Coal, War & Love: A Novel

Copyright © 2018 by Rudean Leinaeng

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

ISBN: 978-1-54397-339-6 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-54397-340-2 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America.

First printing edition 2019

This book is a work of fiction. With the exception of Albert Sidney Johnson, Sr. and wife Evelyn Ashton Johnson, their immediate family members, as well as certain historical figures and events, any references to real people, living or dead, or real places, are used fictitiously and are products of the author’s imagination.

Title of Cover: Colored Man Is No Slacker

Creator: Renesch, E. G. (Edward George), born 1879, artist

Date Created/Published: Chicago, IL: [Publisher not identified], [1918]

Repository: Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, D.C. 20540 USA

http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/pp.print

Photos courtesy of Thomas Allen Harris and Harold Epps

Author’s photo by Lyle Ashton Harris and Briscoe Savoy

Tulipbud Press

Bronx, New York

www.tulipbudpress.com

[email protected]

O, yes,

I say it plain,

America never was America to me,

And yet I swear this oath—

America will be!

From: Let America be America Again

A Poem by Langston Hughes, 1935

To my grandfather, Albert Sidney Johnson, Sr., the dreamer, who risked life and limb in the war to achieve the dream.

To my grandmother, Evelyn Ashton Johnson, the romantic, who held down the home front and saved the dream.

To my mother, Joella Alston Johnson, the encourager, who–through love, understanding, and acceptance–enhanced the dream.

And, to my father, Albert Sidney Johnson, Jr., the chronicler, who–through faith and perseverance–fulfilled the dream and loved to tell the tale.

Contents

PART ONE

Albert – 1909

Evie

Albert

James Soemba Ashton, The Madagascan

Albert

Evie

Albert

Evie

Albert

Evie

Albert

Albert

Evie

Albert

Albert

Evie

Evie

Evie

Albert – 1910

Evie

Evie – 1912

Evie

Albert – 1914

Albert

Albert

Evie

Evie

Albert – 1916

Evie – 1917

PART TWO

Albert – 1917

Evie

Albert

Albert

Albert

Evie

Albert

Evie

Albert – 1918

Albert

Evie

Albert

Albert

Evie

Albert

Albert

Evie

Evie

Albert

Evie

Albert

Evie

Albert

Evie – 1919

Albert

Evie

Albert

Albert

PART THREE

Evie – 1923

Albert – 1925

Evie

Albert

Evie – 1929

Albert – 1930

Evie

Albert

Albert

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Albert – 1909

I awoke in a sweat at five that morning in one of the ship’s small cabins. I had dreamt of Pa again–his angry, distorted face, demanding complete and unquestioned obedience, my eleven-year-old frame mirroring a measured defiance, and Ma’s quivering lips, silently praying for peace between us. It was the day that Pa pulled me out of school, the day he trampled my dreams.

As I hurriedly dressed for the breakfast service, I tried to shake off the resentment I felt. After all, it had happened nearly twenty years ago. Three hours later, the ship docked in New York and I headed straight for the grim Harlem rooming house I called home. I was dead tired.

I had been in this city for nearly two years, coming from everywhere you can imagine, and had landed a waiter’s job on the People’s Nightline Steamer, which plied the Hudson River between New York and Albany carrying both passengers and freight. The pay wasn’t much, and I had been laid off during January and February when the river froze over, but it was better than shoveling coal. Anyway, the tips and free meals made it well worth my while. To tell the truth, I was dispirited and tired. I was tired of roaming, tired of living at that dreadful Harlem rooming house, but most of all tired of being alone. Years ago, when I was working at a West Virginia coal mine, an older miner advised me to find a good woman to love. Well, I had traveled clear across this country, around the world in fact, but I still hadn’t found her. And I had no idea of what she even looked like.

When I reached the rooming house, I went to fetch my uniform from Claudine, the landlady’s youngest daughter, who had washed and pressed it. I knocked on her door and when she opened it, she threw me a come-hither look.

Come on in, Al, and rest a bit.

I don’t have time, now. I just dropped by to pick up my uniform.

What you always so busy at? she asked, holding out the clean uniform with one hand and grabbing my sleeve with the other. One would think you was a big shot or something.

I snatched the uniform, paid her fifteen cents, and scurried down the dimly lit hall to my room. See you around, Claudine.

She sucked her teeth and slammed the door. Claudine was good-looking and shapely, but she was not the kind of woman I was interested in. So I kept my distance. To me, she spelled trouble, with a capital T.

After sleeping the day away and then eating a meal of collard greens, lima beans and ham hocks at Pete’s, a local greasy spoon, I dropped by Bill’s Place on Seventh Avenue, the tavern I usually frequented. I hadn’t been there for a few weeks.

Bill, the proprietor, and several of the regulars greeted me as I approached the polished wooden bar. Well if it ain’t Mister Al Johnson, Bill shouted. Where the dickens you been, man?

I’ve been to hell, and back again.

Well, at least, the devil let you loose, one of the regulars said.

Yeah. The man was too cool for hell! another replied. We all laughed.

I pushed my way through the crowd and joined my friend Deek Williams at the bar. He was a sleeping car porter. We would sometimes meet for a drink at the Dockside Tavern in Albany, and I was surprised to see him here in Harlem.

Yeah, I’m off tonight, but gotta catch a train at Grand Central in the morning.

I work tomorrow, too. This is my first night off in well over a week.

We bought each other drinks and continued to shoot the breeze. As the night wore on the bar got more congested, and the noise became deafening, with each man trying to out talk, out drink, out lie, and out laugh the other.

About midnight, a fancy lady in a shiny blue dress and dangling rhinestone earrings worked her way up to the bar and stood beside me. Some of the men whistled and made flirty remarks as she passed them by.

Deek looked her over and whispered, Maybe you’ll get lucky tonight.

Man, she ain’t my type, I whispered back. He laughed.

The fancy lady flashed me a bright smile. So I treated her to a drink and we chatted for a while. She looked attractive in the soft glow of gaslight, but as she snuggled closer, I nearly gagged on the scent of her cheap perfume. I inched away.

She reared back and asked, What’s the matter, sweetie? Don’t momma look good enough?

I have a lady at home.

Maybe you’d best stay there with her or someone else will. After saying that, she moved on to a slick-looking fellow, who was eyeing her from the end of the bar.

I left the raucous tavern about two in the morning and quickly walked home through the dark streets of Harlem. As I passed by Doyle’s Saloon, where the well-to-do and talented Negroes congregated, I heard the muted sounds of ragtime piano. In those days, Harlem had a mixed population of Jews, Italians, Irishmen, and colored folks. It was first opened to Negroes five or six years earlier by the colored real estate agent, Philip Payne, and as colored people moved up from the crowded tenements of Tenderloin and San Juan Hill in lower Manhattan, as well as from the Deep South, whites began moving out. Obviously, each group frequented its own saloons and speakeasies.

The following afternoon I climbed out of bed, reluctant to face another day. My tiny room, with its peeling pea-green walls and threadbare carpet–home to all manner of vermin–was ugly and uninviting. As I stretched out my stiff frame, the smell of stale bacon grease and cabbage from the nearby kitchen assaulted me, so I threw open the window and took a deep breath. I needed to hurry. I was due at the pier at half past five, and the ferry would push off promptly at seven. It would be another long, tedious night.

The upriver trip went as expected and after the passengers disembarked in Albany early Saturday morning, I cleared the tables, ate breakfast, and took a nap until four. At six thirty that evening, the New York City-bound passengers began to board and the whole routine started again. I waited tables for the festive dinner crowd until ten when the dining room closed for the night.

At five o’clock Sunday morning, I stood alert at my station, waiting to greet the breakfast diners. We would dock in New York in two hours. Then I saw her. She was standing at the dining room entrance wearing a green satin gown with a matching shawl loosely draped about her shoulders. Her small hands were encased in spotless white gloves, gray pearls adorned her ears, and a black velvet ribbon encircled her neck. She was my dream come true with deep bronze skin, soft as down, almond-shaped eyes, pink-blushed lips, and high-boned cheeks. Accompanying her was an attractive, conservatively dressed, older woman, perhaps an aunt or a sister. I hurried over and escorted them to a small table in the corner and waited while they decided on their order. When she looked up, with her soft brown eyes, and fluttered her long eyelashes, I felt a disturbing tremor.

Can I help you young ladies, this morning?

Yes, I’ll have a cup of tea with toast, she said, smiling sweetly.

How about you, Jennie? she asked, glancing over at her older companion.

I’ll have the same and a fried egg as well. Evie, why don’t you take an egg, too? My goodness, you eat just like a bird.

Evie! Her name is Evie, I thought, as I caught a whiff of her delicate passionflower perfume.

No thanks, Jennie. I just want tea and toast this morning.

Well, I certainly hope you don’t waste away.

My dear, let’s not quarrel, she said, patting her companion’s gloved hand.

Jam and butter? I asked, trying to recapture Evie’s attention.

Yes, that would be lovely.

I brought their order along with a dish of butter, an assortment of jams, a jug of hot milk, and a bowl of sugar. After I poured the tea, I had no excuse to remain at their table any longer. Besides, other patrons were trying to catch my attention.

I hope you enjoy your breakfast, I said as I walked away. They smiled and nodded.

I waited on the other patrons, but I watched Evie. I watched as she buttered each slice of toast and spread it thick with jam. I watched as she cut each slice into four pieces and delicately bit into each one. I watched as she licked traces of jam off her lips and dabbed her mouth with the white cloth napkin. I watched as she put three cubes of sugar and a bit of milk into the flowered teacup, lifted it to her lips, and sipped the tea. When they had finished eating, they asked for the check. Evie opened her green satin purse and paid the bill, leaving me a whole dime for a tip. Jennie, on the other hand, threw me a withering look. She must have noticed me watching Evie.

A half an hour later the ship docked in New York. I was still attired in my white waiter’s jacket when I left the dining room and raced to where the passengers were disembarking. There were Evie and Jennie, chatting merrily and lifting their long skirts as they descended the ship’s ramp. I watched her and felt a deep stirring in my chest. It was as if my senses were awakening and my inner walls of indifference and dissatisfaction were crumbling. She skipped off the ramp and by chance dropped her green purse. When she bent down to retrieve it, she glanced over her shoulder and for a glorious second our eyes met. Then she smiled at me. Seeing this, the ever-vigilant Jennie clutched her arm and steered her away from the ship.

Gripping the ship’s rail, I thought, Could she be the one I’ve been searching for?

I returned to the dining room, and while I cleared the tables, I recalled the places I had traveled, sights I had seen, and women I had been with since leaving Virginia over ten years ago. Evie was special, and I desperately wanted to get to know her. As I rode the trolley back to my room in Harlem, all I could think of was Evie eating hot buttered toast. Then a cold shiver ran down my spine.

Oh Lord, what if I never see her again?

Chapter 2

Evie

I was lost in thought as I quietly strolled across the sun-glistened Brooklyn Bridge with my sister Jennie at my side. It was early Sunday morning, and all was quiet, except for the horn blasts of a passing barge on the river below and the clip-clop of a horse-drawn carriage. I held my perfumed handkerchief against my nose to mask the smell of the horse droppings on the roadway. Besides Jennie and me, there were only two other pedestrians on the bridge.

As I walked along, I began to shiver in the early morning March chill—or was it the thought of the handsome stranger who made me tremble? When I first saw him, my heart started racing. When he looked at me, I blushed and hoped that my bronze complexion would hide it. When he asked for my order, I batted my eyelashes, flirting shamelessly. When he walked away and waited on the other diners, I watched him. I watched him from the corners of my eyes, even as he was watching me. When I finished my tea, I glanced at the pattern of leaves in the cup and my poor heart quivered. But then I felt Jennie’s probing eyes on me, so I pushed the cup away.

Who is this handsome stranger disturbing my tranquility? How dare he break into my thoughts, uninvited? He’s just a man, a man I don’t even know. Yet, he watched me so intently.

I wondered what his name was, wondered all sorts of things about him. Then I tried to banish him from my thoughts, but his image kept reappearing.

Evie, I scolded myself, this is no way for a respectable young lady to behave. This is not the way you were brought up.

We stepped off the bridge walkway and crossed the street to wait for the trolley that would carry us home to the Weeksville section of Brooklyn.

A penny for your thoughts, Jennie said.

Oh Jennie, it feels good to be going home after the long, cold winter in Cohoes.

Yes, I’m sure Mother and Father have sorely missed you.

They’ve missed you, too!

I’ve been away for so many years. Weeksville hardly feels like home anymore.

Don’t say that. Mother and Father’s home will always be your home.

My life’s in Cohoes now, and I’m happy you joined me up there.

In Cohoes, we lived with our cousin, Mattie, who was the first and only colored schoolteacher there, and we worked as seamstresses at the Peabody Collar Factory. Besides Mattie, I only knew a few people in Cohoes and spent most of my free time reading poetry, writing in my journal, and sewing outfits for Jennie and myself. I never told Jennie, but I was homesick for Mother and Father.

I like it in Cohoes, too, I said, especially working at Peabody’s and earning my own money. But I still miss Weeksville. There are so many interesting lectures, meetings, and socials to attend and I especially enjoy the musical concerts.

At the mention of music, I playfully started humming the Toreador Song from the opera Carmen and I imagined I was standing before an orchestra. What a glorious sight! Brown, black, and yellow faces. Each man finely tuning his instrument and each one dressed in a black-tie tuxedo. I lifted my baton and began to conduct the orchestra only I could see.

Jennie pinched my arm. Evie, restrain yourself. Have you gone mad?

Startled, I shook the vision from my sight. Sorry, sometimes, I do get carried away.

Hey there, let her be! a middle-aged white man called out. I was enjoying the music.

He was standing several feet away, grinning and leaning against the lamppost, also waiting for the trolley. When Jennie glared at him, he tipped his hat and smiled.

I just can’t abide riffraff, she said.

Never mind him. He’s a bit tipsy this morning.

She stepped off the curb and peered down the street. When is this darn trolley ever going to come?

She was impatient, and so was I. But I was impatient for spring flowers to bloom and eager to fall in love.

When we finally reached home, Mother and Father led us into the dining area where we enjoyed warm biscuits, dripping with butter, and hot tea.

Are you going to church, Mother, I asked.

We plan to attend the evening service, so we can spend more time with you girls.

So how’s life up there in Cohoes? Father asked. This was the first time I had been away from home.

It’s nice but very quiet, I replied.

And how have you been getting along, Jennie?

Just fine, Father. I’m used to the quiet life. By the way, Cousin Mattie sends her regards.

Oh yes, how’s she doing? Is she married yet?

No, she hasn’t, Jennie said. The school board would make her resign if she got married.

That’s an unfair rule, Mother remarked.

Father shrugged. My dear, that’s the way it is.

It shouldn’t be. Now, Jennie, tell us about the journey. I’ve always wanted to take a trip on the Nightline.

Well, Albany is 160 miles away and it takes the boat twelve hours to get there.

Oh my, that long!

Yes, I said, but it’s a comfortable trip, and the ship has a lovely dining room.

With a snooping waiter who kept staring at Evie! Father raised his eyebrows, but I feigned disbelief.

We continued to talk and catch up with each other’s lives: Father’s plumbing business, Mother’s sewing circle, neighborhood gossip, and our work at the Peabody Collar Factory. After we had conversed a while, I put a record on the RCA Victor gramophone Father had bought last June when I graduated from high school. It was an extravagant gift. I started singing and prancing around to the music, imagining I was dancing with the handsome stranger, and this time Jennie couldn’t object because no one else was there, except Mother and Father.

Right after dinner, Jennie and I went for a stroll in the park where we ran into Flo and Prudence, two of my best girlfriends. We hugged and kissed each other.

Oh, Evie, how we missed you. Are you back for good? Flo asked.

No. Just for the day. We have to get back to work tomorrow.

I wish I had a job, so I could earn my own money, Prudence said.

Did you hear that Barbara Lee got engaged, Flo asked. The wedding’s this summer.

How nice, Jennie remarked.

And Dr. Martin’s son, Jerry, is going to open a men’s tailoring shop right here in Brooklyn. Prudence grinned. He told me he’s still sweet on you, Evie.

Well, I wish him good luck with the shop.

Say, how’s Delores Brown? Jennie asked. I used to be good friends with her elder sister, Maybelle.

Delores? That wild one! Flo shook her head. We really don’t know about her. Her parents sent her away to relatives in South Carolina and quite frankly I think she’s… in a family way.

Prudence waved her hand at Flo. Hush your mouth girl. You don’t know that for sure.

Jennie raised an eyebrow. Hmmm, what a pity. Who’s the daddy?

Let’s pray she’s not expecting, I said. Her life would be ruined.

When we finally returned home at four that afternoon we found Father and Mother in the parlor. Father was seated in his armchair and in a somber mood.

I hope you girls are going to spend the night.

We shouldn’t have stayed out so long, I whispered to Jennie.

I’m sorry, Father, I said, we have to leave by five thirty this afternoon to catch the seven o’clock ferry to Albany.

But you just got here.

I know, but we’re due back at work at eight tomorrow morning.

Evie, there’s no need for you to work. You can stay home and help your mother around the house. And Jennie, if you find a job around here, then both of you can live at home. In my country, all the family lives together.

But Father, I like working, I replied.

The only employment we could get down here is domestic work, Jennie said, and Irish women have taken most of those jobs. Our work at Peabody’s is better and pays more.

He shrugged, sighed deeply, and after a moment spoke again. Evie, I wish you had followed your English teacher’s advice and attended Hampton Normal after high school. Then, you could’ve gotten a good teaching job here in Weeksville.

Those jobs are also scarce, Father.

Jennie smirked. Well at least Evie could have gotten a respectable husband at Hampton, and with her good looks and breeding, a well-to-do one.

Father hissed. That’s not the point of college, Jennie.

I had thought about going to college, but I didn’t want to cause my parents additional expense. They were both in their mid-sixties and needed to save for the day when Father retired from his plumbing business.

Now, now, Mother said, we’ve had such a lovely day. Let’s not quarrel.

I dashed across the room and knelt beside Father, taking his rough hand in mine. It smelled of pipe tobacco. Don’t fret, dear. I promise we’ll come back next Sunday.

He nodded and gently squeezed my hand.

Jennie and I rushed back to Pier 41, desperate to make the seven o’clock Nightline departure. After boarding, we climbed up to the ship’s gallery on the third deck and stretched out in the deck chairs. I gazed through the gallery’s enormous windows, and beheld the night sky, with stars as bright as diamonds, and for a moment, I imagined myself dancing along the Milky Way. As I drifted off to sleep, an unspoken question haunted my dreams: would I see the handsome stranger again? I awoke with a start when Jennie tapped my shoulder, saying we should retire to our second-class stateroom.

Early the next morning, we went to the dining room. As we entered, I saw him in a spotless white coat with a small tea towel draped on his arm, taking an order from a plump elderly woman, who was accompanied by a thin man about the same age. The handsome waiter was quite tall, light brown skin, clean shaven, and from what I could see had straight white teeth. His dark wavy hair was neatly combed back from his remarkable face.

Finally, he looked up, spotted us, and rushed over. Good morning, ladies. Did you have a pleasant stay in New York?

Yes, we certainly did, Jennie said.

After he escorted us to a table, I ordered my usual breakfast: tea and toast.

Jennie pointed her finger at me. Evie, you’d best have an egg, too.

I didn’t want to cause a fuss, so I agreed to the egg. He brought our order, poured the tea and left. The dining room was busy that morning and I feared he wouldn’t have time to chat.

We had nearly finished breakfast when he approached the table and asked, Was everything all right?

Yes, everything was delicious, I said. Even the egg I didn’t want.

He laughed with his eyes and turned to Jennie. Ma’am, I don’t mean to be forward, but I was wondering if you would allow me to introduce myself? An uncomfortable silence hovered over the table in the otherwise noisy dining room and I held my breath waiting to see how Jennie would respond.

Whatever for, young man?

I’d like to give you and the young lady my personal service. Many of my prominent customers enjoy being greeted by name.

He inclined his head toward an elegantly dressed white gentleman, who was seated a few tables away, and the gentleman nodded in return.

Alright then, go ahead, Jennie said.

My name is Albert Sidney Johnson, formerly of Lexington, Virginia. I was raised there, and my parents live there. After I left Lexington, I worked as a sailor on a merchant ship and then served in the United States Navy and traveled to nearly every country in the world. At present, I reside in Harlem. He waited.

Humph . . . I’m Mrs. Jennie Powell and this is my younger sister, Miss Evelyn Ashton. Our family home is in Brooklyn, but we’re employed in Cohoes, New York, right outside of Troy.

He bowed. How do you do, Mrs. Powell and Miss Ashton? I’m very pleased to meet you. And then he took his leave.

After he was out of earshot, Jennie turned to me. Well, I never heard of such a thing! He has a lot of nerve. I was quiet and tried to hide my delight.

As soon as the boat docked that morning, Jennie and I ran to catch the trolley to the Peabody Collar Factory in Cohoes. I spent the whole day sewing men’s detachable collars, but even the hum of hundreds of sewing machines couldn’t drown out my thoughts of Albert Sidney Johnson, the handsome waiter.

During the next two weekends, I saw him again as the Nightline steamed back and forth between Albany and New York, and we managed to chat each time he served us. I left the dining area for a few minutes one morning and when I returned, Jennie said that Albert had told her he would like to court me if I wasn’t spoken for.

Whatever did you tell him, Jennie?

I told him he would have to come to Brooklyn and ask Father’s permission. Father will put him straight and end all this nonsense! Evie, I know you can’t possibly be interested in the likes of him. He’s just a common waiter.

Albert is coming to Brooklyn. I bit my lip, trying to hide my excitement.

Usually, I followed Jennie’s advice on such matters since she was older and wiser, but this was different. Somehow, I couldn’t think of Albert as just a common waiter.

Is he really going to come? I asked.

He said he’d be there next Sunday at noon, she replied, pulling her face into a scowl.

The next week dragged by as I anxiously awaited his visit. I saw him again early Sunday morning as we sailed to New York, and he reminded Jennie that he would call on Father later that day.

When we reached home, the family gathered in the kitchen for a light repast of boiled eggs, ham, and cinnamon scones. We had nearly finished our meal when Jennie announced the news of Albert’s impending visit.

Jennie, what do know about this gentleman? Father asked.

The man’s an itinerant waiter who thinks way too much of himself.

Shaking his head, Father scowled. Then why the heck did you invite him?

I want you to tell him that it’s no use. That Evie’s way too good for him.

What do you have to say, Evie? Father asked, his eyes searching mine.

It’s up to you, Father. However, in my secret heart, I prayed that Father would give him a chance.

Mother glanced around, spreading her sweet smile among us. You say he’s coming for lunch today?

Yes. He’ll be here around twelve, Jennie said.

Well, there’s always enough food for another guest.

A few minutes after noon, the much-anticipated visitor arrived.

Chapter 3

Albert

I finished my shift on the Nightline about eight that morning and rushed home to Harlem where I shaved, bathed, and dressed. On my way out, I stopped to check my appearance in the full-length hall mirror.

You lookin’ mighty dapper this morning, Mr. J. Where might you be off to? Claudine asked as she stepped into the hall sporting a bright red robe.

Good morning, Claudine. I’m off to Brooklyn to meet some friends.

She must be mighty pretty to get you up and about this early.

Waving goodbye, I set off on my long journey. I almost got cold feet walking through the tree-lined streets of Brooklyn on my way to meet Evie’s parents.

What have I got to offer this beautiful, young woman? She’s cultured and well educated. I’m neither. What makes me think she would accept my offer of courtship and that her father would even agree?

I had worked deep underground in dangerous coal mines, fought off thieves in foreign ports, and served on a battleship off the coast of Cuba, but I can’t remember being this nervous.

At exactly 12:15 p.m. I knocked on Evie’s door. Her sister Jennie answered and greeted me with pressed together lips. Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson.

Good to see you again, Mrs. Powell.

Please call me Miss Ashton. That’s what I go by around here.

I thought it strange, but I wanted to get on her good side, so I asked no questions. Miss Jennie Ashton seemed to feel I wasn’t good enough for her baby sister and I didn’t blame her. Maybe, I wasn’t.

Jennie showed me into the parlor and after she introduced me to her parents, I took a seat on the sofa and Mr. Ashton sat down in his armchair.

Sir, thank you for allowing me the privilege of visiting your home today.

You’re welcome, Albert. By the way, Jennie tells me you work on the Nightline. I hear it’s a fine steamship.

That it is, sir. I wait tables in the dining room.

How do you like it?

It’s good for now, but I hope to get something better soon.

Mr. Ashton was a sturdily built man, about sixty, with a rich coffee-brown complexion that complimented his short silver-grey hair. He appeared reserved and spoke with a slight accent that I couldn’t quite place. His wife was the opposite. She was a cordial, middle-aged woman with very fair skin, high cheekbones, and long red hair, which flowed down her back to her waist. Frankly, I couldn’t tell whether she was white or colored.

While Mr. Ashton fiddled with his unlit pipe, I quickly glanced around the room taking note of its elegant furnishings: a colorful needlepoint tapestry hanging above the sofa; a fine seascape painting mounted on the opposite wall; silver-framed photographs of family members displayed on a lace-covered table; a lavish assortment of crocheted white doilies adorning nearly every surface; a whatnot with shelves of polished stones, seashells, and ornamental vases standing in the corner; and an exotic African wall mask keeping watch over it all. Although I yearned to have a lovely home like this someday and hoped that Evie would be the one to share it with me, I couldn’t help but wonder if I could give Evie the life she deserved.

We continued to exchange pleasantries, but as the afternoon wore on I became aware that Mr. Ashton was sizing me up even before I had a chance to state my case, and I was more than a bit uncomfortable. After a short while, Mrs. Ashton called us in for lunch, a mouthwatering repast of roast pork, steamed rice with gravy, garden peas and carrots, and hot buttermilk biscuits. It was then I remembered I hadn’t eaten since the night before.

After lunch, while the ladies cleared the table, Mr. Ashton and I retired to the parlor, each carrying a cup of hot tea. I told him about growing up in Virginia, toiling in a coal mine, working as a sailor on a merchant ship, and my stint in the Navy. Then he