The Secrets of Mary Bowser by Lois Leveen Page A

the confectioner went round to the rear of the building, where they’d buy a dish to carry away. Papa had never even tasted ice cream, because he refused to be served so.
    “Now you’re in Philadelphia, you can come right on in the front door.” Hattie led me inside, looking as proud as if she’d invented ice cream parlors herself.
    She ordered vanilla, though I couldn’t imagine why she overlooked strawberry. Bland as Mrs. Upshaw’s cooking was, I couldn’t order something as plain as vanilla once that man told us they had strawberry, too.
    “This ice cream has positively restored my delicate constitution,” I announced as my spoon hit the bottom of the parfait glass.
    “Pleased to be of service,” Hattie answered. “My daddy always says I’m practically made of ice cream, I eat so much of it all summer.”
    By now, I’d heard my daddy says so many times from Hattie, it seemed I practically knew the man myself. Which always made me wonder why I never heard about her mother. “And what does your mama say?” I asked.
    Her faced turned to stone. “Nothing. She’s dead.”
    Dead—that’s just the way she said it, not passed on or gone to Glory like most folks did. The hardness of the word sank right down past all that ice cream to the pit of my stomach, the way a rock tossed off the wharf would sink deep into the James River. Not the James, I reminded myself, you’re not in Richmond anymore. Ought to say the Delaware instead.
    “I’m sorry, Hattie, I didn’t realize.”
    “Well, now you know.” She pushed her empty dish to the center of our table and stared at the wall above my shoulder.
    Death was something I hadn’t thought much about. Folks we knew from prayer meeting passed away from time to time, but I’d never condoled the mourners much, child that I was. Now I wasn’t supposed to be a child anymore, and I struggled for something to say.
    I remembered how after Old Master Van Lew died, Bet wove locks of his hair into a braid and wore it as a mourning bracelet. “Did you keep anything of your mama’s, after she passed?”
    Hattie nodded. Reaching into her purse pocket, she pulled out a worn patch of pale green poplin, patterned with forest green flowers. The middle of the swatch was just about worn away from where her fingers had rubbed at it.
    “It was my favorite of all her dresses. When Daddy told us each to pick something of hers, this was all I wanted, a piece I could carry with me wherever I go. Charlotte, my oldest sister, had a fit. She wanted the whole dress for wearing herself, but Daddy said no, I was youngest and got to pick first. He cut the piece right then, handed it to me with a kiss.” She blinked her eyes and frowned. “I can remember the cut of the dress, the way it swished around when she moved, like I saw her in it an hour ago. But I can’t remember a thing about my mother besides that. Try to call up her face, I just get the daguerreotype they took after she died, which everyone says doesn’t resemble her at all.”
    My mind struggled for images of Mama and Papa, Josiah and Zinnie and the girls, Old Sam, too. I didn’t want to believe you could lose people like that, right out of your memory.
    Hattie ran her thumb over the scrap of cloth. “The thing I most wish I remembered was her voice. She had a song she used to sing to me and my sisters, ‘Walk Together Children.’ Daddy sings it sometimes now, but it’s not the same.”
    “What does your daddy say she sounded like?” I asked.
    “Like me.”
    I ventured out my hand to pat hers, even offered a half smile, the kind you can pull back down in case it isn’t met warmly. I saw her chest rise up and fall, one deep breath, and got the same half smile back from her.
    As we strolled back toward school, arms linked liked always, I confided, “When Old Master Van Lew died, we were all supposed to go in and pay our respects, but I hid out in the smokehouse I was so scared.”
    “My daddy always says we can do more