The sound wasn’t coming from quite the same direction as where he was headed, but it was close enough. Tole followed.
Chapter 47
Tole
August 11, 1867
The moonshine was the undoing of George Tole: gallons of moonshine, neatly stacked in one of the cordoned-off areas in Hooper’s camp. Tole had just wanted a sample, just a taste; it had been just a bit shy of a month since his last sip of alcohol, or at least it seemed that long—the longest he had been without a drink for years now. But the sip had turned into a swallow, and the swallow into additional swallows. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
But now, suddenly, suddenly he was terribly awake. It wasn’t quite morning. The moon was full and poured waves over the woods and the camp. Boughs heavy with leaves blocked the stars. Down the hill the creek poured and poured itself away, onward to the Harpeth and the Mississippi and the ocean; and nearby a drip, drip from the moonshine kettle rang out clear and soft and unattainable.
All of this he was aware of, as if all the universe had without warning invaded his senses.
For what centered his attention, in that last moment, as Hooper’s moonshine dripped its song upon the world, was the soft, almost comforting feel of the hand cupping his right shoulder, pulling him up into the air and the light.
A breath on his face: foul, smelling of corn liquor and garlic and fear.
A voice: “Hello, nigger.”
And then the sound of the cock of a pistol.
Epilogue
Mariah
December 12, 1912
The tea had been drunk, the washing-up complete (“We will wash and dry, Mrs. Reddick, it’s no trouble at all”), and the daylight had begun to fade. It was the time of day Mariah liked best: when the sun cast no shadow, when the world glowed with a last tremulous light before dusk poured in.
Her visitors rose by some unseen signal. Reverend Cravath thanked her yet again for her hospitality. “Time to be going,” he repeated for the second or third time. “And please, Mrs. Reddick, come to see us. See how your generosity will be put to good use. We would love to have you.”
“Maybe I will. Would be a treat, seeing young Negro men learning and making something of themselves. Reckon I’d like to see that.”
“And they would love to meet you,” Parmalee Edwards put in.
“Even if they don’t know my name?” She couldn’t help teasing him a little, him being so kind and humorless.
“Even so. We could host a special dinner for you, introduce you to some of the best scholars—young Whittaker Doolittle, for instance, studying medicine—a fine young man he is, whip smart, with a memory that just eats facts and figures.”
“I don’t imagine young Whittaker Doolittle would have a lot to say to this old woman.”
“Probably more than you’d think.” By now they were donning coats, finding gloves in errant pockets. She wondered if they were staying in Franklin for the night or taking the train back to Nashville. Perhaps they even had a motorcar, but she doubted it.
As they moved toward the door she said, “I reckon you forgot the second reason you came.”
They stared at her a moment, and then Reverend Cravath recovered. “The condition of the bequest was that someone from the university had to come out here, meet you—”
“I wanted you to come out here because I have something else to give you.”
“Something else? But you’ve already been so generous—really, Mrs. Reddick—”
“This is important.”
She left them for a moment but was soon back, carrying a worn carpetbag, its reds and blues long faded to gray and shreds. She needed both hands to lift it and place it in Cravath’s own.
For a moment he had to tug it, as if her fingers refused to loosen. But then they did and the handle fell away and the man in the jeweled stickpin, whose hands had probably never held a rifle or a pistol or a plow or a cobbler’s hammer, took the bag into his smooth hands. Something in Mariah’s chest loosened as if she’d been holding a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and now that breath poured out of her.
He opened the bag and peered inside.
“What is it?” Edwards asked, craning to look.
Cravath didn’t answer, pulling out a pair of polished black leather boots. The toes were scuffed, one heel deeply scarred, but the leather shone, soft and supple, as if waxed and cleaned a few hours ago. “These are yours?” he asked her, holding one out.
“In a manner of speaking. They were my son’s. They were other folks’, too, for a while. But they’re mine now. And I want you to have them.”
“What do you want us to do with them?”
“You find a place to put them,” she told them. “Find a tall place in some belltower somewhere, someplace where they can look out and see all those fine earnest young scholars you’ve been telling me about. Find someplace where the wind will dry them and the birds can nest in them and in a few years they won’t be shoes no more. Just put them somewhere high, you hear me? Put them somewhere where they can see, and if you’re looking in the right place, where you can see them.”
An odd request, certainly, but an easy one. The men eyed her warily. She wondered for a moment if these founders of this fine university would just toss the boots from the carriage window on their way back to Nashville—but no, they wouldn’t. That was why she had summoned them. To look them in the eye and to see them for herself, to size up what kind of men they were.
They were that promise come to life, she thought. All those babies, freshly washed in the air of the world, twisting their fingers and crying out as the force of life shuddered into their lungs for the first time. Those children had grown and they would keep the promises they made to her. Or if they didn’t—if the world blew in, raw and ugly—that was all right, too. Because they would try. They were good men and they would try.
That would be enough for Mariah.
Obituary of Mariah Reddick
December 21, 1912
The Review-Appeal reported the following:
Much Beloved Negress Dies
The passing of Mariah Bell Reddick at her home on Columbia Avenue on last Wednesday night removes from Franklin one of her oldest citizens, and also a historical character that has been closely connected with prominent and leading events in the South.
“Aunt” Mariah died at the ripe old age of 90 years, retaining her mental faculties and her devotion to her friends until the last. Many politicians and community organizers made an appearance at Mrs. Reddick’s funeral, including U.S. Senator Augusten Dixon, 55, of Franklin.
When Col. John McGavock was married to Miss Carrie Winder in Louisiana seventy-four years ago, Col. Winder gave this bright woman to his daughter for a maid. She made her home with the McGavocks after that, nursing four generations of the family and later acting as midwife in the town of Franklin.
Little Negro blood flowed in her veins; she was half Indian with possibly a strain of French blood, hence the strong clear mentality and a combination of characteristics marked and unusual.
Her only husband was Bolen Reddick, a Montgomery Negro (d. 1858) who met her in Tennessee soon after she arrived at Carnton, the McGavock homestead. They had one child, Theopolis Reddick, who predeceased her (d. 1867). She leaves no other family behind. Although many who attended her funeral claimed that they were all her children, Negro and White, since hers were the first hands who touched and delivered them at birth. A fine and remarkable sentiment, indeed.
This exceptional old character has hardly an equal left among her race in this town.
Author’s Note
My agent, Jeff Kleinman, asked me the question that I had been dreading anyone asking. He asked in light of the slaughter of the innocents in Charleston, in light of the events in Ferguson, in light of all the rest that swirls around us these days, how could I, a very white man living in the first quarter of the twenty-first century, justify writing a novel about the plight of a mixed-r
ace woman living in the second half of the nineteenth century?
It’s a tough question. I will not try to rattle off some dubious credentials about growing up around black people, as if somehow their “blackness” rubbed off on me. The truth is, while the world I grew up in was painfully unequal for those around me, it was hardly separate. Yet, I make no claim to somehow understanding anyone by proximity.
In truth, I realized, Jeff asked me two questions. The first question is “Why now?”—how, at this point in history, can I even attempt to address the life of this woman in the world we live in? My answer to this is simple. I can think of no better time than today to speak about race and history. Despite all the politically correct attempts by those around us to mask what we see every day, the issue of “race” is always with us. It has been so since the first slaves arrived at Jamestown, and perhaps it will be with us for years to come.
Events in the past few years, however—what happened in Charleston and Ferguson and all the other places of late—has focused me as never before. I believe that we are, all of us, called to examine the human condition—our condition—and race remains there, front and center. So that, Jeff, is why this story needs to be told now.
As far as the second part of the question—as to how I, a white man, can attempt to speak for a black woman—well, that’s a bit harder. When my first novel, The Widow of the South, came out, again and again women would confront me, asking me how I could possibly understand what a mother could go through, losing a child. After all, I was not only not a woman, but had never had a child, let alone lost one.
In the end, all I could say to them was that I had not tried to understand what it was to be a woman so much as I had tried to understand what it was to be human. I was writing about human loss.
There are several qualities required to be a good storyteller. I have never claimed to possess an abundance of many of them, but whatever else I may lack, no one can claim I wasn’t given the empathy gene. I say “gene” for, like my dad, it seems to be more than just sentimentality. Even as a child, I was struck by the sadness of those around me and wondered why they were sad.
So, how can I dare write and speak for a black woman? The answer is that I didn’t. I have tried, once again, to understand a human being, with the same hopes and dreams, the same responses to sorrow and loss, that all humans have, whatever their circumstances.
I remain fascinated with the themes of transformation and redemption—the kind of transformation, and redemption, that I imagine a former slave named Mariah Reddick might have possessed.
Acknowledgments
The first time I was given the privilege to create a list of acknowledgments, I began by saying that while it would be long, it would never be complete. Nothing has changed. There are so many folks who have pushed—and often dragged—me along over the years to reach this point in time. I could never possibly name them all any more than I will ever be able to appropriately thank, let alone repay, their kindness and support.
At the top of any list of thanks is my agent, Jeff Kleinman, at Folio Literary Management, who’s advised, guided, directed, encouraged, and supported me through it all. His greatness is his passion for his clients and his credibility in expressing that passion to the world. I’ve come to realize that none of this could have happened without Jeff. I can’t imagine a better agent nor a better friend.
An enormous, heartfelt thanks to my tireless editor, teacher, and advisor, Duncan Murrell, who consistently went well beyond the call of duty to make this book a reality. And to Kenny Porpora, whose insights really changed this book for the better.
A team of readers lent their time and sage wisdom to this endeavor: most especially, Amy Rosenbaum, Annika Neklason, Natalie Edwards, Hannah Smith, and Corinne Kleinman.
I am forever grateful to Jamie Raab, who is not only my publisher, but has evolved into my editor. While there is no doubt that I am indebted for life to both Amy Einhorn and Deb Futter, ace editors on my first two novels, yet even then I knew Jamie was there for me. She seemed just offstage, encouraging and making subtle suggestions along the way. Now she has stepped onstage as my editor. I am grateful for her taking on this role, grateful for her wisdom, support, and encouragement. Likewise, I am indebted for all the folks at Grand Central who have played a real role in making this happen: Maddie Caldwell, Anne Twomey, Bob Castillo, Abby Reilly, Andy Dodds, Roland Ottewell, and Deborah Wiseman.
Then there is my family, so far away—Marcus and Candy, Nova, Danny and Ivan.
With gratitude to all those who have walked alongside me during this often arduous journey; the best friends anyone could have ever had—Beth and Peter Thevenot, SK and Russell Hooper, Olivia and Justin Stelter, Jayne and Julian Bibb, Susan and Damon Byrd, Trish and Jim Munro, Deborah and Mike Lovett, Susan and JT Thompson, Ann Johnson, Violet Cieri, Estee Pouleris and Monte Isom, Ashlyn and Brian Meneguzzi, Lynn and Ghislain Vander Elst, Elaine and Rick Warwick, Tim Putnam, Jamie Kabler, Carol and Joel Tomlin, Kelly and Bo Bills, Jenilee and Philippe Vander Elst, Nathalie and Tyler Stewart, Evan Lowenstein, Mike Cotter, Andrew Glasgow, Greg Lancaster, Mary Springs Couteaud, Ellen Pryor, Mindy Tate, Elizabeth and Johan Sorensen, Joseph Spence, Emily Volman, Christina Boys, Willie Steele, Scott Sager, Teresa and Danny Anderson, Mary Pearce, Michael Curcio, Cahl Moser, Danelle Mitchell, Dave Wright, Carroll Van West, Kay and Rod Heller, Mary and Winder Heller, Pat and Hanes Heller, and so many, many others.
Thank you, all.
Also by Robert Hicks
A Separate Country
The Widow of the South
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Prologue: Mariah
Chapter 1: Mariah
Chapter 2: Tole
Chapter 3: Mariah
Chapter 4: Tole
Chapter 5: Mariah
Chapter 6: Tole
Chapter 7: Mariah
Chapter 8: Tole
Chapter 9: Mariah
Chapter 10: Tole
Chapter 11: Mariah
Chapter 12: Tole
Chapter 13: Mariah
Chapter 14: Tole
Chapter 15: Tole
Chapter 16: Mariah
Chapter 17: Tole
Chapter 18: Mariah
Chapter 19: Mariah
Chapter 20: Tole
Chapter 21: Mariah
Chapter 22: Tole
Chapter 23: Letter
Chapter 24: Mariah
Chapter 25: Letter
Chapter 26: Mariah & Tole
Chapter 27: Tole
Chapter 28: Mariah
Chapter 29: Tole
Chapter 30: Letter
Chapter 31: Mariah & Tole
Chapter 32: Tole
Chapter 33: Mariah
Chapter 34: Tole
Chapter 35: Tole & Mariah
Chapter 36: Mariah
Chapter 37: Tole
Chapter 38: Mariah
Chapter 39: Letters
Chapter 40: Mariah
Chapter 41: Letter
Chapter 42: Dixon
Chapter 43: Tole
Chapter 44: Tole
Chapter 45: Tole & Mariah
Chapter 46: Tole
Chapter 47: Tole
Epilogue: Mariah
Obituary of Mariah Reddick
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Also by Robert Hicks
Newsletters
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, liv
ing or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Labor in Vain, LLC.
Cover design by Anne Twomey
Cover illustration by Bridget Davies
Cover copyright © 2016 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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PCN: 2016942112
ISBNs: 978-0-446-58176-9 (hardcover), 978-0-446-57613-0 (ebook), 978-1-455-54173-7 (large print)
DA-20160719-DA-NF
Robert Hicks, The Orphan Mother
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