stared at it for a moment before taking it and pressing it against her cheeks. “It’s so frigging hot here,” she said.
I refrained from mentioning that it wasn’t even summer yet, or that she wore too many clothes for the climate. I also didn’t comment on her choice of words. I figured all that could wait for later. Instead I said, “I know you took the money from your father’s wallet.”
Her steps didn’t falter and she didn’t look at me, but I saw her shoulders go back as if preparing for an assault. “So?”
At least she hadn’t denied it. Still, I hadn’t been raised by an army father for nothing. Despite his battles with alcohol, I’d been raised by the strict military code and still adhered to it. “It’s stealing. There are two things I won’t tolerate and that’s stealing and lying. Don’t do it again. Do you understand?”
She didn’t say anything, and when I stopped walking, she stopped, too. “Do you understand?” I asked again.
She met my eyes—something I hadn’t expected—and replied, “Yeah. I get it.” There was still defiance in her words, but there was relief there, too. “It’s stuffed under my pillow. I’ll give it back.”
I thought for a moment that she wanted to say something else, but when she didn’t I said, “Good,” and continued walking. “I’m glad we understand each other.” I knew the conversation wasn’t over, but I also knew that she wasn’t ready to continue just yet. And if I wanted to get to the bottom of why she’d taken the money in the first place, I’d have to bide my time. There was more than just stealing involved, something I’d been convinced of when she’d met my eyes and told the truth. Her resemblance then to the young me had been uncanny, and I couldn’t help but want to give her a second chance.
We reached the covered open-air market that stretched between Meeting and East Bay streets, where long tables were set up displaying wares for the throngs of tourists in their kaleidoscope-colored T-shirts. The pungent scents of horses, from the nearby tourist carriage barns, and cooking food mingled in the air like new neighbors still trying to get to know each other.
The rumor was that the market had once been a slave auction house, but that was just something made up for the tourists. The land had actually been donated in the late eighteenth century for a food market, and while its wares had changed over the years, its purpose had not. I generally avoided it because, slave market or not, it was filled with the spirits of Charlestonians both past and present.
We strolled slowly through the crowds of people until Nola paused by a table displaying the traditional sweetgrass baskets. A woman whose black skin had been baked by the sun into the color of dark coal sat in a chair behind the table weaving a basket in the time-honored tradition passed down by the generations of women in her family. A middle-aged woman sat next to her, watching carefully as Nola picked up a tiny basket only slightly larger than my hand. She held it up to get a better look, studying the intricately woven blades of sweetgrass done with such skill that the beginning and end of each blade disappeared into a seamless weave.
I smiled at both women before turning to Nola. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? These baskets are part of the local Gullah history brought over with slaves from West Africa. Dr. Wallen takes some of her classes on a field trip to Edisto Island to see how they’re made. She says there’s a direct correlation between the making of these baskets and the restoration of the old houses here in the city. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I do love these baskets.”
Reluctantly, Nola put the basket down and prepared to move on. I noticed again the ratty condition of her backpack and the frayed rubber of her Converse sneakers and made the educated guess that she didn’t have much spending money. In a move that I can only call
I refrained from mentioning that it wasn’t even summer yet, or that she wore too many clothes for the climate. I also didn’t comment on her choice of words. I figured all that could wait for later. Instead I said, “I know you took the money from your father’s wallet.”
Her steps didn’t falter and she didn’t look at me, but I saw her shoulders go back as if preparing for an assault. “So?”
At least she hadn’t denied it. Still, I hadn’t been raised by an army father for nothing. Despite his battles with alcohol, I’d been raised by the strict military code and still adhered to it. “It’s stealing. There are two things I won’t tolerate and that’s stealing and lying. Don’t do it again. Do you understand?”
She didn’t say anything, and when I stopped walking, she stopped, too. “Do you understand?” I asked again.
She met my eyes—something I hadn’t expected—and replied, “Yeah. I get it.” There was still defiance in her words, but there was relief there, too. “It’s stuffed under my pillow. I’ll give it back.”
I thought for a moment that she wanted to say something else, but when she didn’t I said, “Good,” and continued walking. “I’m glad we understand each other.” I knew the conversation wasn’t over, but I also knew that she wasn’t ready to continue just yet. And if I wanted to get to the bottom of why she’d taken the money in the first place, I’d have to bide my time. There was more than just stealing involved, something I’d been convinced of when she’d met my eyes and told the truth. Her resemblance then to the young me had been uncanny, and I couldn’t help but want to give her a second chance.
We reached the covered open-air market that stretched between Meeting and East Bay streets, where long tables were set up displaying wares for the throngs of tourists in their kaleidoscope-colored T-shirts. The pungent scents of horses, from the nearby tourist carriage barns, and cooking food mingled in the air like new neighbors still trying to get to know each other.
The rumor was that the market had once been a slave auction house, but that was just something made up for the tourists. The land had actually been donated in the late eighteenth century for a food market, and while its wares had changed over the years, its purpose had not. I generally avoided it because, slave market or not, it was filled with the spirits of Charlestonians both past and present.
We strolled slowly through the crowds of people until Nola paused by a table displaying the traditional sweetgrass baskets. A woman whose black skin had been baked by the sun into the color of dark coal sat in a chair behind the table weaving a basket in the time-honored tradition passed down by the generations of women in her family. A middle-aged woman sat next to her, watching carefully as Nola picked up a tiny basket only slightly larger than my hand. She held it up to get a better look, studying the intricately woven blades of sweetgrass done with such skill that the beginning and end of each blade disappeared into a seamless weave.
I smiled at both women before turning to Nola. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? These baskets are part of the local Gullah history brought over with slaves from West Africa. Dr. Wallen takes some of her classes on a field trip to Edisto Island to see how they’re made. She says there’s a direct correlation between the making of these baskets and the restoration of the old houses here in the city. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I do love these baskets.”
Reluctantly, Nola put the basket down and prepared to move on. I noticed again the ratty condition of her backpack and the frayed rubber of her Converse sneakers and made the educated guess that she didn’t have much spending money. In a move that I can only call
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