Echoes of Our Ancestors

A Civil War–era secret brings modern-day consequences in a novel that asks: How long can the shadows of the past hang over one family? Philip Richards puts little value on his life. He avoids close relationships and blames himself for the sexual abuse his sister suffered at the hands of their grandfather. To drown his sorrows and evade his guilt, Philip drinks too much and engages in dangerous activities. When his father dies, two more life-changing events take place. Philip meets Edith, a free-spirited poet, with whom he feels an instant connection. He also comes across a manuscript, a stolen narrative that chronicles the Civil War relationship between his ancestor, Russell, and Fever, the slave who became his wife. As new details about Philip's family and his own identity come to light, his perception of who he is and where he comes from is turned on its head. But even as Philip comes to terms with the issues that have loomed over his family for decades, fresh allegations bring the crimes of the past flooding into the present . . . Echoes of Our Ancestors is a dark and moving multi-generational saga that explores themes of trauma, race, and abuse—and the question of whether, and how, we can free ourselves from the past.

Philip thought he was alone. He’d arrived too early for the nightly dinner special, so he waited with a beer at the small bar in the corner of the café. A whiff of cotton-candy perfume alerted him that someone was approaching. The scent triggered dread in his gut. His thigh muscles tensed ready to run. Why this visceral reaction to a smell? Before his mind could form an answer, a barstool bumped the side of his own, and a slender woman in a satiny red shirt looped her purse over her stool’s back. He had no idea who she was. She boosted herself onto the seat and pressed her arm against his side. His shoulders stiffened. He held his breath to avoid her too-sweet scent and leaned away from her, but she was so close that each movement snagged his glance, and he eventually had to inhale. She flicked long black hair away from her pixie-like face. Her eyebrows were straight charcoal slashes. Pushing her shoulder against his bicep, she said, “Buenos tardes.” He nodded once but kept his gaze on his phone. “Buenos tardes.” She must have mistaken him for someone else, and he didn’t want to add to her embarrassment when she realized her blunder. With his tan skin and thick black hair, people often assumed he was Latino. She ran one long red fingernail under the edge of his short-sleeved denim shirt and whispered, “Are you happy I’m finally back… Philip?” What the hell? Who is she? Searching her face didn’t jog a recognition. She tugged on his sleeve and whispered into his ear, “I thought about you every night I was gone. I remember everything you said. We’re soulmates, so much alike, not close to our sisters, rambling from job-to-job.” She squeezed his thigh. “My strong hombre. This will be the night we carry out our plan.” Instead of waiting for him to reply, she called to the bartender. “Frank, where are you?” Frank stuck his head in through the open doorway to the back room. “May I please have a mojito?” Her girlish voice didn’t fit her late-thirties appearance. She smoothed her cream-colored skirt across her knees. “You bet, Carmen.” He pointed at Philip’s mug. “Refill?” Philip shook his head, and Frank headed to the other end of the bar to fix her drink. Carmen? Her name meant nothing. Philip straightened his back, getting ready to stand. He no longer wanted the dinner special. She gasped. “No. You’re leaving?” Tears welled in her eyes, and her cheeks flushed. Philip’s hand lifted to pat her shoulder as he would an injured child’s. He stopped himself, freezing midway. She sniffled and clutched his forearm. “What about our Valentine’s night promise?” She elongated promise, dragging the word into a sob. His face heated. Her words Valentine’s night sledgehammered the barricade he’d built around that evening almost a month ago. He’d downed too many bourbon shots after his sister phoned about their father’s cancer. Philip slid off his seat and stood on the side across from Carmen, using his now empty stool to block her. “Uh… Sorry… Must have been my mistake.” Still clutching his forearm, she scooted from her stool onto his and whispered, “You aren’t worth my…” Her voice cracked with anger. “…escarabajo.” He frowned. Escarabajo? He thought it was Spanish for beetle. Glaring, she rummaged in her purse. “Forget it.” Her girlish lilt morphed into gruffness. “I changed my mind.” She slapped cash onto the cedar bar so recklessly that a bowl of peanuts slid off the edge. Frank, approaching with her drink, retrieved the dish and gaped as she barreled through the dining area past a couple of coffee drinkers. A deep frown creased his shiny bald head when he straightened up. “What’s with her?” “Not sure.” Philip watched her stomp away with her long skirt swishing around her western boots. She yanked the heavy front door open and banged it shut behind her. Resting his elbows on the bar, Frank lowered his voice. “What was she saying?” Relieved that Frank hadn’t heard, Philip settled back onto his stool. “It didn’t make sense. I don’t think I’ve seen her in here before.” “You know, you might not have. She’s an expat, spends a lot of time in Mexico.” Frank frowned. “She’s been gone a few weeks, maybe ever since you started coming in.” “Expat?” Muttering, “Damn. Peanuts everywhere,” Frank reached for his broom before explaining. “Yeah. You know, an American with a home in Mexico.” He bent closer and lowered his voice. “Her husband, an older guy, died a few years ago. She still stays down there a lot but comes back here for visits. Her sister’s family lives here.” “Ah.” Philip nodded. The full realization that his Valentine’s night bourbon blackout must have included Carmen, hit Philip as the café door opened again. Expecting her reentry, he spun around. But instead of Carmen, the hulking form of his boss, Al Wilson, entered. He spotted Philip, and headed toward the bar. Frank straightened up and asked, “Why are you guys in so early today? Did you finish the power plant?” “No,” Philip said as Al approached. “I went in at two this morning, so I took off early.” Al clapped Philip on the shoulder. “Damn right he did. This guy saved my ass today. Everything he wants tonight is on me.” Shoving Carmen’s vacated barstool to a normal distance away, he added in his booming voice, “Now let’s hear how the hell you managed to squeeze through that asbestos barrier in hazmat gear.” Philip shrugged. “Anyone could have done it.” “Nope.” Al shook his large shaggy head. “Not true. When they called me at midnight, they were sure the power would shut down for the whole region.” He faced Frank, who was finishing his sweeping. “No way could I get back from Dallas in time.” He knuckle thumped the bar. “How about a couple of drafts.” The door opened. Again, Philip tensed. But it was only a family, probably coming in for dinner. When Frank set beers in front of them, Al took a quick drink, clunked his mug down, and with one elbow on the bar, faced Philip. “I hate to think how much money I could’ve lost on this job.” While Philip answered Al’s questions about the repair, the café filled with diners. Granny, the head cook, wearing her yellow-checkered apron, stepped out of the kitchen and called out, “Dinner special is ready. Pot roast, mashed potatoes, and fresh green beans.” She held two loaded plates of the meal. “With pecan pie for dessert.” Al, nodding at Granny, grabbed his beer and headed toward his regular table. “Those plates for us?” Philip followed. “You betcha.” Granny, waddling a little, approached with the plates. “Heard your big feet stomp in.” She set the plates on their table. “Well, Mr. Philip Richards, everybody’s saying if it wasn’t for you, we’d be without power.” “Thank you,” Philip said, accepting a plate. “Looks delicious.” Al scooped a bite of mashed potatoes. “How come you’re serving, Granny? Where’s the waitress?” “Up and quit on me. But this is an easy meal to manage.” Watching Philip dig into the food, she patted his shoulder. “I thank you for your hard work while the rest of us was sleeping in our beds.” Throughout the meal, Al complained about change orders at his Dallas construction site. Philip tried to focus, but Carmen’s words, Valentine’s night promise, nipped at the edges of his thoughts. They were finishing the meal when a text from Philip’s younger sister Lily buzzed in. “Call asap.” He stepped outside onto the long, railed porch, pressed call, and scanned the parking lot in case Carmen was still lurking around. Except for the turquoise glow coming from the neon Hilltop sign above the door, darkness covered the lot. The o in the sign flickered as if deciding whether or not to stay on. He started across the dusty gravel toward his motel room. “Oh, Philip.” Lily’s stressed voice twisted his heart. “The doctor told me it will be days… maybe even hours, and Daddy’s asking for you. There’s something he wants to tell you.” Philip’s stomach clenched so hard his steps halted. Every fiber within him resisted seeing the man, but Lily’s need was compelling. “Text the address.” “Come tonight. He may not make it until…” “Okay. It’ll take a couple of hours.” * * * At the hospital, Philip slowly pushed open the door for his first view of his father in almost twenty years. The old man appeared to be asleep, but loose skin hung so heavily that his lower eyelids drooped open, exposing half-moons of yellowish eyeballs. His once-sandy hair lay in thin white wisps over his pale, splotchy scalp. Lily, wearing her trademark jeans and a black T-shirt with Easy on Me embossed in sky blue, wrapped both arms around her brother. From the time she’d been old enough to have her own phone, she’d always stayed in touch with Philip, keeping track of where he was working and making sure that the two of them met for dinner several times a year. Over the top of her head, Philip scanned his father’s body. Skeletal as it was, a bloated belly protruded under the sheet. “Greetings, Philip.” His older sister, Dinah, in a navy pantsuit, sat in the corner, her back rigid, legs crossed, a leather briefcase by her side. Her black hair was slicked back into knot at the base of her skull. Her foot, with its navy, high-heeled pump, rocked casually, out of sync with the tension in the rest of her body. “Dinah,” he said softly, stepping toward her. “I’m—” She stood abruptly, turned her back, and put her phone to her ear to take a call. He wanted to say what he wished he’d said long ago, I’m sorry for what happened to you, sorry I didn’t protect you. He had seen her only once in the past twenty years, and that day he’d been too stressed to apologize. Lily clasped Philip’s arms and peered up, teary eyed. “Daddy goes in and out because of the morphine. If he wakes, you may have just a few minutes before he drifts off again.” Her sweet smile and her long dark hair, so much like their dead mother’s, slammed him. “I know he has something important to tell you.” Ending her call, Dinah gathered her briefcase and approached, but she kept her attention on a text. “Well, he has nothing to tell me, so I’ll be in the waiting room. I have a dissertation meeting in the morning, and I want to review my presentation.” She evaded eye contact as she opened the door. “Text if you need me.” Philip stepped toward her. “Okay if I come with you? Can we talk?” Dinah froze in the doorway and stared back at him as though waiting for an explanation. “For just a few minutes?” he added. She continued to stare with no expression. Silence stretched, punctured by their father’s raspy breaths. Finally, Dinah tilted her head and said, “No.” She held his gaze for a moment as if daring him to respond. Then she pushed the door open and strolled out of the room. As soon as the door closed, Lily whispered, “I’m so scared she’s not dealing with this, and neither are you. He’s about to die and you two have shunned him for years.” She tightened her grip on his arms. He started to pull away, but Lily stepped closer. “Daddy tried to make up for not being the best father.” She angled her head in an effort to make Philip face her. “Look at me.” She waited until he met her gaze. “Holding onto ancient grudges hurts you, not him. You’ll be sorry later.” Her spiel caught Philip unprepared. Lily had been only four years old when the unthinkable happened. Even though she was a grown woman now, he didn’t have words for the disgust his father stirred. “I’m already sorry.” “Phil, is that you?” Their father, raising one finger, pointed in their direction. His voice. His low voice, though weak, had its same old relaxed and confident tone, sucking Philip back into a childhood memory when he had hit the bull’s eye while target practicing with rifles… Daddy saying, “That’s my man.” And now in this hospital room, a forgotten place within Philip unearthed a traitorous yearning to hear his father’s voice again say, “That’s my man.” Lily rushed to the bedside. “Yes, Daddy, he’s here. Are you in pain? Is there anything I can get you?” Shoving down his feelings, Philip approached the bed. The old man said, “Ready for this to be over.” He sounded tired but clear. Then he looked at Lily. “Need to talk with Phil. Man’s business.” Lily kissed his forehead. “I’ll step out. Love you, Daddy.” She left them alone. “Where you been?” his father asked as if his son had been gone twenty minutes instead of twenty years. Roiled emotions made Philip’s voice rough. “With a general contractor up in Culmine.” “Worthless work. You need to stay around now for your sisters.” He pointed to the little bedside table. “Get my keys out of that drawer. Go out to my house. In the attic above the northwest corner bedroom my trunk is hidden… has my will… never got around to getting a box at the bank… You get the house market ready. Split the money with your sisters like it says in my will… And there’s life insur—” “Stop.” Long simmering rage that had driven Philip to leave home at fifteen shook his voice. “Answer one question? Why did you ignore what your old man did to Dinah? You pretended it didn’t happen.” Pallid eyes glared for an instant then closed. “If you’d been in my shoes, you’d have done the same. You’re the same as me.” With a sharp intake of breath, Philip’s nostrils flared in revulsion. “But she was twelve years old and—” A nurse entered. “Mr. Richards, ready for your morphine booster?” He nodded and grunted weakly, keeping his eyes closed. Lily came back during the injection, and almost as soon as the nurse left, their father started snoring. Lily touched Philip’s arm. “What did he say?” “Told me to get his will and life insurance.” “Now?” “Yeah.” Ready to escape the emotional weight in the room, he took the keys from the drawer. “Can you text me his address? I don’t know where his house is.” * * * The attic was simply a crawl space with a crude, pull-down ladder. Philip’s phone light revealed mold streaks on the walls and scraps of insulation piled in a corner, a mess typical of his father to hide. The trunk was made of rotted, taped-together cardboard. As he hauled it down the ladder, he huffed a single laugh. High on one side of the trunk was a crudely cut slot, the right size to slide papers through without having to open the lid. Decayed tape took several seconds to detach before he opened the lid to uncover jumbled piles of papers, photos, newspaper clippings, and old greeting cards. The corner of an aged, blue cardboard stationery box jagged up amid yellowed photos. When Philip lifted the box, one side crumbled away, and an inch-thick stack of loose pages slipped out. Faded, handwritten lines caught his eye: Feevah never thought about loving a white man before Russell Richards. She first saw him while she was standing in the auction line sick with fear that her daughters would be sold away from her. The lines in the middle of the page were a little dim to read in this poorly lit bedroom. But the bottom paragraph was clear. Feevah’s scan of the buyers froze, and the fine hairs all over her flesh twisted.