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PAST THE LINE |
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PROLOGUE
On a balmy April evening, Miami Homicide Detective Blake Cutter strutted out the front entrance of the Wyndham Hotel and Convention Center at about 10 p.m. He and his wife Jennie had just attended the annual policeman’s ball.
They’d planned to cap off the night with a romantic drive through scenic Bal Harbor village. Afterwards, they’d planned on making a stop at their favorite nightspot, Café Pastis, a French bistro located in the heart of the scenic old town district. The trendy hotspot was known for serving the best grilled-chateaubriand in town. After sitting through a three-hour speech-impaired awards banquet, they were famished.
Jennie was looking as sensual as Blake had ever seen her. The full black hair, upswept in a tight bun, was glistening in the moonlight. Her shapely figure was accentuated by a flowing Chiffon gown, a shawl draped over her shoulders, a lariat necklace and a pair of diamond studded ankle strap shoes on her feet. She was riveting from head to toe. Thanks to Jennie’s persuasiveness, Blake was looking equally dapper in a penguin tux and pinstripe button-down shirt.
As they reached the parking lot, they embraced each other and glanced up at the starlit, cloudless sky. It seemed a near perfect evening. They gazed in each other eyes. At that moment, all was right in the world. After a passionate kiss, Blake escorted her to the passenger side of his remodeled ’55 Ford Fairlane. There, she tossed several newspapers aside, slipped inside and stretched her long, shapely legs.
“Thanks for sitting through this tonight,” he said. “I know it was pretty boring.”
“It was worth it to finally get you into a tux,” she admitted, grinning.
As he closed her door, Jennie said to him, “Wait honey, I left my purse.”
“Oh leave it there,” he replied. “Somebody from housekeeping will get it. I’ll pick it up in the morning on the way in.”
“Are you kidding, Blake?” she complained, getting out of the car. “I wait until the morning and somebody would’ve lifted everything in it.”
“Wait a minute, pumpkin. I’ll go get it,” he replied with a sigh. “I don’t want you going back in there and getting caught by one of those gabbing friends of yours.”
“Oh, you’re such a smartass,” she chuckled.
“Don’t thank me. You’ll get a bill for this.”
“Shut up and just get the purse,” she replied, pinching him in the buttocks.
He proceeded to march back towards the hotel entrance. Seconds later, when he reached the front entrance, he yelled back to her, “Honey, I’ve got to speak to the chief for a moment. How about you pull the car around and I’ll meet you at the door.”
“Now look who’s talking about gabbing,” she yelled back to him with a grin.
After speaking briefly to a fellow detective who was exiting from the building, he glanced back and noticed her sitting in the car, motionless. He then proceeded inside where he approached the reception counter to check if one of the workers had already retrieved the purse and brought it to the desk clerk.
As he reached counter, he heard an ear-piercing blast. The force of the blast shook the building. Instinctively, people throughout the lobby dropped to the floor. At that moment, Blake’s heart nearly dropped to his stomach.
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?” shouted the desk clerk.
Blake spun around and sprinted towards the entrance. Stumbling past several people, he peered out in the direction of the parking lot. “Oh Shit!” he screamed. He noticed a wall of fire lighting up the parking lot. Beneath a rising plume of smoke, he could see the Fairlane being enveloped by a blazing inferno. Worst, he visually scanned the parking lot but didn’t see Jennie. His heart began pounding like a bass drum. Sidestepping several paralyzed onlookers in his path, he sprinted to the vehicle, horrified by the thought that Jennie would be trapped inside the car. Peering through the window, he began jerking at the driver’s side door handle. All he could see inside was thick, billowing smoke. Then he heard a faint scream. “JENNIE!” he screamed. There was no response. He tugged at the door handle in an attempt to pry it open, oblivious to the scorching metal charring away the skin on his palms.
“Somebody help me! My wife’s in there!” he shouted as he angled his face away from the searing heat. At that moment, two middle-aged men, who were on their way to their cars, rushed up and joined Blake in a futile effort to dislodge the door from the frame of the car. But the intense heat had already melted the metal to the frame. The two men stepped back from the smoke. By this time, Blake’s adrenaline was overriding any sense of fear or caution. Writhing in pain from the burns, he pulled his jacket sleeve over his right hand and resumed his attempt to dislodge the door.
“You’d better get back!” shouted one of the two men. Then, as the other man noticed a flame shooting up Cutter’s coat sleeve, he attempted to pull Cutter away from the flame.
“You’ve gotta get away from there!” the man exclaimed. “If anybody’s in there, they’re gone.”
Blake ignored him and continued jerking at the door handle, simultaneously slamming his fist against the window in frustration. At that moment, a tall, athletically-built male, who’d been standing at the front entrance the entire evening, raced up and leapt towards Blake, grabbing him in a bear hug as he struggled to pull him away from the flames.
Though the other two men moved to hold him back, Blake jerked loose and bolted between them. He leapt again towards the car’s door handle. The three men quickly enlisted the help of another onrushing man and gang-tackled Cutter to the ground. Gasping for air, one of the men uttered sympathetically, “Give it up, man! It’s no use!”
Pinned to the ground, Cutter continued to scream out, “No! Let me go!”
At that moment, one of the men noticed through the smoke, a spark zipping back towards the Fairlane’s gas tank. “GET BACK!” he yelled out. “The car’s going to blow!”
It took all four of the men to wrestle Cutter away from the Fairlane. Yet, he continued to struggle to break loose from their clutches, screaming hysterically. Then, as several onlookers began racing up to within a safe distance of the flame, there came a second explosion from the vehicle’s fuel tank, propelling metal and debris in every direction. The force of the blast catapulted Blake and the four men nearly twenty feet into the air. They landed on the ground dazed and disoriented.
With screams of horror ringing out in the background, Cutter struggled to his feet but then fell again to the ground. Seconds later, as he lay on the ground, he squinted up and noticed several concerned faces staring down at him. For a moment, he overheard a voice saying the letters IED, which referred to an improvised explosive device. He could hear voices speaking about a man sprinting away from the scene from behind a nearby bush. Though barely conscious, the words were followed by the sound of several footsteps trampling away from the parking lot. Then, suddenly he passed out.
Moments later, he became conscious as he felt himself being wheeled away on a gurney towards the flashing beacons above an EMT van. As he lay immobile on the gurney, he recognized several police officers who had attended the banquet walking along side, discussing the possibility that someone had set off an IED nearby, which they assumed had been aimed at Blake’s car. Suddenly, the face of Bennie DeSalvo popped into Blake’s mind. It was the face of the local mafia head he’d been investigating for the past six months. He now realized that he'd just been the victim of an assassination attempt. Perhaps the mafia assailant detonating the device had stationed himself too far from the Fairlane to visibly distinguish him from his wife Jennie. Believing that Jennie has been burned alive in a terrorist-style car bombing, a terrible feeling of guilt raced within him. Dizzy and wreaking in pain, he was unable to organize his thoughts.
As the gurney reached the back of the EMT van, he overheard the screaming sirens of police cars and fire trucks. He opened his eyes and noticed three men in black standing near the debris left from the Fairlane. He recognized one of them. It was Stan Brock, one of the technicians from Miami Police Department’s bomb squad, policing up shrapnel and other particles from the area. He noticed another tech break off from the group and head in the direction of a set of tall scrubs, obviously to search for anything that might have been left behind by a fleeing assailant. His thoughts shifted momentarily to the grassy knoll scene in Dallas in ’63.
Before another thought entered, he suddenly felt himself being lifted off the ground and onto a gurney and then wheeled into the back of the EMT van. He overheard a voice say, “You’ll be okay, Blake.” Those were the last words he heard before he lapsed out of consciousness for a second time.
1
ONE YEAR LATER
Clam Creek Dock Site, Devil Island
It was eleven thirty p.m., on a chilly evening in late May. At a dock in the Bay of Devil Island, Phillip Drummond, a wealthy real estate developer and avid yachtsman stood at the bow of his 180-foot luxury clipper ship Ocean Paradise. As guests boarded the ship, he broke a wry smile and welcomed them aboard for the planned midnight cruise around the bay.
It was hardly an ideal night for a cruise. Storm clouds were rolling in as fast as a convoy of semis into a diner before breakfast. The forecast called for a thunderstorm to hit the coastline by two a.m. As he glanced at his watch, he muttered, “Dammit DeSalvo, where in the hell are you?” He then turned about and noticed that the members of his 14-man crew were directing passengers to their cabins. An option to delay the cruise’s departure past midnight had already been thwarted by the port authority’s order that all pleasure crafts to be back to port no later than one a.m. By the sound of the wind whipping through the yacht’s sails, Drummond realized that the advisory was warranted.
Suddenly his vision became blurry as he became dizzy and disoriented. He didn’t know what was happening to him. He remembered having only one drink after arriving on the boat, a dry scotch served to him by a young black female whose face he couldn’t quite remember. “Could she have drugged me?” he asked himself. He quickly dismissed that thought and assumed he was suffering from a high state of anxiety over the lateness of DeSalvo. He began pacing back and forth across the deck from port to starboard. His eyes became fixed on the parking area where he hoped to see DeSalvo’s fleet of limos pulling up at any moment. But with no vehicles in sight, he suddenly entertained a frightening thought. What if DeSalvo had been apprehended on his way to the island? What if an approaching motorcade turned out to be a fleet of police sedans carrying FBI agents armed with arrest warrants? The last thing he wanted was for his clients and business partners to witness him being taken into police custody on his own private yacht.
As the time approached midnight, he began developing double vision. Again, he brushed off the thought that his pre-departure cocktail might’ve been doctored. He noticed several members of his crew peering over at him, anticipating either a hand signal or a head nod. Other crewmembers disguised their impatience by shuffling through last-minute safety checks. The bustling about the deck by the crew did offer Drummond some confidence that DeSalvo’s late arrival would probably go unnoticed.
As the sky blackened and thunder rumbled in the distance, Drummond continued pacing the deck, at times nearly stumbling. He peered out toward the gravel parking area adjacent to the dock. There was still no sign of DeSalvo’s limo. Attempting to control his anxiety, Drummond reached in the interior pocket of his blazer and pulled out a cigar. Just as he’d removed the cellophane cover, he felt the vibration in his left pants pocket where he carried his cell phone. It startled him to the point he felt his heart start palpitating. He proceeded to yank the phone out of his pocket. He noticed a flashing, “XX” on the display screen. The message sender appeared to be encoding his identity. Pressing the text message button, Drummond proceeded to scroll down the display. It read:
“Philly. Meet me at Moss Point pier at half past midnight. Come alone. Find the main pier and stay under it. I got what’s coming to you.”
Just as he’d punched off the message screen, Sergeant Hawkins, the yacht steward walked up.
“Mr. Drummond, are we ready, sir?”
Wrapped in thought, he hesitated momentarily and then uttered, “Listen Hawk, let’s step down into the cabin for a moment. I need to talk to you.”
“But it’s time to sail, sir,” Hawk replied. “We’re already late.”
“I know, Hawk, but I must speak to you immediately. Follow me.”
“Certainly, sir,” he replied dutifully as they walked side-by-side toward the cabin door. “By the way, you don’t look well. Are you feeling okay tonight?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m coming down with something,” Drummond answered. Changing the subject, he asked, “Who prepared the beverages for the cruise?”
“Why, just our regular crew from the club, sir. Is there a problem?”
Drummond hesitated for a moment and then replied. “Forget I asked. Let’s just get to the cabin.” They resumed walking.
As Hawkins followed him in a near-cadenced step, he gestured to one of the crewmembers to prepare the yacht to set sail. Sergeant Hawkins was a square-jawed, distinguished looking Brit in his early fifties with thinning but neatly groomed salt and pepper hair. He’d worked as Drummond’s yacht captain for the past five years. His father, a decorated British paratrooper, had given him the first name of Sergeant in honor of his fellow paratroopers who jumped with him into Caen during the allied invasion of Normandy. There would be no one more disappointed in a cancellation of the cruise than Hawkins, since he’d rented white tuxedos with swallow-tailed coats for his personally selected crew. He’d done everything possible to make the cruise a first-class event. As they stepped down into the cabin, Hawkins asked, “Mister Drummond, the guests are wondering when we’ll be taking off. The weather’s getting testy.” Just as he’d spoke, they both noticed a streak of white light through the window followed by the roar of thunder.
“I know, Hawk,” Drummond replied as they stepped down into the cabin and proceeded to glare back through a porthole. “This’ll only take a minute.” Drummond proceeded over to a small storage cabinet located in the corner of the cabin. He pulled it open and exchanged his loafers for a pair of blue deck sneakers.
“What on earth are you doing, sir?” Hawk asked inquisitively.
“Listen, Hawk. I would appreciate if you’d table the inquisition for now. Something’s come up. I've got to step off the boat to meet someone over at Moss Point pier. And please, don’t ask me any questions.”
“At this time of the night?” he questioned.
“Don’t worry about me. I should return in about an hour.”
“An hour? We can’t wait that long, sir,” Hawk complained. “We promised your guests we’d sail before midnight and the storm’s approaching.”
Drummond cupped his chin pensively and paused for several seconds. Then he responded, “You’ll just have to sail without me. Get someone on the horn to announce my unexpected departure. Offer my apologies to the members of the yacht club.”
“But what if they decide to leave, sir? You are the host.” Hawk reminded him.
Annoyed by Hawkins’ persistence, he replied loudly, “I don’t care what they think, Hawk. Just make sure they get off my boat without anyone falling overboard. The last thing I need now is another lawsuit.”
“I understand, sir,” Hawk replied with a resigned smile. “You should take a moment and say goodbye, sir, especially to the out-of-towners.”
“Being the gentleman you are, I’ll entrust that duty to you, Hawk.”
“As you wish, sir,” Hawk replied. “Is there anything you need before you go, a raincoat maybe?”
Drummond stood stiffly for a moment. Suddenly, he remembered that he’d promised Howard Tessman, a wealthy real estate ombudsman and golf buddy that he’d meet him at the Devil Island Clubhouse after the cruise. There, they’d planned to link up with two bargirls they’d met earlier in the week at a local dive.
“Do this for me, Hawk. You remember Howard Tessman don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Ask him to meet me at the bow in a few minutes.”
“Okay, sir.”
“And tell the cooks to keep the caponata warm,” Drummond added, referring to a Sicilian dish of eggplant and vegetables that he had promised DeSalvo he’d serve to him once he arrived.
A few moments later, Howard Tessman, clenching a pipe in one hand and a champagne goblet in the other, walked with Hawkins to meet Drummond at the bow. Tessman was a deeply tanned, broad-shouldered Bostonian in his late forties. He had that suave demeanor of the 007 character James Bond. He and Drummond had been real estate colleagues since they'd opened a firm together in upstate New York. Before Drummond left New York for further business ventures, they had formed the most respected real estate consortium on the east coast. Tessman had flown in earlier that week to catch a Saturday morning tee time with Drummond prior to their competing in the festival’s traditional yacht race, the highlight event of the weekend.
Yachting and golfing weren’t Tessman’s primary reasons for coming to the festival. It was his empathy for Drummond’s marriage troubles that had brought him down to lend support and offer some advice to Drummond ahead of the upcoming divorce proceedings. An ex-wife had taken Tessman to the cleaners a year earlier. Nose flaring, Tessman marched up to Drummond and asked, “What the hell’s going on, Philly? We’re supposed to have been sailing by now.”
Grabbing him by the shoulder, Drummond said, “Howie, old buddy. I’m taking off for a bit. I may even have to take a rain check on our get-together after the cruise.”
”What’s going on, Philly?” Tessman asked curiously. “It took a lot of persuasion to get those girls to come over here on a Friday night. Don’t tell me you’re drunk already.”
“I’m not drunk, pal,” Drummond replied as his face was turning pale. “I got to go do something important. How about I have Hawk stand in for me with the girls if I don’t make it back in time? He’s due for a little fun at his age. You don’t mind, do you, Hawk?” he asked turning towards Hawk.
“Why no, sir,” Hawkins replied as his eyes lit up like a kid who’d just been invited into a candy store. “I wouldn’t mind that at all,” he added enthusiastically.
Taking a moment to size up the consolatory offer, Tessman shrugged and replied, “I guess he’ll do. Whoever it is you’re meeting, she’d better be good. Just don’t miss our tee time in the morning.”
Drummond offered a quick handshake in appreciation of Tessman not belaboring the matter. He then stepped off the boat, glanced back once with an apologetic expression and proceeded to march down the deserted strip of beach in the direction of Moss Point. Seconds later, he’d disappeared from sight.
Staring with a clueless expression, Hawkins turned to Tessman and asked, “You think I should follow him sir, for safety purposes? He didn’t look well.”
Tessman shrugged, “No, let him go. He’s probably just gotten himself liquored up. Besides, he’d be pretty pissed if you walked upon him having sex on the beach.”
“A mite chilly for that, I’d think,” Hawkins thought out loud.
“It’s never too cold, chap,” Tessman replied grinning, patting Hawk on the back as he took a puff from his pipe. Dismissing further concern, Tessman and Hawkins departed the bow in opposite directions. Tessman headed back to the cabin and Hawkins to the starboard side where he ordered the crew to lift the giant sails of the clipper ship to begin the cruise.
With the wind howling like a pack of wolves, Drummond mercifully proceeded down the beach, trudging his way along the foot of the shore, as he trembled intermittently from the water seeping through his nylon socks. The chilling wind was slithering through his jacket sleeves. As the cold became bone chilling, he began walking at a brisker pace. Looking back a final time toward the parking lot, he noticed something strange. There was a lone car parked at the back side of the lot. It was too dark to determine the color or make of the vehicle. For a moment, he decided to dismiss the thought.
But then, after a few more steps, he glanced back again at the vehicle. This time, he noticed what appeared to be the silhouette of a person standing by the hood of the car. Yet, he was now too far away to determine the person’s identity. Suddenly, as the glare from a spotlight located at the nearby airport flashed over the area, he could make out that the vehicle was a late model sedan. He knew a woman who owned that style of car. It couldn’t be her, he thought to himself. Why would she have come to the island tonight? Why would she have parked so far away? There’s an abundance of empty spaces much closer to the pier.
He again dismissed the sight from his mind, as he was eager to continue his walk toward Moss Point. But a few steps later, he glanced back again. This time, he noticed that the figure appeared to be walking in his direction about 100 yards behind him. Yet, the person was still too far away for him to make out an identity. The person crept closer as he continued walking. He quickened his pace to a jog, then stopped and looked around again. Now, it appeared the person was only about 50 yards behind him. The person appeared to be wearing a nondescript jacket and pair of pants, perhaps being purposely deceptive. The person was still too far away for him to know their identity. He began to emit a cold chilling sweat down his forehead. His breathing became labored as he walked faster. He stumbled once and fell to one knee. As he rose up, he looked back again. There was now nothing but blackness and the beach. He didn’t see anyone. He stared about in every direction but there was no sight of anyone, only the sound of rushing waves. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or feel more frightened. Always a positive and courageous man, he chose to make himself believe that whoever had been walking the beach behind him had broken off and headed to one of the beach bungalows or oceanfront hotels.
A few minutes later, he reached Moss Point pier, exhausted and nauseated. As he looked around, he noticed that there was only one light pole, emitting barely enough light to see a few feet in front of him. He began scratching his scalp in bewilderment. He peered around in all directions, but again saw no one. A dozen thoughts raced through his mind. He reassured himself that the headlights of DeSalvo’s limo would be glaring in his eyes at any moment. His heightened anxiety sparked a nicotine craving, which he quickly satisfied with a cigarette. Glancing at his watch, he noticed the time had reached twelve fifteen a.m. Still determined to stay relaxed, he peered out into the bay hoping to spot his yacht. Yet, it was so dark that he could barely see the rising tide, much less a sailing craft. The only visible light was a flambeau from a fisherman fly-casting from a distant trawler. Seconds later, the flambeau was extinguished and moonlight merged into a complete blur.
He was beginning to feel quite paranoid. For the first time, he wondered not only if DeSalvo would show up at all, but if it was really DeSalvo who had called and left the encoded identity. Perhaps Dorothy had hired someone to lure him to a deserted, secluded spot to kill him. He wondered if she’d go to that extent to change the outcome of their impending divorce. His pride told him she still loved him too much to have him murdered. And despite his insatiable appetite for extra-marital affairs, he still harbored strong feelings for her. Yet, he knew that millions of dollars worth of property and alimony mixed with rage and jealousy could push anyone to contemplate murder.
He wondered if Dorothy had learned about the cruise and the forgery. Perhaps she had paid someone on the boat to doctor the drinks. Perhaps, she had discovered who would be serving the drinks. But at that moment, he couldn’t remember the face of the woman who handed him the cocktail, only that she was African-American.
Fear and anxiety were beginning to get the best of him. He began to shiver from the perspiration trickling down his chest. He was now believing more than ever that he had been drugged or poisoned, but with what and by whom? Weak in the knees and pulse quickening, he noticed a nearby sand dune. Disregarding the risk of ruining the fabric of his trousers, he decided to sit down on the dune and wait at that spot.
The loud crashing sound of waves continued to break the stillness of the early morning. But it also masked the sound of feet trampling through the mushy sand behind him. With the wind whipping loudly, the approaching footsteps went unnoticed. All of a sudden, white light flashed in his face. He felt a hard thump to the back of his skull. There was a split second delay in the pain from a hard thump on the back of his skull. It was as if a lead pipe had been driven through his neck. His spine locked stiff as if he’d just stuck a finger into an electrical socket. After falling to his knees, he maneuvered his right hand to the back of his head. Blood spewed into his palm like it had been shot out of a spigot. He looked down and noticed a puddle of blood at his feet. A glob of blood was trickling down onto the heels of his socks. The compression of his sternum into his chest cavity caused him to gasp for air. Then, a second blow to the back of his neck caused his world faded to black. His last conscious sensation became a momentarily feeling of levitation, followed instantaneously by his front teeth shattering as he catapulted face-first into the ground.
Phillip Drummond never saw who struck him.
2
THE TUESDAY BEFORE THE BOAT CRUSIE
It was approximately five p.m. when Drummond left his downtown real estate office and raced his Porsche Boxster through town in the direction of Bugsby’s, a bar and grill located in the trendy section of Bullett. It was an area commonly referred to as The West End. Bugsby’s had become Drummond’s favorite after-work watering hole. On Tuesdays, the happy hour buffet was an added attraction. Having skipped lunch due to a procession of business meetings, he could already taste the chicken fingers and salty pretzels, with the smooth taste of a cold draft beer washing it down. As he drove to within a block of Bugsby’s, his appetite for food was suddenly overcome by a more enticing thought. It had been over a week since he’d seen Penelope, and even longer since they’d been intimate. There was only one thing more alluring to him than happy hour at Bugsby's; an afternoon ‘romp in the sack.’ with Penelope Lane
At the junction of 33rd and Broadway, about a block from the joint, he negotiated a u-turn and headed west in the direction of a posh Bullett suburb known as Witherton Heights.
Phillip Drummond was the last person Penelope Lane wanted to see that afternoon. She’d been avoiding him like the black plague the past two weeks, hoping to end their sordid six-month affair. The clever charm of an attractive but married man was finally losing its grip. She’d grown weary of being dragged around town like his little trophy, playing the part of the dumb blonde amid the gawking eyes of his business colleagues. But she knew it wouldn’t be easy to break up with a man who was getting ‘milk from the cow’ for free. Phillip Drummond wasn’t one to be shoved off easily without drama. He rarely took ‘no’ for an answer.
At five-thirty p.m., she discarded her work attire for the comfort of a flowery silk chemise and kimono. With leftover tuna casserole warming in the microwave, she felt primed for a quiet, relaxing evening of privacy. Just as she’d curled up on the sofa and turned on the television, she heard the doorbell rang. And it rang again and again. Reluctantly, she got up, wrapped the kimono around her waist and went to the door. Who was so insistent, she wondered. Maybe it was Rachel, her close friend from St. Louis who had promised to visit her.
She hesitated at the door. It wasn’t Rachel. A faint scent of eau de cologne seeping through the door betrayed the visitor and his purpose. Damn, she hoped he’d go away, but from the hard breathing, she knew that was a vain hope. Since she didn’t want the neighbors to witness an embarrassing scene, she opened the door—and was instantly taken in, shaken, overwhelmed by Phillip. The old magic worked again. Boy, she wanted to shut him off and out, to insulate herself against his boyish southern charm. In vain, looking into his emerald-colored eyes, she felt the old animal magnetism emanating from him, and she longed to melt into his strong embrace.
“What took you so long, Doll?” he mockingly chided her with a grin. Before she could say a word, he swung forward from behind his back a bouquet of red roses adorned with chrysanthemum buds. They were her favorites. He relished her reaction, her mouth opening in delight, her breast heaving, her nipples straining against her silky chemise.
“What are you doing here Phillip?” she purred. “I thought….”
“Sh.., he interrupted, pressing his finger gently against her full lips. “I haven’t seen you in ages,” he exaggerated while grabbing her right hand and kissing it.
Penney was flattered but also annoyed by his play-acting. She knew what the score was and didn’t mince words. He slipped through the door like a snake and parked himself on her couch. Politely, she sat at the other end and crossed her legs in frustration, feigning resentment, and didn’t flinch when he placed his hand on her leg and worked his way up to her thighs. Refusing to get carried away, she lashed out at him with a mixture of sarcasm, cajoling and pleading. She inveighed against his treating her like a prize toy, an object of lust, not of love.
Drummond hated such rejection. Typically, he lied and promised and sweet-talked. And finally, he’d throw out his trump card, alcohol. He knew that Penney always softened up and gave in when she had downed a glass of booze. He got up and fetched a bottle of vodka from the kitchen cabinet and offered her the drink. As he gulped it down, he eased towards her. It only took minutes for her breasts to heave further.
She swallowed hard. He could tell her passion was rising. Arch-womanizer that he was, he fancied himself to be an expert on the seduction of women. Fingering her hardening nipples, kissing her wet lips, he maneuvered her into submission. She threw herself into his arms, fully forgetting earlier reservations. Off came her kimono and chemise. He feasted on her breasts and then slowly worked his way down her torso to her bushy, crisp triangle. Unable to constrain herself, she unzipped his fly and grabbed his bulging crotch. That was the signal.
They both raced to the bedroom and flung themselves on the bed, continuing their caresses and embraces. Having stroked her until she moaned, he entered her. What an end to a dreary late afternoon!
Around midnight, Penney woke up because of a draught from the window. And she also woke up to sobering reality when she looked down at her lover curled up under her sheets. She’d again fallen victim to her own passions and his seductive skills. But, it was time to address the real issue, she thought to herself. Shaking him vigorously to awake him, she waited a moment and then insisted on his testimony to the state of their relationship. “Now that you’ve screwed me again, I just want to know where this so-called relationship is headed.”
His eyes squinted, his mouth opened with a vodka-tainted yawn, and when her question hit home, he sprang up, asking, “What the hell are you talking about?” What ensued was a vicious, verbal tearing into each other, recriminations, and name-calling with Penney topping the list with “slimeball.”
For a moment, Drummond lost it and grabbed her by the throat. But he quickly regained control and let her go. Then, he dressed and left the apartment with a smirk on his face.
3
It was three days later that Penelope, while working at her desk that afternoon, left the second floor at five p.m. and proceeded up to the sixth floor of Bullett Plaza. It was the vast office suite of Drummond Real Estate Consultants.
As she made it to the executive suite’s reception desk, she caught a lucky break. The floor receptionist’s head was sunk as she sat at the desk absorbed by a Harlequin paperback. So, Penney slipped past her and poked into Dorothy’s private office suite.
Knocking on the door, she looked around the expansive office but didn’t see Dorothy. She overheard the water running in Dorothy’s personal bathroom, so she eased her way inside. As she waited, she glanced around and couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the décor of the executive suite¾a stark contrast from the bland offices on the lower floors. The suite was elegant to say the least, a marble floor with a lacquered finish, palladium-style windows, floral-colored damask drapes, crown molding around a ceiling of random cove lights and cherry wood paneling. The room was arrayed with opulent posh black leather sofas and a spacious oak grain executive desk that looked more like it belonged in the Oval Office.
Her momentary gazing was quickly interrupted by Dorothy’s pattering feet as she rushed out of her private bathroom dressed in spandex tights, a pullover sweatshirt over an athletic bra and a pink matching cotton headband holding down her cropped hair.
Dorothy Drummond rarely took visitors after five p.m., especially on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons when she usually left early for a local health spa. She desperately needed a stress-busting workout, facing a long night of preparation for her divorce proceeding with her attorney.
“Penney, what are you doing here? Bev didn’t tell you I’m on my way out?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Drummond. I sort of slipped past her.”
“How’d you do that? She’s right by my door. Never mind,” she added, shaking her head as she shut her leather briefcase and tossed the straps of her gym bag over her left shoulder. “Whatever you’re here to see me about, I’m afraid it’ll have to wait. I’m on my way out.”
Cutting off her path to the door, Penney begged, “Please, Mrs. Drummond. I need just a minute of your time. There’s something I’ve got to give you.”
“What would YOU have to give me?”
“Please, just take a look at this,” Penney implored in a quivery voice as she handed her a plain white envelope.
Dorothy proceeded to crimp open the envelope with her manicured nails and unfolded a single page of paper. “What is this?” she asked squinting at the small print on the page.
Stuttering, Penney answered, “A…a woman dropped it off at my desk a few minutes ago.”
“But the mail drop-off for this building is with the front reception clerk at the main entrance. Beside there’s no return address on it. Why would someone….”
Penney shrugged, offering a look of confusion.
“Whatever,” Dorothy shrugged as she attempted to read the text. After struggling to make out the first line, she quickly folded the letter and stuffed it in one of the side pockets of her gym bag. Sighing, she huffed, “Look, I don’t have time to struggle with this tiny print. Besides, I’m about to be late for a workout if I don’t leave at this moment. Whatever this is, I’ll read it later.” She cut off Penney’s attempt at another plea, rushed past her and headed out the office, leaving Penney standing there with feelings of both disappointment and relief.
It was approximately seven p.m. that evening when Dorothy Drummond finished her workout at Hardbodies, a ‘Women Only’ fitness center located a block from downtown. It wasn’t until she’d finished the workout, showered, and changed back into street clothes that she thought about the letter. By that hour, the spa had been completely vacated except for a club concierge waiting for her to leave in order to secure and lock up the women’s locker room. Since the gym was open seven days a week and weekends were the busiest days, it closed early on Thursdays to give the gym staff an early evening off.
As she sat on a bench to cool down, she unzipped the side pocket of her gym bag. She noticed the slightly crumpled envelope and carefully pulled it out. Fumbling through the main pocket of the bag, she pulled out her reading glasses and unfolded the letter and began to read.
Dear Mrs. Drummond,
For the past few months, I’ve been having an affair with your husband. When we met, I didn’t know he was married. I still can’t believe I became so involved with him. I guess I was overcome by his charm. But I’m sure you can understand that. Please know that even after I discovered he was married, he continued to deceive me, telling me you were the cause of the breakup. He said he loved me. For some stupid reason, I bought that line. I should’ve stopped myself but I couldn’t. But I’ve come to learn that he’s a very dangerous man. He doesn’t care who he hurts or deceives. If he hadn’t been so cruel to me, I probably would’ve never woken up and smelled the coffee. But when I discovered he was involved with the mob, I knew it was time to end it. He’d probably kill me if he knew I was writing to you. I have to clear my conscience. There is something perhaps more important that I must tell you. I’ve eavesdropped on several of Phillip’s phone conversations because I thought he was seeing you behind my back. So I wanted to know if I was being played for a fool. In one of the conversations I overheard him talking to a man named Bennie. I couldn’t hear all the details but he’s set up a midnight cruise on his yacht tonight as a cover for a meeting with this man to close a deal on a casino project on Devil Island. I also overheard him say something about a forgery of your signature on a document. I don’t know if the forgery of your signature has anything to do with this casino deal. Perhaps you do. Please don’t think this is some kind of sick joke. I think that once he gets this forgery done, he’ll have me killed to cover his tracks, and maybe even you. I don’t want to continue with this affair or be responsible for causing you any more pain. If I don’t stop him, he’ll destroy you like he nearly destroyed me. I’m hoping this letter can stop him from betraying you the way he’s betrayed me. I’m sorry for everything.
Anonymous
4
Phillip Drummond had unknowingly made enemies in places he would have never imagined. He’d never taken notice of a young black female waitress that served him and his business associates during meetings in the Regal Room at the Devil Island Clubhouse. He also would not have remembered his own racial slurs and off-color jokes. But Olivess Norton intended to leave no doubt that she remembered him.
She was an attractive African-American girl of Gullah ancestry; an athletically built, freckled-face redbone who had an affinity for cornrow braids and cut-off blue jeans. She could’ve been athletic scholarship potential, having shown talent as a triple jumper on the junior varsity track and field team as a high-school freshman. But kleptomania, truancy, and an attraction to gang-banging led to two jail tours, expulsion from school during her junior year and a stint in a juvenile correctional institute. It was her grandmother who’d begged her way into getting the Devil Island Clubhouse manager to hire on Olivess as a waitress to help her get a fresh start. She had been doing well working in the clubhouse’s Regal Room until she began waiting the table for Phillip Drummond and his business associates.
Her involvement with Drummond began on an afternoon when she left work to visit an elderly great-aunt named Annabel Pendergrass White. She residing in an old rustic cottage in a part of the island known as Squirrel Bluff, was a sixty-two year old retired seamstress and widow of a local tobacco farmer. She and Olivess’ guardian grandmother named Clementine Pendergrass Walker had taken turns fostering the wayward youth. For that, Olivess was forever grateful and made it a ritual to visit Annabel every Sunday afternoon on her day off.
Her arrival that afternoon was particularly timely, since Annabel had been waiting for someone to come along and watch her cottage while she went into the deep woods on her horse-drawn wagon to collect up the better grades of firewood for her potbelly stove. Olivess offered to help but despite the laborious chore of loading heavy logs, Annabel scorned anyone lending what she called “pity on an old woman.” It was an attitude typical of elderly Gullah women, deep rooted in a sense of pride and independence. Olivess was always wise not to insist, particularly with Annabel promising to cook her favorite dish, smoked mullet and sweet potatoes to go with herbal ginseng tea.
As Olivess entered the cabin, her nostrils picked up the pungent smell of Annabel’s seasoning and spices. To divert her mind from her aroused appetite, she decided to mill about the cabin to pass the time. Over the years, Annabel had turned the quaint cottage into an interesting exhibit of Southern tradition. Despite the visual allure of the furnishing, Olivess' eyes were quickly averted to something that hadn’t been sitting out on previous visits. On top of the fireplace mantle was a deep pocket basket. She opened it and after fumbling through and removing the cartouche and other diminutive knitted items, she noticed, at the bottom of the basket, a leather-covered book that resembled a diary.
She had never seen a book hand-sewn together with parfeche string and vellum-stitched page bindings. She proceeded to open it and stepped back from the mantle to allow dust spores to settle into the air rather than on her clothing. As she began turning pages, she noticed that the pages were partially dry-rotted with badly faded print, indicating that the book was very old. As she examined closer, she noticed that the text was written in old Gullah dialect, the native vernacular of slaves of the 1800s, which was still spoken by many of the elderly residents of the island. She had become so fascinated by Gullah as a youth that she’d actually studied the language and became quite apt in its interpretation and translation.
Hearing the sound of Annabel’s wagon approaching, she started quickly thumbing through the pages. She stopped on the last two pages where the writing was the most legible. But as she heard Annabel’s feet pattering along the front porch steps, she quickly closed the book and tucked it away in her back pack, concealing it for the rest of the visit.
Upon returning home that evening, she immediately marched into her bedroom, propped herself on her bed and took the book out of her back pack. She thumbed through the pages and stopped at page twenty-two, the first page that appeared to be completely legible. She proceeded to read it.
“August 13, 1868. Uh reckon dis be dat day. Nutha day da moon don pass en me peepuls aint free. Uh near broke me back dis day pickin. Uh swears, uh felt just like asking Lawd fuh come en’ tek me home. Lawd knows uh shoulda died under dat man body. But iz gon keep prayin’, en writin about dese troubled times. At least dat one good thang bout ‘ole Masser Drummond wife taught me. E don told me e want me fuh keep scribblin’ me notes puntop dis paper. But uh knows her caint bring huh’ fuh help me go free. Masser Drummond gon strike her down like e did me. Uh guess it be da Lawds will uh keep riting bout dis. Lawd knows me fangers hurtin en me backs from ays en da fields. En iz don hurt worse en dose body stuck puntop me. Uh justa pray for da day me youngins read dis paper. If dey don get dey education fuh read dis paper, den dey don got dey education fur rid dem fuh dis life. Masser Drummond don killed so mo our youngins today en dey dumped dey flesh een da river rite fo our eyes, jest like dey did da last time those govment folks came down dis way. I dont know what Lawd purpose dat dose troubled wite souls a’kill a young boy dan fuh see him go free. Satan musta hardened dey heart sharper dan ole Pharoah. Uh herd e peepin round talkin dose men bout e slave business, like e ain’t gon let us go no matter what govment seys. Wheres he gon get some mo niggers fuh pick e crops when aint no mo slave niggers fuh get. I don been gon home, e gone have too many crops fuh pickin’. Aint no worryin en my chillens passing with de Lawd, but uh feel da pain deep een me soul een me chillens not learnin. Uh tired o’ sayin in dese pages how many times a day man don brought me hurtin. Uh thank my Lawd gon bringin damnation puntop his wicked soul for de misery all our youngins. By Lawd’s will, iz be set me free dis nite. Iz ask you Lawd, jest take me home. Fuh dis be last time dez free hands pass puntop dis paper. Me soul iz be free en iz don go to rest wit me Lawd.”
5
Olivess was filled with rage after reading the diary of her ancestor with whom she shared the same first name. Barely getting an hour of sleep, she woke up exhausted and in no mood to share her experience with her grandmother Clementine, whom she usually joined every morning for breakfast. Instead, she pretended to sleep in until Clementine had departed the house for work.
Later that morning, she phoned the Devil Island Clubhouse and called in sick, unable to face the possibility of waiting Phillip Drummond’s table. She spent the rest of the morning moping around the house, occasionally crouching on the sofa while thumbing the remote through television channels.
At three o’clock that afternoon, she succumbed to the humidity within the cottage and decided it was time to find someone to share her despair. The only person available that time of the day was another great-aunt named Chessie Pendergrass Green, a retired seamstress who lived a few blocks away on Dowling Street. It had become commonplace for young black girls on the island to have a slew of surviving female relatives, since island women typically outlived men.
Instead of taking a taxi, Olivess decided to brave the sweltering blacktop and walk to Chessie’s house. After dressing, she grabbed her back pack, threw on a pair of flip-flops, locked the house and headed down the road. As she walked, she tried to focus her mind on pleasant memories of past visits to Chessie’s cottage. But the vision of Chessie’s warm smile was quickly wiped away by the vision of a young African female slave being raped and abused by a slave owner¾a slave owner by the name of Drummond. She became so distracted her vision that, for a moment, she wandered off the shoulder and onto the road, barely missing being struck by an oncoming truck as the driver managed to swerve into the opposite lane just in time.
Moments later, she arrived at the walkway in front of the red brick cottage. Chessie was sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair basking in the afternoon sun as she peeled a bushel of butterbeans. Though it was nearly four in the afternoon, Chessie was dressed as if she’d just gotten out of bed, wearing a bath robe and a pair of house slippers. Her face was pale and bloodless, though fair in spots around her high cheekbones. Her eyes were deep and still. Her hair, though genetically long and straight from her French-Indo ancestry, appeared disheveled and wretched from lack of daily care. As she noticed Olivess approaching and stood up, her hunchback stature revealed her years of slaving over a garden tiller and picking vegetables on her hands and knees when she’d worked on her backyard garden at night and on weekends.
“Don’t tell me you just got up, Auntie,” Olivess said as she walked up to the porch. “I wish I could just sleep until four o’clock in the afternoon.” Olivess referred to each of her grand-aunts as Auntie to avoid calling them granny or grandma, thus thinking of them as elderly.
“I guess Clementine’s house must’ve burned down for you to stop by here,” Chessie responded in kind. “I figured the next time one of you youngins’ would visit me, you’d be standing over my grave.”
“Oh, don’t talk that way, Auntie.” Olivess said, walking up and kissing her on the forehead. “You know I love you. I’ve just been busy.” Wiping her brow, Olivess continued, “Dang, it’s hot out here. What you doing sitting out here in the sun?”
“Child, it’s hotter inside,” Chessie pointed out. “I’m fine out here.” Changing subjects, she asked, “I thought you worked on Mondays?”
“I took a day off just to come see you, Auntie.”
“I ain’t that senile or naïve, child,” she shot back chuckling. “You’re here because you want something.”
Chessie gestured Olivess to join her on the porch swing. They chatted for a few minutes before Chessie invited Olivess inside and then proceeded to the kitchen, soon serving two cups of ginseng tea from a kettle that had been percolating on the stove.
“Auntie Chessie, I stopped by Auntie Annabel’s house the other day,” she explained as they sipped tea.
“Child, I ain’t seen her in ages. How is the old goat?”
“Oh, you know, Auntie Annabel, always out in those woods picking firewood for that ole’ stove of hers. I don’t know why she ain’t joining the modern world. The rest of the time all she does is gossip with Miss Muriel all day. I told her she’s going to swallow that gossiping tongue.”
“Somebody oughtta chop it off,” Chessie remarked chuckling, as her spirits seemed to be lifting.
“Well, she is really good in her garden,” Olivess pointed out.
“What you talking about?” Annabel argued. “That damn soil around her place ain’t worth a bucket of rusty nails. She couldn’t grow a toenail in that dirt.”
“Oh, Auntie, stop,” she scowled. “That’s your sister.”
“We ain’t real sisters,” she said. “Just cause our ole’ daddy slept with every hoe on two legs.”
“Oh Auntie, stop talking like that,” Olivess interrupted trying to sound serious, yet chuckling on the inside. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Changing the subject, she continued quickly, “Anyway, I came by to ask you about something I found at Annabel’s house. I took it without her knowing. I’ll tell you about it if you swear you won’t go blabbing off to her until I’m ready to give it back.”
Chessie’s face stretched with anger. All it took was the suggestion of thievery to set her off. “Are you stealing things again, girl? I’ll swat your ass if you are. I can still swing a strap.”
Olivess interrupted, “Oh Auntie, no. I didn’t steal anything. I just borrowed this old Bible-looking book,” she explained as she pulled it out of her back pack. “She won’t miss it. It’s just some old book.”
“Why you so interested in this?” she asked, furrowing her brow with suspicion. “Let me see what you talking about.” She quickly opened it and flipped to the last page as the dry-rotted edges of the page broke off into her hand. Chessie’s face quickly narrowed. She took a deep breath and tried desperately to push away an onset of distress, remembering her doctor’s warning to avoid stress after experiencing a mild stroke a few months earlier. She stopped reading after the first five lines clearly showing that she was familiar with the page. “I was afraid one of you youngins’ would stumble onto this thing. I told Annabel years ago to throw this thing away.”
Olivess' eyelids rose with curiosity. “Well, what is this about? Somebody hurt this woman so bad she killed herself? That’s what it reads like to me.”
Chessie paused again, took a deep breath, eased back, closed the book and clenched Olivess’ left hand. “This is a diary, child. It belonged to one of your ancestors. She was a slave. It’s been passed down through generations. But it’s of no concern to you.”
Olivess pressed, “What do you mean? I want to know about this. If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to ask Auntie Annabel myself.”
Chessie took a deep breath, but knew she had no choice but to reveal the truth. With tears welling in her eyes, she said, “Her name was Olivess, just like yours. In fact, you were named after her.”
Olivess sat upright and piqued with interest. “Now you really got me wondering,”
Chessie continued, “She and her family were the slaves of a family named Drummond.”
“I saw his name on one of the pages,” she interjected. “They wouldn’t be any kin to this man named Drummond who’s been on TV talking about opening up a casino, would they? That man’s a racist. You ought to hear him talk at the clubhouse.”
“Folks’ have been saying that for the longest,” Chessie admitted. “But I thought it was just jealous gossip at first. Now, I believe it’s true. Anyway, I can only tell you the story that’s been passed down through our family. The man named Drummond that you read about in the diary apparently raped his female slaves. He impregnated Olivess with my grandmother. Then he killed her husband when he tried to rise up against him. They strung her husband up in broad daylight and brought the other slaves out to see it to intimidate them. They were trying to hold onto slave labor on the island after emancipation. They only did it to scare the slaves into staying quiet when the government folks came to check if they’d been set free as the law required.” Chessie felt it unwise to continue. She slammed the diary shut and laid it beside her. “That’s all about this you need to know, child,” she said.
“No,” Olivess argued. “You’ve got to tell me more. I know there’s more to it than this.”
“Go home, girl!” she yelled out suddenly. “I’m not going to tell you any more about this if you asked me all day. You need to leave it alone. It’s the past, honey. Ain’t nothing you gon’ do about it now.”
Distressed by Chessie’s reluctance to tell more, she struggled but managed to hide her dismay for the rest of the visit. But when the visit concluded and she trudged her way back down Dowling Street, she was unable to hold back emotion any longer. She cried the entire way home, feeling more guilt than anger for not realizing that the letter had rekindled bad memories for her favorite grand-aunt whose mental and physical health was already unstable.
Olivess didn’t hear from Chessie again until two days later when Chessie phoned her unexpectedly while she was at work at the Devil Island Clubhouse. It was one in the afternoon when Olivess answered the phone in the Regal Room.
“Olivess, honey is that you?” Chessie asked.
“It’s me, Auntie Chessie.” she answered surprised. “You never called me here before. Is something wrong?”
“I’m alright dear. I haven’t croaked if that’s what you’re worried about. I just called to see if you’re busy this evening after work?”
“No, what do you need?”
“I want to take you somewhere. I’ve been thinking about your visit and your questions about the diary. I figured it’s time you know the whole story.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here, child. “Just come as soon as you can.” she said and then hung up.
Olivess was too anxious to wait five more hours until her work shift was finished. She asked another waitress to cover her tables. She punched out and phoned a taxi. She arrived at Chessie’s house at about three in the afternoon. Chessie spent a few minutes dressing since Olivess had arrived earlier than expected. She wasted no time with explanation and immediately called for a taxi. While they waited, Olivess attempted to get Chessie to discuss the matter but she refused, deliberately changing the subject several times until the taxi arrived.
As they departed, Chessie instructed the driver to proceed south on US Highway 6 past the town of Bullett and to continue another five miles until they reached a rural area which was in the vicinity of a row of plantation homes set off in the woods. Chessie remained quiet during the drive, speaking only to direct the driver off the highway and onto a narrow dirt road that lead into a heavily forested area. The driver followed the road for about five minutes until he reached a clear expanse of flat, open ground. As the road narrowed into a trail, Chessie directed him to continue driving straight for another half-mile until they came upon the foreground of a nondescript, Antebellum-style two-story, wood-framed house surrounded by a tall wrought iron gate.
The house was a huge splendid structure despite its age. It had a historic look of distinction with a tall, arched roof, dark-gray shingles, latticed balconies and a wrap-a-round porch. It was apparent that the plantation hadn’t been maintained for some time, evidenced by dried out wood flooring, chipping paint, broken exterior windows and abundant spider webs. The exterior porch was littered with numerous dried potted plants and branches strewn around the porch railings. Surrounding the house were tall weeds and huge trees with rows of Spanish moss hanging down and extended across the front yard. The entire area looked typical of the many unpreserved plantation homes set far into the rural countryside and off the beaten path of travelers and tourists.
As they drove up, Chessie asked the taxi driver to pull up right beside the gate.
“What is this place?” Olivess asked, breaking the silence.
“It used to be a plantation home,” Chessie explained. “It’s the first of a row of homes that was known as Plantation Groves. We came this way because the woods have covered up shorter trails that lead straight up to it from the highway. I was told by my grandmother that a long time ago, you could ride by the homes along the road and see slaves working in the cotton fields.”
Asking the driver to wait, they exited the taxi and approached the house through an iron gate. The gate had weathered the test of time and was still erect due to its sturdy stanchions. They began cautiously approaching a front porch with tree branches that canopied the red-bricked walkway and evergreen shrubs that collared along the porch banister. With leaves partially obstructing their view, they moved carefully up the wood-boarded steps. With the tall trees blocking any sunlight, the entire area had now become almost dark.
“It’s kind of spooky out here, Auntie,” Olivess remarked.
“Yes, it is,” Chessie agreed.
“Are we going in?”
“No, child. I just wanted you to come close enough to get a good look at this place. It owns a history darker than this sky.”
Chessie then pointed Olivess in the direction of a wooden shack located approximately a hundred yards west of the plantation but barely visible through a heavily forested trail. “Down there is the place I really want you to see. You mind a little walk?”
With hesitation, Olivess replied, “If we have to.”
“Follow my steps honey, so you don’t brush up against anything that can scratch you,” Chessie advised her.
As they slowly trudged their way through the trail, Olivess commented, “You must know your way around here, Auntie. You come out here often?”
“From time to time I do, child,” Chessie replied solemnly with her voice about to break with emotion. After Chessie stopped for a moment to signal for the taxi to remain in place, she instructed her niece to follow her more closely, noticing that since her last trip out, there were more thickets and undergrowth of poison ivy and sumac. As they made it past a narrow trail, their pathway opened up through a cow pasture, wound around past the wooden shack and through a fern forest that had become a haven for preying mantises, stinging insects, poisonous reptiles, and moths of every conceivable species. Ducking under the last canopy of overarching branches, she proceeded slowly forward, clenching Olivess’ arm tightly, with her own, which was shaking vigorously from the nervous recollection of bitter, painful memories of times past.
“We just walked the path of your slave ancestors, my child,” Chessie advised her as her eyes watered further. Olivess was speechless. She stared around in every direction, wondering what her grand aunt’s intention had been to bring her to a forest that was now uninhabited. But then, Chessie was ready to reveal the true purpose of the tour. She led Olivess in front of her, stood aside, and pointed to a headstone directly in front of them. As they kicked away the undergrowth, they noted the engraving on the stone, which read,
Olivess Goodman
Born October 5, 1835
Died August 14, 1868
Remembering the date from the diary entry, blood suddenly vanished from Olivess’ cheeks. “She must’ve died the next day after making that entry into her diary,” she concluded.
Chessie’s silent stare confirmed her conclusion. “She died so young,” Olivess remarked as rage quickly engorged her face. “Why didn’t the male slaves stop it? They should’ve given their lives to save hers,” she said, sobbing.
“You could never understand, child,” Chessie responded somberly. “They had no power, no way to fight the slave owners. I believe in my heart that they tried to save her and themselves. They even stole medical books to try to cure her.” Their conversation continued for several minutes. Chessie tried to comfort the girl’s bitter anguish but to no avail. Soon after, she noticed that Olivess would not look upon the house as they began walking back to the waiting taxi.
On the ride back to town, Chessie tried feverishly to comfort her distressed niece. But Olivess remained silent. The stretched lines in her forehead displayed her despair. “I know what you’re thinking child, but you must leave this alone now,” Chessie advised her. “I only showed you this place so you could have closure.”
Olivess stared back, saying, “I can’t leave this alone. I’ve got to do something about this.”
“Do what, child? This all happened over a century ago.”
Soon, Chessie’s blouse was soaked with Olivess’ tears. “Why didn’t they do something? Our African ancestors were supposed to fight to the death for their freedom.”
“Negro men couldn’t fight against guns, child. They’d get shot and those that didn’t get killed that way would’ve been hung on the spot. A life for a life is never justified, honey.”
“So how’d she die?” Olivess asked, holding back tears.
“All I know is what my grandmother told me, that she suffered from an illness known then as fluding of the womb, some kind of hemorrhage of her reproductive system. They believed it was from being raped so many times by the slave owner Drummond and not being cared for. I believe is that she took her own life to avoid dying in shame. The slave master only took slaves off the islands twice a year to get cures, only the house Negroes or those strong enough for plowing and picking.”
“So he knew he gave her this disease and did nothing?”
She explained, “Who knows, child. No slave master was gonna admit nothing about no slave.”
“I hate them all, Auntie. I hate them all,” she whined.
“I didn’t tell you this so you could wallow in anger, child,” Chessie said strongly. “You’d better mind your own business from now on. It’s best that you forget about this. It’s all ancient history, child.”
Olivess kept respectfully silent on the remainder of the trip home, nodding a feigned acknowledgment but inwardly remaining enraged.
During the next few days, Olivess’ grief and anger became an overwhelming desire to seek revenge. She felt the need for some form of retribution for her ancestor’s plight. She felt she could no longer speak about the matter to either of her grand-aunts, knowing they wouldn’t dare condone what she