Malcolm, Jordan’s twenty-three-year-old son, had studied to be a lawyer, but worked as a Pullman porter like his father before him. Last fall he’d been assigned to the Chicago–Oakland route. Soon after, he’d begun making the case for them to move west, asserting that a fresh start at life would be good for Jordan’s spirits. The bleak February had caused her to agree.
Resistance must have shown on Jordan’s face, because Naomi argued, “You heard her. Poppies and Lisbeth. Grammy wants to see Lisbeth before she passes. The least you can do is ask. Malcolm leaves for Oakland in the morning—he can deliver a letter. She lives near the place he stays, right?”
Jordan nodded. She felt Naomi’s eyes on her, waiting for a reply.
“I’ll consider your suggestion,” Jordan responded. That was all she could agree to at the moment, though she had to decide quickly. Malcolm would leave for work before sunrise. She’d need to write that letter tonight if he would be the bearer of their sad news. Her chest clenched as she imagined the words she would have to put to paper:
Your Mattie, my mother, is dying. Please come. Her deepest sadness is that she will not be with you one last time before she leaves this earth. I understand it is a great inconvenience to travel two thousand miles to visit with an old woman you haven’t seen in decades, but it would mean so much to her, and to me, if you can manage it.
If you cannot come, will you please write a note of farewell?
Tears were streaming down Jordan’s face when she sat at her oak desk to write to Lisbeth Johnson. Naomi was correct. She would push aside her own desires to make this appeal for Mama, but either response from Lisbeth was fraught. Rejecting the request would feel an insult, but a visit from Lisbeth would be an imposition. Jordan didn’t relish the idea of sharing this time with a White woman she hadn’t seen in more than twenty years. But for Mama she would face one or the other.
CHAPTER 2
SADIE
Oakland, California
May 1894
A well-dressed Negro stood on the front porch of their modern Victorian home. Sadie hoped her expression did not come across as rude. She rarely saw a Colored person in Oakland.
“May I help you?” she asked the dark-skinned young man.
“How do you do, ma’am?” He nodded and smiled. “I’m Malcolm Wallace. Does Mrs. Lisbeth Johnson live here?”
Sadie nodded. “She’s my mother.” A flicker of familiarity danced in her. “You’re Miss Jordan’s son?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Mattie Freedman’s grandson.”
“Oh my!” Sadie beamed at the handsome young man. “Momma will be delighted to meet you. And I am too, of course. Your mother remains larger than life in my heart and mind. She was my favorite teacher of all time. Please come in.”
Jordan had been only nineteen—barely out of childhood herself—when she became Sadie’s first teacher. Sadie had felt Miss Jordan was perhaps the wisest and kindest person in the world. Miss Jordan’s enthusiasm and sparkle remained dear in Sadie’s memory, though they had not seen one another in decades. The history and affection that connected their mothers must have added to her regard.
Miss Jordan’s mother, Mattie, had been Momma’s beloved wet nurse and caregiver at the Fair Oaks plantation in Charles City, Virginia. Mattie had escaped to Oberlin, Ohio, when Momma was about twelve. Sadie didn’t know if it was entirely a coincidence that Momma had moved there after she and Poppa married. Some of Sadie’s fondest childhood memories included Miss Jordan and Mrs. Freedman. They’d been kith to one another, family by circumstance, until Sadie’s family moved to Oakland in 1873.
Though they had not lived in the same place, nor visited with one another, in the intervening years, Momma shared a regular correspondence with Mattie. Jordan acted as scribe since Mattie was illiterate. They kept up with the biggest changes in one another’s lives, celebrating stories of marriages and births and mourning news of deaths. Momma spoke of Mattie so often that her spirit lived in Sadie’s mind and soul.
Sadie showed Malcolm to their living room—modern with gaslights and a coal fireplace—and pointed to the couch upholstered in an elegant French fabric. “Please have a seat while I find my mother.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, put the kettle on for tea, and went into the backyard. Her mother knelt in the garden, transplanting tomato seedlings into the soil. Momma’s gray hair was pulled into a loose bun. Only the veins popping out on the back of her hands revealed her fifty-seven years. She’d been pampered and privileged as a child, never working in dirt. But after she left the plantation, she farmed right alongside her husband and children: planting, harvesting, and collecting most of the food they ate until 1890, when Poppa died from a weak heart.
Sadie’s life was the reverse of her mother’s. She’d tended to the land and the animals on their farm before her memories began. Dirt was a constant in her childhood. She’d been determined to keep up with her older brother, and by the time she was fifteen, she drove the plow team as fast and straight as Sam, though he outweighed her by forty pounds.
Now her husband, Heinrich, discouraged her from soiling her hands. He wanted Sadie’s nails and fingers to look and feel like a lady’s. He suggested they get a palm tree for their new yard rather than have a kitchen garden. Sadie had nodded in agreement at his proposal but did not take any action. If she did nothing about it, he would most likely forget his idea—Heinrich was too focused on his business to pay attention to the household.
In contrast, Momma preferred to grow much of their own food and had ambitious plans for the garden—kale, tomatoes, lettuce, and peas. She assumed Sadie would be a part of bringing it to fruition. With gloves Sadie was able to satisfy both her husband and her mother.
“This clay soil is impossible!” Momma declared. “We’re going to need to mix in sand to give the roots room to grow.”
“Momma, we have a visitor.” Sadie corrected, “You have a visitor.”
Her mother’s eyebrows came together in a furrow.
“Miss Jordan’s son is here,” Sadie explained.
“Malcolm?” Momma grinned.
Before Sadie could reply, Momma leaped up. Wiping her hands on her skirt, she abandoned her project, leaving plants and tools scattered on the ground. Sadie followed her into the living room.
Momma beamed as she declared, “Malcolm, it is a real pleasure to meet you at last.”
The young man stood to shake hands. Momma showed her dirty palm.
“I’m sorry. I was working in the garden,” she explained.
“I’m not afraid of a little grime.” Despite the soil he took her light hand in his, then they all sat down.
“I feel as if I know you from Mattie’s letters,” Momma said, her voice high and energetic.
“And I you, ma’am,” he replied. “From my mother’s and grandmother’s stories.”
“What brings you to Oakland?” Momma asked.
“I live here part-time, ma’am,” he replied. “Working for the Pullman Company as a porter.”
“I understand those are excellent jobs for . . . a good job for young men.”