Good Dirt

by Charmaine Wilkerson

“Most of the trouble in this world boils down to one person not recognizing the worth of another,” Gramps said. “But sometimes, that can be an advantage.”

That the Freemans were African American was something that seemed to be mentioned in every news report, every article, and every social media post that Henry read about their personal tragedy. Nothing like the shooting had ever happened in their neighborhood before, each report would quote people as saying. It felt as though the writers were implying that the Freemans’ blackness had something to do with the violence that had been visited upon them, despite the fact that they lived in a wealthy enclave already brimming with temptation for anyone willing to hedge their bets against private security patrols.

Ebby did not have Ed’s engineering degrees, but her work, like Ed’s, still involved a buoying-up of structures and systems that, if successful, went largely unnoticed. Like so much of the valuable work done in the world.

There were many families like Henry’s. People who had perfected the art of shying away from blame. They did not understand that as a result of Henry’s failure to accept his responsibility in this matter, the Freeman family, automatically, would be considered suspect.

Because this was the subtext of every question that had been asked in the media since the afternoon that their son was killed, eighteen years earlier: What had the Freeman family done to bring this upon themselves?

What had they done? This was the question that hung in the air above every black family that had ever run into misfortune. And not only. It was a subtext understood by so many women, of any color, who had ever been harmed. It was the question that few dared to ask out loud but many had in mind, with regard to families that struggled to pay the bills. It was the question asked b...

Henry’s parents finally showed up one week later, making the expected noises about “deep regret and embarrassment” that their son had left Connecticut but stressing that it would have to be up to ...

And Soh did what she needed to do, cloaking her rage in chilly courtesy. Soh pulls a prayer from deep in her gut, now, and sends it upward. She prays that she will never lay eyes on Henry Pepper again. Except, maybe, once. Just long enough to walk up to that boy and slap him in his ...

Because this is what it means to be Isabella “Sojourn...

Still the only black woman in her neighborhood, after all these years, with all that this unfortunate statistic has entailed. Alas, Soh needs to be above slapping that superficial fool in his face, because there are people who are just waiting for a sign that a woman like Soh is beneath them. There are people who still believe that her family and her pride are worth less than theirs. People who believe that her history is not their history, too.

After ending the video call to her parents, Ebby does something she hasn’t done since arriving in France. She pulls her brother’s clock radio out of her suitcase, attaches an adapter to the electric cord, and plugs it into a wall socket. She is already up and moving about the kitchen the next day when the alarm goes off.

Ebby has used Baz’s alarm clock for nineteen years, often waking up ahead of time to listen for it, as she did for an entire year before he died.

Every morning, it was the same music station, same deejay, same fifteen seconds to run down the hallway to her brother’s room. Because Ebby was always out of bed before Baz ...

“All right, all right, I’m up. Go on, get dressed,” Baz would say, still under the covers and looking...

When the alarm goes off this time, the radio picks up a French statio...

But Ebby’s mind is already drifting away from the sound and back in time. She hears her brother’s voice, now, and allows herself that little bit of Baz in her head, his sleepy grumble, before e...

Ebby knows what Henry would think if he saw the clock there. Are you still car...

Once, during an argument about her nightmares, Henry pointed to Baz’s clock. “That,” said Henry, “is proof that your therapist hasn’t done enough for you. I mean, after all this time? Isn’t it a little morbid to be setting an alarm by your brother’s schedule?”

What an insensitive jerk.

“I don’t set the alarm. I just don’t stop it from going off, that’s all.”

“Oh, come on, Ebby. Don’t get technical on me,...

“Admit what? That I miss my brother and I like hearing his alarm clock go off every morning? That’s not morbid, Henry. Morbid is the fact that two complete strangers forced their way into my family’s home and shot my fifteen-year-old brother dead. My parents saved so few things from our old...

To Henry’s credit, he said nothing more. He moved toward Ebby and wrapped his arms around her. Eventually, Ebby would realize that Henry was more likely to back down from a confrontation than not, and that this would cause big trouble betwee...

Sometimes, Moses would drag the triangular tip of his sculpting tool over the curve of the piece with a delicacy and dexterity that allowed him to leave a small design of a rice plant on its surface before glazing it with an alkaline mixture of wood ash, lime, feldspar, and such. It was a while before Master Oldham made note of the decorative marks that Moses left in the pottery.

“That’s a fine-looking detail,” the master said more than once. Martin Oldham was not shy to praise a person’s work, and he did not mind a bit of innovation. He considered himself a God-fearing gentleman.

But Master Oldham also was given to looking the other way if one of his kin had a fit of temper and took to beating one of the slaves or broke up a family by selling one of its members. Moses had seen it happen. In this way, Master Oldham was just like other men. Q...

People liked to argue otherwise, but deep down, they understood that it was a challenge to level the economic playing field between white and black Americans when one group of people had inherited their wealth over generations by using the other group as forced or low-paid labor. So even a family like his would continue to be regarded with doubt.

“At what point are you supposed to stop reacting to trauma?” Ebby had asked one day, when she was still seeing a therapist. “At what point are you supposed to stop thinking about it?”

“It’s normal to think about your brother and his death,” said the therapist. “This was a huge thing in your life. Your challenge is not to erase all memory of what happened, but to find a way to live with it.”

But Ebby, after years of this, was tired. Tired of be...

Henry is peering in through a glass pane in the kitchen door, his face yellowed by the lamp above.

Had Henry ever really loved her? How could he have shown so little regard for her? And would anyone else who claimed to love her ever be worth the risk? She feels her mouth draw into itself and makes a conscious effort to relax her face.

Be polite, she thinks. This is Hannah’s house. This is business. She pulls open the door.

“Hello, Ebby,” He...

He makes a move as if to walk inside but Ebby remains in place, still holding the doorknob and blocki...

Ebby raises her eyebrows. She does n...

“Everything all right?”...

She turns her head to get a better look outside. She sees that Henry is al...

“Avery is washing her hair,” Henry says, “and I imagine that’s going to take...

Ebby does not...

“What can I do for you?”...

Henry clears his...

“Well, first of all, Avery has found another place for us, closer to Bordeaux, so we’ll ...

“I ...

“I mean, if that’s all right. We can pay whatever p...

“That won’t be a problem, though we’ll still assess the cleaning fee.”

“Oh, of course,” Henry says.

“Thanks for letting me know,”...

She starts to push the door closed, but Henry puts his hand on it to stop her. Ebby is filled with dread at the thought o...

Please, please, let hi...

“Ebby,” he says. “Could we just talk ...