dusting rag in Dwayne’s direction. “He’s never at home. He’s always over at Motown, acting like singing is real work.”
“Sure it is! We don’t just sing. We have classes on how to dress up, how to talk if we get interviewed by reporters, even how to eat in a fancy restaurant. And…” Dwayne spun in one of the new moves that he’d learned. “We get dance lessons from a real choreographer.”
Mommy was nodding her approval. “Mr. Berry Gordy must care a lot about how his performers behave,” she said.
“Yes, he does,” Dwayne said.
Lila shrugged and kept dusting.
Dwayne snapped his fingers in her direction. “If you feel like that, Lila, I guess you don’t want an invite to see Hitsville U.S.A. up close, and get a tour of the Motown studio, huh?”
Lila froze. “Wh-what?”
“I do! I do!” Melody shouted.
“So do I,” Mommy said.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Dwayne answered. Melody thought he sounded very important.
Dwayne looked at his watch. “Speaking of the studio, I gotta run. The Three Ravens are doing backup for a new singer. Bye!”
Melody’s mother had a funny look on her face as Dwayne pecked her on the cheek and rushed away. After he left, Mommy shook her head. “I do wish Dwayne were going to college,” she said, almost to herself. “Still, he’s turning into quite a young man.”
“Does Daddy think so?” Lila asked.
Melody was wondering the same thing.
“Your father is proud of all of you,” Mommy said firmly. “Let’s get the sandwiches made. People will start showing up in less than an hour!”
They were all heading to the kitchen when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Melody said, wondering who was arriving so early.
“Miss Esther!” Melody said when she opened the door. “Come in.”
“I know I’m early for the meeting,” Miss Esther said, tapping her way into the living room with her cane. “But I have something for you.”
Melody took Miss Esther’s coat and hat. The scent of gardenias from Miss Esther’s perfume filled the air. It reminded Melody of summer. “Please sit down,” Melody said, using her best company manners. But Miss Esther didn’t really feel like company. She felt like family.
“I’m so sorry I missed your birthday celebration,” Miss Esther said. She sat on the sofa with her big brown purse upright on her lap. “So tonight I came before the others to give you a belated gift.” She opened the purse with a loud snap, and took out two small burlap pouches that were no larger than Melody’s hands. One had a red drawstring cord, the other a green one.
“Thank you,” Melody said, sitting down on the sofa. She peeked inside the red-corded pouch. “Seeds!” She smiled up at Miss Esther. “What kind are they?”
“Those are hollyhocks, and they’re very special. They’re called ‘heirlooms.’ They grow from seeds that are collected from plants every year and passed on from generation to generation.”
Melody’s face lit up. Poppa had taught her about heirloom plants. He’d taken her many times to the botanical gardens at Belle Isle Park. He said some of the plants came from seeds that were a hundred years old. “My grandfather calls heirloom plants ‘great-great-grandflowers,’” Melody said.
“Is that right?” Miss Esther laughed.
“Oh, I can’t wait to plant these,” Melody said.
“They’ll grow almost as tall as you are,” Miss Esther said. “I brought them up from my mother’s garden in Alabama when I first came to Detroit as a young woman. I had a big, beautiful garden at my first home here in the city. Now I don’t have the space—or the energy—for one.”
Melody wanted to ask lots of questions, like where in Alabama Miss Esther came from, and what kind of garden she had, and what her other Detroit house had looked like. But before she could say anything, Miss Esther pointed to the other pouch.
“That’s a type of bean. It’s called Good Mother Stallard.”
Melody laughed. “That’s a funny name for a bean! Is it an heirloom, too?” She poured a few of the seeds into her palm to look at them more closely.
“Yes, it is.” Miss Esther sat back and smiled. “Did you know that planting is one of the traditions we keep from some of our African ancestors? Thousands of years ago they were growing beans—and okra and squash, and yams.”
“Yams came from Africa?” Melody thought of the yams Big Momma baked at Thanksgiving. “No, ma’am. I didn’t know,” Melody said, admiring the pretty maroon-and-white beans. Was it her imagination that they seemed to tingle in her hand?
“Well, gardening is a very good thing to carry on. I knew I’d picked the right young person to hand these heirlooms down to. We can talk more about how and where to plant them another time, all right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Melody said, putting the seeds back in the pouch. Miss Esther’s confidence in her made Melody feel special. It reminded her of the conversation with Yvonne on New Year’s Eve when Yvonne had said that Melody was a responsible person.
Right then Melody’s mother came out of the kitchen holding a plate piled with triangle-shaped sandwiches. “Hello, Miss Esther! How are you this evening?”
“I am well, thank you, Frances,” Miss Esther said. “Melody and I have been discussing gardening.”
While her mother and Miss Esther chatted, Melody went upstairs to put the burlap pouches away in her dresser drawer. Across the hall, Melody heard her father getting up from his after-work nap. Downstairs the doorbell sounded, and she heard people’s voices greeting one another as they came in. Melody grabbed her pack of Old Maid playing cards and headed down.
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