The End of the Line (14 page)

“Hello,”
he said just loud enough for her to hear.

She
looked at him and then walked to the clothesline, a few meters from where he
parked. “Did you like Mary’s rendition of the song?”

“Yes,
very much,” he said, exceedingly pleased she had spoken to him. “She’s
awesome.”

“Yes,
she is.”

Peter
swallowed hard. “What are you doing today?”

“Nothing
special,” she answered. “Why, what are you doing?”

“Nothing
special either,” he said with a shrug. With all his heart and every fiber of
his being, he wanted to ask her if she would like to go for a walk or play
tennis with him. “You’re not busy all day?”

“Not
really,” she said. She then saw her father wheel out of the house and sit on
the porch, his eyes fixed on them. “I told Mary she should have gone in the
talent show.”

“She
is fabulous,” Peter said, feeling unnerved by the unremitting glare of Mr.
Thomas.

Latesha
was flustered by it, too. “I have to hang the wash out now. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,”
he said, getting into his truck.

Mr.
Thomas by turns stared at him and watched her. Latesha, wilting under his gaze
like a beautiful flower exposed to intense heat, refused to look in Peter’s
direction. Peter pulled out onto the road and headed toward the city. As he
passed Latesha, she suddenly looked at him. He waved to her and she nodded
slightly, then she went back to hanging the clothes.

Peter
thought about Latesha all the way to The Old English Club. He chatted amiably
with the security guard for several minutes and then stopped beside the tennis
complex. Seconds later his mother arrived. She was dressed in white slacks, a
light blue blouse and a dark blue sweater loosely tied around her neck, the
arms hanging across her chest. They hardly had time to greet when Tess and
Martin pulled up to the clubhouse in their Ferrari. The middle-aged couple was
surprised to see Peter.

“I
thought you were teaming with Harold,” Tess said with false friendliness, her
short plaid skirt out of place on a woman in her fifties.

“No,
his arthritis is acting up again. I’ve had to get a spare.”

Martin
flashed a fake smile. “Nice to see you, Peter. Your mother, I’m sure, has told
you about our little arrangement.”

“Oh?”
said Peter, knowing full well what he meant but eager for him to spell it out.

“Two
out of three sets,” Martin noted. “Loser buys a round for everyone in the
clubhouse.”

“Seems
like it’s always me who’s buying,” Mrs. Elsworth said. “I can’t remember the
last time I actually won a match with you two.”

“Canada
Day,” Tess said with a catlike grin. “Martin had to default because he sprained
his ankle. Remember?”

“Oh,
yes. But I don’t believe I’ve ever actually won a match.”

“You’re
right,” said Martin, clapping Peter on the back. “But you’ve never had the club
champion on your team before either.”

“Right,”
Mrs. Elsworth conceded, gesturing for her opponents to enter the courts through
the steel gate. “Let’s go have some fun.”

Forty-five
minutes later Martin and Tess opened the gate. Both were sweating profusely and
wore sheepish expressions. “Have you ever clocked that serve?” Martin asked
Peter.

“No.”

“Awesome,”
Tess said, looking in awe at the handsome young man. “Your volleys are so
crisp, too.”

“Thank
you. You two play very well together.”

Mrs.
Elsworth floated across the grounds like the homecoming queen. “Rematch some
time, Tess, dear?” she asked.

“I
don’t know,” Tess hedged.

“How
about it, Martin?” Mrs. Elsworth asked, pressing the matter.

“We’ll
get back to you,” Martin proposed.

Mrs.
Elsworth nodded warmly. “I’ll call to remind you.”

All
four entered the clubhouse together. Twenty people, scattered about in lounge
chairs, perked up and waited for the vanquished to acknowledge defeat.

Martin
held up his hands. “This morning we buy the round,” he said.

The
members laughed loudly and made humorous comments.

“How
bad?” someone asked.

Martin
blushed a deep red. “Six-one, six-love.”

“Just
be glad you don’t have to play him in singles,” another man said to Martin. A
moment later he turned to the bartender. “I’ll have a double on the rocks.
Thanks, Martin.”

Everyone
laughed and walked to the bar, ordering whatever they wished. Peter and his
mother sat down with some longtime members, discussed the news of the club,
then signed a card for Jack Pearson, the club president who was retiring from
the position after thirty years.

“Does
anyone know the rule about bringing a non-member?” Peter asked, comfortably
tucked behind a free cola.

“The
first visit is ten dollars,” Martin said, “and there’s a twenty-five dollar
drop-in fee for every visit after that.”

“Thanks,”
Peter replied distractedly.

“Bringing
a woman friend, Peter?” Tess asked, her face livening up.

“You
never know,” he answered. Then he noticed a gentleman in his sixties coming
through the door. “Charles,” he said, “could I speak with you for a moment?”

“Of
course, Peter.”

“I’ll
be right back, Mom,” Peter said, leading Charles to his truck and showing him
the sign Mr. Thomas had made.

“Nice,”
Charles observed, rubbing his fingers over the smooth wood. “Beautiful wood and
gorgeous workmanship.”

“I
have an idea I’d like to run by you.”

“Shoot.”

“I’d
like to have a plaque like this made for Jack in honor of his retirement. It
could be hung in the clubhouse.”

Charles
instantly nodded in agreement. “Excellent idea! We could put it on the north
wall of the Social Room. You know how everyone says that wall looks so bare.”

“Why
not have a masthead made that reads,
Presidents
of The Old English Club
?” Peter proposed, holding his hand high as if
envisioning a grandiose scheme. “Below it we could hang plaques honoring
everyone who has ever served as president here.”

Charles,
who was next in line to become President of The Old English Club, was sincerely
impressed. “Doris researched the history a few years ago,” he said with great
animation. “She wrote down the names and dates of every president right back to
the beginning.”

“How
many have there been?”

“Jack
is the twenty-second.”

“Twenty-three
plaques then, including one for you,” Peter said, looking into the older man’s
eyes. “Would the club be good for the cost?”

“Not
a problem,” Charles assured him. “Could all the plaques be of this quality?”

“That
I don’t know. The man who made this is Benjamin Thomas from Beechwood, but he’s
retired. I’m willing to ask, though.”

Charles
reacted visibly to the name.

Peter
noticed. “Do you know him?” he asked, surprised.

“I
know who he is,” Charles said with a knowing nod. “He lives across from the
Beechwood Church and he’s in a wheelchair. He has a daughter who goes to
university.”

“Yes,”
Peter replied, greatly intrigued. “Her name is Latesha. But how do you know
about the Thomas family?”

“My
father employed his grandfather before selling the business. Aram Thomas was a
master woodworker. Sometimes he and Dad would work together at different sites
and Dad loved listening to his family stories. He would come home at night and
tell me and Mom. Did you know that statue of Garfield Rutherford at the front
gate was carved by Aram’s father, Juba Thomas?”

Peter’s
lower lip drooped. “Wow! That’s amazing. Are you sure?”

“I’m
sure.”

“Let
me get this right. Latesha’s great-grandfather was Aram Thomas, and his father
was Juba Thomas, and Juba carved that amazing statue I’ve been passing since I
was a child?”

“That’s
it,” Charles said. “The Rutherfords commissioned Juba Thomas to carve that
statue in 1902, the year after Garfield Rutherford’s death. They kept it on
their Jewel Street property until 1969, then had it brought to The Old English
Club. It’s been here ever since, but the fact that Juba Thomas carved it is not
common knowledge. Don’t tell anyone without first clearing it with Georgina.”
He smirked. “There’s a story with this. If you want to know more, you’ll have
to talk to her.”

“All
right. I won’t mention it without her permission.”

“Juba
Thomas also built the house where Benjamin Thomas and his daughter live.”

“Really?”
Peter said. “How long ago was that?”

“That
was right around the turn of the century,” Charles said, getting the dates
clear in his mind. “A couple years later he built the Beechwood Church.”

“I
was there today.”

“You
were?”

“A
woman invited me to hear her sing. It was fantastic.”

“That’s
a beautiful old church. You know, Latesha’s father comes from a long line of
great woodworkers. Juba’s father, Moses Thomas, was a master door maker. People
from all over the world paid top dollar for his work.”

“Latesha’s
from an incredible family by the sounds of it.”

“Oh,
yes, her family has an amazing history.” Charles examined the sign again,
pondering something. “I’d like to show this to Georgina right now. Can you
wait?”

“Sure.”

A
short time later, Charles returned with a woman in her seventies. Though no
longer in the spring of her youth, she was impeccably dressed and possessed
that dignified mien of a woman born into wealth. But she seemed unusually
excited, even agitated.

“Hello,
Peter,” she said.

“Hello,
Georgina.”

“I
love your idea of a plaque for every president in the club’s history. The idea
of a masthead would also be a tremendous addition.”

“Yes,”
he agreed. “I think it would greatly enhance The Old English Club.”

“Charles
tells me you met the Thomas family in Beechwood.”

“I’ve
met Latesha Thomas, but not her father.”

“I’ve
driven by her house in Beechwood and seen her two or three times out in the
yard,” Georgina noted. “She’s a very beautiful girl, isn’t she?”

“Very
beautiful,” Peter agreed.

“Are
you friends with her?”

“I’d
like to be.”

Georgina
glanced strangely at Charles, took a deep breath, then seemed to nod for no
reason. “Come with us, Peter. We have something to show you.”

Peter
was surprised by Georgina’s mysterious tone, but he followed without a word.
The three of them walked along a cobblestone path that snaked its way through
perfectly manicured lawns. Flowers rich in a rainbow of colors were planted at
the edges of the lawn and around the base of tall white birch trees. On a
slanted bank near the gate was a hedge that read—
The Old English Club
.

“In
here,” Georgina said, leading Peter into a one-story brick building.

They
immediately saw a group of young girls dressed in ballet outfits, complete with
pink slippers and pale blue ribbons in their hair. When they saw Georgina, they
all smiled and waved. A woman instructor came into the hall, spoke briefly to
Georgina and Charles, then ushered the girls back into the dance studio and
closed the door behind her.

“Have
you ever been here before?” Georgina asked Peter.

“Never.”

“I
want you to see something,” she said, leading Peter to the door that had just
been closed.

Peter
saw before him a door of rich mahogany. It had a denseness and sheen unlike
anything he had ever seen. Carved into the top panel was a drawing of a
middle-aged couple and a young man. The bottom panel was of a lone young man
standing next to a building in the forest. It was small and surrounded by beech
trees. All of a sudden, Peter realized something.

“I
know that place!” he exclaimed excitedly. “It’s in Beechwood.”

Charles
nodded. “It’s the Beechwood station on the Underground Railroad. The ‘End of
the Line.’”

“The
End of the Line,” Peter repeated slowly, leaning in close and studying the
amazing piece of art. Peter read the inscription in an awestruck voice: “Moses
Thomas, 1868.”

“Moses
Thomas was Benjamin Thomas’s great-great-grandfather,” Georgina said.

Peter
crooked his head. “This is mind-boggling.”

Georgina
nodded meaningfully. “This door has a lot of history, Peter. At the time it was
made, Garfield Rutherford had just established The Old English Club. He planned
to use this building for the Arts, so he wanted a great piece of art built
right into it. He had commissioned Moses Thomas to make doors for his home and
paid him with land that is now part of Beechwood. Then Mr. Rutherford
commissioned Moses to make this door in exchange for five acres of prime land
in the city. Moses jumped at the opportunity and began his work. But while he
was making the door, Mr. Rutherford was offered a fortune for that same land.”

“Let
me guess. He sold it.”

Georgina
nodded. “Without telling Moses.”

“Sounds
like trouble,” Peter said, still inspecting the meticulous artwork.

“It
was. Moses worked hard on that door, not knowing the land he had been promised
was already sold. The door is a masterpiece and Mr. Rutherford immediately had
it hung right here. Only then did he inform Moses that the city land was gone.
Garfield offered Moses another thousand acres in Beechwood, but Moses insisted
on the original deal. As it turned out, Garfield kept the door, but did sign
over the Beechwood land. Moses knew he would have no chance in court against a
rich white man, so he let the issue drop, but he refused to ever work for Mr.
Rutherford again, and refused to settle on his land. His son, Juba, inherited
the land and built the first house in Beechwood, the same house where Benjamin
and Latesha live today.”

“Charles
mentioned that,” Peter said, reflecting and nodding his head. “Juba must have
sold lots to other black families and created his own community.”