fairly young.
She had no brothers or sisters; however, until recently there’d been a relative on her mother’s side, an old maiden aunt by the name of Henriette Dimontere. Henriette had died in her sleep, lying flat on her back atop ironed white sheets. On her last day on earth, this Henriette enjoyed several moments of prescience that had inspired her to take a bath, don her best nightgown and purple turban, and lie down on those freshly washed-and-ironed white sheets. Then she closed her eyes and died.
The prescience had actually come to Henriette the week before, when she’d been inspired to leave a last will and testament (which bore the seal of a notary public), a copy of which was recorded at the courthouse by the Register of Deeds. Another copy was mailed to her niece, Trinidad Prefontaine, care of the Virgil B. Hortons.
Henriette had been given her house and land by the judge who’d employed her for most of her life and who had also been her lover. Though the judge had been good to Henriette, he would not allow her to take her niece in when the child had been left an orphan. Henriette had kept in touch with her only living relative and now was leaving the property to her. She’d always felt sorry for the girl, surmising that she’d had a miserable childhood.
Trinidad received this news some three weeks later in June of 1952, and she took it as a sign. She’d begun to feel an itching on the soles of her feet, and she took that as a sign too; mixed in with all that itching was her own intuition and Mam Judith’s prophecy, and Trinidad decided it was time to move on. She’d been serving the Dalton family for quite some time and something was telling her it was just about enough. In fact, there was more than one something. There was the imp that still skipped around at the edge of her eyesight, and there was the memory of that vision she’d once had of the circling raven, the dove, and the sparrow on a night when certain stars shone bright through holes in rain-filled clouds.
All of those things pulled on Trinidad, but what pulled on her most was a fluttering that came to her reversed heart sometimes. Good Lord, how that fluttering could get her attention!
And so at the age of thirty-nine, Trinidad began to detach from the Pascagoula Hortons, point her toes westward, and scan the horizon, sniffing at the air like a hound on a scent. The Hortons were devastated at her departure, but the best she could do to comfort them was to say she would remember them fondly and might return for a visit.
All of her belongings fit into an old leather satchel she’d bought at a secondhand store: three cotton dresses and a sweater, as well as an assortment of objects she treasured because she believed they held spiritual powers. She carried her kitchen around on her back, rolled up in a handmade quilt—a pot, a pan, a knife and spoon, a rolling pin, and a coffee pot made of white-speckled, slightly chipped enamel over steel.
On the day she set out, Trinidad took one last look eastward and went the other way. She made it to Louisiana by means of a ferryboat that ran across Bay St. Louis, and once there walked the shoulder of Highway 90.
She entered Bayou Cymbaline on her own two feet, and not one of its citizens noticed her arrival. She reached the center of town at two o’clock in the afternoon on the very hot next-to-the-last day of June. Ten minutes after she’d crossed the city limits, she stood before the entrance of the courthouse on Lafayette Street, the one in which William and Dancy had married. She went around back in search of a hose or a water pump with a sign that would designate it “for colored.” She always looked for such a sign above doorways, at hospitals, schools, churches, cemeteries, beaches, lunch counters, and most of all public restrooms.
Trinidad wanted to wash the travel dust from her face, hands, and feet. She found a fountain but no designation. This made her very nervous. She knew the
She had no brothers or sisters; however, until recently there’d been a relative on her mother’s side, an old maiden aunt by the name of Henriette Dimontere. Henriette had died in her sleep, lying flat on her back atop ironed white sheets. On her last day on earth, this Henriette enjoyed several moments of prescience that had inspired her to take a bath, don her best nightgown and purple turban, and lie down on those freshly washed-and-ironed white sheets. Then she closed her eyes and died.
The prescience had actually come to Henriette the week before, when she’d been inspired to leave a last will and testament (which bore the seal of a notary public), a copy of which was recorded at the courthouse by the Register of Deeds. Another copy was mailed to her niece, Trinidad Prefontaine, care of the Virgil B. Hortons.
Henriette had been given her house and land by the judge who’d employed her for most of her life and who had also been her lover. Though the judge had been good to Henriette, he would not allow her to take her niece in when the child had been left an orphan. Henriette had kept in touch with her only living relative and now was leaving the property to her. She’d always felt sorry for the girl, surmising that she’d had a miserable childhood.
Trinidad received this news some three weeks later in June of 1952, and she took it as a sign. She’d begun to feel an itching on the soles of her feet, and she took that as a sign too; mixed in with all that itching was her own intuition and Mam Judith’s prophecy, and Trinidad decided it was time to move on. She’d been serving the Dalton family for quite some time and something was telling her it was just about enough. In fact, there was more than one something. There was the imp that still skipped around at the edge of her eyesight, and there was the memory of that vision she’d once had of the circling raven, the dove, and the sparrow on a night when certain stars shone bright through holes in rain-filled clouds.
All of those things pulled on Trinidad, but what pulled on her most was a fluttering that came to her reversed heart sometimes. Good Lord, how that fluttering could get her attention!
And so at the age of thirty-nine, Trinidad began to detach from the Pascagoula Hortons, point her toes westward, and scan the horizon, sniffing at the air like a hound on a scent. The Hortons were devastated at her departure, but the best she could do to comfort them was to say she would remember them fondly and might return for a visit.
All of her belongings fit into an old leather satchel she’d bought at a secondhand store: three cotton dresses and a sweater, as well as an assortment of objects she treasured because she believed they held spiritual powers. She carried her kitchen around on her back, rolled up in a handmade quilt—a pot, a pan, a knife and spoon, a rolling pin, and a coffee pot made of white-speckled, slightly chipped enamel over steel.
On the day she set out, Trinidad took one last look eastward and went the other way. She made it to Louisiana by means of a ferryboat that ran across Bay St. Louis, and once there walked the shoulder of Highway 90.
She entered Bayou Cymbaline on her own two feet, and not one of its citizens noticed her arrival. She reached the center of town at two o’clock in the afternoon on the very hot next-to-the-last day of June. Ten minutes after she’d crossed the city limits, she stood before the entrance of the courthouse on Lafayette Street, the one in which William and Dancy had married. She went around back in search of a hose or a water pump with a sign that would designate it “for colored.” She always looked for such a sign above doorways, at hospitals, schools, churches, cemeteries, beaches, lunch counters, and most of all public restrooms.
Trinidad wanted to wash the travel dust from her face, hands, and feet. She found a fountain but no designation. This made her very nervous. She knew the
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