The Pearl Necklace

I want to tell you a story about my neighbor. Her name is Miss Mary. I don’t know her last name. Neither does she.

Miss Mary is in her mid-eighties. Withered, frail, hunched over, sunspots mark her wrinkled skin like a constellation. But her dyed red hair is glamorous, and so is her gleaming smile. Nothing about her spirit is worn out. She’s marvelous. Yet what stands out most is the majestic pearl necklace she wears every day and everywhere.

Miss Mary moved into the neighborhood about 10 years ago. Right after the Great War ended. The move itself had nothing to do with the war. Just happened to coincide. She rode in on the bus on a cold winter day without a suitcase or a bag. The only possession she had besides the outfit she was wearing was that pearl necklace. Nothing else. Not even a purse.

She told us she’d come from Birmingham, Alabama, and needed space from the memories. We didn’t inquire further at the time. Our minds were elsewhere, anyway. Our small northern New Jersey neighborhood was one of those devastated by the war. 19 young men died. 5 on my block alone. Service flags hung in windows — blue stars for the boys overseas. And in some houses, those stars turned gold, and people’s attire turned black.

I was just 12 at the time, much too young to fight, but old enough to remember those who did and the sadness that settles into a soul with the loss. We didn’t laugh much in those days. Guilt and tears that no one cared to hide riddled us all. Even today, the mothers still wear black. You can feel their tears that no longer come.

But then Miss Mary arrived. And my, did she turn out to be a godsend. We didn’t know how much we needed her.

We learned about Miss Mary over the years. She had been born sometime around 1843 on a plantation in rural Alabama. We were shocked to learn that she had been a slave. You see, Miss Mary has pale white skin and, in her youth, long blond hair. Rumor was that the plantation owner was her father. I doubt anyone questioned the rumor. Everyone knew what her face meant, though nobody said it out loud.

Miss Mary did tell me once pretty flatly, without complaint and even with a faint smile, that her look didn’t make her safer. It just made her more visible, doubted, and to some, a reminder of their wounds, though she also suffered the same fates.

A few years after Miss Mary’s birth, the scornful plantation owner’s wife wanted the girl gone. So Miss Mary was sold off to someone on the other side of the state.

The new plantation was home to the cruelest owner and the kindest wife. He viciously beat everyone, for the most minor, if they could even be called so, infractions. His wife did her best to help those enslaved. She secretly sent food, taught them how to read and write, and found excuses to give people breaks. She even helped a few escape. It all came at great risk to her, but she seemed to just not care.

One day, around the time that Miss Mary was 20, she walked into the kitchen and saw the missus crying. By this point, Miss Mary had worked in the kitchen for years. She was the main food smuggler. Miss Mary knew the missus well and sat down next to her.

The missus in between her sobs began to share:

“My grandmama was a good woman. She used to tell me, ‘Child, run from this place if you’ve got any sense. Run from this wickedness before it gets into you.’ I didn’t understand her. I thought she was just being sharp-tongued, like old women can be.

Then my daddy married me off at eighteen to a man with money. Daddy liked money. I reckon he liked it more than me, for this man he married me to was a wicked man.

I still remember the first time he whipped someone in front of me. She was such a petite woman with the most dazzling eyes. They sparkled with curiosity for the world. I don’t know what she did that earned his wrath; perhaps she didn’t do anything. But I rushed towards the screaming, running into the room only to see her pulled up by the wrists, arms stretched high to a beam, with blood streaming down her back.

Silly me, I didn’t even know this existed, that someone could be so cruel. My daddy had owned some slaves, but he never whipped them, or at least he didn’t do so anywhere around me. It’s not that I didn’t know this happened. I just didn’t know what the screams felt like.

That changed everything for me. Life became dark. The only humor was when my grandmama would come over. She wasn’t that old, but she was getting older. And I think she began feigning losing her marbles just so she could go around yelling at people who ran the plantation. She even hit the overseer with her cane once. The man howled. I still remember her looking over at me and winking.

My grandmama, though, could see what was happening to me. She said to me one day, ‘My dear, you’re married and can’t leave this way of life and so you will either become mean like the rest of ‘em, or you can become kind. There are only two paths. You have to choose which you will take before it chooses you.’

I chose the latter. Never looked back. And finally today, after all these years, we have a happy day. My tears are happy tears. It’s over. President Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. We’re one of the few places in Alabama in Union Army controlled territory. You’re free now.”

Miss Mary had heard the rumors. Even dared to think about what freedom might look like. That word, “free.” Just a word. Yet so meaningful.

The men, and even the boys around Miss Mary, had been saying they wanted to join the Union Army. She did too. Perhaps she wanted to earn more of their respect. She could see that they always doubted her, despite all she did. She had spent her life trying to prove that she belonged. And I think she just wanted to do what was right. She had run the secret network of everything on the plantation for years now. She knew how to get around and be of value.

Miss Mary had come to her decision. “Ma’am, will you help me with something?” Miss Mary asked the missus. “I want to join the Union Army. The men here have been talking about doing so. I want to as well. But you know in a secret capacity. Like I do here.”

The missus came back with an answer in a few days. “Yes, the Army will take you as a spy. But come with me for a minute before you go.”

The missus led Miss Mary into her large bedroom and walked over to a small wooden jewelry box. She opened it carefully, as if stories streamed out of the box. What came out was that dazzling pearl necklace.

“This belonged to my grandmama,” the missus said. “I want you to have it.”

Miss Mary hesitated.

“Take it,” the missus repeated, softly but firmly. “I think it might come in handy for you.”

She placed the pearls into Miss Mary’s hands.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done here. My door is always open to you.”

And with that, Miss Mary was gone.

—

Notes:

• “The Pearl Necklace” is a historical fiction snapshot. While based on real events, the story, characters, and incidents are fictitious.
• Part II will be published next week.
• Read another historical fiction snapshot.