Auntie Bea's Little Black Book

My Auntie Bea and my mother were never close. For the longest time, I thought it was because Auntie Bea lived in the Garden District and we lived out here in the swamp. I’m not saying Momma was jealous, but I’m also not not saying that, ya know?

Momma and her sister Kathryn never had a good word to say about Aunt Bea. She was never invited to family gatherings, not even the big family reunions we had ever summer.

Those were the days when all us kids would throw water balloons and eat too much crab boil.

I was 16 when my little sister Camilla finally got to the truth of the matter.

We were sitting around the fire after the crab boil, roasting marshmallows and the grownups were sitting in the shade of a big old cypress, chatting about the men in their lives. Mama had just met a new man and was telling Kat all about him.

“How come we never see Aunt Bea and her man?” Camilla asked.

Auntie Kat had a little too many sips of the ‘shine Uncle Trouble made just for days like this. “Aunt Bea ain’t never had a man and we sure aren’t inviting her partner to a family gathering.”

Cami, my sister, was 10 at the time and didn’t understand.

I pretended I didn’t hear a word they were saying, but that night when I got home, I wrote a note to Aunt Bea, telling her I was sorry that our family was full of bigots and she had been left alone.

She answered my letter once, but Momma got the mail that day and ripped it up. I was also grounded for two weeks and forced to read nothing but my Bible for the rest of summer.

I snuck another letter off to Aunt Bea that fall, telling her it would be best if she didn’t write again until I left for college.

A year later, I was accepted at Louisiana State University and got a room in the dorms. The first week I was there, I wrote to Auntie Bea again and for the next several years, she was my best friend.

I snuck to New Orleans every chance I got to go visit and when I was applying to medical school, my decision to go to Tulane was largely due to her.

Auntie Bea was a fine lady, always put together. She told me stories about Momma and Auntie Kat from when they were growing up. She was the oldest, but in her stories, all the sisters were as close as could be.

I asked her once what happened and she changed the subject, telling me instead about going to Birmingham to march with Dr. King.

Truth be told, she was probably the reason I decided that a poor girl from the swamps could be a doctor. Momma and Auntie Kat were trying to get me to find a nice man and settle down. Auntie Bea told me that I’d find the love of my life when I least expected it and to follow my dreams. So, I did. Follow my dreams, that is.

There was a sadness in her voice any time she talked about Momma and us kids or Auntie Kat and Uncle Trouble, but she never said anything bad about them.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised then when she listed me as her next of kin.

The New Orleans police department sent an officer to my door to let me know.

A tall, dark man with milk chocolate eyes and wearing a crisp blue uniform knocked on my door just as I was getting ready to leave for class.

“Charlotte Sampson?”

“Yes, I’m Lottie Sampson. How can I help you officer?” I wasn’t sure if the nerves were from having the police at my door or from my instant attraction to him.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Miss Sampson, but I’ve been asked to let you know that your aunt, Beatrice Johnson, died last night.

I collapsed into his arms, weeping like a fool. He held me until I stopped sobbing and then offered to drive me to the morgue to identify the body.

When it was done and she was on her way to a funeral home where she had pre-arranged her services, he handed me his card.

“You call me if you ever need anything, Miss Lottie.”

I knew right then that Auntie Bea was right. You meet the person of your dreams when surely aren’t looking, but that's another story.

I thought I’d be the only one of the family to show up to her funeral, but I guess Momma and Auntie Kat wanted to see what sort of funeral Bea would throw for herself. Even in death, she was not about to be quiet. She had a full set of grave dancers leading the processing from the funeral home to St. Louis No. 1.

I heard Momma talking about the spectacle of it, but all the others who were there were talking about Auntie Bea like she was a saint. One after another they stood up, men, women, and families, telling stories of the things she had done for them.

When the eulogies were done, a Yankee lawyer with white hair and a suit ill-suited to May in New Orleans, sought me out and handed me his card. The reading of Aunt Bea’s will was scheduled at her house the following day and would I please attend, he said.

I saw him talk to Momma and Auntie Kat too, so I didn’t think much of it.

“Charlotte Ann Sampson, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in class?” Momma yelled at me as I walked out to catch the streetcar back to French Quarter.

“I wanted to say goodbye to Auntie Bea. My professors understood.”

Momma started spouting something about sin and I just couldn’t listen. I’ve never turned my back on my mother like that before.

***

I got to Aunt Bea’s house about half an hour before the reading was scheduled. Momma, Aunt Kat and Uncle Trouble were already there along with half a dozen people I didn’t know and the lawyer from the day before.

It was hot, but someone had turned on the ceiling fans and the air conditioner. There was fresh lemonade and cookies set out on her mahogany side table. I bit my tongue to keep from telling people to make sure to use a coaster.

Momma gave me a cold shoulder, but I heard her stage whisper to Aunt Kat asking why I was even there. Camilla and Aunt Kat’s children hadn’t been invited.

At precisely 2 p.m., the lawyer rose and walked to the front of sitting room to address us all.

“I’m Connor Lexington. My firm has been representing Miss Johnson for several years.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it now?” The snarky comment from Auntie Kat made no sense at all.

Mr. Lexington ignored her.

“Bea asked you all to be here so that she could share her wealth with you now that she’s gone even if you didn’t appreciate her while she was here.”

He stared at Momma and Aunt Kat then. They had the good grace to squirm.

“Dorothy Sampson and Kathryn James, your sister left you each $100,000 because, and I quote, ‘they both need someone to look out for them in their old age.’ She also left a trust for each of her nieces and nephews except Charlotte to cover the cost of tuition at the college or university of their choice. My firm will be administrators of the trust.”

I was glad to know Camilla would be able to go to college without the student loans that I’d had to take out.

“To my darling niece Lottie, I leave this house for as long as she wants to live in New Orleans. If she wants to leave the city, then the house will be sold with the proceeds going to the New Orleans Pride Association to fund a halfway house for children who are rejected by their families because of their sexual or gender identities.”

I grinned. I wouldn’t be keeping the house. Those kids needed it far more than I did. And hearing Momma and Aunt Kat huff was delicious.

“Lottie, I didn’t leave you a trust for your education, but I have paid off all your student loans and am leaving you $20,000 to get you started. I only wish I’d had a doctor like you.”

I was in shock. She paid my student loans. That was three times as much as she’d left to Momma.

The lawyer kept reading, talking about this charity or that which she’d left art or money to. When I was a kid and thought Auntie Bea was a rich, I clearly didn’t know the half of it.

Momma and Aunt Kat pestered the lawyer to find out when they’d get their money. I sat and talked with her other beneficiaries about all the good they could do with her money.

When the others were gone, I had questions.

“Mr. Lexington, how soon can we arrange to have the house title transferred to Pride Association. They need it much more than I do.”

He sat down next to me and smiled.

“You’re so much like her. It’s no wonder Bea loved you so much.”

“Were you close to my aunt?” I asked.

“No, but my wife was. They fell in love in Birmingham. Claudia loved her until the day she died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Claudia and I had an arrangement. She and Bea worked one out too. Claudia was a dutiful wife when she was in Boston and Bea’s lover when she was here. Bea gave up so much for her. Your family never forgave her for falling in love with a white woman.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.

“My children grew up knowing Bea was their mother’s other love. They thought of her as a beloved aunt. The last time Bea came to visit, she told us all about Dr. Lottie.”

“I’m not a doctor yet,” I protested.

“But you will be.”

He opened his briefcase and handed me a little black notebook stuffed with newspaper clippings and handwritten notes.

“This is the other thing Bea wanted you to have. She said it would tell you the things you’ve been asking about that she never had the courage to tell you. I think she was afraid it would change your mind about her.”

“Nothing could change my mind.”

***

I took the notebook home and set it aside. Aunt Bea had to have known that the clinic I was looking to open required a down payment, a down payment of exactly $20,000.

I called the realtor and told her to go ahead with the plan. As soon as I had my degree, I would be opening a clinic in the Ninth Ward. New Orleans need another doctor.

Once the paperwork was started, I curled up in my favorite chair and opened Auntie Bea’s notebook. The first thing I found was a newspaper clipping of her and Claudia being hauled off in handcuffs in Birmingham. In her neat handwriting she had noted in the margin, “The day I met the love of my life.”

Behind that, I found the letter she wrote me:

Dear Lottie,

By now Connor has told you some about me and even though I let my fears tell me otherwise, I know that you still love me as much as I love you. You are the daughter that I could never have.

There’s so much about your life your mother never wanted you to know. Now, she can’t stop me from telling you.

You were named for your great, great grandmother Charlotte, a contemporary and close friend of Marie Laveau. All those years ago, Marie taught your grandma a spell, just one, because Charlotte wasn’t voudon, she was a healer.

The spell, which is written in these pages, is to keep the people of New Orleans healthy. Along with it, you’ll find grandma’s recipes for cures – poultices for mosquito bites and tonics for yellow fever, the things they needed most back then.

In the 1980s, I used grandma’s spells to ease the pain of my community as so many were dying. I’m not sure why it worked on some but not on all. Maybe you can figure that out. I was never a doctor, just a member of the community trying to help my people.

I’m hoping that this family history, combined with the money I left you and your hard work will make you the best doctor this city has ever seen.

I love you so much, Lottie.

I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer,

Auntie Bea

As I thumbed through the notebook, I found name after name, most accompanied by newspaper clippings, of mostly men, but also a few women, that Auntie Bea had saved. Many were familiar faces from her funeral.

After that there were dozens of thank you notes, some as recent as last month, saying that if she ever needed anything at all to call them for help and on the very last page of the notebook, a final note from Auntie Bea dated just last week.

Lottie,

Make your dreams come true. All my people will help you.

Love you forever,

Auntie Bea

***

A month after we buried Auntie Bea, I met with the local PRIDE alliance, Connor, and a dozen different contractors who said they owed their lives to Bea. A couple of her friends had sway with the city council, and it didn’t take a lot of convincing to get the approvals. Auntie Bea’s lovely home would be renovated to a shelter, a half-way house of sorts, for teens and young adults who were disowned by their families because of their gender or sexuality.

I wanted to name it Bea’s Boudoir, but I let them talk me into something a little more appropriate: Helping Hearts Home.

We had enough left from Auntie Bea’s legacy to hire a full-time social worker and someone to manage the place. I volunteered to provide medical services.

When Auntie Bea’s friends from the notebook heard I was setting up a clinic in the Ninth Ward, they volunteered their time for that as well. The plumbing, electrical work and renovations were completed for free. I just needed to buy the supplies.

Connor took care of that.

“Claudia loved Bea and this city. She would want me to help with this in their memory,” he told me as he wrote me a check.

Then, three months after my clinic opened, I got another little black book in the mail. I recognized Auntie Bea’s delicate penmanship immediately.

D earest Lottie,

I was almost certain I knew what you would do with your inheritance, but I must confess that I worried at the last moment that you’d be more like your mother.

I should have had more faith in you. Thank you so much for proving me wrong.

I gave Connor the ultimate leeway in determining when or even if to send this on to you.

You see, the will he read wasn’t exactly complete. I also created a trust for him to oversee until you proved you were ready. If you never had, this would have gone to the PRIDE alliance as well. Since you are reading this, I’m even more proud of you than I was before.

In this notebook, you’ll find the information you need to access your trust. At the time of this writing, it’s worth about $10 million. Connor and Claudia were very good at giving me investment advice and I never needed much.

Live your life the best way you can and leave the world a better place.

Love,

Auntie Bea

I called Connor the next morning, certain I knew exactly what I needed to do.

“Connor, what happens if you didn’t send me the second notebook?”

“After ten years, the funds would be distributed to the PRIDE alliance in New Orleans and the NAACP.”

“Do we have to wait 10 years?”

“It’s yours now, Lottie. You can do what you want to with it.”

“Then I need to hire you. Let’s help Auntie Bea’s dreams come true. I already have everything I need. Her gift and her notebook made sure of that.”