Maggie took a deep breath. Naomi did the same. That was enough pain for one day.

  “Shall we finish the box another time?” Naomi asked, feeling protective of Maggie.

  Her daughter shook her head. “I’d like to keep going, please.”

  “The most unpleasant parts are done,” Gramma Jordan said.

  Naomi nodded.

  “I recognize the shell from Africa, passed down from our ancestors,” Maggie said. “I have the one you gave me on my bureau.”

  “This is the one my Mama wore around her neck,” Gramma Jordan explained. “She died before we came to California, but she knew we were moving here. She told me not to bury it with her, but rather throw it in the Pacific Ocean to tell our ancestors that we all got free.”

  “And you can’t bear to part with it?” Maggie asked. “Gramma Jordan, we have to go do that!”

  Naomi sighed.

  “What?” Maggie asked and her face fell. “Do you have another tragic story?”

  “You know we have worked for women’s suffrage since before you were born,” Gramma Jordan explained. “How can I tell the ancestors we are all free when some of Mattie’s granddaughters can’t vote? We can in California, but your cousins in Virginia and Michigan don’t have the franchise.”

  “When the Congress passes the women’s suffrage amendment can we toss it in the Pacific?” Maggie asked.

  Naomi replied, “That’s only the start. After Congress approves it, two-thirds of the states must ratify it before it is the law in the entire nation.”

  Maggie made a face. “Is that ever going to happen? Why doesn’t every woman just move to states where they can vote?”

  Naomi laughed. “You believe we can convince every woman to abandon states that won’t give them a voice. You can start the campaign. Can you imagine all those states and territories with no women?”

  Gramma Jordan declared, “And twelve with so many!”

  Maggie grinned and replied, “I suppose it is better to work for the vote for women everywhere rather than ask women to abandon their homes.”

  Maggie smiled so sweetly at Naomi that her heart sang. These were the most tragic of stories, but her daughter seemed to be finding the strength and connection in them that she hoped for.

  The box was empty save for a layer of very old fabric. Gramma Jordan carefully pulled it out by the corners and unfolded it to reveal an embroidered little red shoe.

  “Auntie Lisbeth made this for me when I was born—back on the plantation. She was only a child, ten or twelve years old. In a strange way she loved me. She cared for my mother as dearly as she cared for anyone in that place. And my mother loved her. Some of that devotion got poured onto me. I keep this to remind me that love can be made—even in the most painful of circumstances.”

  Maggie stroked the faded threads.

  “That is very sweet, Gramma Jordan.”

  Gramma Jordan cupped her bony hands around Maggie’s face. Tears sprang to Naomi’s eyes.

  Staring at her granddaughter intently, Naomi’s mama said, “These objects are to remind you of how strong your foremothers were and how determined they were to give you the best life possible. We have been fighting for you for generations. And you owe it to your granddaughters to fight for their future freedom.”

  Naomi’s mother continued, “Don’t believe lies anyone says about you. There is always hope for a better tomorrow; fighting for what matters to you is just as important as winning that fight. And always remember there is love to be found, even in the most painful of circumstances.”

  “I will, Gramma Jordan,” Maggie replied. Then she looked at Naomi and said, “I will, Mama. I will always remember. Thank you for sharing these things with me.”

  Naomi took her daughter’s hand and her mother’s. They did the same, making a circle of three strong women. They’d walked Maggie across a threshold into womanhood. Naomi could not protect her daughter from the ugliness and pain of the world, but she could pass on the faith and strength that she’d gotten from her ancestors.

  A week later Naomi sat on the platform watching Willie’s train pull in. Handsome in his uniform, he hung out the open door, grinning as the squeal of the brakes brought it to a stop. He startled when he saw her, made a curious expression with his face, and winked. A sweet signal that he had come around, or at least was trying.

  Then Willie went to work. He jumped down and put the steps out for the first-class customers. He spoke to each person as they disembarked, using their names and wishing them well.

  Naomi noted his calm and kind attention. One by one, the passengers expressed adoration and gratitude. He’d made many admirers. Between nearly every handshake he placed his hand into his pocket—leaving the tips that were the largest part of his income. Willie was good at his job.

  When the last passenger left, he came over.

  “Why Naomi Smith, what brings you here?” he asked with a smile.

  “I’ve come to take my husband to his new home,” she sang back.

  His face tightened. “It’s done?” he asked.

  Naomi nodded.

  “Okay,” he said, but she couldn’t read his emotion. Angry, sad, resentful. It was hard to tell. She took in a breath to calm herself. He’ll be fine, even grateful, soon.

  “I’ll finish cleaning up and be back.”

  They avoided speaking about their new home on the walk to the trolley. He told her about an enormous thunderstorm they passed through on the return trip. They didn’t wait long for the streetcar that took them up Sixteenth Street to Broadway and then turned onto Telegraph Avenue. Willie would not even need to change cars.

  “Have you met the neighbor yet?” Willie asked, finally bringing up their new home.

  Naomi nodded. “On the day I was born.”

  Willie furrowed his brow.

  “Gramma Jordan and Mrs. King stay there,” Naomi explained, keeping her voice cheerful.

  “Both units were open at the same time?” her husband wondered.

  Naomi’s heart raced. She’d wanted him to see the duplex before revealing she’d purchased it, but now she couldn’t delay telling him.

  “Willie, we own the property, both floors.” She exhaled and then blurted out, “I bought it for us.”

  “You are joking,” Willie laughed. “You cannot afford to buy a home!”

  “We can afford it . . . by taking out a loan.”

  Her husband’s face went red. “Naomi Smith, what have you done?!”

  “Willie, mortgages are very, very common these days. I am certain we will be fine. I used our savings for a down payment. We will pay the balance over ten years—$37.14 a month. Then it will be ours free and clear!”

  Willie hung his head down and swung it from side to side. Naomi couldn’t tell what he was thinking or feeling.

  She rushed on with the explanation, desperate to make him understand. “Gramma Jordan and Mrs. King each give us $9.00 a month. That is nearly half the payment.”

  He stayed bent over, staring at the floor of the trolley. She swallowed her arguments and forced herself to just let him be.

  Finally he looked up and said, “You are something, Naomi Smith. I don’t know why I am surprised after all these years.”

  “We won’t be sorry!” she declared, hoping her enthusiasm was welcome. “This will be a good home for us—and an investment in our future security.”

  “You really don’t mind living near all these white people?”

  “They have been nothing but kind and welcoming, no hint of animosity. I assure you.”

  His lips pulled up. It was nearly a smile.

  Naomi said, “Your auntie and cousin live less than three blocks from here. Maybe we will see Lisbeth and Sadie more than twice in a decade,” she exaggerated.

  “How much is that payment?” he asked.

  Naomi repeated the number.

  “That’s less than our rent!” he exclaimed.

  She responded, “The repairs and assessments make it a bit more, but in ten years we will own it free and clear.”

  “You should have been a businesswoman, Naomi. I don’t know how you pulled this off. Have you been consulting with Madam C. J. Walker?” he teased.

  Naomi smiled. “I’m taking our future into our own hands, like she advocates.”

  Willie said, “I hope it all works out for us.”

  It wasn’t a rousing endorsement, but it wasn’t condemnation.

  After a few minutes of silence he asked, “Does that make us landlords?!”

  Naomi laughed. “It’s not much land to lord over, but I suppose so.”

  As she expected, Willie was warming up to this change. He was gone for work most of the time, so they were both accustomed to him following her lead and trusting her to make good decisions on behalf of their family.

  “Landlord!” she repeated with a laugh. “Perhaps I’ll call you Lord and you can call me Lady from now on.”

  They got off the trolley at Fifty-Second and Telegraph Avenue.

  “Lisbeth and Sadie are just up this street,” she said. “Do you recognize the area?”

  Willie nodded and said, “The trees are nice.”

  “Here’s the produce market and the butcher.” Naomi pointed. “And the newsstand.”

  “Convenient,” he replied.

  “Very,” Naomi confirmed. “Can you see Sather Tower, the Campanile?”

  He shrugged.

  “The tall tower,” she explained. “That is the University of California.”

  “So close,” he said.

  “Yes. They have concerts and lectures. Mrs. de Hart says it’s lovely to walk along Strawberry Creek. And Idora Park is only a few blocks from us.”

  She stopped at 5518-20 Telegraph Avenue. Her heart sped up as she watched for Willie’s reaction.

  “It’s huge!” he said, his eyes wide in surprise. “We really own this?”

  Naomi breathed out relief and breathed in pride. “My understanding is that the bank owns most of it,” she bantered. “But in May 1925, we can burn our mortgage.”

  Naomi took Willie on a tour through their new home, and their new investment. He was not nearly as excited about the kitchen as she was, but delighted in gas heat in the living room.

  Naomi walked him into the yard.

  “This is really all ours?”

  “And Gramma Jordan’s too. Mrs. King isn’t so keen on it, though I’m sure she will make use of it from time to time,” she said.

  “Joseph and I can make us a table for eating out here when the weather is nice,” he suggested.

  “That would be lovely,” Naomi agreed.

  “Can I hang a hammock between the apple trees?” he asked.

  “Of course, husband,” she replied.

  His eyes grew moist.

  “Thank you, Naomi.” He looked at her. He shook his head. “You are truly amazing. I don’t tell you enough, but marrying you was the best decision of my life.”

  Naomi’s heart burst and she covered her mouth with her hand. She blinked back happy tears and hugged Willie tight. Pressed against his chest, she declared, “Me too, Willie. I feel the same way about you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  MAY

  July 1916

  Exhaustion was a heavy blanket clouding May’s mind and spirit. For the third night in a row Kay Lynn had woken up many times. From teething, gas, hunger? May didn’t know. She wished her daughter could tell her what was wrong, but at four months old, speech was a long way off—if ever, because of Kay Lynn’s disabilities. Their doctor said they would only know what her capacities would be with time. Thankfully she never seized again. The only indication that something might be different about her was that her right hand reached for objects and her left was still in a fist like a tiny newborn’s. Nana was utterly certain there would be nothing “stopping her Kay Lynn from a rich and full life.”

  Kay Lynn was content enough during the day, which actually gave May less compassion for the girl in the middle of the night. Nana Lisbeth assured her night waking was a common development around four months. She recommended feeding the baby more often in the day and starting rice cereal, which might help her sleep better in the night.

  Kay Lynn took right to the mushy meal when she was offered it at lunch. Now there was a new routine. When the adults were eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Kay Lynn was having her cereal. She’d yet to sleep better at night, but Momma said it might take a few days for her body to adjust.

  May patted Kay Lynn’s back to get her down for her after-lunch nap. Desperately tired, May yearned to lie down next to her daughter on their bed. She looked at the shelf above their dresser. Only two clean diapers left. She must do a washing today. She sighed and forced herself to stay sitting upright but let her eyes slide closed. Once Kay Lynn was taking the long breaths of sleep May stood up. Tears of frustration and exhaustion companioned her as she carried the heavy basket to the laundry porch.

  May was hardly managing their life as it was. Each time she considered adding work she became overwhelmed. Momma and Nana Lisbeth were not pressuring her—but she wanted a solution that did not require her to be entirely dependent on her mother. She blinked back tears.

  A knock at the front door interrupted her before she finished filling the washtub. Fortunately she wasn’t arm deep in this messy process.

  A stranger with gray hair and a weathered face stood on the front porch. He looked her up and down, as if he were deciding who she was, though she was certain they had never met. Before she questioned him he asked, “Are you May Wagner?”

  He spoke with an accent—European of some kind.

  She nodded.

  “I am Heinrich Wagner.” He paused, searching for a reaction. When it didn’t come he continued, “Your father.”

  Her chest constricted as if she’d been struck, making her so light-headed she steadied herself on the frame lest she fall.

  From the entryway behind her Momma’s voice muffled through the buzz in her ears: “Heinrich?!”

  “Hello, Sadie,” he replied, his voice deep. “Are you so sad to see me after all these years?”

  “Why have you come?” Panic filled Momma’s voice.

  Outraged, May demanded, “You are not surprised to see him alive?!”

  “You told her I was dead?” The man, who was nothing like the father in her heart and mind, laughed. “That seems fitting.”

  May stepped back into the entryway, looking between them. Momma was pale, her hand covering her heart. The man, his hat in his hand, looked cautious and yet cocky.

  “It has been over twenty years, Heinrich!” Momma challenged, “Why have you come now?”

  “I need you to sign—for my American citizenship.” He waved a paper at her.

  Momma took in a loud breath. May gestured with her arm to invite him in, but her mother was a fortress wall blocking his path.

  Momma hissed, “Why would I do that for you?”

  “We will both get our American citizenship. You understand that you became German when you married me? Who wants to be a German living in America in these times, right?”

  Momma stared at the ground. A loud silence filled the room as she considered his question.

  May’s heart pounded fiercely, her head pounded. Questions lined up: Where have you been? Why did you leave? How could you . . .

  Finally Momma broke the tension. “Leave the paper with me. Come back tomorrow for your answer.”

  He gave a single nod, handed over the paper, and departed. Momma dismissed him without giving May the opportunity to invite him in. She glared at her mother.

  Momma declared, “There’s a good explanation.”

  May looked at her mother, but she seemed a stranger. Fury exploded in May. Momma lied to me.

  Behind Momma’s shoulder, Nana Lisbeth watched, pity on her face. May stared into her grandmother’s eyes and challenged, “You knew too?”

  Nana Lisbeth bit her lip and gave the smallest of nods. May looked between the two women. Her family; the people she trusted. She thought she knew them, knew herself, but she’d been wrong, very wrong. They were liars and she didn’t know who she was.

  May suddenly wanted to slap her mother’s face; she’d never been this angry in her life. She spun around and went into her room, where Kay Lynn was asleep on the bed. She paced, waiting for the overwhelming surge of emotion to wane.

  “May, please hear me out,” Momma demanded through the door—raising more fury in May.

  “I don’t trust anything you have to say!” May screamed back. She sounded like a childish maniac to her own ear. Kay Lynn woke with a loud cry, her scream adding to the chaos. Exhausted and confused, May wasn’t in any state to listen to an explanation for Nana Lisbeth and Momma’s deceit. She had to leave before she said or did something she would regret forever. She tied her screaming baby to her chest, packed up a few belongings, and stormed out of their room.

  “May?” Momma pleaded, her eyes darting to the bag in May’s hand, “What are you doing?”

  “I am going to Elena and Peter’s,” May hissed at her mother. “Do not come for me.”

  When May arrived at her cousin’s home the house was empty. She let herself in and sat at the kitchen table. She was calmly feeding Kay Lynn by the time Elena walked in carrying a bag of groceries in each hand and with Matthias tied to her back. Elena’s eyebrow rose in question.

  May blurted out, “My father is alive! He came over and my mother made him leave before I could ask him anything or he could get to know me. Can we stay here until I am calm?”

  “Of course.” Her cousin replied without hesitation. Then she asked, “Did you have any notion he might be alive?”

  “No,” May replied. “Did you?”

  One side of Elena’s lip drew up.

  Outrage exploded in May. “What?!”

  “I was young when he left so I hardly remember him. You moved in with us, but then he returned. Soon after he left again and never came back. A few years ago Tina remarked there wasn’t a funeral, which left an odd question in my mind.”

  Outraged that Elena had suspected he might be alive, May glared at her cousin. Had they all known? And kept it from her?