Sapphire's Grave by Hilda Gurley Highgate Page B

seemed to slacken. “Dis boy. ’Bout how old you reckon he is?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. ’Roun’ twelve or thirteen, I guess. He real han’some, Ma. He got light eyes like me. An’ he tall, jes like you say my daddy was.” Her mother did not respond. “Mama, you
sho’
he ain’t got no people ’roun’ here? ’Cause if he do, I mean if he might, it sho’ would be nice if I could jes, ya know like, talk to somebody, somebody who knew my daddy, and might know some o’ his kin ’roun’ here.” Vyda Rose could not interpret her mother’s expression. Queen Marie seemed suddenly to have grown old, sad, and terribly, terribly tired. “Please, Mama. I gotta know who dis boy is. Think hard who might know some kin to my daddy.”
    Queen Marie had tried hard to maintain the secret of Vyda Rose’s paternity.
    That boy of Prince’s would be grown now, probably with children, and very possibly a boy of about twelve.
    There was nothing to be gained by bringing Prince Junior into unpleasant enlightenment now.
    But Vyda Rose was so hopeful. Queen Marie had not seen her so excited since she was a child. She owed her daughter this. If she could not give her daughter the relationship with her father that had been lost, she could at
least
give her the knowledge of her flesh and blood. Queen Marie thought hard while Vyda Rose watched. Not Sister. She would not trouble Sister. But the girl—Lilly. She was married now, and living in Henderson.
    Lilly would see her father in Vyda Rose’s hooded hazel eyes. No doubt, she would assume that Vyda Rose was her own sister. Queen Marie sighed again. This was probably best. Prince was dead. His son, no doubt, had a family.
No use in stirring up the pot,
Queen Marie thought.
    She stood wearily and carried her bulk across the small steamy room. Finding a pen and paper, she wrote a name and approximate address.
    “This lady might he’p.” Queen Marie held out the piece of paper but moved no further. Vyda Rose stood and crossed the room to accept it. It was a familiar address—an old Henderson neighborhood where no one was new in town. Vyda Rose looked at her mother, who seemed to be shrinking into herself as Vyda Rose realized they had been there all along. Vyda Rose’s family, or someone who knew of her family, had been there, right there in town, all the time.
    HENDERSON, NORTH CAROLINA
    SEPTEMBER, 1900
    The house, it turned out, was just what Vyda Rose had expected: large but unimposing, with a dignity worthy of its inhabitants. All of the houses along this road were sturdy and well-kept, set back some distance from the road, with carefully tended gardens beside or behind them. Lilly Cheeks’ house was the one at the end, just east of William Street, closest to the white folks. It was a flat board structure painted white, with a bed of geraniums on either side of the door. Real gingham curtains, not flour sacks, graced Lilly’s windows which, Vyda Rose noted, were real glass windows, not wooden-shuttered crude holes.
    A well-behaved child sat quietly on the short steps that led to the front door. He stood as Vyda Rose approached, a boy of about ten, built as sturdily as the house, and equally as well-maintained. His hair was neatly cropped, and enormous ears stood out on each side of his well-scrubbed face. He was meticulously dressed in short pants and an open-necked shirt, and he regarded Vyda Rose solemnly.
    “Evenin’, Ma’am,” he said, his voice startlingly mature.
    “Evenin’,” Vyda Rose replied. “My name is Miss Vyda Rose. I’m lookin’ for Miz Lilly Cheeks. I reckon ’at would be yo’ mama.”
    “Yes, Ma’am,” the boy answered, turning and opening the door wide. “Mama!” he called as he led Vyda Rose inside. “Miss Vi’let Rose here to see you!”
    Vyda Rose, hesitating just inside the door, surveyed the spotless room. A combination living, dining, and bedroom, it was slightly over-decorated with dried flowers in pastel painted vases, photographs