Page 29 of Where the Rivers Merge

Carolina Jasmine (Gelsemium sempervirens) is a species of flowering vine native to the southeastern United States. Prized for its fragrant yellow trumpet-shaped flowers that bloom profusely in spring, it attracts pollinators like bees and butterflies. It is the state flower of South Carolina.

1988

I leaned back against the hard wood of the chair, closing my eyes. I felt like I’d been at a confessional. Opening my eyes again I saw the faces of Savannah and Norah sitting across from me. I would receive my judgment from them. Savannah’s face was knitted with question. Norah’s, however, was masked with grief.

“Grandma Eliza,”

said Savannah, breaking the silence. She looked at me incredulously. “You really told Covey’s secret? I mean, how could you do that?”

The accusation hurt more than I’d expected. I cringed in shame and felt my heart flutter. I was telling my story with honesty, not mincing words or shading the truth. Not just for them, but for myself, as well. Peeling back the layers, I saw more clearly how we all had been reeling from the shock of Heyward’s and Hugh’s deaths. None of us were thinking clearly. Still, none of that washed away the guilt I felt for betraying my friend.

“I have had many years to ask myself that,”

I said. “I was young. Na?ve, as Covey had said. Though we had been the same age and had grown up together, I did not fully comprehend why Covey kept her secrets to herself. How could I? Despite our friendship, Covey couldn’t share her personal problems, or her love of my brother, or any issues with me, a white girl. The barriers of racism were too deeply ingrained in us.

“At that time, however, I blithely thought our love for one another would conquer all.”

I shook my head. “I see myself now as Covey must have—a privileged, na?ve child. Color may not have been an issue between us, but it was certainly a cruel obstacle in the world we lived in. What Covey had to deal with every day as a young Black woman during the Jim Crow era—the fear, the threats, the humiliation—were not anything I could truly understand. I don’t say this as an excuse. Just that at that time, I truly believed we, the Rivers family, could help Covey raise her child. I wanted us to be one big happy family again. I was a fool,”

I admitted. “I didn’t appreciate the depth of bigotry in the South and the nation. Or the consequences of telling her secret.”

“Your understanding of her situation has nothing to do with your betrayal,”

Norah said, her voice tinged with anger. “It doesn’t matter what the secret is. When a friend confides in you, breaking that confidence is breaking the friendship. Race has nothing to do with that. She was right to leave.”

I felt the blood coursing in my cheeks and my heart begin its uneven pace. “You’re right. It was wrong of me to tell my friend’s secret, no matter the context. It was a grave mistake. One I’ve always regretted. Deeply.”

After a length of time, Norah said more evenly, “I never heard this story, not fully. It was one of those family secrets that was hushed up. Something Granny Covey never talked about. All I knew was she left Mayfield and would never return. For a long time, she didn’t tell anyone who the father of her baby was. She forged her own life. Mayfield . . . and you . . . were not a part of it. The Rivers family never were part of any of our lives.”

An awkward silence fell. Savannah’s face was cloudy, and she looked at Norah, hurt.

“Aunt Eliza . . .”

“Yes, Norah?”

“You mentioned my grandmother’s cottage. I would like to stay there, if that’s okay.”

I felt relief she hadn’t asked to leave Mayfield. “Of course you may. I would take you there myself, but I feel very tired.”

“I’ll take you,”

offered Savannah. “I know the way.”

At the door, Norah paused, then turned to me. “Aunt Eliza. I appreciate your honesty. That can’t have been easy.”

I nodded weakly.

“You and my grandmother . . . As you said, you were so young. So much had happened, so quickly.”

She took a step back into the room. “My grandmother left Mayfield for more reasons than the telling of a secret.”

Her voice gained the strength of conviction. “She had to leave. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—raise her child in the servants’ quarters. She couldn’t evolve as a woman, or fulfill her dreams, in the Jim Crow South. The baby gave her the courage to leave.”

Norah and Savannah said good night. Once they’d left, my eyes filled with tears that I let flow down my cheeks, and I wept. Eventually I stood and made my way to the staircase. I wondered if I had the strength to make it to the top. Old woman, I thought. There wasn’t a choice if I wanted to rest in my own bed. Grabbing hold of the railing I began taking the stairs one at a time, each step requiring a pause and a breath.

Reaching the landing, I put my hand to my heart trying to catch my breath. Once again, I had endured, I thought with some pride. But how much longer? Hana had pestered me for years to install an elevator in the house, and I’d stubbornly resisted, sure that I could manage. Getting old was a series of challenges and humiliations. Clearly it was time for another change.

I had experienced so many changes over the many years I’d lived. Phenomenal, actually. I’d witnessed shifts in the role and rights of women, civil rights, communication, and travel. With age came wisdom. I thought of Norah’s comments. They’d stung but were spot-on. We had to reach the place where our wish to understand the other person was as great as our wish to be understood.

A plan was slowly formulating in my mind for the young women, and for Mayfield, born from hope, which could be the answer I’d been waiting for. Elusive still. It was too early to say. I needed to finish the history of Mayfield and see how the women responded. If they were inspired, it was my hope they would hear in the stories a call to action.

* * *

The following morning, we met again in the dining room for breakfast. The strain of the previous day had dissipated like a ghost at first light. We were all trying hard to be cheerful and upbeat. Pleasantries were exchanged, and I was relieved to find us all chatting amicably as we ate. I inquired with Norah about her night in the cottage.

“The house is lovely. Knowing it was my grandmother’s makes it special. Last night I sat on the porch in a rocking chair and watched the fireflies. It was magical.”

“Muggy loving bugs,”

I replied with a smile. “That sight never gets old.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been inside the cottage,”

Savannah said.

“It’s kept locked, so unless your father took you, I doubt you have.”

I lifted my brows. “Goodness, I can’t recall the last time it’d been opened for a guest.”

“Long time,”

Mariama said. “I stayed there from time to time back when I was a girl.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun for us all to gather there one afternoon?”

I asked. “We could pack a picnic. That little cottage holds a lot of memories.”

I was thinking into the future, and it occurred to me that in all the rush of leaving Charleston, I hadn’t asked the girls how long they could stay. “Norah, how long will you be here at Mayfield?”

“I was wondering that myself. I’ve taken a week’s vacation from work for this trip. But last night, in the cottage, I realized I was just tapping the surface of my family history. I loved my grandmother, but she never talked about her life before she came to Pennsylvania. Except for these little comments she’d sometimes make. I don’t know if anyone but me caught them. It was usually in the garden. She had a bed of azaleas and said how they rivaled Mayfield. And the dogwoods and crepe myrtles. She told me she planted them because they reminded her of home.”

“She used that word?”

I asked. “Home?”

For Covey, plants would define home.

Norah nodded. “Yes. She missed her father. My great-grandfather is buried somewhere here, right?”

Mariama nodded. “He sure is. In the family plot. It’s a right pretty place not far from your cottage. It’s in the African style, you know. We keep things in a natural state. We don’t use stones or other markers, in keeping with tradition. I’ll take you there. It could be difficult to find on your own.”

“I’d like that, thank you. And I’d like to stay a little longer . . . if that’s all right.”

“Stay as long as you like,”

I replied, delighted. “The cottage belongs to your family. It does my heart good having Covey’s granddaughter there. I know she’d be so pleased.”

“I need this time. My family never talked about the cottage,”

said Norah. “It was just some place down South where Granny Covey grew up. The thought of coming here to visit never crossed my mind. But now that I’m here, I don’t know. I feel oddly like—”

she paused, then smiled “—like I’ve come home.”

“Really? That’s extraordinary. I’m so happy you feel that way.”

I turned to Savannah. “How about you, dear girl? Have you talked with your parents?”

“I checked in with them yesterday,”

she replied, then rolled her eyes. “I received quite a scolding.”

“Well, you did sneak out without telling them. I imagine they were cross.”

“Not so much at me as you. Daddy was pretty mad that you didn’t show up for the luncheon. People were worried you’d died or something.”

I laughed at the thought. “Were they?”

“I think he’s glad I’m keeping an eye on you.”

“Like a spy?”

Savannah giggled. “He wishes. To be honest, I’m Team Grandma.”

Norah and I laughed.

“Really,”

Savannah continued. “I love being here with you all, hearing the stories about this place. It’s like I’m seeing Mayfield for the first time. I know this property has been in my family for generations. I get that and it’s cool. But I never felt attached to it.”

She glanced at Norah. “It’s like Norah said. I’m starting to feel like I belong here.”

My heart fluttered. This was a new dawn after a dark night. “How long can you stay?”

“Well, I’m on summer break, and I don’t have any big plans until college starts in the fall.”

“Splendid!”

I clapped my hands. “You’re free as a bird. Like me. Stay the summer.”

Savannah giggled.

“Well then,”

I said scanning the mural for another scene to prompt my next story. “Now that that’s settled, shall I continue?”

The women nodded.

“Please, tell us more about what happened after your brother died,”

Savannah urged.

I found the scene in the mural of the family plot high on grassy Prospect Hill. The gravestones dotting the slope. Heyward . . .

“Simply put, the Rivers family fell apart after Heyward’s death. We never recovered, not really. My mother could never forgive my father. She blamed him for getting Heyward involved with the Marines and encouraging him to go. It was unfair, but for her the last straw. She resolved to return to Charleston. Lesesne would return with Mama to finish high school.”

“And you?”

asked Savannah. “Did you go to college?”

I shook my head. “No. I became a truck farmer.”