Southern Crosses: An African Ghost Story

PROLOGUE

Thursday, March 24, 1960—West

Rosemont District, Johannesburg

"For heaven’s sake, I don’t know why you can’t be here when you are supposed to be. We pay you to be here, Francis Jean, not to be back at that shack of yours, taking care of that wild girl. We pay you to take care of us, not that bastard child of yours. She is not my problem, and she is not going to become one. Do you understand that, Francis Jean?"

The black woman listened to every word and gave no response. She’d heard it all before, but she needed the job. The old couple was mean, prejudiced, and didn’t have any children. Francis Jean had known all about the couple before she started cleaning and cooking for them many years ago. Over the years, only Francis Jean had changed…she had silently, horribly changed.

Gladys Stroud had begun shouting her commands the moment she saw the black woman walk through the front door. She stood in the middle of the massive dining room, slapping a dirty wet dishrag in her hands. I don’t want to look at you, Francis Jean; you make me so mad. Why can’t you people just do your jobs? We pay you to work for us, don’t we? So why can’t you just do what we pay you to do?

The black woman remained silent as she rushed through the old dark house, with the old woman following her from room to room, continuing her verbal attack. If you think you are going to run out on us every time that girl of yours gets in trouble, you are dead wrong, Francis Jean. You are dead wrong. If you want to keep your job, you’d better get this into your head, or I’ll just find another kaffir to work for us. Do you understand?

Yes, Miss Gladys. I do understand, the black woman replied. Now I understand everything.

Good. Now get in the kitchen and get our food ready. Then you can go upstairs and clean my bedroom. It is still a dirty mess.

Normally, Francis Jean would’ve had the lunch meal on the table already. Homemade biscuits and fried okra, corn, and cured peppered ham. But lunch that day would be very different. No heat would be coming from the kitchen, no delicious smells trickling out through the front part of the house and onto the front porch. The only item Francis Jean got from the kitchen that day was a carving knife, and before she was finished, Gladys Stroud had more than ten stab wounds in her upper torso and neck.

Gladys was seated at the dining room table at the end nearest to the kitchen; her back was pointed towards the kitchen door, and her head rested on the table in a puddle of blood. Red, smelly blood trickled down from the body, covering most of the chair. A puddle of blood slowly formed on the floor while the black woman stood quietly and looked over the scene. She observed the colorful patchwork on the white linen tablecloth and surrounding white wall. Good work, she thought impassively. One down and one to go.

For the first time since she’d walked into that dreadful house, to wait on that dreadful old couple, Francis Jean felt a quiet peace in her mind, a calmness few could actually describe. She almost felt validated, but the peace and resolve only took over for a few short minutes. Her resolve was quickly dispelled when she heard Ed Stroud yelling from the front porch.

Francis Jean, where are you? Gladys, what is she doing in there? Francis Jean, I am ready to eat!

The old man sat patiently in his wheelchair, waiting for one of the two women inside to answer. There was no response; there was only dead silence.

The black woman was ready to complete the deed. She walked slowly from the dining room, through the kitchen, and into the basement stairwell.

She thought about the old man’s foul talk that began the day she ran up to the house to begin work. She’d heard, Get your kaffir ass in the house now, before she even stepped off the bus. The language got worse as she neared the front porch. Where have you been, Francis Jean? I’m not paying you to sit on your ass. We give you stinking kaffirs everything you need, and this is how you treat us…you don’t even come to work. Won’t be the same later; you’ll be hustling up here later for me to pay you. By the time Francis Jean entered the house, the old man had called her kaffir at least five times, each time more harsh and angry. Spit shot from his mouth. His teeth showed dirty stains; his eyes were bloodshot, either from his angry gush of profanity or from the liquor sitting beside him. He never spoke a kind word to her, and she never expected to hear one.

Focused on her plans, Francis Jean didn’t speak; instead, she walked into the cellar to find the good pickaxe. Ed Stroud continued to bellow from the porch, but she ignored him and smiled as she left the cellar. Then she left the kitchen, passed through the bloody dining room, and into the living room. There, at the front door, she calmly yelled to the old man. Yes, please come in. Your lunch is ready, Mr. Stroud. I’m so sorry I kept you waiting today.

Ed Stroud pushed his wheelchair up to the front door and let the black woman push him towards the dining room. They were two feet inside when he saw the dead body at the dining room table. Then he heard the black woman still standing just inches behind him.

So, Mr. Stroud, you old crazy white man, you ready for your lunch too?

The axe hit the back of his head, punctured his skull, and sent blood spattering across the dining room walls and hardwood floor. Francis Jean softly put down the axe and walked away.

Part One

Chapter One

December 24, 2010

I REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME I SAW HER. It was a Friday, just after lunch, and it seemed the cold rain would never end. Many days in London seemed that way, but finally, I could see an end to continuous wet, dreary days. It was my last day at the American Embassy, and the last thing I wanted was to meet with someone seeking help.

Anna Ross waltzed into the embassy as if she owned the place…or at least she wanted us to think she owned it. She was dressed in a knee-length dark wool skirt, a tan silk blouse, brown Gucci boots, and a plaid Burberry overcoat. Hell, it looked like she’d just walked out of the Regent Burberry boutique across the street.

Her entrance made the men’s heads turn and made the women’s faces red with envy, mine included. How could she be a couple of decades older than me? Anna Ross was tall and slender, with a short, cropped haircut. I knew from the start that she wasn’t a weak woman struggling to be understood and appreciated, so I created my automatic response carefully.

When my intern brought Anna Ross into my office, with the most confident attitude I could conjure with such short notice, I stood and held my shoulders and head up. Back then, it was important for me to be just as tall and strong as any other tall and strong black woman was.

Yes, back then, I didn’t feign politeness when I faced anyone who even slightly mirrored me. I’d always made it clear—none of them would see sympathy in my eyes.

She walked into my office with a wet umbrella and rain on her overcoat and blouse. For any white woman, I would have offered to take her coat and umbrella. Then I would have given her a hearty handshake and directed her to a chair in my office. But for her, I gave nothing. The thirty-minute meeting went as quickly as possible, and I don’t remember much of the conversation. I sat behind my oversized desk and she sat across from me. I didn’t offer her my leather side chair, and neither did the intern. Anna Ross had to do that herself, and when she moved to reposition the chair, I realized she was used to making such moves on her own.

The only way I could have made it clearer that I was in charge was if I’d stood during the meeting and yelled. Or I could have just stood and looked down at her the entire time. I remember thinking the meeting had gone well—for me, at least. I was as rude to Anna Ross as I needed to be, and I showed complete indifference regarding her dire situation. The passion she carried with her—that of a poor, shy child born in apartheid-era South Africa who’d become a strong and successful woman in Angola—went unnoticed.

I heard her vivid, compelling story about survival and a woman who wanted to return to an ancestral village back in the Northern Cape. But the only things my brain could digest were my own malicious—and selfish—questions. And I had many of them. Why are you so light-skinned? How did you get to be so uppity? Is that a real Hermes scarf? Where did you get that handbag? How can a black woman from Africa afford such expensive things? Who do you think you are?

Yes, those awful thoughts ran through my head, and each one ended with my typical hardheaded reaction. Take a number, sister, and get in line. I made up my mind before you ever walked into my office. You’re wasting your time.

IT’S HARD TO LOOK BACK NOW AND NOT REALIZE MY BIGGEST WEAKNESSES. And, although carefully hidden, I had them. Beyond Anna Ross’ expensive clothes, perfect stature, poise, and her endearing plea for help, I had subtle reasons for pitting her against my own arrogance and indifference. I can recall her posture as she stood up after the meeting and walked away from my desk.

There was self-assurance in her walk and posture. In her, I saw confidence I badly wanted. And I knew I could never take that confidence from her, no matter how hard I tried. Just her presence made me feel hollow.

I’ve never been one to mix messages or sugarcoat bad news. People tell me I am as tough as they come in the Foreign Service, and that’s why I made it to London and survived there. Thus, I carefully planned my words to Anna Ross. Being where I was, I was not about to risk anything by failing to communicate correctly.

Good morning, Ms. Ross, and welcome to the American Embassy. Wait—do you prefer to be called Ms. Pickens?

Please call me Anna, she replied. That’s the only name I have ever known.

Okay then…Anna. I appreciate your coming to meet me, but the United States Government cannot do anything to help your family. As you know, Washington and Pretoria don’t exactly see eye-to-eye right now. We must consider our priorities and be careful not to worsen the current situation. Have you explored other options?

What other options? There are no other options, she answered abruptly.

Well, that could be a problem. Have you considered the consequences of—

Anna finished for me. Staying in Angola? Is that what you were going to ask me?

As a matter of fact, Anna, I was, I replied as I checked my watch, and hoped she saw me do so. My time was limited and my mind was going in five different directions. Look, Anna; I don’t see how I can help. I haven’t even left this embassy yet, so I certainly wouldn’t be able to tell you anything for a few weeks or so. I won’t know anything until I arrive in Johannesburg and get settled in.

I looked at my watch again to make the point even clearer. We really need to finish this up. This is my last day in London. I fly out tonight.

Yes, of course. I apologize for taking so much of your time. I’m certain you have much to do.

As Anna and I walked towards the door, she reached into her bag and pulled out a folder. Carole Lynn McDuff at the U.S. Embassy in Luanda had told me to take it from Anna if she offered. Take it, she’d said. It’s all you will need from Anna Ross.

As she left my office, Anna looked at me. Her face was fraught with desperation and anxiety. Please, Ms. Johnson, I know you can help us. I hope you will take this. I have shared this story with just a few, but I want to share it with you. My family needs your help. She…your friend, Carole Lynn…told me you can help. I didn’t reply.

THE REST OF MY DAY WAS HECTIC AS HELL, but I enjoyed every fading minute of my time in London. I have to run. I don’t have time to talk. Send me an email. Call me. We need to catch up in a few months. The behavior was ingrained in me, an archetype. I ran around the embassy like a chicken with its head cut off and didn’t stop to ask why. I didn’t even stop to ask the major question: What will I ever get for all this madness?

My official U.S. Embassy London closeout took more than two hours, and I was convinced the entire administrative staff took great strides to make it as difficult as possible. And through it all, I wondered a lot about the games people play. What can I do to her? What can I do to him? I never liked that person anyway. I thought long and hard, but nothing came to mind as to why I was suddenly involved on the other side of this payback charade. I treated everyone the same, and if I were mean or spiteful, it was because I needed something and I needed to push harder to get it. In any case, it was obvious I’d done something to each member of the admin staff and it was indeed payback time.

My closeout with the front office was most humiliating, and the payback was a smack in the face. Two American secretaries and one top secret-cleared British secretary worked in the front office. Frankly, I never understood how or why a local ended up in one of the largest U.S. embassies in the world, particularly in its front office, where the U.S. Ambassador sits, holds meetings, and decides local U.S. trans-Atlantic policy. As I began my way through the front office maze, I faced Luze Champion first, the British secretary. Hers was the first desk of three I passed when I needed to visit one of the two offices in the back. The smaller office was for Deputy Chief of Mission Tom Van Dyke, and the larger office belonged to the U.S. Ambassador to Great Britain, Sam Campbell.

I’d never seen Luze as a threat, and she certainly wasn’t capable of stopping me from reaching the two Americans in the offices behind her. That day, however, was different. It was my last day in London and I was packed and ready to move on. Therefore, I was nobody to everyone I had worked with for two long years, including Luze. It was her turn to put me down, and she had every right to do it. She was thirty-five or maybe forty years old and had started her quasi-diplomatic career in the embassy’s inventory section, counting everything from desk calculators and leather sofas at the embassy, to a realm of items, from spatulas to king-sized beds, for houses and apartments. She was good with calculators and spreadsheets, but as anyone with an ounce of logic would suspect, she rose through the ranks for other reasons. Luze was also the embassy blabbermouth. I gave her that title when I arrived, and she never forgot it. Therefore, I wasn’t surprised when she literally growled at me as I walked by. I just did the same and moved past her. I might be leaving this post tonight, but I’ll be damned if the embassy loudmouth is going to slow me down.

After Luze, the next witch was in front of me, a rock who hadn’t moved in ten years. I tried to find some compassion for her. I believe we Americans should support each other while posted in foreign lands—but it was no small feat when it came to drama queen Amy Liston, who killed compassion every time. Amy hated me because, just a few days after I arrived, I’d correctly called her the DCM’s secretary—in front of a bunch of visiting CEOs from Michigan. She had, of course, graduated from the University of Michigan, and was looking to make an impression that day. I, of course, couldn’t have cared less.

"I am an office management specialist, she shrieked at me later that day. When I said I was sincerely sorry, the only thing that came from her mouth was, Well, it’s okay. But why did you say I was Tom’s secretary? Gladys wasn’t there. No one would have known I didn’t work under the ambassador."

Later, I felt badly about how I’d treated her that day, but it didn’t matter. After that episode, I decided to keep my distance from Amy and did so for two long years. I don’t even think we spoke five words after that. I used my hands to signal what I needed and she did the same. Sometimes we wrote long, convoluted notes and emails to each other, even when a short exchange of words would have been much easier. As I stood in front of her on my last day there, I thought I should be nice and at least say something before I walked away. Well, I knew I’d made a mistake the second I stopped at her desk. She barely looked up and quickly gave me a signal to keep moving on to Gladys.

Hi, Amy, I said as she looked at me with anger in her face. I’m leaving for South Africa tonight. It’s been nice working with you.

Good, she snarled. I hope I never see you again. Now get away from my desk.

It’s difficult to show grace during such encounters, but I did. Well, take care, I said as I hurried to my next stop.

The Foreign Service had posted Gladys Grace, the embassy’s senior secretary and the ambassador’s go-to person, all over the world during her twenty-five years with the Department. Having worked for many senior ambassadors, she knew a lot about people, both in the field and back in Washington. She could shake things up if she wanted to, but why do that if you could get everything you wanted by staying quiet? To me, Gladys was the grandmother I’d never had. Up until that day, we’d gotten along perfectly.

That time, however, as I walked to her desk and told her I was there for my one o’clock closeout meeting, she looked at me with an apologetic expression on her face. "Oh no, dear. I’m sorry, but I messed up Ambassador Campbell’s schedule. He’s in a meeting right now and won’t be available until two."

I looked at my watch and saw it was already quarter after one. I decided to try to see the next in line. Is Tom around? Can I just squeeze in to see him for a minute?

"Oh no, darling, she replied with the same motherly tone. Tom told me he doesn’t need to meet with you before you leave. So... she continued as she pulled her glasses down to the bridge of her nose. Her strangely small eyes struck mine. Should I put you down for two?"

Well, I guess I can wait.

Okay, dear. Just go over there and have a seat. I’ll let you know when the ambassador is ready.

THE INTENTIONAL DELAY IS THE FINAL SLAP IN THE FACE IN LONDON, and I’d suspected I was going to end up there. I’d heard rumors. It’s the snub that keeps giving. All non-VIP embassy visitors waited in the tiny room for that special moment when their names were called for an audience with the ambassador. Most sat and waited as they were passed over in favor of others. In the past, I’d simply waltzed past those folks in the waiting area. I’d feign sympathy of course, but I looked down at them the entire time. But now I was the one in the waiting area, getting my own self-righteousness and ugliness thrown right back at me.

When Gladys took a call from the mission warehouse, she seemed eager for me to hear the entire conversation. The general services officer was on the other end of the phone, and apparently, he urgently needed to see the ambassador. Ice trays in the cafeteria must be missing again.

Oh yes, Rob, Gladys happily answered. Just come on over at two. The ambassador can see you then.

But I’m meeting with the ambassador at two. Am I not on his schedule? That and other things ran through my mind as Gladys pulled her glasses up and gave me another stare. Sure, she’d bypassed others for me more times than I could count. The day before, I’d been that officer, able to run in any time I felt the need, even for the stupidest or simplest of reasons. I knew Gladys would never hurt a fly, so I didn’t look back at her. I just steamed in my seat. You old fart, you’re in London because nobody wants you back home. You’re lucky I’m leaving tonight. But I kept my thoughts to myself.

Bottom line, I was leaving. Why should I care how she treated me? I’d never see her again. After a painful ninety-minute wait, during which the three witches in front of me did nothing but bask in my misery, I was ushered in.

My meeting with Ambassador Campbell lasted about thirty minutes and went as expected. During my two-year assignment, I’d worked my butt off and kowtowed to him, just as everyone else did. I’d made a few friends along the way, been kind to some and bitchy to others. I’d been the bitch more times than I could count, most times to back up Campbell. And so, after two years of bitch-eat-bitch, all I got was a meaningless good luck on your next assignment talk. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t.

I think you’ll like Johannesburg, he said as if by rote. "The weather is perfect, it rarely rains, and there’s no fog like here in London. The housekeepers are experienced, and you’ll have a driver and gardener. Crime is terrible, but you’re a smart girl. You know better than to be out on the streets at night. The blacks are civilized now, not angry like the rest of the blacks in Africa. It’s completely different from when I was there twenty years ago. Oh, and you must visit Cape Town and Durban as much as possible. You’ll love it."

What a load of crap. I couldn’t help but think such things when Ambassador Campbell spoke. But the biggest load came at the end of his canned and useless spiel.

Overall, you did okay here in London, he said as if throwing a bone to a starving dog.

My thoughts raged. Do I look hungry to you? Do I look like I need your farewell? I need positive reinforcement. I need to know when I do a good job and I need to hear when I don’t. But this clown didn’t know anything about positive reinforcement and thrived on tearing everyone down.

I didn’t know whether to vomit or just sit there and take it like a man, as they say. That’s what women are supposed to do, sit quietly and be passive—just like men do. But I choose my battles wisely. So I decided to take it and kept my mouth shut…for my sake, not his. I looked back at him with a bland smile on my face and wondered whether he could tell I was laughing inside. He was, after all, such a joke. Campbell had once been posted in Africa, where I was heading. He’d left the embassy in Pretoria and the consulate offices in Johannesburg in such a mess; it took four senior officers to get things back in order. Once he arrived in London, he’d tried to send one of his staff members back to Washington as punishment for insubordination. Human Resources had turned that one down. And another time, he’d found himself in a public confrontation, in the middle of the embassy’s front office, accused by his wife of having a fling with another diplomat’s wife. Yep, Ambassador Campbell certainly knew how to whip a team into shape, whatever shape that might be. He was all about the dog and pony show.

Chapter Two

I HAD NEVER BEEN HANDPICKED. I HAD NEVER BEEN IN A DOG AND PONY SHOW. Obviously, I had never been one of those special cronies, a predestined leader picked by cloaked fools who think they can read people and determine who will make it big and who will not. I didn’t have that make-it-big way, probably because I wasn’t friendly enough with the cloaked ones.

It could have been that I just didn’t care enough. Or maybe they just didn’t like me enough. For whatever reason, the only redeeming factor in any of this was that there were more people like me than like them.

But above all the arrogance at the American Embassy in London, and above the meanness displayed when the cloaked picked their winners and losers, Ambassador Campbell and his Deputy Chief of Mission seemed to like me. And regardless of my unnecessary analytics—who likes me, who doesn’t like me, and why do I care?—I just kept my eyes on the prize…that place in the world where I belonged. The old cliché, for some reason, has always made me feel better about all of it, particularly when I’m on my way to a new place.

Still, with all the comings and goings, I’d realized that I never got anywhere. I was never there…never where I wanted, absolutely needed, to be. And every time I got close to there, another there was waiting for the picking. There was no rhyme or reason to my constant search for the perfect there, just self-imposed frustration at its best. The things I’d been taught to cherish—being close to people I loved and those who loved me, pursuing things that made me happy, following my passion, having a strong moral compass, knowing about right and wrong, and actions and consequences—I’d forgotten about. All I had was a deep need to move on to the next there again. I felt nothing other than the sickening urge to keep moving.

I was to arrive in warm, sunny South Africa in less than twenty-four hours, and my new job was to die for, or so they said. I was ready to be far away from the cold, dark, and rainy days of London. I didn’t want any more hollow assignments from either of the two men protected by that secretarial gauntlet. Another officer would come in, take my place, and rebuild so another officer could come in after two years and rebuild again. It would be as if I had never existed.

My going-away party, the one I didn’t want, was next door at the Millennium Mayfair Hotel. Just across the street from Grosvenor Square, the Millennium Mayfair is tucked away and almost hidden. Inside, with all its old English rustic charm, is the smoke-filled Pine Bar. Some remember the Pine Bar as the place where the Russians experimented with their bio-poisons…on dissidents the country needed to be rid of. We have this history, plus stout ales and stale pretzels right in the shadow of the U.S. Embassy’s giant eagle.

The United States placed the eagle strategically to show that we are on watch, but in reality, I don’t think we saw much of anything from our prestigious, diplomatic point of view. I don’t think we saw much of anything except what others told us to see or what we were predisposed to see—in other words, tunnel vision. But I’d never forget the Pine Bar—not for being the site where we collected intelligence on our enemies and friends, not for being the place where our finest delivered firm, non-flinching demarches from Washington, but simply as the site of my going-away party.

I’d dreaded it all day. I’d dreaded it all month. Why? I don’t know. It marked time for me to leave London, time for me to move on. I should have been anxious to get it all over with.

The farewells started at four and an hour later, the toasts had been made, pints of ale had been emptied, and the few people who came were ready to get home to celebrate Christmas with their friends and families. It was my final social event tied to the United States Embassy in London, and like most other events I’d been forced to attend, I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I gave real hugs and kisses to the people I’d grown closest to, and then I was out the door, running into a light freezing rain as I headed to the embassy’s side entrance. My plan was to rush in and rush out.

Inside my fourth-floor office, I quickly grabbed my briefcase, purse, umbrella, and overcoat. Over the past two weeks, I’d slowly made the room ready for a new officer due to arrive a few days after the New Year’s holiday. All I had to do was turn out the lights, and I did just that without pausing.

I quickly walked down the long hall to the central bank of elevators. Along the way, I stopped briefly at open doors to say goodbye to a few people who were still in their offices. Then, as I waited for an elevator, I turned and saw that the embassy gift store was still open. I spotted a collection of used books on a table along with some holiday items. After two years of passing the shop, I don’t know why I decided to go in that day. After all, why would I shop at the embassy gift shop when a shopper’s paradise was right at my fingertips? I don’t know. But that day, I walked in and browsed every shelf. It was relaxing, and for some reason, my hustle from moments before was gone.

It was like every other U.S. embassy gift shop. In