Good Dirt

Lens

Lens

H enry hooks up his camera to his laptop and scrolls through some of the images for Ebby and her family.

“Mmmm,” says Granny Freeman. Ebby recognizes that particular mmmm sound and waits. Sure enough, her grandmother asks her, now, to help her in the kitchen. Granny opens the oven door and Ebby, mitts on both hands, reaches in to pull out the roast that the housekeeper has cooked for them. Together, they transfer it to the oval, ivory-colored serving plate that has been in Granny’s kitchen for as long as Ebby can remember. The smell of the roast mixes with the aroma of a pound cake that has been cooling on the counter.

“The photographs,” Granny says. “They’re not bad.” She sticks a fork in the side of the roast, nudging it this way and that. “I’m not saying they’re not nice. I’m just wondering why there isn’t a black photographer here instead, taking those photos? Or at least someone from around here? Someone who didn’t, say, abandon you on your wedding day?”

“Henry left me, in part, because he couldn’t handle all of who I was, Granny. And he already knows how I feel about the way he left me. But also, there are reasons why I wanted to marry him in the first place. Qualities that can be helpful to us right now. For one, Henry was the only man I’d ever really confided in. Henry knew how much the jar meant to Baz and me. He encouraged me to write the jar stories.”

Her grandmother’s mouth looks tight. Ebby swallows hard and continues.

“Henry tried to be there for me, Granny. He was there for me for a long time.”

“Two years is not a long time, baby. Sixty years is a long time. Two years is a cop-out.”

“All right. Yes, Henry let me down, big-time. But I really do believe that a person should be able to say, Okay, I can’t handle this. This is something I’m not up for. ”

“Well, sure, honey. I agree. But it would be advisable to take such action well before the day of one’s nuptials, and have the courtesy to advise the bride in the process.”

Ebby bursts out laughing. Her grandmother frowns.

“I’m glad you find that funny.”

“No, it’s not, it’s just…well, it is. It’s that you sounded one hundred percent the professor when you said that.”

“Well, I’m retired now,” Granny says, her voice softening. “And I only taught library sciences in the beginning. So this is just your grandmother speaking. It was unforgivable, what he did, and I’m just concerned that you may be forgetting that.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Granny. But you’ve seen it for yourself. Henry has a good eye. He owes me a favor, big-time, and he’s someone I can trust to be discreet until we’re ready to say more.”

What Ebby doesn’t say is, if she doesn’t allow Henry to help her with this, he may never let her be. Henry thinks he wants Ebby back, but what Henry really wants is to be able to forgive himself. But her grandmother has figured this out.

“Life is too short, Ebby,” Granny Freeman says. “You don’t owe that boy anything. You owe yourself a person who can be with you through thick and thin.”

“This is not only personal, Granny. It’s strategic thinking. Look at Henry’s family. They have people on the boards of institutions that might support our idea for an educational project if they see how enthusiastic Henry is.”

Her grandmother grows very still. It is that certain type of stillness that Ebby has learned to read as don’t rile me, now .

“Do you not suppose,” she says, with a hint of a chill in her voice that Ebby has never heard, “that our family is sufficiently equipped to find the right institutions and sponsors to support this project? We have owned land in Refuge County since the 1600s. Our family has doctors, lawyers, and judges. Engineers, professors, military officers. A city mayor and a state senator. And, more importantly, various people with excellent research and secretarial skills. All of whom have telephones. I believe we have what it takes to round up the support our foundation needs.”

Ebby lowers her head. Feels her face grow hot.

“We need those photos, Granny.”

“I have talked to another photographer,” Granny says, “who is available to come by after lunch.”

“Wait, what?”

“Your grandfather and I have already discussed this. If you still want to use some of the Pepper boy’s photographs after you have seen the others, I’m not going to be the one to rule that out. Maybe you could get your ex-fiancé to take photographs of the other person photographing the jar. An African American who is looking at their history and identity through the lens of the jar’s story. Now, there’s something Henry Pepper could do for us.”

It’s pointless to argue. Ebby looks up at the clock on the kitchen wall. Good, they still have several hours of sunlight.

“We want people of all backgrounds to appreciate the history behind the jar,” Granny says, “but we must not lose sight of the fact that the jar is ours, and its story must be shared with others by our family, first, and by people from our community, not the other way around.”

And with a wave of her two-pronged serving fork, Granny Freeman ends the conversation.