A Solstice of Modern Salvation

“YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHINS scum don’t belong 'round here!” bellowed from his lips like a bullet. He unleashed a barrage of blows, the confederate flag tattooed on his forearm sodden in scarlet blood not his own. “The Leader”, a black bandana covering his face, nodded his approval, as the carnage continued. His comrades continued their thievery, as the sounds of sirens pierced the twilight. “Boss, we got two, maybe three minutes before the pigs get here!” the twang of his southern accent revealing his roots with every word. “We gotta get outta here! QUICK!”

The sirens drew closer as “The Leader” took a deep breath, pondering his next move. “Ok here’s the plan: Put everything in the suitcase and throw it down the smokestack! We’ll come back for it when things quiet down! Hurry! And leave the bodies, let the pigs know we did them a favor!” And so they did, disappearing like demons into the summer night.

“LOVE! Can you finally take a look at the water damage downstairs?” She shouted, sweating. It wasn’t good for her to sweat this much so early in the morning, she thought. She grabbed her stethoscope, keys, and pager in one hand, sliding on her clogs simultaneously, while she finished the remnants of a toasted English muffin in the other. “Make sure you look at it before we go to the Solstice Fair with the kids later!”

He rolled his eyes. A commonplace reaction in his ninth year of marriage. Three kids, two cats, and no time for himself had become a norm he never expected for himself. And yet a smile followed. He looked over at his kids. They watched the screen in front of them, unaware of the world. He chuckled at the irony. How sardonic the architect of marriage was to create an entity in which fun was scarce though happiness abundant. “I’ll do it right now, the kids are watching Frozen for the 400th time so I have at least an hour!” he hollered in retort, unaware of his wife’s departure.

He looked outside; the North Carolina sun beaming back at him through the window. He rested his feet on the edge of the desk and pushed, propelling himself across the office/playroom. With his offspring visible in the corner of his eye, he sighed as his eyes focused on the coffee-colored Africa-shaped stain that had grown substantially in the past few days. Softly, he tapped on Nigeria. “Or was it Congo?” he thought. He shrugged, looking around as if for confirmation, as his finger went right through the drywall.

“Again, with the book?” she smiled, rubbing his head. She counted herself fortunate, now that she thought about it. He could be doing so many other, worse things, and yet here he is. Writing. Always writing. It had been a long road to get here, given what her mother had been through. Born on a plantation, she was relieved that her son had been born in a house all her own. She wasn't illiterate herself, but close to it. To think her son was always scribbling in that little black book! What was he writing though? With all this madness around him. The lynchings, the murders, the fires, the rapes. The hate. The depression was in full swing, exacerbating an already agonizing reality they found themselves in. It wasn’t his fault this was the world he was born into. But alas, it was night, and a peaceful one at that. Those were rare in light of the paradigm shift that enveloped their community upon the arrival of the Klan. She couldn’t escape it. They were being hunted. But there was hope. With the money she had, a small fortune at that, she counted herself even luckier, knowing they would depart for the west in only a few short hours. The nightmare would be ending. She closed her eyes peacefully, smiling again at the thought. She opened them just as the men appeared at her window. She shrieked as the bullet hit her shoulder.

There was grout, water, and crumbled drywall everywhere. He coughed violently. It was the fourth cough in as many minutes. “You should be wearing a mask” he thought sarcastically, mimicking his wife’s caring voice. The wooden 2x4’s seemed unaffected by the water damage, thankfully. He groaned. The integrity of the insulation had been compromised. “Damn it!” he yelled, understanding. His mind began frantically calculating the cost of the fix. “This is exactly what I need right now…” his voice tapering off, distracted.

Noticing the corner of what looked like a dusty, black leather box, he wiped the sweat off his brow in disbelief. “What the hell is that?” he thought. Granted he was no contractor, but even he had watched enough house-flipping shows to know that what sat in front of him looked eerily out of place. He began to pull the drywall away with his hand. It was arduous work. He continued, his apprehension becoming anticipation as he remembered the hammer next to him. He grabbed the butt of the faded, rusted mallet pulling at the soaking drywall surrounding the discovery. Fwop, fwoop, fwap. Fwop, fwoop, fwap.

She found the ER to be busier than usual, as she walked past the nurse’s station heading for the break room, jumping out of the way of the frenzied paramedics. She dialed her husband, as she put her lunch in the fridge. “Hon! I was just about to call you! I found an old suitcase in the wall!” he commanded, not even letting her exchange a pleasantry. “Wait, what?” she replied, confused. “Babe, I pulled apart the drywall to try and fix the leak and there’s an old suitcase here” he squealed, failing spectacularly to contain the excitement in his voice, sure she would share in his joy. “YOU TORE APART THE WALL?!” she yelled, as the orderly at the table beside her flinched.

The thud of his mother’s lifeless body hitting the floor tore him away from his little black book. His weathered pencil had barely left the surface of the ivory-colored pages as he looked up, just as the front door tore open, letting in the monsters. The smoke, laughs, and racial slurs filled the dimly lit room as he jumped back in horror, his mother’s corpse etched into his mind forever. He saw them spread out, grabbing what they could. He prayed they wouldn’t find the money, but he knew they would. He could make a run for it. But before he even thought to move the boot connected with his temple. He slumped over, unconscious.

He glanced over at his children. He was mystified at how the animation captivated them, it never ceased to amaze him. He surmised that a hurricane could rip the house in two and they wouldn’t notice. Snapping back into reality, he rolled the sleeves up of his old college sweatshirt, pulling the suitcase out onto the wooden floor of his study. He was completely unaware of the dirt that had penetrated the ocean-blue Moroccan rug his wife had carefully chosen for this room. It didn’t matter though; the suitcase owned his attention—even he wouldn’t notice the hurricane at this point.

He swung the unkempt luggage off the ground, shaking the residual dust off the faded black leather, disappointed at its deceiving weight. It was much lighter than expected. He heard the contents dancing loudly inside, and rested it down at once, petrified he may have compromised its insides. He unzipped his treasure, reveling at the high-pitched sound of the dusty Zppppp! that bounced off the walls as the vibrations of each zipper tooth coming undone inched him one step closer to discovering the inside of the portmanteau.

As he discharged its contents, not even bothering to move the oak coffee table aside, the source of the noise he had heard earlier revealed itself: silver candlestick holders, accompanied by what looked like watches, earrings, rings, and a shabby looking item that looked to be wrapped in newspapers. Curiously, he brushed the items away, his eyes laser-focused on the news-covered mystery. He brought it closer, as drops of sweat soaked the paper.

Now shaking, he lifted the tortoise-colored frames off of his nose, searching for a date—a clue, as to what he held in front of him. His eyes darted back and forth madly. Finally, he found it:

THE NEWS & OBSERVER

Friday, June 21st, 1929 Raleigh, NC

He gasped; his mind blown. Wasn’t today the 21st? He looked at the Shinola on his wrist for confirmation. It was. What were the chances of that? He trembled, his perspiration increasing. He unwrapped the newspaper and yelled so loudly upon his discovery, he was sure the kids would notice. He looked over. They didn’t, Disney remained undefeated.

Cash. Tons of it. He counted it frantically, barely noticing the little black book that had fallen out. He composed himself, shaking his head in disbelief at what he estimated was around $6,000-$7,000 in bills of $20 and $50. Astonished, he pulled out his cellphone learning that bills from the 1920’s, some 100 years ago at this point, were worth close to three times that amount. $20,000. His mind raced as he calculated his next move carefully.

Slowly, she opened the red front door, not expecting to see her husband waiting in the summer sun-soaked vestibule. She sat, awestricken, as he recounted the seemingly surreal tale that was the previous eight hours. As she glanced over the items, caressing them with her palms, it was the little black book that drew her attention.

“Did you see this?” she asked him. “Yes, yes” he nodded, dreamily. He was barely listening as he wondered over his newly acquired fortune. She marveled at the state of the book. It was clear that the owner had used it exhaustively, yet was meticulous with its care. She rubbed it’s edges softly. Prudently, she opened it, an engraving stared back at her:

To Moses J. Walker II, for his 19th birthday.

Love, Mom January 1929

Incredulous, she flipped through the pages, disbelieving at what looked to her to be the deliberations of an empathetic, albeit inexperienced young man. She continued through the pages, pausing at the last entry:

California tomorrow. Ma’s excited but I don’t know. We don’t know no one, but it can’t be worse than here. So much anger everywhere. They burnt down the school yesterday. Ma’s scared, and to be honest, so am I. But she says we gots money to start a new life. We aint meant to live in world with so much hate, she say. And it helps me sleep at night believin her. What makes us so different? I keep thinking. As long as we don’t give up, they won’t beat us. That’s what I think. Ma always says love is—

The tears came unannounced, crashing like unrelenting waves. She grabbed her husband’s arm, sobbing now. He looked at her, bewildered. She threw herself into him, squeezing away the pain. She needed to be seen, and he sensed that. He embraced her totally, feeling the depth of emotion on her skin and the gravity of sentiment in her voice. As the tears streamed down her face he noticed the black book clutched in her hand. Silently, his eyes met hers.

Dusk arrived as they beckoned their children into the dining room. The screens would have to wait. Dazzling rays of purple, pink, and orange brilliantly illuminated the walls around them, as they basked in the fading colors of the summer solstice. As the children listened eagerly, they told them of a story that they, their family, had now become a part of. A story, they realized, that remained unfinished. Together, the five of them gathered around the open laptop, as the Google search box awaited them.

Slowly, they watched as he typed:

Moses J. Walker II