Page 110 of Good Dirt

Old Mo, Again

T he first members of the public to see Old Mo in the museum are surprised by how close they can get. The much-heralded jar is positioned in the middle of a large room, with no apparent protection. It is not enclosed in a display case, nor is it cordoned off by a rope or an electronic alarm system. Instead, Old Mo is merely anchored to a broad base and tipped to one side on metal supports. Visitors can step up and peer through a magnifying glass to see the inscription on the jar’s bottom panel.

A sign next to Old Mo invites visitors to touch the jar, to run their fingers along the painted trail of leaves, to feel the ridges in the alkaline glaze that has dried in long, thin lines. There is a camera mounted on a tripod nearby, wired to a large green button on the floor, and everyone smiles when they see this part. Visitors can step on the button to take selfies with Old Mo for inclusion in a digital display. Everything else, contributed mostly by Gramps Freeman, is enclosed in a glass case or framed: two letters from Willis and Aquinnah’s sons, a letter from Moses to Willis, and various household objects from the nineteenth century.

In a case all on its own is the small piece of wood with the black X burned into it that Aquinnah’s parents used as a silent plea for help two centuries earlier. On the wall next to it is a panel based on text written by Ebby, in which she tells the story of their desperate journey to Massachusetts.

Some of Willis’s sketches have been framed and displayed on each of the walls, alongside photographs from different generations of the Freeman family. The last photo in the exhibit shows the jar in September 2000, dressed up in a baseball cap and paper mustache, flanked by Baz, Ebby, and their parents. They are all laughing. If a visitor looks closely, they will see a small gap on one side of Ebby’s smile, where she has just lost her last baby tooth.

Ebby and her parents stand to the side, greeting people as they come in. In the line that runs down to the street and then curves around the corner of the museum, Ebby sees a familiar figure. Blond hair pulled tight in a ponytail, rising in a slight pouf on top. Gucci sunglasses above her surgical face mask. Pivoting now, with her smartphone held high, to show the line of visitors from behind, all standing at the required distance from one another.

“Avery,” Ebby says when Avery finally steps inside and pulls off her sunglasses.

“Ebby,” Avery says. They nod at each other and Avery continues past her into the exhibit hall. Ebby lowers her face and smiles to herself.