by Naomi Finley
“You bes’ get at ’er, then,” he said gruffly, and the slow glide of his knife on the wood resumed.
Dat be all? Dat man be an odd one, dat’s for sho’. My brain had long ago given up trying to figure him out. For the most part, I steered clear of him.
Turning, I ran for the quarters.
At the end of the line of cabins, I pulled my racing feet to a casual walk. Menfolk sat socializing on the front stoops of their cabins. Chillum ran up the lane, diving in and out of cabins, playing a game of hide-and-seek. Cabin doors hung open, and on my way by, I snuck a peek or two inside.
Womenfolk sat in front of the fireplaces, attending to their family’s mending. A mother stood over her son as he pointed at a paper on the table, reciting the alphabet. Unlike Masa Jack, the boy was eager to learn. Never would I figure out the whites. Dey got evvything we’ve ever wanted, but dey still complain and cause a fuss.
But not Miss Willow. I’ve never known a white person like her. She’d run herself ragged to make sure we got all we needed. A heap of trouble would be waiting for Miss Willow if the white folk were to find out about her doings here on the plantation. She had secrets as high as the tower of laundry on washing day.
Secrets, Mama said, would be the end of us all if information fell into the wrong hands. The white folk would send Miss Willow off to some prison overrun with rats and lice. A shiver rushed up my spine at the thought. She was too proper and kept for that sort of place.
Miss Willow’s secrets were safe with me. I’d take them to my grave before I’d tell another soul. They could pluck out my eyes and pull out my fingernails before I’d give anything away. My fingers curled into fists, my nails biting into my palms.
Most days I worried about Miss Willow. Since before we left for the big house in the North, a great sadness had swallowed her up. She’d put the cross of all us black folk on her shoulders. I figured it was the reason she didn’t smile no more.
In the days before she ran this place, her laughter could be heard around the grounds. Her steps were light. From the fields, I’d watched her float around the place in a vision of silks and beauty. On the heels of her pappy leaving on his long trips, she’d mount her horse and charge across the field, away from the plantation, dressed in his trousers. A sin, for sho’!
Her presence in the quarters was frequent and her visits breathed hope into the people. I’d come to idolize her in a way that wasn’t Christian. Days when the sun blistered my skin and I was to the point of collapsing, I’d see Miss Willow’s bonnet bouncing up and down as she drove a wagon toward us, bringing the field hands water. I gulped it back, letting the coolness trickle down my throat and cool my belly.
One day, I held out the empty ladle, and when she reached for it, her lingering hand folded over mine. Her fingers were soft, not calloused like my own. Shocked, I elevated my careless eyes to meet hers, and the warmness pouring from her face pinned my gaze a moment too long, before I turned my attention to the toes of her polished black shoes peeking out beneath her pale blue muslin dress.
Long after her wagon pulled away, I stared after her.
Soon, days came when her youthfulness was soured by a burden she carried. In those days, I’d heard talk in the fields and quarters of how she’d taken a liking to us black folk, a fondness that warn’t normal for white people. No sirree! She and her pappy would fight rings around each other. I’d never known what for, but it was only when I became her handmaid that I got to truly see and understand the woman behind the fancy clothes.
Mama said it was a privilege Miss Willow chose me to be her handmaid, and I was mighty grateful her pretty eyes set on me. Many of us colored folks dreamed of being in the big house. Some people in the quarters had lots to squabble about when Miss Willow came asking for me. But there warn’t room for us all up in the big house. Mama said I shouldn’t be letting no jealous darkie make me feel wrong about what the good Lard saw fit to bestow on me.
It ain’t as swell as they all were thinking. I missed my mama something fierce. But at least Miss Willow let me go visit her often. It was selfish of me to miss Mama so badly when Miss Willow ain’t got none of her folks left except for her uncle. Though she’d recently rid herself of the dreary mourning clothes, it hadn’t taken away the pain that hooked onto her heart over the loss of her pappy.
At my mama’s cabin, Pete, a boy about my age and the perfect shade of dark, squatted on the front step. His body was angled away from me toward the woods. I sneaked up on him, and he didn’t stir. For as far back as I can remember, people said to me, “Gal, dem feet of yours be lak wearing boats for feet,” or “Poor gal can’t steal up on a deaf man wid dose big feet.” So I learned how to work my feet to touch the ground feather-light when it served me best.
“Evenin’, Pete,” I said.
He never flinched. Had he not heard me? “Evenin’,” I tried again. Still, he didn’t move.
“Pete!” I screeched.
He leaped off the step with his fist in the air, ready to pounce. Then he saw me. “What you be yelling ’bout? I ain’t deaf, gal.”
“I said evenin’.”
“I ain’t heard nothin’ until you ’bout blow out my eardrum. What’s wrong wid you? Slithering up on folkses. Got me eating on my own heart, et’s thrashing so hard.”
I smiled to myself. Whisper-quiet. My hips started to sway, and I dropped my eyes to the hem of my skirt as it swished side to side.
“How are things up in de big house?”
“Fine.”
“What’s dat?”
“I say dey be fine.” I shifted my eyes to peer at his brown shoes. The stitching on the outer sole had given way, and the gap that showed his flesh had gotten bigger since last week. I’d studied a lot of shoes in my life.
“Gal, you got no need to be acting mouse-lak when you ain’t in de big house.”
I set my eyes on the curve of his glistening neck. “Dey don’t make me act lak a mouse. Miss Hendricks and Miss Barry are real good to me.”
“Is dat so? Den luk a man in de eyes when he speaks to you.” His shoulders arched back, proud-like. Pete carried himself like he was a prized peacock. Dumb ox had forgotten he was a slave. Crowed all the time about being the son of an African prince. A medicine man.
At the swelling of his chest, fire zapped through me. “Who be saying you’re a man? You’re scarcely fourteen.” I mounted the two steps leading inside.
He grabbed my hand on the way by.
My eyes flew up to his, and warmth swirled like a dust devil through me at the mess of feelings I saw there. I lowered my gaze. Like the mud of the bayou, his hand swallowed mine whole. Around Pete, I wasn’t so oddly proportioned, but delicate and feminine like the other girls.
“Luk at me, Tillie.”
I shook my head and focused on the sweat gleaming on his chest at the opening of his shirt.
“You’ll be my gal someday.”
“Says who?”
“I knowed et. Your eyes tell me dat your heart swells for me, de same as mine does for you.”
“Oh, rubbish!” I shook my hand free, stomped inside, and closed the door behind me. I leaned my head back against it and closed my eyes. The sun had gotten to Pete’s head today. His gal! Imagine dat.
“Dat you, gal?” a husky female voice called out.
I opened my eyes and found my mama sitting in a rocker in the corner, her pipe clenched between her teeth. She squinted in my direction. “Yes, Mama.”
“Come closer so I can feast my eyes on you.”
I placed the lantern on the table and moved toward her. “Where is evvybody?” With Mama’s failing eyesight limiting what she could do, Miss Willow had given her the new position of minding the chillum. I leaned in to give her a hug. The smell of tobacco in her hair and clothes tickled my nose.
“Dey be off visiting other folkses. Mary Grace took Noah and de babe to play wid Esther’s young’uns.”
I moved a rocker closer and sat down.
“You eat?” she said between puffs of her pipe.
I coughed and swiped a hand through the air to clear away the clouds of gray. “Yes.”
She was silent except for the creaking and swishing of her rocker. Mama was tall and willowy, like me. Some said she was a handsome woman, but I guess I’d taken more after my pappy. Whoever he may be. Mama didn’t speak of him.
Her rocker squeaked as she leaned forward. “Let me git a good luk at you.” Her milky eyes ran over me. She smiled, revealing yellowed, tobacco-stained teeth. “You luk healthy. Miss Willow’s taking good care of my gal, I see.”
“Dat she is. Maybe takes more care of me den me her.”
“Dat’s good. Tell me all ’bout your travels to dis Rhode Island place.”
“But Mama, we talk ’bout dis evvy time I come.”
“You please an old woman and tell me again. I laks to tell de chillum ’bout your travels.” She removed the pipe from her lips and waved a hand in the air like she was painting a vision for all to see. “My Tillie, off traveling de world lak she’s a white girl.”
“Miss Willow, Miss Whitney, and Masa Ben are fine people. Masa Ben takes my arm and helps me up lak a Southern gentleman. Same as he does for Miss Willow. He acts lak we are equal.”
“Hush now. Dat’s hangin’ talk. In de white folkses eyes, you’ll never be equal to no white woman. As long as your skin be dat beautiful coffee color, you be a slave.”
“Now, Mama, you stop all dat negative talk. You’re as free as we can be here on dis plantation. Et jus’ de papers dat says differently, and a white man’s court.”
“De only way we are free is when we leave dis country behind, or our hearts stop ticking,” she said.
“In de North, dere be free blacks wid free papers. Why, Miss Willow said not but a few years back, a slave by de name Henry Brown mailed himself in a crate, all de way from Richmond to Philadelphia, right to de doorstep of de Anti-Slavery Society—”
“Et don’t matter ef you’re in de North or de South. I’ve heard of nigras gitting all de way to freedom in de North and den gitting nabbed by de cursed slave traders and sold back into slavery. A person’s got to git demselves to Canada.”
Her words dumped a wagon of lead in my stomach. Surely et warn’t so? Free is free, warn’t et?
Mama’s eyes shone with devotion. “Free doesn’t matter to me dat much anymore anyhow. Dis plantation is de closest I’m ever going to git to freedom. I sho’ don’t know why et tuk de good Lard so long to send us here. But et doesn’t matter dat much anyhow, ’cause de missus’s cause is de best thing I’ve done in all my life. Et makes me feel alive, helping other folks along de road to freedom. Besides, I’m too old to run anymore.”
The door opened, and a hush fell between Mama and me. Mary Grace and the children, along with the weaver woman, crowded into the cabin for the night.
After visiting Mama and the others, I returned to the big house. Mama’s words hung over me like Preacher John’s sermon on Sunday after I’d been sampling sweet potato pie from the kitchen house.
Willow
DRESSED FOR BED, I FOLDED back the covers and climbed in, releasing a long, drawn-out breath as I pulled the covers over me. I stared up at skillfully etched patterns in the plastered ceiling.
Things will be better tomorrow.
My eyelids drooped as the nightly singing of the slaves around the fire down in the quarters drifted into my room, lulling me. The exhaustion of the day carried me away into a fitful sleep.
I dreamed of running blindly through the swamp under a blanket of darkness. The bayou mud pulled and gripped at the hem of my skirt. The howls of the bloodhounds grew louder as they closed in. Globes of light glimmered around the slave traders’ torches, visible through the trees.
A man stepped from the trees with a torch in hand. Terror froze my steps. The face of Mr. Thames lodged a scream in my throat. Then screams, not my own, echoed around me. Screams that jolted me upright in bed. My heart pounded wildly.
The silvery-white moonlight spilled into my room, illuminating a long, narrow windowpane pattern across my floor.
It was just a dream.
A scream came from the main floor, and I jumped from my bed. The clang of something hitting the floor sent me running for the door.
We were being attacked! The masked men? Had they come to rob us?
I grabbed my dressing robe from a chair in a dark corner of the room. Opening the door, I slipped out into the dimly lit corridor, pushing my arms into the sleeves. Then, each step light and soundless, I crept down the stairs.
“Stay away!” Mammy cried.
Shadows moved in the corridor, cast from the room to the right of the staircase. My stomach lurched. I remembered the revolver in the top drawer of the desk in the study. How would I get across the corridor undetected? Panic surged in me, but I forced myself to concentrate on stealth. The stairs were cold and hard under my feet.
As my foot touched the last step, Mammy cried out again. “I knowed you were up to somepin’. Did Miss Willow put you up to dis?”
“No, Mama, she had nothing to do with it.”
“I bet she didn’t.” Sarcasm oozed from Mammy’s voice. “De two of you are always up to no good. I heard you cackling earlier. Think you can fool me after de last time?”
I tiptoed down the corridor to the back room where Mammy and Tillie slept. The door hung open. On the floor lay a tray, shattered glass, and a puddle of liquid mixed with what appeared to be one of Mary Grace’s herbal concoctions.
Tillie sat on the edge of her straw bed, wearing only her shift and a nightcap. The whites of her eyes were prominent as her head swung back and forth between mother and daughter.
Mammy stood in the middle of the room, her eyes spitting embers at Mary Grace, who blocked the doorway with her body.
“You’ve got to get it pulled. There’s no way around it,” Mary Grace pleaded, sounding frustrated.
“I said no. No, no, no! Dat be et, gal. Now, you wander on down to de quarters and take care of your chillum. Your mama be jus’ fine.”
Mary Grace didn’t move.
“Go on, now, git.” Mammy shooed her with a hand.
“But, Mama.” Mary Grace broke into sobs. “Why must you be so stubborn?”
“Hush now. No ’mount of tears is going to make me change my mind. Dat crazy nigger won’t be yanking out my tooth tonight or any other night.”
“Enough of this wailing and screaming,” I said.
They all jumped, and all eyes in the room turned to me.
“Mammy, you scared me half to death. With you carrying on so, I thought we were under attack. That tooth is coming out tonight, and I won’t hear another word about it.” I warned, giving Mammy a hard, authoritative glare. “Tillie, go to my uncle’s room and fetch some opium. Mary Grace, you administer a small dose. I’ll go get Henry.” I hurried from the room before Mammy could get a word in.
Lantern in hand, I moved hastily down the back steps, across the yard, past the riverbank, and behind Jones’s cabin to the quarters. Henry’s cabin was the first one on the right when entering the quarters. I rapped on the door.
Inside, whispers gave way to the shuffling of feet.
“Et’s de missus,” a woman’s voice said, followed by, “What she be wanting dis time of de night?” in a lowered voice.
The door creaked open, and a woman I knew to be the wife of Owen, the carpenter, poked her head out. “Dere be a problem, Missus?” Her brow wrinkled.
“No problem. I’ve come seeking Henry.”
Her strained face eased. “Henry, et be for you,” she called out, and her head disappeared back inside.
Minutes later, Henry stepped out onto the stoop. His wild gray hair stood on end. He looked at me, or to the side of me—I wasn’t sure. His lazy eye made it hard to tell.
“Mammy’s tooth is still bothering her.”
“I’ll git my things.” He disappeared back inside and soon returned with the dreaded roll
ed-up leather pouch.
We retraced my tracks to the house, but by the dock, a movement paused my steps. I held the lantern high and squinted to see.
“What is et, Missus?” Henry asked at my sudden stop.
“I’m not entirely sure.” I leaned forward to get a better view.
The moonlight poured over Jones, standing on the far end of the dock. He leaned forward with an elbow resting on his knee, speaking to what appeared to be another man in a skiff. I couldn’t be sure, because a dark hat and the tall reeds concealed the figure’s identity. Who was Jones speaking to? And furthermore, what were they doing here at this time of night?
The light breeze carried the masculine tones of their voices, and I became sure Jones’s visitor was indeed another man. I strained to make out what they were saying, but their words were unclear. “You head on up to the house. I’ll be right behind you,” I said to Henry.
After he was gone, I followed the beaten path the short distance to the dock.
Jones heard my approach and straightened, whispering something to the man. Without hesitation, the skiff started moving away from the riverbank.
Jones stalked toward me, his boots echoing on the planks. “Miss Hendricks, what are you doing out here at this time of night?” Was there a hitch in his voice? Or was I imagining things?
“I’ve come to get Henry. Mammy has a tooth that needs attention.” I glanced at the skiff floating farther down the river. “Who’s that you were speaking to?”
“A friend,” he said, walking past me in the direction of his cabin.
“What did he want?” I called after him.
Jones came to a stop. Half turning, he said, “I asked him to keep an ear open for news on those masked men.”
“Already?” I’d only just mentioned my concerns to him. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time.
“Had you preferred I wait?” he said gruffly.
“I suppose not. Thank you for seeing to matters straightaway.”
I left him and returned to the house, Jones and the stranger in the boat forgotten as Mammy’s yelling hurried my steps to the back room.
