one thick. The black one is easy enough to recognize. It’s a family Bible, the old-fashioned kind, large and heavy. The red leather book is much thinner and bound along the top like a notepad. Faded gold letters on the cover read
Goswood Grove Plantation
William P. Gossett
Items of Significant Record
“Now that little skinny book…” LaJuna’s still talking. “That’s stuff they bought and sold. Sugar, molasses, cotton seed, plows, a piano, land, lumber, horses and mules, dresses and dishes…all kinds of stuff. And, sometimes, people.”
My mind goes numb. It can’t quite register what I’m looking at, what this is. “LaJuna, it’s not…we shouldn’t…The judge was right. You need to put this back where it was.”
“It’s history, isn’t it?” She’s as casual as if we were talking about what year the Liberty Bell was cast or when the Magna Carta was written. “You’re always telling us that books and stories matter.”
“Of course, but…” Something so old should be handled with only freshly washed hands or white cotton gloves, for one thing. But if I’m honest with myself, I know it’s not the archival concerns that bother me; it’s the contents.
“Well, these are stories.” She skims a fingernail along the edge of the Bible and opens it before I can stop her.
The Family Record pages at the front of the Bible, perhaps a dozen or more, are filled with the artful script of old dip pens like the ones I’ve collected for years. Names occupy the left column: Letty, Tati, Azek, Boney, Jason, Mars, John, Percy, Jenny, Clem, Azelle, Louisa, Mary, Caroline, Ollie, Mittie, Hardy…Epheme, Hannie…Ike…Rose…
The remaining columns list birthdates, death dates for some, and odd notations, D, L, F, S, plus numbers. Names are sometimes listed with dollar amounts beside them.
LaJuna’s half-red fingernail hovers over one, not quite touching it. “See, this is all about the slaves. When they were born, and when they died and what number grave they were buried in. If they ran away or got lost in the war, they got an L beside their name and the date. If they got freed after the war, they got an F, and 1865, and if they stayed on the place to be sharecroppers, they got an S / 1865.” Her hands flip palms up, as matter-of-factly as if we’re discussing the school lunch menu. “After that, I guess people kept their own notes.”
A moment passes before I can process the information and stammer out, “You learned all that from the judge?”
“Yeah.” Her features arrange in a way that conveys the slightest bit of uncertainty about the mysteries the judge left behind. “Maybe he wanted somebody to know how to read it, since he decided not to show Miss Robin. Can’t say how come. I mean, she knew this place was built by people who had to be slaves. Miss Robin was way into doing research about Goswood. The judge just didn’t want her to feel guilty about stuff that happened a long time ago, I guess.”
“I guess…maybe,” I echo. The lump in my throat is itchy and uncomfortable. Part of me wishes the judge would have taken responsibility for nailing shut the coffin on this piece of history and burning the book. Part of me knows how wrong that would’ve been.
LaJuna pushes on, dragging me along on a trip I don’t want to take. “Now, see where there’s no daddy listed? Just a mama and then somebody’s born? That’s where the daddy was probably a white man.”
“The judge told you that?”
Her mouth thins and an eye roll comes my way. “Figured it out on my own. That’s what the little m means—mulatto. Like this woman, Mittie. She hasn’t got a daddy, but, of course, she had a daddy. He was the—”
That’s it. That’s all I can stand. “I think we should put this away.”
LaJuna frowns, her gaze probing mine, surprised and…disappointed? “Now you sound like the judge did. Miss Silva, you’re the one always talking about stories. This book, here…this is the only story most of these people ever got. Only place their names still are, in the