding him.

At the top of the stairs, the housekeeper turned and led
him down a long hallway. Andy tried to keep his gaze straight ahead, but
curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn’t help but twist around to take
it all in.

Paintings lined the corridor-faces from
the past. One black woman stood out among the sea of white. Andy stopped and
stared into her eyes. She bore the telltale lightness of a slave of mixed
blood. He shook his head, faintly recognizing the deep set of her eyes.
Unsettled by the sense of familiarity, Andy turned away.

The housekeeper stopped before a half-open
door at the end of the hall and pounded on the doorframe. “He’s here, Miz
Penbrook.” She turned back to Andy and glared. “You
comin
’?”

Her sharp tone yanked Andy from his
pensiveness. He hid a smirk. Nothing
like
a
bonafide
Southern black woman to make a man feel like he
was about to get a
whippin
’. Even at thirty-six years
old. Some things never changed. “Yes, Ma’am. Sorry.”

She pushed out her bottom lip and
harrumphed. “You’re gonna have to talk loud. She cain’t hear much. And her mind
gets addled when she’s tired, so don’t ask too many questions.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you going to show the gentleman in,
Delta, or must I walk to the door myself?” The voice was crisp, clear, not at
all the crackling, frail voice Andy would have expected from a one-hundred-year-old
woman.

The housekeeper rolled her eyes. “Go on
in.”

Gripping his hat between his hands, Andy
stepped across the threshold. He tried to shake off the feeling that the house
was filled with ghosts from the past. But there was
an
eeriness
to the dimly lit room that only added to his anxiety. Vague
shadows of memories fell across his mind. Images veiled by darkness and hoarse
whispers.
The moisture of his mama’s tears soaking his neck.
A dream?

“Come in, Mr. Carmichael.” The voice came
from the four-poster bed pressed against the wall straight ahead. “I’m afraid I
cannot get up to welcome you properly. But you may come and sit next to me.”

He strode across the room, the
click-clack,
click
-clack
of his shoes resonating off the hardwood floor. The dimness slowly receded to
unveil a tiny, wrinkled woman huddled under a thick, rose-colored comforter.

He stopped next to the bed and reached
out in greeting. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Penbrook. It’s a great honor.”

Her veined hand slipped into his and she
snared his gaze, rendering him incapable of looking away. “You don’t speak like
any colored man from around here. I swear, if I close my eyes I couldn’t tell
you from a lily-white gentleman of the South-except perhaps you have better
grammar.” She cackled at her own joke.

Indignation beat a cold, hard rhythm in
his breast. Did she honestly think that was a compliment? Was he supposed to
kiss her skeletal hand and thank her?