be alive. That’s why I do what I do—not to torment Grandpa, but in the hope that someone else won’t lose their mother or daughter to needless medical procedures.”
“Then why wouldn’t your grandpa encourage you to sell a product intended to help women?”
“He thinks the compound is nonsense, and it wouldn’t help anyone.”
“He told you this?”
“He doesn’t have to. I’ve heard him talking. He thinks women are silly for taking it.”
“Still, I think you should tell Riley what you’re doing.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion. Just make sure you don’t let it slip when Grandpa comes in to buy sundries.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Beulah told her as April opened the door to leave.
“And you don’t have to worry about me.”
That was the nice thing about best friends; they didn’t have to worry about each other.
Chapter Four
Datha Gower had kept house for Riley Ogden for over five years. Since she was eleven years old she’d polished floors, hung wash, cooked and cleaned.
Ogden’s Mortuary was a towering, two-story landmark with a large, wraparound front porch that caught the sun in the morning, and a roomy back porch that offered a cool breeze in the afternoon.
It took a powerful lot of work to keep it all clean.
A screened-in porch on the north side of the house allowed Mr. Ogden privacy after a long, trying day. He was known to sit for hours, drawing on his meerschaum pipe while watching the foot traffic that passed in front of the mortuary, knowing that one day, like as not, he’d be burying every last passerby. Why, he could guess within an inch how tall anyone was and what size coffin it’d take to put them away.
Riley lived with his granddaughter in six big rooms above the main parlor. The place had been tastefully decorated by Riley’s deceased wife, Effie, who had favored overstuffed chairs, cherrywood and a passel of worrisome trinkets that needed dusting.
Wisteria vines trailed the length of the white porch railings shaded by large, overhanging elm trees. Datha and Flora Lee, her grandmother, lived in servants’ quarters behind the main house. Flora Lee had been with the Ogden family all her life. Flora Lee’s daddy, Solomon Tobias Gower, had served the Ogden family during the Civil War, refusing to leave them when the Emancipation Proclamation was effected. The Gowers thought themselves lucky to serve such a fine, upstanding family.
When Flora Lee had gotten too crippled to do much around the house, Datha took over. She’d lived with Flora Lee since her mama died in childbirth. On good days Flora Lee still came to the main house to help clean, but most days her rheumatism kept her home. Comfortably lodged in nice quarters, the two served the Ogden family with humble gratitude and tireless loyalty, counting their blessings that April and Riley were kind, caring people who were more family than employers.
In Flora Lee’s youth, long before the dead were taken to funeral homes for eulogies, long before the Ogdens had turned their private home into a mortuary, Flora Lee had helped Owen Ogden, Riley’s papa, to prepare friends and neighbors for burial.
Datha loved to hear stories about how her grandma had cried along with distraught wives and inconsolable mothers as they bathed and dressed their loved ones, then laid them out in the front parlor. Folks would come from miles around to view the body, offering words of comfort. Flora Lee liked to tell how she’d curl up in a corner, pulling her legs up beneath her, out of the way, but there to serve if anyone needed her.
Friends, in an effort to share the grief, brought overflowing baskets of food, arriving throughout the day to mourn the deceased. The yard would fill with buggies and neighbors standing outside visiting as the deceased lay within.
Datha hummed now as she dusted the mortuary entryway, remembering Flora Lee’s stories.
Neighbors had ridiculed Owen for taking a personal interest in his household help, but anyone who’d known him would tell you that he was a good man. Gossip had never bothered Owen Ogden, God rest his soul. He’d gone about his business, serving the citizens of Dignity in their time of need, reading the Good Book and following its teachings.
Never one to judge others, he’d made it clear that he didn’t intend to be judged by anyone other than himself and his Maker. When his health began to fail, Owen had turned the funeral business over to Riley, then up and died.
Just like that.
One minute he was sitting on the porch enjoying his nightly smoke, and the next he’d keeled over dead as a doornail.
But things went on like always. Riley had the same goodness in him that Owen did. Datha knew the senior Ogden only through her grandmother’s memories, but Flora Lee said that when Owen passed on, Riley hadn’t treated them any differently. He’d told her that this was her home and Datha’s as long as they wanted it, and that’s how it was going to be. Datha could hold her head high, proud as could be because she wasn’t ignorant. No, sir. Mr. Riley Ogden had seen to it that she was schooled as good as or better than most folks.
Grinning, Datha realized that she had just about everything she wanted, with the exception of Jacel Evans. Jacel was a fine black man who, because of Riley Ogden’s generosity, was about to go off to Boston to attend a university. Harvard, Riley called it. Real fancy school somewhere up there in Cambridge.
Jacel’s family was dirt poor. The rich folks the Evans family worked for owned the sawmill, but they didn’t share their good fortune with others. Certainly not with their black help.
Ellory Jordan provided meals and shelter for his servants, but that was all. If they needed more, they could just do without.
Most did without.
There was one young man determined to do more than just “make do.” He’d decided to pull himself out of that rut, and one man in the community saw potential in him. Jacel Evans, youngest son of Tully Evans, was a tall, powerfully built man who did more than his share of work in the sawmill. On his dinner break he read books, while other boys his age lay in the shade and dipped cool water over their sweat-drenched bodies.
Pride nearly suffocated Datha when she thought about her man. Why, her Jacel could saw more logs than any two men put together. Work harder than a team of Kentucky mules.
And he was smart. Real smart. Thought about things most folks never thought about. Things like how it wasn’t fair one man should be treated more poorly than another just because he had a different color of skin. Jacel would lie for hours, looking up at the sky, and say to her, “Datha, why is it the rich get richer and the poor get poorer?”
Or he’d ponder why some folks were born with good fortune, while for others if it wasn’t for bad luck, they’d have no luck at all.
Why did some suffer with bad health and others rarely see a sick day? Why did the good die young and the evil prosper?
Why were death and senseless tragedy deemed to be the will of a loving God?
Why did some work hard, only to go to bed at night with a hungry ache in their belly, while others made gluttons of themselves?
Why were innocent children mistreated because of someone else’s rage?
All questions to which she didn’t know the answers. But Jacel worried them about, turning them over and over in his mind—a fine mind hungry to learn.
Her Jacel was going to be a lawyer someday. An upstanding lawyer who wanted to undo some of the injustice he saw in the world. Once his practice was established, they were going to get married.
Datha smiled as she flicked a cloth at a spot of dust she’d missed on the foyer table. Yes, someday she was going to be Mrs. Jacel Evans. Her heart nearly burst from the joy of it. She and Jacel, holding hands, would “jump over the broom.” What a fine