Chapter 10
My day began in the most enjoyable way. A note under my door invited me to Ms. Kate’s cottage for an early lunch. She was
my new best friend. Not being one ever to pass up a good home-cooked Southern meal, I was at her cottage with zero seconds
to spare.
Before I could knock, the door opened to Ms. Kate’s wide smile. “Maunan na, Alex. I glad fa see oona.”
I handed her the bouquet of flowers I’d picked up from the florist in the shopping center down the road.
Ms. Kate’s smile widened. “Yuh didn’t need ta do dis. Me yard full of blooms, but it so sweet of oona.”
“Your kindness is only being reciprocated. Thank you for the invitation.”
“Come, come.” She waved me in.
The moment I stepped inside, the air changed.
The scent of rosemary, thyme, and something sweet made my stomach flutter in anticipation.
Ms. Kate’s living room was small but bright, washed in sunlight that fell through gauzy curtains.
On the wall hung a driftwood cross flanked by sweetgrass shaped into hearts, circles, and little bouquets.
Every surface told a story: a cluster of polished seashells arranged around a candle, Mason jars filled with dried herbs, and books that included leather-bound classical literature.
But not the authors you normally find in the stores.
She had books by people like Harriet Jacobs, Harriet Wilson, Hannah Crafts, Pauline Hopkins, and Anna J.
Cooper. The whole house hummed with the soft murmur of memory.
“Where did you get these volumes?” I asked, leaning over the books. They were on a shelf that was low to the ground.
“I buy de books an git dem bind wid de leada,” she said.
I worked to process her words but in the end didn’t quite get them all, so I just replied, “That’s genius.”
“It make ’um keep longer,” she said. “Lunch be ready.”
The table was set with a cotton cloth patterned in faded blue hydrangeas. Steam escaped from the hole in a Dutch oven. Corn
bread, just the right shade of golden and oozing with butter, rested in an iron skillet next to it. Beside it, a pitcher of
tea beaded with condensation.
My stomach growled. “This smells incredible.”
Ms. Kate lifted the lid off the pot. I fell into my chair. Shrimp and okra gumbo. I was in heaven. “I put a lil’ something
extra in here—my granny call ’um healin’ greens. Oona look like yuh kin use a homemade meal.”
“You are so right.”
“People talk ’bout medicine, but Gullah people know God put cure fuh sickness of de body, mind, an heart right yuh een de
dirt.”
I squinted like that was going to make me understand her better.
She pitched an eyebrow and repeated, “God put cure for sickness of the body, mind, and heart in the dirt.”
I nodded.
Ms. Kate tapped her chest with one hand, then pointed to the small window garden above her sink where potted herbs grew wild: basil, lemon balm, even a proud stalk of aloe. “Lotta health in dem jars. But let’s pray an eat. Uh know de chillun gwin come een a few hour.”
We ate, and she continued to talk about herbs the way some people talk about family. She told me how her mother cured coughs
with sassafras tea, how a poultice of rosemary and salt could draw out hurt.
Afterward, we walked to her backyard garden, where the atmosphere in her home spilled into the air that was rich with the
smell of wet soil and mint. Rows of herbs grew alongside flowers. A wooden bench leaned under a pecan tree, surrounded by
tiny birdhouses in every color.
“You made all these?” I asked, crouching to look at one shaped like a chapel.
She nodded. “Gotta keep my hands busy. Work keep tings from settlin’ too long.”
I didn’t ask what “things” she meant. The answer hung between us anyway. “Why are birds so important to you?”
“One of the ways our people held on to dem culture was to connect with nature. Birds are important to the Gullah. They remind
us of life, freedom, and sometimes death. In all de ways, dem bring messages. We have to pay attention to know that God sent
one.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Some of the younger one dem don’t follow the old ways of watchin’ for da birds, but I do.”
Just then a bluebird landed on a bird feeder right in front of us. It was so close it scared me.
“That be a indigo bunting. Him symbolize hope, renewal, and growth in the spirit.” Ms. Kate tilted her head to examine it more carefully. “They bring a message of rebirth, but they also ward off evil spirits.”
“Spirits,” I repeated, wanting to know more.
“Dem named after the indigo plant, which oona know makes the blue dye the ancestors farm here before the rice come. We use
the dye to make haint blue.”
I nodded, understanding the connection to evil spirits. “I never knew the haint blue was connected to the birds.”
Ms. Kate smiled. “And now you do, but there’s no evil here. He bring a promise today.”
“A promise of what?”
“That someting be better. Soon.” The bird jetted away. “See, he go when him message understood.”
When we returned inside, I noticed something missing among the life crowding Ms. Kate’s cottage—canvases, brushes, and paints.
I asked, “Do you have an art studio?”
Her eyes flickered toward the far room, then away. “Used ta. Ain’t painted in a long while.”
“Why not?”
She picked up the gumbo pot and walked it into the kitchen. I followed with the corn bread skillet and the pitcher. I placed
them on her counter and followed her back into the living room.
She continued, “Sometimes a heart too heavy fa color. De pain duh too deep to bring to de earth.”
The quiet between us deepened. I wanted to ask about her son, about the sadness in her voice, but something told me to let
the silence be.
She turned then, a spark of humor returning. “You lookin’ so serious. You don’t understand wa me say, do ya?”
“Not all of it,” I admitted, smiling sheepishly.
Ms. Kate laughed, a soft rumble. She placed a hand on my arm and squeezed. “I’ll speak plain fa oona. I can do both.”
Before I could reply, to tell her she didn’t have to not speak Gullah, a knock came at the door. It opened, and Gabe walked in; the sunlight framed him like he could be painted there.
“Hey, Auntie,” he said. He closed in on Ms. Kate and leaned in for a kiss.
She patted his chest and left us to go into the kitchen. He turned his attention to me.
“Alex, I see you found the best place to eat in the Lo’.”
I nodded. “I have indeed, but I didn’t know she was your aunt.”
“All my life.” He winked.
Ms. Kate returned, pressing a plate wrapped in tinfoil into his hand. “Uh won see oona. Uh hab to go to de hospital in Beaufort
to make a visit, and I’m stayin’ by dat way. Oona hab a good trip.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled. Ms. Kate returned to the kitchen. He gave me his attention again.
“You’re going somewhere?” Nosy. I was embarrassed that had come out of my mouth. I had no business keeping up with him, but I recalled his tour didn’t start
until next week.
“I’m speaking at the Gullah Geechee Festival in Wilmington this weekend. I’m leaving Saturday. I’ll be back Monday morning.”
“So you’re Gullah?”
“Yep.”
“I feel stupid for asking that. Ms. Kate is your aunt.”
“Well, people can be related in ways that don’t include blood.”
I nodded again. Joy being adopted by a neighbor slipped into my mind.
Gabe spoke once more. “Is it possible for us to talk tomorrow evening? I need a little help with something.”
“This is becoming a habit . . . you needing help,” I said, trying to sound casual while my pulse tripped over itself.
He frowned and rubbed his chin. “You know what? You’re right.” Then he called to Ms. Kate, “Auntie, I’m gone.” And then to me, “See you tomorrow.”
Gabe left, and I joined Ms. Kate in the kitchen, where she was washing dishes. She said, “So I do all the talkin’ at lunch.
Tell me ’bout you, or I not give oona none of the sweet potato pone dessert.” She winked at me.
“I can sing for my supper,” I said, sitting. I told her about my life in New Jersey and my childhood visits that connected
me to South Carolina and how I settled here after attending South Carolina State. I told her about my years teaching. I told
her a lot, which wasn’t like me.
I finished up with “I’m almost forty. Our bloodline is probably ending with me.” Speaking that out loud was hauntingly sad.
“Sounds like something to write about.”
I rolled my neck. “A way a say nuh?”
Ms. Kate’s head flew back. I’d tickled her all the way down to her toes. “Fa see, oona a quick study.” Shaking her head, she
got back on her mission. “But I say, if your family is disappearing, it’s more reason to write about them so they don’t.”
I heard her. I knew her kind of reader. Her bookshelves testified to her reading taste. Stories written by strong Black people
whose words didn’t come from quiet cabins but from hiding places, back rooms, hard-earned paper and ink. They chronicled freedom
and its limits, intellect and longing, Blackness in a world that refused to see it. I wasn’t that writer. My eyes slipped
to the hardcover novel on her coffee table. Gabe’s book. She expected greatness. She was related to it.
Ms. Kate handed me a cup of hot tea made with the leaves from a jar on her shelves and homemade cream she said she’d churned just this morning.
I cut into the pone, divvying out a slice of the custardy casserole for each of us.
I was comfortable in her house, more comfortable than I’d ever been in my own grandparents’ home.
Ms. Kate pulled her plate to her and sliced into it. After eating some and giving herself credit for the deliciousness with
a moan, she asked, “You have a man friend?”
A woman could not be single and spend time with an older Southern woman and not get this question. “Not one that I didn’t
make up for a book.” I smiled.
So did she, but then she said, “Life can change in an instant.”
Fueled by doubt and defeat, an involuntary sound came out of me—part sigh, part scoff. “I’ve been waiting for that instant
for a long time.”
“You have to pay attention. Not be too busy for them. Mans are like chillun. Dem need time and attention.”
“Do you have someone in mind, because I’m available,” I said, grinning. I clearly needed help. Every time I looked up and
picked a man, he was not a good guy, but I did not want to talk about that today.
She replied teasingly, “Maybe.”
I refused to let my imagination wonder who, but it betrayed me with the memory of Gabe’s words: “I used to have a crush on you.”
Ms. Kate and I ate and cleared our dessert plates in mere minutes before sitting back down. Then she said, “I been tinkin’
on what you say ’bout being available. Oona have written twenty-nine books in ten years. That’s a lot of writing. A lot of
time with your head down. It’s time to look up, Alexandra, so you can see what’s in front of you and see it clearly so your
choosin’ be betta.”
Lord, she was getting all in my business. I felt like two things were true here—she was wise and I was easy to read. “My mother
says the same thing.”
“She’s right.”
“How did we get on the subject of my romantic life?”
“You led us here. I was talkin’ ’bout writing a book with your family at the center.”
Oh my goodness. Was she gaslighting me? I chuckled and stood. “I need to go. The kids will be here soon. I enjoyed this so
much, Ms. Kate.”
Ms. Kate stood too. She surprised me when she pulled me into an embrace that summoned all the comfort I’d just absorbed from
her food. It was a hug that I needed and had needed for a long time. Lowcountry magic was what it was.
“You come here anytime you want to talk . . . to not talk . . . to eat . . . to learn.” She hiked a shoulder. “For whatever
reason.”
Her invitation swirled right into my belly. How did she know I needed someone like her right now? That Beck and I . . . I
didn’t want to consider it, but we were at odds on a topic that was sure to cause a rift.
“Thank you. You might regret being so generous.”
Ms. Kate chuckled lightly. “I don’t have no more space for regrettin’, and I know when God assign me a human.”
My heart heard her. I left with heaping containers of leftovers and the warmth and girth of her last words.