I stared, mesmerized, perplexed, and deeply disturbed.
My sitz bones had begun complaining as I sat on splintering, unswept hardwood floors.
Before me lay a spread of images, letters, and knickknacks that probably held meaning far beyond what I could conjure by my own imaginings.
"Nana, who even were you?"
I had only unpacked a fraction of the trunk, setting the valuables on a clean sheet I'd snatched from the linen closet.
I hadn't yet, rifled through the contents of any more letters or portraiture. I just wanted to look at them, to count the relics that amounted to this newfound identity of a woman I had known my whole life.
A woman I thought I'd known.
I had known her, though, right?
I contemplated this knowing, disappointed that she'd left earth before I could become acquainted with this version of her.
I sifted through my memory, scouring my brain for any mentions of her acquaintance with a US president.
Gingerly, I reached for a tri-folded paper. The parchment felt enduring in my hands as if the author hadn't wanted it to whither away so easily.
I held my breath, nervous anticipation clenching my heart in a vice grip.
I opened the folds, warmed by the elegant script.
My Sweet Lizzie,
My heart aches when I look at you. It pains me that I can't touch you. It is nothing short of nerve-wracking that I can't let my gaze linger on you when all I want to do is be near you. I promise I'm not getting "swallowed up in my misery", as you like to put it. But, no matter – tonight is all about celebration. We've done it. We've really done it.
You've done it, you incredible, genius woman.
Meet me after, and don't take too long. I know how you like to linger.
The Willard.
Washington Suite, 10th floor.
I clutched at nonexistent pearls, turning the paper around in search of its penner.
Nothing.
"Nana, I know you'd tell me to watch my mouth, but what in the actual hell?"
I reached for another note, this one a rectangle of cardstock stationery.
A gold etching was embossed along the perimeter, with a gap left at the bottom, where the letters "RM" stood pronounced.
Our spot. Dusk. Wear that little blue dress I like.
My mouth hung open.
Since when did Nana take orders from a mere man?
I couldn't picture it – Elizabeth Anne Smith letting some guy sway her. It was akin to blasphemy.
And RM?
It had to stand for Roosevelt Marshall. I could no longer categorize it as perchance; it had to be him. But how? When? And, why had it been a secret kept from me of all people?
I could understand a national secret. I could understand a classified no-no. But, a secret this big kept from me, of all people?
As if she were next to me, I could hear her voice, "You know you ain't supposed to be in grown folks' business."
I felt the oncoming of a little attitude setting in, my lips pursing in mild agitation. I'd always hated hearing that. A verbal arrest it was. You knew when you heard that line you were being barred from some important, weighty topic of conversation. You knew not a single bit of pertinent information would be entrusted to you.
YOU ARE READING
VOLUME | ONC 2023
Ficción históricaIt all started with a pithy little love letter. Harriet is clearing out her grandmother's attic when she discovers a trunk chock-full of relics of the past. What was once an emotionally-daunting episode of spring cleaning has become the discovery o...