“I think you know.”
“I may. But your English is much better than mine. It is still a foreign language to me. I want to be sure I understand everything.”
“It means that Father sold Midnight to a man in the American state of Virginia, through a ship’s captain by the name of Morgan. After that, Midnight was sold again and was probably taken to South Carolina. That is a state still profiting by slavery. He could not be located — not, at least, in 1807. And not by Benjamin in years since. In short, it means that Midnight may still be alive — shackled as a slave in South Carolina. Or somewhere else in the United States.”
“John, you cannot expect me to believe such a tale — to believe your father would do such a thing!”
“Nevertheless, he did.”
“But why? Why would he — ” As she spoke, her voice caught on the truth of her own role in this tragedy. “I simply … simply cannot believe it,” she stammered. “I refuse to believe any of it, John. It’s completely impossible!” She held the letters out to me. “Take them, I do not want to read these lies — these damnable lies!” She threw them to the ground.
“Mother, for how long did you and Midnight …” I could not complete my question.
She picked up her embroidery, but her hands were quivering and she could make no progress. “Damn my eyesight!” she snapped.
“How long did you and Midnight — ”
“John,” she interrupted, “I don’t suppose you might bring me another candle.” She looked up with a determined squint, defying me to continue my questioning. “This eyesight of mine … Old age — it’s positively unforgiving.”
“I’ll get you a candle, Mother, but there are old secrets I must now be told.”
She returned to her needlework. “When you are an old man, John, I hope your daughters do not subject you to an interrogation like this.”
“When I am old, I dearly hope they’ll not have to.”
I let the silence fester, hoping its weight would unsettle her and prompt her to speak, but she would not utter a word. “You are not going to tell me, are you?” I asked. “Mother, I do not wish to hurt you, but I need to know these things.”
“I shall not speak of them.”
“You might consider that I’ve a right to know.”
“I might not.”
“I’ve lived with lies for nearly twenty years. And Midnight may still be alive. Don’t you think it would be best to speak the truth?”
“Truth!” she shouted. “It’s so easy for you to say that word. If these letters sent to your father tell the truth, then I was lied to too, you know!”
“Mama, you stopped loving me.”
“That’s not fair,” she replied more gently.
“You stopped loving me and only truly started again when you came here. Please admit it after all these years.”
She clung to silence as her only defense.
“But I kept loving you, Mama, and I kept loving Midnight,” I said desperately.
“So” — she glared — “it was only you? Is that what you think? We
At length I said, “I shall ask you again, Mother. And if you answer truthfully, I shall never mention these things again.”
“I warn you. If you say another word, I shall ask you to leave and never allow you to come back to my home.”
Time slowed as we locked eyes as enemies. I had nothing more to lose.
“Did you and Midnight lie together as man and woman?”
At that, Mother tried to leave the room, but I caught her arm as she passed me and gripped it hard.
“Take your hand off me!” she screamed.
“No! Not till you’ve told me the truth.”
She tried to jerk free of my grasp, but I wouldn’t let go.
“John, you’re going too far this time!”
“I haven’t gone far enough. Not yet, at least.”
“You’re hurting me. Let me go this instant!”
“Only if you finally speak the truth, Goddamn it! What happened between you and Midnight?”
She drew back her free hand to slap me, but I caught it just in time.
“What would your father say about the way you’re treating your mother?” she demanded.
I shook her savagely, leaving her speechless with shock. “I don’t care what he’d say!” I hissed. “He’s dead, Mama — dead! And I’m not. I’m here with you and I need the truth. You owe it to me for not loving me all those years!”
When she burst into tears, I reluctantly let her go.
“I don’t give a damn about your pride!” I shouted after her as she ran from the room. “It’s Midnight’s life we’re talking about. If you ever loved him, then you must tell me the truth. You have to or — ”
She slammed her door before I’d finished my plea.
I smoked in the sitting room, gulping down whiskey to calm my nerves. I wished I could twirl the hands of Aunt Fiona’s clock back to an hour earlier. Not to spare Mother. No, to speak even more harshly. This time, I’d force the truth out of her if I had to.
When I heard a carriage rattle to a halt by our door, I slunk away to my room, unable to face my daughters. To the sound of Fiona and the girls chattering about the play, I fell into a whiskey-induced slumber.
When I awoke, Mother was playing the first movement of the “Moonlight Sonata.” In my dressing gown, I crept into her room. I stood next to her and turned the pages. We didn’t speak. She made no attempt to look at me.
Forgiveness entered my thoughts. Filtering into the soft arpeggios, it became the melody. Was that what Beethoven had composed — an homage to
My rage had been dissipated by sleep. I was grateful for that.
When she stopped playing, I said, “Midnight may be living as a slave, Mama. I cannot bear that. It’s killing me. I shall not live again as the man I was until I find him. Mama, I shall try to find him whatever you tell me.”
“Will you go to America?”
“Aye. My ship leaves in a week, on the Seventeenth, from Portsmouth. I must leave London the day before.”
She reached for my hand and brought it to her lips, then rubbed it along her cheek.
“You still have the most beautiful hands of anyone I know.”
“Mama, I am sorry for — ”
“Sssshhh. You were right. What we did to you was terrible — terrible and unfair.”
She led me to the sofa. She played with my fingers some more, then sniffed their scent of tobacco. I was quite sure this reminded her of the loving presence of my father, as it always did for me. She kissed both my hands, then made them into fists and handed them back to me.
“John, when you used to go to your tarn, I used to worry myself sick about you. I never told you that because I didn’t want you to be thinking of me sitting at home, concerned for your safety. I wanted you to feel free, as I never did as a child. I felt watched. I may have failed as a mother, but I want you to know that I tried as best I could.”
“You didn’t fail. That’s not why I need to discuss these things now. I shall always be grateful to you for the happiness of my childhood.”
I stood up and went to the fireplace, stirring up the coals and ash. “Mama, if I do not come back,” I said, “then you must … you must — ”
“‘If I do not come back’?” she interrupted. “What is that supposed to mean?”
