Melissa Confronts Manton

I had heard enough. "You forget, Mr. Manton, Havenhall, your family fortune, and all the finery that surrounds us, gentlemen was built on the backs of enslaved peoples." I keep my tone steady and conversational, but there is no doubt that I have dropped a live grenade right in the middle of the finely set table. I take advantage of the stunned silence to go on.

"The history you so cherish is a history of white supremacy and racism, built on oppression and brute ****." Just because I didn't join my daughter's sit-ins and rallies doesn't mean I don't understand the history of my people. "Yes, Havenhall is part of American history, a disgraceful part that was rejected over one hundred and fifty years ago by the rest of the nation." Professor Davis had a look of surprise and even fear on his face, but Manton's expression was much harder to read. "The North won the Civil War, gentlemen. Many brave men, black and white, died in order to roll the dying corpse of the Confederacy into the grave it so richly deserved. Don't you think we should leave it there?"

Truth be told, I had drunk far too much of my host's wine, and was definitely feeling the effects of the ****. Emboldened, my voice raised as I continued my harangue with what I know must be a drunken smirk on my face.

"I don't deny my history, gentlemen, I embrace it. But I embrace all of it. Yes, George Washington visited Charleston, but so did Barack Obama. We're three blocks from the Old Provost House, where the Declaration of Independence was read, and the Constitution was ratified. We're only two blocks from the Old **** Mart Museum, which chronicles the horrors you gloss over, with all your talk of the glories of Havenhall and its old Southern charm. But an old white cracker is still an old white cracker, no matter how much cheese you slop onto it."

The music had stopped, and the string quartet, alarmed at my outburst, decided to take their break, and shuffled off the patio. The waiters withdrew to a safe distance. Charles Manton said nothing, but stared at me, emotionless. He seemed neither angry nor amused, but rather thoughtful, and regarded me as a curiosity.

Professor Davis broke the silence, clearly appalled by both my words and poor manners. "A woman like you does not talk to a man like Charles Manton that way, child,"

"I'm not your child, and if you mean black girls don't talk to him that way, then they damn well should, because maybe he'd be less of a racist asshole if he met someone who wasn't intimidated by his money, and dared to tell him the truth." I empty my wine glass and bang it down on the table.

"Careful! That crystal is over 160 years old." Professor Davis chided "It was a gift from President Jefferson Davis." As far as I was concerned, Dr. Davis could smash the wine class, put the shards in his glass and drink up." But I had the sense to keep my mouth shut.

Dinner arrived. It was served in utter silence, with the gentle clanking of dishes being the only noise in the terrifying silence. The awkward silence caused by my outburst was palpable. The two men, ever polite, waited for me to take the first bite. My sea scallops were perfectly cooked.

"This is delicious," I offered trying to find something that we could agree on. I wasn't sorry that I made my position clear, but it wasn't my finest moment either. I hate losing my temper that way, I let Mr. Manton agitate me and make me lose control. The next few minutes almost became normal again, as we ate the wonderful dinner. I was struggling with an odd mix emotions, fermented in the strong rice wine. I wanted to stab Charles Manton with my fork, but I didn't wish to be rude.

Only after the entre was more than half gone did Charles Manton start to chuckle for no apparent reason.

"Did I say something amusing?" I asked a little sharply.

"No, not at all. Melissa, I admire your spirit," he said. "I like you. Truly I do. Furthermore, you're right." When he saw the confusion on my face he went on with a slight nod towards the white-haired professor at his side. "A lot of my so-called friends are just interested in my money. They'd never dare to speak to me like that. You're not afraid to say what you think and damn the consequences."

A quick glance at Dr. Davis offered nothing. The man had either missed the insulting reference or was doing his best to prove Mr. Manton correct.

"You're also right about the importance of understanding all of our history. I'm actually one of the main sponsors of The Old **** Mart Museum." Manton was back to his charming self, and I had to remind myself that this man was at heart a racist piece of crap. "A number of pieces from the museum, including many of their shackles, branding irons and **** whips, are on loan from my family's extensive personal collection. I encourage scholarship and study of the **** experience in Antebellum America." He smiled at Dr. Davis warmly this time. "In fact, I'm the one that funded the research for Shelby's book. How are we supposed to learn from our past, if we don't know it?"

Manton leaned in, surprising me by putting his hand on my knee, as if he was sharing a confidence. "I don't deny our past, Melissa. I find it inspirational."

I pushed his hand off my knee firmly. Manton smiled and leaned back in his chair neither surprised nor angry at my rebuff.

"I know President Obama, by the way." He offered in a sharp change of topics. "I consider him a friend and held a fundraiser for him that helped him defeat Mrs. Clinton back in the day." Aniya would have made some snide comment about that old byline 'I'm not a racist, some of my best friends are black' but I was impressed all the same. "We still chat occasionally; the Obamas and I don't agree on everything, but I know a winner when I see one. As for his views on me, well, money talks."

A second course of braised ox-tail arrived and I realized that I had better moderate my eating ... and drinking ... and speaking my mind. Manton seemed to have not lost a bit of his appetite as he dug into the flavorful beef speaking in between bites and sips of wine.

"As you can see, Melissa, I have a most sincere interest in African American history, which brings me to the subject of the diary." His speech took on a more businesslike tone and I felt like I was on more familiar ground. "You've been stringing me along all night, to the point where I am wondering if this diary even exists. When, pray tell, are you were planning on showing me the pages you brought?"