Lost Seeds, page 18
Charlotte perched on the edge of the couch, gripping her notepad and pencil, ready should Dub or Mae say anything of substance. The clock ticked away the seconds.
Mae cleared her throat, and Charlotte finally spoke up. “The lady that raised me, Sadie Taylor, passed away last month. Her husband, Larford Taylor, Larry, died back in the 1920s in a blast at the Tappers coal mine. He wasn’t my birth father.”
Mae turned to Dub. Dub glared at Charlotte with no expression.
“Yes, I was there during that time in 1929.”
“You said, ‘the lady that raised me’ and that Larry wasn’t your birth father,” Mae said.
Charlotte proceeded to tell them the circumstances of her birth. For her entire life, she was told the Taylors were her parents, but had doubt because she did not favor them at all. When Sadie died last month, she’d learned the Taylors had never adopted her. While disposing of personal items from their home, Charlotte found in the attic a July 12, 1925, obituary about Kate Russo’s death in Morriston, Alabama. A steamer trunk contained Kate’s diary and a white crocheted lace handkerchief. These items urged her to learn whether she was the baby mentioned in Kate’s writings and to search for Timothy Brisco.
During the visit to Morriston, she started the research at the Morriston library, discovering the former address of the Russos, and located Timothy Brisco’s name among the graduates of Saint John’s High School in 1924. She spoke with Mr. Thomas, the former principal of the high school, who remembered the night Tim found out Kate was pregnant. He relayed the story of the night Tim went to his office and showed him a note from Kate. Kate’s diary confirmed his story. He also told Charlotte that she resembled Tim’s mother, Betsey Brisco, and gave her Betsey’s address.
Charlotte immediately visited Betsey in the same house she’d lived in since 1914. The elderly lady studied the woman’s face and admitted that Tim could be her father. However, she had neither seen nor heard from Tim in nearly forty years and had no desire for a connection. Keeping track of Tim, given the circumstances of her last encounter with him, only brought pain.
Sitting in the same kitchen, the stage for many impactful moments between mother and son, Betsey had said with firm definition, “Back in 1926, I told Dub that as far as Tim is concerned, tell him I died in an accident. I’m over ninety years old now, and value my peace. It took a while to shake the horrors of my life on the plantation and how they murdered my husband. I took my pain out on Tim the most. But what Tim did to me was a blessing. I sought redemption and forgave myself. But until Tim gets himself right, I’m staying away from him.”
Standing with a straight back and taking confident steps, Betsey had walked Charlotte to the door, asking her granddaughter to never contact her again. Two days prior to Tim’s death, Charlotte returned from the weeklong visit to Morriston.
“Mr. Brisco, why would you agree to do such a thing?”
Both Mae and Dub looked at Charlotte.
Mae nodded, whispering, “All of what you found in Morriston is true. Kate Russo is the girl Tim got pregnant. My daughter Loretta showed me a letter from Kate to Tim. It’s in Tim’s cigar box that Jason had. The one sitting right there.” Mae pointed to the box Waylon had delivered earlier in the day.
“What are you talking about, Mae?” Dub said, jumping to his feet.
“I planned to tell you today, Dub.”
Dub returned to the chair and sat on its edge, mouth agape and head lowered to stare at the floor. “Charlotte, I don’t know what to say.”
“Mr. Brisco, what about my grandmother Betsey. Is it true what she told me?”
Dub had no further words.
“My father did a horrible thing by kidnapping your granddaughter. That shows he lived in darkness. He was a sick man. But why let him live a life believing he had no chance to reconcile the wrongs to his mother?”
Dub chuckled nervously as he looked at the ceiling. “Tim, is that what all of this was about? A goddamn baby? Well karma made sure you paid with your life for harming my granddaughter.”
“But, Mr. Brisco, why didn’t you ever help him? Maybe he could have salvaged the relationship. He lived here day after day for decades on your property. You were his brother. Yet you and the rest of the family treated him like a leper. Would helping him have deterred your lives? Maybe you could have altered the course that led to your granddaughter’s tragedy and your brother’s death. My father should be alive for me to meet him.”
Charlotte breathed heavily while tears fell from her eyes. Dub gripped the arms of the chair. Mae reached out to grab his shoulder and placed her other hand on her heart.
Slowly rising from the floral embroidered sofa beneath the picture window, Charlotte gazed past Mae and Dub. No words passed between the couple, only occasional glances at a salvaged mahogany coffee table that held Tim’s cigar box containing Kate’s letters, the pencil drawings, a lighter, and a long-stemmed cigarette holder.
The screen door smacked closed behind their niece. Charlotte stood on the walkway, confused. She turned one step right, paused, turned one step left, then ultimately turned right and marched stoically to her car. Suddenly, her shoulders shook with a chill, and she wrapped her arms around her body, noticing the swaying of the walnut trees in the abrupt gust of wind.
Something moved in the distance while she opened the door to her car. Startled, Charlotte looked in the direction of the burnt shack where Tim once lived. Tossing the notepad and pencil onto the dashboard, she walked along the gravel path. Drawing closer to the shack, she saw a single dried pink rose petal on the ground. She looked to the sky, searching for the father she’d come within twenty-four hours of meeting.
Dub watched Charlotte drive away. “Lady, I take no blame for Tim’s life or death. And there’s nothing I could have done to change his fate. Our mother should have told you that.”
The next day, Charlotte received an inheritance—the cigar box and a letter from Dub on her stoop.
Sixty-five years is a long time to hold on to the past. Especially when remnants stain the windows of my being. As I think about it, healing from the memories is no one’s business but mine.
Selfish? Maybe. I occasionally see the scars. Some feelings I desire to hold secret as a reminder to grow, to not be a victim, or recognize the harm I’ve done to others.
From the dichotomies and imperfections of life I became a facade. Illusory defines the admiration deserved given the secrets and manipulations.
An enslaved grandfather persevered, a father sacrificed his life by hanging on a tree, and now there is the question of why I wasn’t brave enough to pay the personal costs to better those around me.
But the more I think about it, why focus on yesterday when it’s my obligation to build a future holding so much more? One event, even a bad one, can become the catalyst for a greater life.
Either way, I’m moving forward.
Respectfully,
Dublin Brisco
About the Author
Teresa Mosley Sebastian is an attorney, entrepreneur, and law school professor. She seeks to make a difference in the environment and our culture through her involvement with nonprofit communities and corporate boards. Teresa believes spiritual words and the sounds of nature soothe the inner being, define a place of peace, and inspire her creative writing. She has always been compelled to put words to the human life she sees around her. She is the author of two novels—Lost Seeds: The Beginning and Lost Seeds: The Legacy.
For more information, visit
https://teresamosleysebastian.com.
Teresa Sebastian, Lost Seeds
