The leafy tunnel had brought Red to more than another house; it seemed another world, for there was no washing machine or dryer on the back porch, no modern appliances in the kitchen, not even a refrigerator. Red noticed kerosene lamps here and there, storm covers lightly blackened with use.
“Could I trouble you to put the iris in a vase?” The request was directed at Lydia, who knew right where the vase was; and as she drew the water and dropped the flower in, Red realized her grandmother had command over this house. It was spelled out in small gestures, the way Lydia shook out a towel and wiped the vase, how she went forward into the dining room and set it down where she chose.
“Let’s us sit in the dining room,” said Portia. Lydia was already pulling out chairs. “The front parlor is far too dark and hot.”
The magnificent table, china cabinet and sideboard in the dining room were oversized and forlorn, refugees from an antebellum mansion. Every step made the floorboards creak and the ancient china rattle. The living room at the front of the house was dark and thickly curtained and its dark mahogany furniture, too, seemed to loom uncomfortably in the cramped space.
“I believe this is the bluest iris I have ever seen,” said Portia. It was a soft voice, honeyed with a southern accent. She looked at Red with eyes far younger than her face, with fine wrinkles that turned up into smile lines.
Red felt the dread lift a little as she sat next to the old woman in the still, cramped room where doilies covered every surface.
“I am pretty old,” confessed Portia. Her accent was different than Lydia’s, more courtly; and her eyes were the palest blue Red had ever seen, as if time had bleached them out.
“I’m pretty young,” grinned Red.
Lydia adjusted a fold in the curtains. “You two have a little talk, while I go out back and pull some weeds. I won’t be long.” Her eyes met Portia’s for only a moment, in what looked like a warning frown.
Portia was silent until she heard the back screen door slam. “You’re no sissy, are you?”
“I—guess not.”
“I mean, you’re not one of those little girls who wears flouncy dresses and has sausage curls and sits under a tree on a blanket and plays with dolls.”
“Oh, definitely not.” Lydia had made Red wear a dress for this occasion, but both skinned knees poked out from under the hem.
“Lydia has her good qualities,” said Portia. “But she isn’t big on adventure. When I was younger, I had a lot of adventures. Have you ever been to Vicksburg?”
“No… ma’am.”
“Like Memphis, it looks down on the Mississippi River. They dug trenches and tunnels during the siege. And I used to prowl through them, and oh, would the soldiers be surprised when I would come upon them!”
Red had no idea what Portia was talking about. “All I do is watch Tarzan movies,” she said wistfully.
Portia gave her a strange look. “Well, you shall find adventure someday. I am sure of it.”
The bang of the screen door announced Lydia’s return. “How are you two getting along?” she asked at the dining room door.
“Just famously,” said Portia. “In fact I would like to give Yvette a little something.”
Lydia froze.
“Oh, honey, just a little box! Something my mother gave to me when I was a little girl. It’s in the chifforobe in my bedroom, in that drawer where I keep all my trinkets.”
Lydia went around the corner and Red heard the sound of drawers opening. She came back holding up a wooden box. “This one?”
“No dear, the one with the boullework.”
Lydia came back and handed the small box to Portia, who turned it over in her bony, blue-veined hands. She gave it to Red. It was ebony wood, inlaid with brass and red tortoiseshell. Opening it, she found a little key on a tassel, which fit into the keyhole.
“This is really neat,” said Red. “Thank you, thank you very much.”
“My mother gave it to me when we still lived up the river from Vicksburg at Fairgrove. I shall tell you about her sometime.”
“But right now,” Lydia cut in, “Great-grandmother Portia needs her rest. Maybe you two can visit again in a few days.”
Portia leaned over and whispered to Red, “This box holds secrets.”
“Pretty fancy,” said Virginia.
They sat on a bench across from the herb garden, taking advantage of the shade as the cicadas tirelessly whirred their song of summer heat.
The black girl opened the box and looked inside.
“She said something kinda funny,” said Red. “That it holds secrets.”
“Old people say things like that. Maybe she was talkin’ about memories.”
“I dunno. It was funny the way she said it. Oh! And you know what else? She whispered it to me, like she didn’t want Lydia to hear.”
They stared at the box.
“Maybe…” said Virginia, suddenly excited, “maybe it’s like something I saw on Miss Lydia’s TV, on 77 Sunset Strip. You know, a secret compartment.”
Red took the box back and turned it over carefully. “Well, the bottom’s awfully heavy.”
Together they picked and poked at the box. It was Virginia who accidentally pressed the inlay on one side, causing the bottom to come loose at one edge. With careful prying, the bottom swung out, revealing a shallow compartment filled with a mashed scrap of cloth. Red pulled it out and a key fell to her lap. A modern brass key.
“Do you recognize it?” asked Red.
Virginia shook her head. “Mama has lots of keys for the houses, and I can’t tell.”
“Your mother knows a lot about things around here, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah. She’s been working here since before I was born. Miss Lydia’s been good to our family. She helped us a lot when my papa died.”
“Your father died?”
Virginia’s face was very still. “He had cancer and he died when I was eight.”
It was an overwhelming concept for Red, who felt enough pain just being separated from her father for a few weeks.
“Wow, that’s bad,” she said lamely.
“Yvette!”
They both jumped, then fumbled frantically with the key and the cloth and the box. The bottom snapped shut just as Lydia came around the corner.
“So! What are you two up to?”
Red burst out laughing and Virginia covered her mouth as she giggled.
“Nothing,” said Red. “Just looking at the box.”
“There’s lemonade in the house. Virginia, could you pick us some strawberries, and we’ll have them with cream?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Yvette,” said Lydia as they went into the house, “There’s a girl your age whose mother is a member of the Garden Society. She’d love you to come over.”
“No, that’s okay. Virginia and I have stuff to do.”
“Getting too friendly with Virginia might not be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Lydia said starkly, “Virginia is like a member of this family, but she’s colored, and that means we mix only so far. Do you understand?”
“I guess,” said Red.
The next day, Red waited impatiently until Virginia came to Miss Lydia’s house. “My mama’s taking a nap over at Miss Portia’s.”
“Great. Let’s get started.” Red pulled the key from her pocket. It didn’t fit the padlock on Lydia’s basement. It didn’t fit the back door or the front door.
“How long does my grandmother take when she goes to a garden club meeting?”
“Usually a couple of hours, sometimes more.”
She and Red stood in the living room, and Red peered about, as if she could see through the walls. “There aren’t any more locks here, are there?”
“No. I told you we should check Miss Portia’s house. That makes more sense.”
“But we had to be sure,” said Red, leaving unspoken that they really didn’t want to go next door. They traced their way back through the trees, edging past the creaking screen door and into the bleak kitchen.