Daddy's Home (Part Two)

In the previous chapter, Devora Kincaid receives an invitation from her father, whom she has never met, to visit him at his home on Merritt Island. As incentive he has offered her five thousand dollars and the chance to find out about her mother( who died when she was an infant) and his side of the family.

** Please note: All thoughts are supposed to be in italics but didn't translate that way from my word processor. Thanks for reading.


Devora Kincaid, what have you gotten yourself into now?

This was my foremost thought as I followed Josef down the steps of Guinivere Slip. He led me over to a old, well-kept, station wagon with wooden panels on the side doors. He opened the back and I got in. Although the car was well-maintained on the outside, the air was close and stale on the inside. I used the down time on the ride to study my surroundings and question Josef.

“How long have you worked for my father?” I asked Josef as he expertly swung the car around to the main road.

“Long as I can 'member, ma'am. My daddy worked on the plantation too, 'til he got too old and sick.”

“Why do you call him Massa?”

“Thas just what we calls him. Been thataway fo' as long as I can 'member. Sometimes we say Mistah Kincaid Sir.” Josef said, trying to be helpful.

“Don't you think that's odd, I mean in this day and age?”

“No ma'am thas just 'spectful, and it's been that way for-”

“Yes, I know. For as long as you can remember.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“What do you do at the house,Josef?”

“Oh, this an' that. Work on the grounds, out in the field. I do most of the drivin' since me and massa tha only ones knows how to use the car. We gettin' close to the house now.”

“I've just got one more question. You do know that I'm part black, don't you?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“And this doesn't bother you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Why not?” I asked, preparing myself for the answer I thought was coming.
“Beggin' yo' pardon, miss, but they's plenty of people like you runnin' aroun' the plantation. Maybe yo' daddy should ansah the rest of yo' questions. We at the road to the house now. ”

The main road veered off to the right and led to another smaller dirt road. About a quarter of a mile down, Kincaid Plantation came into view and I got my first glimpse of the house. It was a truly magnificent structure. White, columned, with contrasting black shutters, it made an imposing front on a slightly sloping lawn. Tall oaks flanked each side of the house and weeping willows with leaves that touched the ground, would offer cooling shade when summer came again.

So, this is where my father's been living all this time. Damn! It looks like something out of Gone With The Wind. He's been holed up here on this island for thirty two years without a word. What's he got to say to me now that's so important, he's paying five thousand dollars for me to come here to say it?

Josef led me up the steps to the front door of the mansion. A middle-aged black woman in a long,loose, skirt opened the door. Her hair hid behind a large frilled cap. She had a broom in one hand and a squirming child in the other.

“Ah ma leave you here with Lettie, Miss. She gon' take real good care a you.” Josef said, as he placed my bag inside the door but didn't enter. I was more than a little curious about that.

“Thank you for bringing me, Josef.” I said, stepping over the threshold.

“No trouble a 'tall, ma'am. 'Scuse me but I got some chores need finishin'.”

He walked down the steps and disappeared around the back of the house.

“Come on in, chile. Don't mind him.” She said, trying the corral the kicking and flailing child. “He don' want no bath today, but he gettin' one. My name's Lettie and you got to be Devora. You do rightly resemble the mistah. Lord know you do. I better get you on upstairs to yo' room. Rufus, come git these bags an' take 'em up! Luda Mae, come grab this heah chile and put him in the tub. You keep yo' eye onnim!”

Lettie and I ascended a grand staircase. It graciously curved up to the next landing.

“Lettie, I'd like to see my father. Where is he?” I asked, stopping in the middle of the stairs.

“Mistah Kincaid is over at Sugarbush. He got some busyness there. Tol' me to make you comf'able and he see you this evenin' at dinnah.”

Nothing's changed with him. Couldn't even be bothered enough to be here when I arrived.

We reached the top of the second floor and turned down a wide hall to a room at the end. Lettie opened the door and I entered a place where time seemed to have stopped in the mid eighteen hundreds. One whole wall was taken up with a grey stone fireplace. A king-sized four poster feather bed dominated the middle of the room, complete with floor-length flowered dust ruffle, and matching floral quilt. An ornately carved mahogany dressing table with mirror, the frame of which was made of delicate blue shells, stood against the wall. In a corner, there was a small, antique writing table containing a heavy cut crystal ink pot. And on the night table, next to the bed, an old kerosene lamp and a box of wooden matches sat side by side. Highly polished wood floors reflected muted tones of grey, blue, and yellow in the area rug. Pale yellow curtains blew softly outward when Lettie opened the shuttered windows and the doors leading out to the upper veranda. A cedar hope chest containing towels and bed linens completed the nineteenth century feel of the room.

“Thas bettah. This heah place need some airin' out. Nobody been up in heah fo' a long time.You gon' want ta clean up fo' dinnah. Mistah Kincaid likes ev'rybody ta dress up.”

“I'm afraid I didn't bring any dress up clothes with me, Lettie.”

“Don' go worryin' 'bout that. They's plenny pretty dresses in that wardrobe. Mistah done seen to ev'rythin'.”

“Where's the telephone? And is there a TV set in the house?”

“If you mean that black thing Mistah Kincaid is always talkin' into, one a them's in tha liberry. Don' know 'bout the other. I'm gon' git on outta heah, and let you rest. Dinnah is at seven o'clock, down in the dinin' room.”

She shut the door on any further questions I might've had.

I don't know what's going on here, but I don't like it one bit.Black people running around calling a white man Massa, no phones except one. I should get up leave right now, and forget all this. No! I've lived without him in my life for too long. I need to know the kind of man he is, what I came from. That's why I'm here. So he can answer all the questions I have about him. And my mother. So handle your business, girl. Unpack your bag and get ready for dinner. This sure should be interesting.

I opened my suitcase, took out clothes, toiletries, and a medium sized black case filled with odds and ends I'd collected over the years. I reached down into the bottom and pulled out my husband Jim's picture. I carried it whenever and wherever I traveled. We'd been married for two years had a good life together before nine-eleven. I felt guilty because he'd gone to New York, at my insistence, to speak at a business conference he hadn't wanted to attend. I'd thought it would be good for his corporate image. He hadn't made it inside the towers when they collapsed. He'd been buried beneath the rubble in the street for two days before he was found and identified. I carried his picture as a source of strength during hard times and as a sobering and calming influence during times of high stress. If this wasn't a high stress situation, I didn't know what was and I needed all the help I could get. I decided to nap after I unpacked and laid down on the enormous bed. I sank right down into the feather mattress. This is pure heaven, I thought, and immediately fell asleep.

I can't recall whether it was the disturbing dream I'd had or the dull clanging sound I'd heard that startled me out of my sleep and brought me to an upright position in the bed. The sun was just setting and cast slinky shadows about the room. The earlier breeze had turned into a wind that whipped the window curtains back and forth. Shivering slightly, I got out of bed and closed the veranda doors. I looked around for a clock but I didn't see one. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse only to find myself staring at a blank screen. No service. Fortunately, Lettie knocked and came into the room. She was carrying a green dress over her arm and a square, black velveteen box in her hand.

“Hope you 'joyed yo' nap. Mistah Kincaid sent these fo' you ta put on. Heah, let me close this winda an' get tha fire lit. It gets mighty chilly 'roun' evenin' time.”

“Lettie, there are certain things that seem to be missing here. For one thing, there aren't any clocks. And where's the bathroom? I need to pee and wash up before dinner.”

“Tha privy's out in the hall by the stairs and it's nigh on six-thirty so you best ta get movin'. Mistah don' like it when folks is late, 'specially fo' dinnah.”

“But I--” Before I could finish my sentence, she was gone. Again.

She's like a damn ghost appearing and disappearing like that.What have we got in this box here? Good grief!

Inside the velvet box, lying on a bed of black satin, was an emerald and diamond necklace and matching earrings.There was also a note that read: These are rightfully yours.

The jewelry was exquisite and I couldn't stop myself from trying it on. The emeralds complemented my eyes and skin color. I decided to go whole hog and wear the gown as well. Washed and dressed, I looked at my reflected self in the mirror. The green, formal, off-the-shoulder garment accentuated my curves and long neck. The wide skirt fanned out as I twirled, and emeralds and diamonds flashed light and twinkled on my ears and neck. I was ready. It was time to meet the father I had never known.

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There were two black men in formal attire standing at the closed double doors to the dining room as I descended the stairs. They pulled the doors open with a flourish, and

I entered yet another scene from the nineteenth century. The dining room table ran nearly the entire length of the room, could seat about twenty people, and was set for formal dining. A wrought iron chandelier hung from the high ceiling, highlighting the white linen tablecloth, silverware, and crystal. A lively fire burned in the fireplace but the room was empty. Disappointed, I took the opportunity to inspect the room closer. One wall contained first place ribbons won by the Kincaid Plantation for superior horse flesh. The winning horses names were Dixie Dandy and Cotton Bows. The Southern Cross confederate flag was prominently displayed. And next to it, in gilt frames, were the Willie Lynch papers. Before I could get myself worked up over that, my father strode into the room. I heard the clomp-clomp of heavy boots and turned around. Our resemblance to each other was remarkable and unmistakable. As identical pairs of green eyes met, he extended his hand and said:

“Please forgive ma tardiness. Welcome to Kincaid Plantation, Daughter. The only up and runnin' slave plantation in the twenny-first cent'ry.”

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