Shaking, he pulled from his pocket a handkerchief, dried his eyes, and then started walking slowly back to the house.
Upon reaching the porch, he placed his arms around Pearl and hugged her tightly. Stuttering, he said, “I-I’m sorry, but we must be going. Oh, how I’ve loved this day.”
“I have beds enough,” Pearl answered. “I could show you the town—nothing like Chicago—show you some of the old Civil War places. Tell you about my mother, grandfather, and uncle.”
“No, no—I’m sorry, but we must get to Charleston before nightfall,” he replied. “I could spend a month in such peaceful surroundings, but time won’t permit.”
Good-byes were said and we departed. Halfway up the lane, the big car stopped. Mr. Wainwright got out and came back to Dad’s car. He looked at us and said, “My God, Mr. Keener, I can’t leave—this way. That woman back there—know who she is? My sister—my own blood sister. And—and—she doesn’t know. Oh, how I wanted to tell her when I hugged her. What will I do? What will—I—do?” Sobbing hysterically, with tears dropping from his cheeks, he leaned in the car window to prevent the others from knowing his emotions.
Bringing his emotions under control, he spoke. “I can’t tell her until I tell Daddy first. He is now nearing ninety-five. He is very alert of mind and knows everything that goes on. Even confined to a wheelchair, he visits his mercantile house and bank one day a week. Mother has been dead now nearly twenty years. Can you understand my position?”
My father swore silence until he or Pearl heard from him.
CHAPTER XXIV
It was later in the summer when Pearl and the Nigger came to our home. She was very excited about a letter she had received, typewritten, on Chicago Banking[8] and Trust stationary. I remember my father reading silently, and then he read it to my mother.
861 Michigan Avenue
Chicago, Illinois,
July 27, 1933
Dear Daughter:
Maybe I should not say daughter because I am sure that you have been taught that your father has long been dead. I have only recently found that I have a daughter.
I do not know how to start or begin to compose this letter. So many years have gone by. My thoughts of Molly have been many. Each thought turned to grief until finally the grief faded away, but the thoughts of your mother still linger in an old man’s mind.
I do not know what to say, but let an old man write what he feels. First, I should say I am sorry. May God forgive me. I did not know I had a daughter, until a week or two ago, when Jeff, my son, told me of his visit to West Virginia. He made the trip up the old trail, stopping at Lee’s Tree—Tyree Tavern and the Pines.
My thoughts carry me back to the day I returned only to find my beautiful mountain wife buried there in the family cemetery. My grief was so great that I wanted to get as far away from there I could.
I recall how I rode up the lane with tear-blinded eyes, never looking back. I did not think that the two black slaves that adored Molly would be there. I just didn’t think. I was beyond Charleston before Black Demon and I stopped because we were both exhausted.
I do not know how to make up all these years, but you would bring joy to an old man’s heart to let him try.
Instead of my rambling on this way, by letter, I prefer to do it where I can look into your face and you can see into mine. Here we can see the honesty and share our feelings.
Enclosed with this letter, you will find four round-trip passes on the Chesapeake and Ohio railroad from Cotton Hill, West Virginia, to Chicago, Illinois. This is my invitation for you to visit me here at my home since I am unable to travel. After the visit, if you choose to return, you may do so. My home is yours, and I welcome you to come and stay forever.
I have provided four tickets because I understand you have a son. Bring him with you. He is welcome, and one of the tickets is for his passage. If you feel uncomfortable traveling to this large city alone, then use the other two, maybe a man and his wife, for whom you would trust. By all means, I wish you here as soon as you can arrange.
Pearl and the black man spent the night. Next morning, my father agreed to accompany them to Chicago. My mother was unable to make the trip because of four small children. So Dad agreed that I could go with him. I remember how happy I was.
Two days later the four of us boarded a train at Cotton Hill, West Virginia, changed in Cincinnati, Ohio, late that evening, arriving in Chicago early the next morning. We checked into a hotel, where Dad and I freshened up and had breakfast. Leaving Pearl and the Nigger, we set out to find the bank on Michigan Avenue. It was well-known and was easy to locate.
Soon we stepped through polished-brass-framed glass doors into a spacious lobby all finished in decorative Italian marble. There were massive marble columns on either side of a bronze statue of a Union officer astride a large steed. Cut into the base was an inscription, which my father read, “Black Demon and Jack.” Behind the columns and statue, we saw a score or more bronze cages wherein cashiers busily waited on numerous customers of the bank. Over a desk that stood beside a nearby wall hung a calendar that flaunted an advertisement of the bank.
“Wh-e-e-e-w!” my father whistled, reading the print on the calendar. “Five million capital stock, resources, thirty-two million.”
It was a modestly dressed, clean-cut tall young man who confronted us and asked, “May I be of service?”
Yes was my father’s reply. “Mr. Jeff Wainwright, please.”
“Er—do—you have an appointment?” the clerk stuttered.
“Well, no, sir, but” was all my father could say before the clerk interrupted.
“Sir, if you have not made a previous appointment, I fear it will be impossible to see Mr. Wainwright this morning. He is a very busy man, you understand, and I’m quite sure he’s booked up until noon, anyway.”
“It’s important, sir,” my father insisted. “I wonder if you will ask if I may have a few minutes with him sometime before noon?”
Picking up a pen and paper from the desk, my father wrote and then handed the note to the clerk. “Here, take this to him.”
“You know Mr. Wainwright, Mr. Keener?” inquired the clerk, after glancing at the paper.
“I have met him, sir” was my father’s reply.
The clerk paused, looked again at the paper, then turning, walked through a low gate at the rear of the railed-in bronze cages into a vestibule that attached to a suite of offices. He was gone several minutes. Returning, he announced, “Mr. Wainwright will see you in a few minutes, Mr. Keener. Come inside and be seated, sir.”
He opened the gate. We stepped inside the polished-brass rail. He motioned for us to be seated, and we dropped into highly polished mahogany office chairs.
“This is quite a surprise, Mr. Keener, I assure you,” greeted the banker, who soon extended his hand in welcome. “When did you arrive in Chicago?”
“Early this morning,” Father answered.
The banker’s handshake was not friendly, and I detected a glint of suspicion in his steel gray eyes.
“Have a chair, sir, and tell me what brought you to our fair city.”
As we were seated, Mr. Wainwright persisted in his cold, businesslike manner. “What can I do for you, Mr. Keener?”
My father, looking at him from across the room into his cold gray eyes, replied, “I have brought Pearl to see her father.”
“To see her father?” he asked in a raised voice. “That’s correct,” answered my father.
8
I am not sure that this was the name of the bank, but I am certain that the bank and his house were on Michigan Boulevard.