Again by Sharon Cullars Read Free Book Online

of volumes, the tapered ceiling, the paintings of old Chicago hanging along the wall. The quiet elegance of the room, accented with large windows, marble-and-steel tables, and teak chairs, pulled her into its deliberate illusion of another time, some bygone era where privileged gentlemen sat down to brandied wine and cigars while poring over the news of the day. The plush carpeting muted footsteps, insulating its patrons in a cocoon of studious quiet. The whole room was meant to close out time. Or shut it in.
    Rhea looked down again at the information written in her notebook. It was brief, yet it told much. For instance, her grandmother had long ago enlightened her about the early practice of distinguishing status in the colored community by skin tones. Never mind that all were designated “Negro” and were subject to the same discrimination by the majority society. To be too dark among one’s own was sometimes an immutable shortcoming, even if one had scads of money. An old adage her grandmother once told her about came to mind: “If you’re white, just right; brown, stick around; black, get back.” Unfortunately, the sentiment still survived to a degree. Rhea, medium-complected, still knew what it felt like to be the only black in a class, a room. To not be light enough in some situations, or not dark enough in others. Here in the log the entrant’s complexion was a matter of record. Rhea wondered whether it had been used as an identifier or for some discriminatory purpose. Designation “brown.” As opposed to what? “Yellow?” “Pearly white?” “Charcoal black?” Was “brown” here a plus or minus?
    Rachel Chase had been twenty-four years old in 1876. The earliest letter Rhea held in her possession was dated September 1879, and was addressed to Rhea’s great-great-grandmother Sarah Parkins. According to at least one of the letters, Rachel’s husband, George, had died in a fire in early 1878. So who was the unnamed “gentleman” mentioned in the letters? Rhea pulled the folded pages of the first missive from her satchel, stared at the browned pages, the partially decipherable words. Some of the words had faded with time, but parts were still legible. It was this particular letter that had started Rhea’s quest, that had stayed on her mind, then began to prey on it.
    At first glance, it held nothing out of the ordinary. Most of the content was everyday filler that might be found in letters of that time, a lot of chatter about weather, health, and expected travel plans. It was near the end of the letter, two paragraphs in particular, that caught Rhea’s eye after the first reading. At the time, she had barely wondered about the allusion to the mysterious gentleman, someone who was obviously Rachel’s lover. That Rachel refused to name him began to nag at Rhea. But searching among the subsequent letters, she found no clue as to the man who had brought the young widow so much pain and anguish. Rhea read the words again; she had lost count of the many times she had reread them:
 
    I wrote to the gentleman (I need not divulge his name here to you where prying eyes might find it) just as you suggested. I impressed upon him my desire to cease this madness that has come over both of us. To never again let prior events occur. It is much too dangerous for both of us, given our place in society. Sarah, I implore you not to think less of me for my lapse in judgment and integrity, and hope you do not judge me too harshly. Loneliness for George and a need I cannot understand temporarily did away with my propriety and good sense.
    I know there is no future for us. Especially not here, for it was only a few years ago that the whites burned down the colored orphanage on 51st Street, almost killing those precious children. I remember Father had to move us out of the city after the riot because for a long time it was not safe for colored folks to live in New York. Then there were the draft riots years later. And even