A Stormy Night's Dream

The colorized photo above shows the grandchildren of Maggie L. Walker (1864-1934), an American entrepreneur of Virginia who chartered a bank in 1903. When the stock market crashed in 1929, Ms. Walker saved her bank by merging with another and becoming the Consolidated Bank and Trust Company. It was considered to be the longest operating African American banking institution. (“Maggie Lena Walker: Civil Rights Activist and Entrepreneur | American Masters | PBS” 2020)

My narrative below is fictional but uses the photo as a visual prompt for A STORMY NIGHT'S DREAM. The photo can also be found at https://www.nps.gov/museum/exhibits/Maggie_Walker/exb/Life%20At%20Home/C%20Family/MAWA00000154.html.

Part 1

“The lights are out on the whole block,” Mother said, but I was not afraid. She always told me that I was her brave little girl. I lit one of the kerosene lamps on the table in the foyer, the way she taught me.

We always kept lamps and Diamond matches on the table for emergencies. From there, we could carry light and matches anywhere in our very old and large house.

Shadows danced in the soft light. Glancing toward the salon, also lit with a kerosene lamp, I smiled when Mother blew me a kiss with one hand and rocked the bassinet of my fussy brother with the other. Through the salon windows, we had a full view of the night and lightning. A rumble of thunder rattled the glass. My brother, the little terror, heard it. He cried even louder. I took that as a cue to escape.

“Be careful going upstairs, Alexandra,” she cautioned me.

“Yes, ma’am.” I am six now, I thought. Of course, I’ll be careful.

Cautiously, I climbed the mahogany staircase, steadying myself on the newel post replaced four years ago. The finial of the post cap was unusually large, nothing like the original. Father called the whole railing ostentatious.

His older sister Mae, who returned to the family home after divorce, was impressed by a picture of the newel post in a designer’s catalog. Our old one was falling apart. Since she offered to pay for replacement of the entire railing, and Father had his hands full feeding a growing family, he reluctantly agreed to “Aunt Mae’s new newel post.”

Father taught me about the architecture and history of our battered Queen Anne Victorian; he was proud of it. Built by my paternal great-great grandfather in the early twentieth century, our house survived two fires and was reconstructed both times with love and care.

Today, there were leaks in the attic when it rained–we would need to check on that soon–drafty holes in the walls, and antiquated plumbing.

“One day, princess,” Father would often say to me, “we’ll have enough money to restore our home to its original glory.”

Though I shared his dream, it was unlikely to come true unless money was hidden within an overlooked wall. He had left the corporate lawyer life behind and established a legal aids firm. Mother was an elementary school teacher.

Now, I was sliding a hand along Aunt Mae’s newel post. The lamp’s flame was spotlighting portraits: the Ewings, Mother’s family; the Woodsons, Father’s.

I stopped on the second-floor landing in front of the library, one of my favorite places in the world. Hearing creaks from the floor above, I knew that Aunt Mae was pacing in her room, restless. She hated storms and one was brewing. I started to check on her but knew she was tired from a double shift at the hospital.

In my room, in the ancient chifforobe’s mirror, my face and the glass lamp floated in the dark like ghosts. My black jeans and T-shirt seemed invisible. I placed the light on my desk and snuggled into the cushy, hand-me-down armchair from Mother’s mother.

Father peeked in. “Are you alright?” he asked. I smiled because I always knew he would check on me, even when I didn’t need it.

“Here,” he said. “I brought you something to read from the library, though I know you have books in here you haven’t touched; especially the one from your Aunt Mae. Remember? She gave it to you last week for your birthday.”

He was right. Aunt Mae gave a cookbook to a six-year-old. It was on the nightstand next to my bed, under two other books that I would read first.

Father handed me an Essence magazine. It was from last month, the March 1975 issue. I saw Mother leafing through it weeks ago when she took a minute’s break from the baby. As if on cue from the silence, he had started crying again, and Mother forgot the magazine.

Father kissed me on the head and went to check on the rest of the family. Mother and my baby brother were still in the salon. My annoying older brother by one year was playing with toy soldiers in his room.

The magazine still looked new. Four children’s faces stared up at me from the cover. I pushed my chair closer to the lamp and got a better look.

Who were these four polished impostors? I wondered. Every hair was in place, no dirt on the Sunday clothes from playing outside. Had they been promised chocolates? I loved Hershey’s Squares.

I was so focused on the perfection of the impostor children, I barely noticed the lightning splitting the sky outside my open window or the yellow curtains billowing in the air. I barely heard my older brother machine-gunning imaginary soldiers in his room.

Magazine in hand, unexplored except for the cover, I fell asleep. When I woke, the youngest of the four perfect specimens, a girl, was poking my right shoulder.

Was I dreaming?

Part 2

My shoulder was pinched before it was poked.

“Little girl,” an impish voice called to me. “Little girl,” she called again, “wake up. You snore.”

Snore? I don’t snore. When I snapped my eyes open, I was sure I was dreaming. The youngest of the impostor children was way too close–and yep, her breath smelled like chocolate.

“Good,” she grinned. “You’re finally awake.” I pushed the imp away, but not too hard since she was younger than me, and leaped to my feet.

Her brother and sisters were exploring my room. Their shadows were scampering about in the lamplight.

“Who are you–all of you?” I demanded, but they ignored me. The imp’s older sisters decided to check out two of my books, The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and Frederick Douglass: Freedom Fighter by Lillie Patterson.

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Frederick Douglass: Freedom Fighter by Lillie Patterson.

The brother, oldest of the four, was jumping on my bed. Wait, what?! He was jumping on my favorite quilt?!

One, two, I mentally counted. Mother taught me that, too. Count to cool down before doing something that could send me to bed without supper, but I was not about to let this invasion go unchallenged.

The thunder outside meant business. So did I.

First, the boy. I needed to get Senior’s attention. With my hands on my hips, I peered at him the way I did at my older brother before getting unlady-like. I was a tomboy who lived to wrestle.

When Senior didn’t stop jumping immediately, I went over and grabbed one of his suit sleeves. He forcefully reclaimed his arm and jumped to the floor, almost knocking me down. I grinned–never a good sign–then stomped on one of his feet.

“Ow-w-w!” he yelled at the same time that thunder shook the house. He wasn’t jumping now.

I shot a glance at my bedroom door, expecting my parents and maybe my older brother at any minute. I was shocked when no one came, relieved too. Physical violence could mean no supper tomorrow night, and we were having fried catfish, potato salad, greens from our garden, and hot water cornbread.

“Shush,” I warned, “or your other foot is next.”

“You’re lucky,” he sneered, “that I’d never hit a girl.”

His sisters guffawed. “Yeah?” The oldest girl challenged him. “So, what do you call our tussling?” The middle sister shook her head in agreement.

“That’s different,” the boy disputed. “We’re just having fun then. Besides, it’s a brother’s duty to teach his sisters how to defend themselves.”

All three girls laughed, holding their sides.

I had to get this noise under control. Usually, I’m not so rude, but their manners were nothing like those polished looks. I never would’ve gone to their house and taken over.

I started to feel guilty for being what my brother would definitely have called a b—, so I motioned to them: they could sit anywhere. The three oldest sat on my bed and crossed their legs, reclaiming the appearance of grace. But the little one sidled up to me with a wide grin I knew not to trust.

“Now,” I said in a hushed tone. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

The little imp snickered. “Alexandra,” she said, “we’ve been sent here for you.”

How did she know my name? I wondered.

Just when I was about to ask, chilly wind whipped through my open window, reaching the lamp. Everything went black and eerily quiet.

Part 3

I yawned, wondering how long I slept. After rushing to close the window and shut out rain, I relit the lamp. Once again, shadows danced in night light.

I was relieved. No one else was there. Of course not, I thought and laughed.

Settling again in my cushy, hand-me-down chair, I looked around for the magazine with the four impostor children on the cover.

“Alexandra,” a voice softly called.

My little imp was there, appearing out of nowhere.

“Here is your magazine.”

References

“Maggie Lena Walker: Civil Rights Activist and Entrepreneur | American Masters | PBS.” 2020. American Masters. March 18, 2020. https://www.pbs.org/wnet/americanmasters/civil-right-activist-maggie-lena-walker-75lx9t/13814/.

“Maggie L. Walker National Historic Site.” 2023. Nps.gov. 2023. https://www.nps.gov/museum/exhibits/Maggie_Walker/exb/Life%20At%20Home/C%20Family/MAWA00000154.html.

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