Golden Poppies Read online

  ALSO BY LAILA IBRAHIM

  Yellow Crocus

  Living Right

  Mustard Seed

  Paper Wife

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Laila Ibrahim

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542006446

  ISBN-10: 1542006449

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  For the founders who created a living constitution that could someday apply to me.

  For the justice makers who had the vision and determination to make it so.

  And for the people who are still waiting for the foundational promise of this nation: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  RESOURCES

  BOOK DISCUSSION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.

  Fifteenth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States

  Ratified in 1870

  To the wrongs that need resistance,

  To the right that needs assistance,

  To the future in the distance,

  Give yourselves.

  Carrie Chapman Catt

  PROLOGUE

  JORDAN

  I thought my education would protect us—like forged armor too strong for the evils of hatred to penetrate. But I was wrong. Maybe every generation needs to believe they will end the trampling, as if it had not been thought of before. Without that certain and foolish hope, I don’t believe we could go on.

  CHAPTER 1

  JORDAN

  Chicago, Illinois

  April 1894

  “Well, I guess I ain’t never gonna see them beautiful poppies . . . or look on Lisbeth’s face again,” Mama declared, looking straight at Jordan.

  Her dark-brown eyes were glossy. She didn’t bother to blink away her tears. Jordan’s eyes matched her mother’s. She stifled a protest, forcing down the urge to tell Mama she was wrong, that her appetite would come back along with her strength. But there was no point in fighting for a lie. Mama was dying and leaving Jordan forever.

  Invisible hands choked Jordan’s throat tight. She sat on the bed by her mother, so close she felt a bony hip against her thigh. Her daughter, Naomi, stood near. For weeks they’d searched in vain for something, anything, that would stay in Mama’s stomach. The devastating truth, hiding in plain sight, had finally been spoken.

  Mama took Jordan’s hand, her shriveled thumb stroking the back of it. “I had a good life . . . a ver’ good life. The Lord has blessed me more than I have a right to. I ain’t afraid to go home.” She sighed. “I jus’ wish I could see how it all turns out.” Mama let out a weak laugh. “Ain’t I a foolish ol’ woman!”

  “Grammy, no one would ever call you a fool,” Naomi countered. “You deserve everything you have . . . and more. After working so hard for all of us your whole life, you get to just rest. I’ll be back with a tonic to ease your pains.”

  Jordan was struck by Naomi’s calm confidence. Her reserved daughter had somehow turned into this poised young woman.

  Naomi left her grandmother’s bedroom. The click of the door echoed in the chamber. A dim ray of sun filtered through the lone window. It faced a narrow light well, a small gap between row houses that were built right next to one another.

  Mama’s body had shrunk under her faded quilt. Jordan’s gaze traveled across the various fabrics that kept her mother warm—disjointed parts of their lives stitched into a whole. The dress Mama had escaped in was at the center, the homespun plantation cotton still strong and whole, though many of the other fabrics had worn through over the years. Surrounding the rough, enduring material were blocks made from the remnants of Samuel’s trousers, Jordan’s dresses, and Pops’s shirts.

  Jordan stroked some of the colorful patches that skipped across the top of the quilt. Whenever a hole wore through, Mama cut a square from the best part of a grandchild’s worn-out shirt so “they can warm my spirit whiles I sleep too.” Jordan rubbed the pieces of her children’s clothes, reflecting on the days when they were young. She ached for the feel of Naomi’s and Malcolm’s precious little bodies in her arms.

  Jordan ran her finger over an embroidered red shoe. It was all that remained of the baby blanket Lisbeth Johnson had made for her more than four decades ago—a little girl trying to stitch her way into their family. As a child, Jordan used to imagine herself with a real pair of those bright-red shoes, dazzling the sanctuary on Sunday morning.

  The maroon dress Jordan had been married in had become the new binding for Mama’s quilt fifteen years ago.

  Mama had rejected every offer to make her a new quilt, saying she was going to sleep the rest of her days under the one that kept her warm for so long. Too soon she’d get her wish. Mama would take her last breath underneath the same comforter that covered Pops when he died ten years earlier in this same room.

  Jordan picked up the treasured family Bible and rubbed the worn leather cover. Its thin pages were the first words she had ever read. The Lord’s messages of hope and faith had been a reliable source of comfort throughout her life, but in the months since her husband’s sudden death, the words rang hollow. She’d recite them to soothe her mama, but she didn’t expect them to penetrate the pile of pain that covered her own soul.

  “Would you like me to read to you, Mama?” Jordan asked.

  “Oh, yes.” Mama nodded with a satisfied smile. “You know jus’ what I need.”

  Jordan opened to the bookmark, swallowed hard, and continued where they’d last left off: Matthew 5.

  “No,” Mama interrupted. “Not that. My heart wants to hear Matthew 13.”

  Jordan sighed quietly. Mama was preaching to her through the good book. She turned the silky pages until she found the passage. Jordan took a sip of water and read in a hushed voice. Mama closed her eyes, a soft smile on her face, as she listened to the parable of the Sower.

  13:3 And he spake many things unto them in parables, saying,

  Behold, a sower went forth to sow;

  13:4 And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side,

  and the fowls came and devoured them
up:

  13:5 Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth:

  and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth:

  13:6 And when the sun was up, they were scorched;

  and because they had no root, they withered away.

  13:7 And some fell among thorns;

  and the thorns sprung up, and choked them:

  13:8 But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit,

  some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold.

  13:9 Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.

  Jordan continued, knowing that Mama had chosen this passage to remind Jordan to be good soil for the word of God. Her voice choked up, but she kept going through the assertion that faith was like a mustard seed: small but mighty. Mama patted her hand, comforting the comforter.

  Jordan’s faith had vanished into the August night with her husband’s last breath. They’d been preparing for bed when Booker called for her. She’d found him splayed on the ground against his wardrobe; his brown eyes, round and panicked, conveyed in an instant he was leaving this earth. She knelt by him, straightened his body, and took his hand. She did her best to provide comfort in his last moments. Tears streaming from her eyes, she kissed his cheek and whispered, “Thank you” into his ear. She rubbed his forehead and patted his chest as he struggled to breathe.

  She hadn’t called for Naomi or Mama—out of kindness or selfishness, she didn’t know. It had just seemed right to be alone with her husband as he passed over. She stayed by him until the warmth left his beautiful brown skin, and her own heart was left cold.

  Now Mama was being taken from her. God was testing Jordan and, unlike Job, she was failing.

  When Mama was snoring softly, Jordan crept away from her bedside. Naomi pounced with a demand before Jordan could sit down on their worn but comforting couch.

  “Ma, write to Lisbeth; ask her to come before Grammy passes over,” Naomi urged.

  Jordan smiled at her daughter. At nineteen years old, Naomi had stepped past childhood, but the echo of it was still on her face. Her training as a nurse was a blessing in this painful time.

  Naomi had finished school just before the turn of the year from 1893 to 1894, but hadn’t secured a full-time position yet because they’d agreed to move to Oakland. A transition that would be delayed now that Mama’s stomach couldn’t keep down any food.

  Malcolm, Jordan’s twenty-three-year-old son, had studied to be a lawyer, but worked as a Pullman porter like his father before him. Last fall he’d been assigned to the Chicago–Oakland route. Soon after, he’d begun making the case for them to move west, asserting that a fresh start at life would be good for Jordan’s spirits. The bleak February had caused her to agree.

  Resistance must have shown on Jordan’s face, because Naomi argued, “You heard her. Poppies and Lisbeth. Grammy wants to see Lisbeth before she passes. The least you can do is ask. Malcolm leaves for Oakland in the morning—he can deliver a letter. She lives near the place he stays, right?”

  Jordan nodded. She felt Naomi’s eyes on her, waiting for a reply.

  “I’ll consider your suggestion,” Jordan responded. That was all she could agree to at the moment, though she had to decide quickly. Malcolm would leave for work before sunrise. She’d need to write that letter tonight if he would be the bearer of their sad news. Her chest clenched as she imagined the words she would have to put to paper:

  Your Mattie, my mother, is dying. Please come. Her deepest sadness is that she will not be with you one last time before she leaves this earth. I understand it is a great inconvenience to travel two thousand miles to visit with an old woman you haven’t seen in decades, but it would mean so much to her, and to me, if you can manage it.

  If you cannot come, will you please write a note of farewell?

  Tears were streaming down Jordan’s face when she sat at her oak desk to write to Lisbeth Johnson. Naomi was correct. She would push aside her own desires to make this appeal for Mama, but either response from Lisbeth was fraught. Rejecting the request would feel an insult, but a visit from Lisbeth would be an imposition. Jordan didn’t relish the idea of sharing this time with a White woman she hadn’t seen in more than twenty years. But for Mama she would face one or the other.

  CHAPTER 2

  SADIE

  Oakland, California

  May 1894

  A well-dressed Negro stood on the front porch of their modern Victorian home. Sadie hoped her expression did not come across as rude. She rarely saw a Colored person in Oakland.

  “May I help you?” she asked the dark-skinned young man.

  “How do you do, ma’am?” He nodded and smiled. “I’m Malcolm Wallace. Does Mrs. Lisbeth Johnson live here?”

  Sadie nodded. “She’s my mother.” A flicker of familiarity danced in her. “You’re Miss Jordan’s son?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Mattie Freedman’s grandson.”

  “Oh my!” Sadie beamed at the handsome young man. “Momma will be delighted to meet you. And I am too, of course. Your mother remains larger than life in my heart and mind. She was my favorite teacher of all time. Please come in.”

  Jordan had been only nineteen—barely out of childhood herself—when she became Sadie’s first teacher. Sadie had felt Miss Jordan was perhaps the wisest and kindest person in the world. Miss Jordan’s enthusiasm and sparkle remained dear in Sadie’s memory, though they had not seen one another in decades. The history and affection that connected their mothers must have added to her regard.

  Miss Jordan’s mother, Mattie, had been Momma’s beloved wet nurse and caregiver at the Fair Oaks plantation in Charles City, Virginia. Mattie had escaped to Oberlin, Ohio, when Momma was about twelve. Sadie didn’t know if it was entirely a coincidence that Momma had moved there after she and Poppa married. Some of Sadie’s fondest childhood memories included Miss Jordan and Mrs. Freedman. They’d been kith to one another, family by circumstance, until Sadie’s family moved to Oakland in 1873.

  Though they had not lived in the same place, nor visited with one another, in the intervening years, Momma shared a regular correspondence with Mattie. Jordan acted as scribe since Mattie was illiterate. They kept up with the biggest changes in one another’s lives, celebrating stories of marriages and births and mourning news of deaths. Momma spoke of Mattie so often that her spirit lived in Sadie’s mind and soul.

  Sadie showed Malcolm to their living room—modern with gaslights and a coal fireplace—and pointed to the couch upholstered in an elegant French fabric. “Please have a seat while I find my mother.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen, put the kettle on for tea, and went into the backyard. Her mother knelt in the garden, transplanting tomato seedlings into the soil. Momma’s gray hair was pulled into a loose bun. Only the veins popping out on the back of her hands revealed her fifty-seven years. She’d been pampered and privileged as a child, never working in dirt. But after she left the plantation, she farmed right alongside her husband and children: planting, harvesting, and collecting most of the food they ate until 1890, when Poppa died from a weak heart.

  Sadie’s life was the reverse of her mother’s. She’d tended to the land and the animals on their farm before her memories began. Dirt was a constant in her childhood. She’d been determined to keep up with her older brother, and by the time she was fifteen, she drove the plow team as fast and straight as Sam, though he outweighed her by forty pounds.

  Now her husband, Heinrich, discouraged her from soiling her hands. He wanted Sadie’s nails and fingers to look and feel like a lady’s. He suggested they get a palm tree for their new yard rather than have a kitchen garden. Sadie had nodded in agreement at his proposal but did not take any action. If she did nothing about it, he would most likely forget his idea—Heinrich was too focused on his business to pay attention to the household.

  In contrast, Momma preferred to grow much of their own food and had ambitious plans for the garden—kale, tomat
oes, lettuce, and peas. She assumed Sadie would be a part of bringing it to fruition. With gloves Sadie was able to satisfy both her husband and her mother.

  “This clay soil is impossible!” Momma declared. “We’re going to need to mix in sand to give the roots room to grow.”

  “Momma, we have a visitor.” Sadie corrected, “You have a visitor.”

  Her mother’s eyebrows came together in a furrow.

  “Miss Jordan’s son is here,” Sadie explained.

  “Malcolm?” Momma grinned.

  Before Sadie could reply, Momma leaped up. Wiping her hands on her skirt, she abandoned her project, leaving plants and tools scattered on the ground. Sadie followed her into the living room.

  Momma beamed as she declared, “Malcolm, it is a real pleasure to meet you at last.”

  The young man stood to shake hands. Momma showed her dirty palm.

  “I’m sorry. I was working in the garden,” she explained.

  “I’m not afraid of a little grime.” Despite the soil he took her light hand in his, then they all sat down.

  “I feel as if I know you from Mattie’s letters,” Momma said, her voice high and energetic.

  “And I you, ma’am,” he replied. “From my mother’s and grandmother’s stories.”

  “What brings you to Oakland?” Momma asked.

  “I live here part-time, ma’am,” he replied. “Working for the Pullman Company as a porter.”

  “I understand those are excellent jobs for . . . a good job for young men.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “You do not need to call me ma’am,” Momma told the polite young man.

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.” He laughed. “It’s just my way.”

  Momma laughed too. “You may call me whatever you like,” she said. “Thank you for coming to see us. Though many miles and years separate us, your family is important to me.” Momma smiled, her eyes moist. “Very dear indeed.”

  It was striking to see Momma so animated, and so overtly emotional. It was a side that Sadie saw only when Momma was with her grandchildren.