While his kin said good-bye to their guests, Lucius inspected the framed photos of Billy Collins and his sons. Like their father, Julian and Willie had been slight, with curly black hair, fair skins, and refined faces, and a pensive quality in their dark eyes like a foreboding. Anxious to pursue his questions before a phone call from Lake City ended the interview, he asked how the family had reacted when Julian and Willie were arrested as accessories after the fact in the Mike Tolen case and jailed on one thousand dollars bail. He assumed the family knew of this since it was on the record at the courthouse.
Agitation entered the room like a wild bird through the window, thumping and fluttering behind the curtain. The ladies stared at him.
“Jailed?” Ellie Collins drew herself up to stare him down: her baked expression seemed to say, Is this how you repay me? The family knew no such thing, she told him in a tone suggesting it could not be true and that, in grubbing through court documents, this self-styled “Professor” had indulged in unprofessional and dishonorable behavior.
“Detained, perhaps?” Hettie ventured carefully.
“Detained, I mean.” Lucius hastened to say there had been no question of Collins complicity or guilt; he spoke formally and a bit pompously, hoping that an officious tone might dignify his indiscretion. But of course he knew-and knew that they knew, too-that if the brothers had testified against an uncle of their blood, they had transgressed the oldest code of those Celtic ancestors who, despising all authority, loyal only to the clan, had borne their tattered pennant of archaic honor across the seas into the New World.
“When they were detained as witnesses, Julian and Willie refused to take the stand and tell lies under oath-that was their upbringing as honorable young Christian men,” murmured poor Hettie. “And Julian’s Laura had no choice but to support her husband, though it broke her heart. She had always adored kind Uncle Edgar.”
“But what was their testimony?” Lucius said.
“We were never told,” Ellie said shortly.
In the stillness of the old schoolhouse, he suffered with them the weight of shame inflicted on this family by Papa. In the end it mattered little what those young men had said. Through no fault of their own, his cousins had found themselves in an intractable dilemma. No wonder they had clung so fiercely to that vow never to discuss or mention Edgar Watson. But these years of silence, so dignified in the family legend, had only embedded that painful splinter of ambiguity and guilt, that ineradicable black line under clear skin.
In her black bombazine and Sunday bonnet, chin held high, Granny Ellen had made a fine impression at the trial, smiling in proud witness to the innocence of her distinguished son as well as to the honor of her handsome grandsons, there to attest to her son’s guilt. In the court recess, she bestowed thin smiles without discrimination, handing around nice mincemeat sandwiches in a napkined basket.
Minnie Collins had not attended her brother’s trial. Even before her Billy’s death, they told him, she had sunk away into a long slow dying, passing the remainder of her days all but unnoticed. By all accounts, she had always been a colorless person, with faint life in her, and her likeness was utterly absent from the family record. As if her countenance had been too tentative to be caught on film, no known photograph existed, nor was there a family memory of what she had looked like, thought, or said. Minnie’s one known attribute was her rare beauty, but what form her beauty might have taken, none could recall.
“Minnie Collins hated the idea of her own likeness, no one knows why,” said Ellie. She had died in 1912, two years after her brother, and even her children had only a vague memory of what she looked like.
“In later life, she had this malady that doctors used to call ‘American nervousness,’ ” Hettie added. “Paregoric was prescribed which contains opium and it seems she was susceptible.” Hettie supposed it was her drug addiction that caused her family to turn its back on the poor soul. It seemed more merciful to help her pretend she wasn’t there than to struggle to include her in her household life. After a time, they scarcely saw the spectral figure creeping past, still gently tended by her mother’s former slave. Only Aunt Cindy had been present when Minnie Collins, still in her fifties, died of pure failure of the spirit on a cold March day. She sat unnoticed in her corner until the tall black woman tried to rouse her for her evening gruel.
“Aunt Cindy saw to everything,” Hettie said. “Cinderella Myers was born a slave, an old-fashioned slave of good strong character who stood by her young mistress after she was freed. She even left her own new family to go south with her Miss Ellen, knowing how unfit she was to manage on her own.”
Lucius suggested the young slave girl might have come from the Myers Plantation in Columbia, South Carolina, perhaps as a wedding present to Ellen Addison, since according to the census, they were approximately the same age. But of course such facts told nothing about who Cindy really was, a young woman with her own desires who had endured her long travail on earth so far from home and family. “How lonely the poor thing must have been,” he said.
That an outsider should be so concerned about their servant’s feelings struck his cousins as perverse. Chagrined by how little they knew of her themselves, they could not answer his upsetting questions. No, there was no known picture of Aunt Cindy, either. After Granny Ellen and her daughter died, the old woman had persevered without complaint in her shack behind the house, tottering about her chores and chickens even after she started to go blind, until finally, in reward for her half century of faithful service, she was sent home. Her little satchel had been packed for weeks when a “Miss L. Watson,” her “baby daughter” of long, long ago, came to fetch her back to those Carolina uplands her old eyes would never see and her mind could scarcely imagine anymore.
“Nobody was home the day Aunt Cindy left, that’s what my daddy told me,” Cousin Ellie said. “Isn’t that awful? Daddy never forgave himself. Not a sign of her, not even a note, because in all those years no one took the time to teach her how to read and write.”
“The poor old thing just vanished,” Hettie agreed. “Aunt Cindy gave this family her life, and no one was home to thank her for her life or even say good-bye.”