I read the article a few times, trying to imagine what the racial epithet might have been. I remembered the picture of Anna standing in front of the canvas with the young white boy Peter somebody and the boy-who-could-pass-as-a-man, Jesse Williams, and I thought I could guess. Had there been more between Anna and Jesse than a work relationship? There was only one person alive who might know. I thought of how Mama Nelle pressed a finger to her lips when I talked to her about Anna. “You know you got to be quiet about her, right?” she’d asked me. Was this why? Were Anna and Jesse closer than artist and apprentice? I would invite Mama Nelle to the gallery, I decided. I’d show her the mural up close and personal, and pick her brain at the same time.

Chapter 46. Anna

Chapter 46

ANNA

March 21, 1940

Anna awakened in the darkness of the warehouse, confused. Was she in Pauline’s bedroom? No. Her hand felt the rough fabric of the cot beneath her. She squeezed her eyes closed, concentrating, trying to remember. She’d eaten a bowl of cold leftover stew she’d brought with her from Miss Myrtle’s. Yes. And then she’d gone back to the mural. So close to being done, yet as driven as ever. She’d painted the fine lines of the netting on the fishing vessel. Made a mistake. Painted them over. And over. She’d pulled the lamp closer. Stood on the third rung of the ladder to reach the upper left corner of the mural. She hadn’t been able to space the lines of the netting evenly. No one would notice, but she would know. She’d been working too long. She’d had no nap today and she’d noticed that her hand had a little tremor. She’d decided to lie down for a few minutes. Yes, it was all coming back to her. She’d stretched out on the cot. Pulled the quilt over her. Now she had no idea what time it was.

She should get up. Work on the ship’s netting some more, or better yet, go back to Miss Myrtle’s for a good night’s sleep and return in the morning when her mind would be fresh.

She heard the sound. Was that what had awakened her? A scuffling sound. She lay still, listening. Scuff. Scuff. Suddenly the floor lamp clicked on and she sat up, the cot creaking beneath her.

Martin. Walking toward her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. She didn’t feel fear. Not exactly. Not yet. She was more angry over his brazenness. The lamplight caught the greasy tangles of his red hair. His eyes were circled by darkness. “Martin?” She lifted the edge of the quilt to her chest, as if she’d forgotten she was still fully dressed in blouse and slacks. “Why are you here?” she asked again.