Down to the Potter’s House. Annette Valentine

would be coming for tea. The desire that typically preoccupied and drove me to create a positive change in the public-school systems and equality among school districts would simply have to wait until I returned on January 5. Meanwhile, having had Elizabeth Ann zip my dress, I finished up the last day of the 1930 school calendar, rang the handbell, and hugged the students as they filed out. After smothering the coals, I walked three blocks in the blustery wind to Mrs. Martin’s boarding house where I lived.

      Chapter 5

      As I eagerly watched from the window in the parlor at the boarding house the next morning, it was all I could do to contain myself. I hoped to spot my brother coming up Boughey Street in a buggy, but he was not. Tardiness was easy to predict where Henry was concerned, but of all times for him to be late, this should not have been one of them.

      My rather large suitcase and one small bag sat at the edge of the porch. I stepped outside one more time into the invigorating air to get a feel for the weather and evaluate the potential for snow flurries. Frothy clouds hovered in shades of gray.

      “You’re letting every bit of heat out of this house. For Pete’s sake,” said my landlady, “come back in here right now, or I’ll have to raise your rent!”

      I knew she was joking, but I apologized, anyway, and stepped back inside the cozy confines of the hallway of my boarding house.

      “Your brother’s going to show up any minute. Why don’t you seat yourself and relax?”

      I’d no sooner plopped on the petite settee in the parlor than here came the familiar sight of the carriage, its fringe swaying, the horse’s head bobbing. With blinders on its eyes, the horse looked neither to the left nor the right as it trotted down the road.

      I was already out the door, and at Henry’s command, the old filly came to a halt out front. The recognizable figure of my older brother was perched high on the bench.

      “Morning, Sis,” he shouted over horse’s snorts.

      “You-hoo! Don’t ya be forgetting these suitcases. Merry Christmas now!” With a wave, Mrs. Martin was back inside before Henry had jumped from the carriage to the ground. He tied the reins to the post then walked toward me with a boyish grin, pausing to wrap his long, lanky arms around me. Deep eyes gazed at me from beneath a well-worn hat situated atop his boney forehead. He smelled of old straw and stale beer.

      “Thanks for coming. Thanks for getting an early start. Ah! Fresh air! Cold, fresh air,” I said with every indication of enthusiasm I possessed. “I simply love it.”

      “Yep. Did at that, Sis. It was barely light.” He snugged me in with heated bricks at my feet and after tucking the luggage in place, handed me a blanket for my lap.” “You’re looking well.”

      He settled himself on the bench, reins in hand and with the whip poised over the horse’s rear end, gently tapped her. “Step up, ol’ girl.”

      “It’s going to be a good Christmas,” I said as the horse began walking. “Emma goes to a lot of trouble for all of us. You know how she is. And this year little Louise must be very excited . . . looking for Santa and all.” I turned to see if I was giving Henry something to smile about. “Hope Emma’s children are going to let her hang onto the anticipation a few more years, don’t you?”

      “I enjoy it, Sis. No doubt about that.” Henry swallowed hard as a gust of bitter breeze swirled in our faces. He reached over and pulled my scarf higher over my mouth. “You’re a pretty girl, Sis. And you’ll get married. Be gone for good then. Hillbound’s never been the same without you.”

      “Now, Henry, we have to look on the bright side, don’t you think? Besides, marriage is about the last thing from my mind. One day, of course. No time soon. Will you join us for church tomorrow?”

      “Nah. You did the right thing by Moe Lee’s children—all those colored children, Amos’s—teaching them to read and write when you had the chance. I should’ve never given you a hard time about it.”

      “Goodness! Those children were my inspiration. Without them I might not have gone into teaching or the mission field. We have to work with what God puts in our path. He’ll mold raw materials into something beautiful . . . if we let Him.”

      Henry mulled over the suggestion. Part of me wanted to say more, to find a way to paint a picture of him with a wife, children, maybe. Managing the farm, tapping his natural wherewithal as a farmer, making Hillbound thrive once again with tobacco—completely restored as the tobacco farm that our father had squandered in his counterfeit trade for race horses, gambling, and glitz. I could feel myself relishing the savory wintry morning, soaking up in my memory the smell and richness of tobacco crops, reaching out to the touchable Maxwell legacy that Henry so tentatively held onto.

      Either deep thought or melancholy had set in. It was hard to tell, but after a long silence Henry’s shoulders straightened and he gave a little giddy-up to the reins. “You got a suitor coming over to Millicent’s? It’s what I heard.”

      “Oh. Well, sort of, maybe. Simon Hagan’s coming for tea. That’s all. I’m looking forward to finding out about him, anyway.”

      Henry’s head lurched backward in a burst of laughter. Hearing him joyous again was the music to my ears, even at my expense.

      “Not funny, Henry.”

      “Don’t know if his brother ever played football at the high school, but he was sure enough there before I had to quit. I was a good athlete back then, Sis.”

      He turned to see if I agreed. Inwardly, I agreed that his talent, too, was lost when trades were made: trade for Henry’s labor over Henry’s education. But I gave him a sincere and affirmative nod. “You have all kinds of talents, and don’t ever forget it.”

      “He probably would’ve played after that . . . ol’ Alan. Alan Hagan. Yep, would be Simon’s brother. Wonder whatever happened to him . . . And now that I’m thinking, I believe he died somehow, a few years back.” Henry rambled on, seemingly in need of someone to talk to, and I was content to let him speak his mind as Trojan Girl trotted us past field after field and the grassy broadleaf weeds that had sprung up along the road and in between the stubble of harvested wheat.

      But the mention of Mama never came up, and I let the subject be.

      Chapter 6

      The carriage headed up South Main Street. I was inside Millicent and Jim’s house before Henry rode out of sight.

      “Are you just about frozen? Here,” Millicent said, turning me around, “warm your backside. Give me your coat . . . all this extra . . . and thaw out! Why didn’t Henry come in? He should have. I mean, he’s been out in the cold for hours!”

      “Stubborn. What else? I think he was a little bit insulated, if you know what I mean.”

      “No! I don’t want to hear it.” Millicent put up a hand to ward off the mention of alcohol. “Is he going to Emma’s Christmas Day?”

      “He promised. But I guess I didn’t even bring up Father and Francine. Should I have?”

      “Probably not. Emma’s planning on everybody! Father won’t disappoint her . . . awkward as that’s gonna be.”

      Millicent and I gave each other knowing looks. With no further speculation about what to expect come Christmas Day, we moved into the kitchen.

      “I didn’t give you much of a chance to get warmed up,” she said and busied herself with uncovering the shortbread while I tinkered with the tea kettle. “It’s fine, fine,” I said.

      But it wasn’t—the expectation was too high to contain, and practically at the same moment and without