by Riva Zmajoki
“It’s late,” Josephine said rubbing the sweat from her hands in her dress. “It’s best that I go out or they’ll come looking for me.”
“In that?” the woman stopped her.
Josephine looked at herself confused.
“Yes, what’s wrong?”
“You had a bath, remember? Did you stay in the same dress afterwards?”
“No, I wouldn’t stay in the same dress, would I?” Josephine was upset with her misstep, in pretending details were important. “Of course, a new dress is required.”
Josephine stepped over the sheets cramped in the corner. Later she’ll have to remember to put the sheets in the hallway so maids can take it to the wash.
“Not that one,” the woman objected when Josephine took the purple dress.
“Why not?” Josephine looked at the dress suspiciously.
“You’re not going to a grand gala, besides, you must look like an old floozy in it.”
“Yes, probably,” Josephine felt her cheeks burning. “There must be something else.”
Josephine stared at her closed unable to think. She barely saw the dresses. The woman approached her standing right next to her, almost touching. Her scent was familiar, it was her soap, but it got a new aroma which made Josephine weak in her knees. Her let down hair was right next to her cheek. Josephine kept her gaze straight forward not daring to look at her.
“This one,” the woman showed the bronze dress with the black square pattern that wasn’t in fashion.
The dress had a high cleavage, which showed off less than Josephine was used to, but she complied unable to object.
“I can help you,” the woman said and that made Josephine finally look at her surprised.
Her caution was justified. As soon as their eyes met Josephine’s breath got deeper and her desire rose up constricting her throat. The fact that the woman was well rested now and all bathed didn’t help her at all. Her hair made a frame for her face, her eyes were big and deep, her lips red.
Josephine just wanted to lean in and drown in her, but the woman stepped back. That sobered Josephine up. She grabbed the dress and ran out slamming the door behind her.
3.1 The Fragile Tile
Charcoaled House
Emptying the bathtub was the most hated chore among maids.
They had the pact to play rock-paper-scissors to make it fair to whom falls the responsibility to enter and see their mistress naked and forced to help her dress.
Her friends offered her to exclude her from the game this late in her pregnancy but Sue wouldn’t want to hear about it.
One exception towards her and in a moment she’ll get excluded and gossiped for her privilege.
Of course, she lost.
It was hard enough to walk for her.
Lifting heavy water buckets was discouraging but Sue wasn’t a person to give up easily.
The harder the task, the more stubborn would she become.
Her mother constantly reprimanded her for her brash nerve.
“Someday it’ll get you in trouble you won’t be able to get out of.”
It seemed that her mother was right but Sue was too stubborn to give in and return home. Instead, she forced herself to walk upright and do her chores like she always did them. With stubborn defiance.
If she was ruined, other girls don’t have to follow her path.
Carol’s mistress didn’t show any interest in their new guest.
Carol was confused by that.
There was nothing on the girl that would suggest that she’s corrupted in any way. She seemed innocent as they get.
There was no force needed. The girl presented barely any challenge at all. She seemed eager from the moment she came through the door. So much so that it seemed she would succumb to any touch.
She was quite nice looking. More so, Carol found her more than agreeable and he couldn’t wait for his mistress to break her down to her basic instincts.
Still, as soon as they would get going his mistress would falter and withdrew.
As the day progressed Carol was getting more and more frustrated. Then his mistress justified herself by an injury.
Carol withdrew. He could understand that shame could slow her down. Still, surface wounds healed pretty quickly. He’ll be patient with her and wait for her to be ready to touch the girl.
‘If there is a girl that the mistress doesn’t want to touch,’ his master instructed him. ‘Restrain yourself. That girl is probably too fragile to handle. That kind of a white tile might break upon touch and drag you into the abyss of damnation with her. Broken white tiles can’t support your weight. They might scream if provoked. Pawns might hear the screams and feel provoked enough to smite you.’
3.2 Undercover
White Phoenix
‘Cynthia Kirkpatrick,’ Cynthia would sometimes repeat her own name while she would lean over the basin to wash sheets for local plantations. Her name was like an anchor, it assured her that she was still the same person.
Sometimes she wondered does she wash her parent’s sheets. Even worse, does she wash sheets of her unfaithful lover and his new bride?
Mercifully, she never noticed anything familiar on the sheets.
In here, Cynthia was cut off the world but sadly the world still could reach her. There were men underneath her window whistling in the night, calling out for girls without moral to come down to be immoral with them.
Some girls would sneak out and go to them.
Cynthia couldn’t blame them really. Sometimes there would be luck and one of those men would keep his word but most of the time it was just misery of abandonment and new babies to find homes for.
“Tricia Harmon,” she said to yet another shop owner. “I’m not married, I can work. Clean the shop.”
None of the house owners wanted to employ her.
Now, on this last shop, the man just shook his head and closed the door on her.
She went as far as she could with the money her previous employers gave her. There was no regret in spending that money. She wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible.
Before she went away, after she got out of the hospital, Tricia went to see her baby.
On the porch, her former mistress sat in the rocking chair holding the baby. She looked happy. The baby didn’t cry.
Tricia turned around and caught carriage to take her away.
Now she stood a few states away and still couldn’t get any job.
“There is a whore house,” the man said from the other side of the street. “I would be glad to pay for you.”
Tricia pressed her lips together.
“No one will take you with that stomach hanging out. The corset can’t hide it,” the man continued. “Even if you have the money to wait for it to recede, as soon as you take off your clothes any man will know that you’re ruined. There’s no point in searching respectable homes to taking you in.”
Tricia thought about the river over which her carriage crossed. It seemed deep enough to drown yourself in.
“There is White Phoenix,” a female voice told her quietly not looking in her direction. “The plantation on the end of the right road. There they don’t care for immorality and as I gather they refuse to cater to men and their desires.”
As Santos promised his mother, his first station was his grandma.
He found her safe and sound by some lady that tailored clothes. Everything around that house seemed stale and old. Santos wanted nothing more than to escape that confinement.
He spent a few days watching his grandmother sow a dress. Watching her he couldn’t fathom who would wear such a dress.
There were dresses downstairs in the tailor shop but they looked wearable. This one looked off like it was made for a parrot his friend Diego had.
He carefully questioned his grandma without her knowing about his mission.
She thought of his father as safely at home taking care of his family. Upon his arrival, she assumed father sent her and Santos
didn’t correct her mistake.
“How lazy is that son of mine to let his wife write his letters for him? I taught him how to write. You know how to write, right?” she looked at Santos with suspicion.
“Yes, grandma,” he said quickly.
“Good,” she nodded. “I don’t want for my offspring to be illiterate. It’s a curse to be oblivious to signs the world is setting around you.”
Soon afterwards, Santos found a way to escape the company of two older ladies.
The second stage of his undercover mission was to examine the place his father was last seen. He descended down south into the areas where slavery was a normal way of being.
Santos was nervous but his surname was white and his face was pale enough. Unlike his grandma, even his hair was straight.
After few nervous days, Santos discovered that everywhere he went he was greeted with kindness and politeness and soon he relaxed enough to search for a job that will enable him to keep investigating the area in the search of the traces of his father.
3.3 The Description
Between Tiles
Confronted with the white face of the lady of the house Evan felt anger. Why would his mother describe this woman so carelessly?
‘She’ll do anything for me,’ his mother said.
Evan tried to threaten the woman to release his mother from her wicked grip but the woman remained frighteningly calm.
She instructed him to wait in the woods by the shed in the back like he’s accustomed to her woods like he’s her errand boy to send around.
Evan wanted to smite her but he had no choice but to comply. His mother was at her mercy, Evan was at her mercy now that he had shown his face, and they had to play her game.
It wasn’t easy to find a shed but he managed to find it before the nightfall.
He stood there feeling stupid, expecting of the patrolmen to come and just collect him like a stupid sitting duck he was.
As the darkness got thicker Evan vowed that he’ll become his own man that he won’t be following his mother around in the darkness.
After all, she was a feeble woman no matter how fierce and resourceful. If any harm comes to her, it will be his fault, for not being a man enough to do his chores on his own.
As Luiz went back to his county, he observed the sketches the woman gave them. Belva’s face was on the point. That sketch will be useful. It showed how she aged.
Evan’s face was worth nothing. The woman didn’t take notice of his face. It was painted as any face on the wall of runaway slaves. They all looked the same. Luiz crumpled the sketch and throw it in the trash. It was worth nothing. Somehow Luiz felt cheated that he couldn’t see his face, he couldn’t see how he changed. Did he become a resentful man or an angry man? How the years changed him?
As he thought about it, he couldn’t shake the image of that damn pattern. It was engraved in his mind like the first time he saw it.
It was in church. The mass was long. He was bored. As he looked around the church he noticed a dark face.
There were no black faces in their parish.
That’s why Luiz leaned forward to see better and there he was a young black boy. He just sat there as he belongs there. None of the grownups around him was looking at his direction.
Luiz looked around the stern faces trying to understand what he was seeing.
The boy looked up and returned Luiz’s gaze as he was allowed to. They spent the mass like that staring at each other and Luiz thought of wise words of his father how the black folks are vicious and dangerous, that there is something deeply immoral in their nature that can be only extinguished by a good beating.
Luiz thought about how he’ll get his father to whip the boy when the mass finishes, just for staring at him like that.
The boy leaned against a woman and she embraced him. Luiz looked up and his mother was pale, he was black. Luiz looked up and down confused and while he watched the pattern of her scarf, against which the boy was leaning, got engraved in his eyelids. He could see it even long after they were gone.
He would sometimes see the pattern when he closes his eyes and those eyes would just stare at him like they are allowed to.
STATION TWO
When you’re on the outside of the fence you’ll need guidance.
Since the world, inside of captivity and outside in the freedom isn’t a safe place.
There are swamps, deserts, unhospitable houses, mean people and patrolmen whose only task is to collect you and get you back to your ‘owner’.
To avoid those there will be a song to guide you. In it, there will be interwoven a map of all recognizable places where you can find food and shelter until you reach your conductor that will bring you out to safety.
IV. There Was Love until There Was Hate
12/23/1858
Josephine,
There was a time I respected and admire you but that is the time I can’t remember.
I understand that there was a true sense of love between us, fabricated by the way you lie, but now all that is left is resentment and, frankly, hate.
Don’t ever write to me.
If you do, I’ll send lawyers at you to examine every paper you own and disown you from our society.
Forget my address,
Luanne.
4.0 The Dark Corridor
Belva was left alone in the room feeling foolish for the sense of loss. It was as something was taken from her.
Everything, since she entered the boudoir, seemed like a slow progressing dream.
The lady changed her bandage and then helped her with the dress. She strapped her in the corset tighter than she would ever tight herself, but while doing so she made no contact whatsoever. It made it even more intense, the care with which the lady avoided contact made the absence of it more pronounced.
Maybe that was the reason Belva considered one night more here, but the lady just took her maybe as a deal. Belva went to the window to hide her face and the fear which gathered in her chest since she entered the room.
There was a presence of something, a desire, a fear, an offering and Belva wasn’t sure did she wanted to make that presence disappear.
Instead of leaving her alone, the lady did what she proved to excel at. She made an unpredictable move and just claimed Belva’s hair as her chore.
Belva stood there forcing her body to stay upright, to betray nothing, but as much the dressing up involved no contact, the brushing was all about contact. The lady was brushing her entangled hair carefully, but unnoticeably her knuckles went over the back of Belva’s neck over and over again. Even worse, they went down her back, between her shoulder blades. Then they would move on the dress, but even the corset didn’t numb the contact.
Especially because the hands would go back up again and start over. In the end, the brush came to her head and her scalp was brushed. Her hands were pressing Belva’s head.
The absence of contact was more bearable.
Belva couldn’t remember when anyone caressed her, handled her gently. Brushing lasted forever, but Belva just stood there not sure should she cry her eyes out or enjoy the moment. Enjoying seemed out of place. Crying was too exposing, so she just stood there.
When it was over, there was an absence around her, which Belva wasn’t sure she can bear.
Then the lady made something familiar, something Belva could understand.
She took the hairs from the brush and threw it out of the window. That was something so easy to grasp. The lady and she weren’t so different after all. They both led lives of lies where details were important, were hiding your true self was important as breathing.
That’s why she was even more surprised when the lady forgot such a big of detail as a whole dress.
It was endearing somehow that she couldn’t decide which dress to wear. Belva stopped her from wearing a hideous purple dress for easy women. The lady was a hunter, not a prey, she was to be respected, not to be mocked at.
Belva approached the c
loset to help her. There she already saw the dress in which she would love to see the lady, she would surely know how to bear its bronze beauty.
It was a friendly moment, nothing more, Belva wanted to help, but then the lady looked at her with a smouldering gaze and Belva knew she overstepped the boundary. Behind lady’s restraint, there was a land where death and kisses exchanged places.
Belva slightly moved away and the lady disappeared in a stride.
There was anger in the slam of the door. Belva took her forgotten pistol thinking how to fight her way out of this dazzling palace that is wreaking her will to fight, smearing the lines between possible and crazy.
If only there was a hiding place in here, somewhere with a clear line of a shot if she decides to bring the men with torches to her. There was no desire to hurt the lady who was nothing but respectful towards her, but the slam of the door reminded Belva of her hunt.
Feeling foolish again Belva hid behind the dark curtain as it is capable of stopping bullets.
After she fled her own boudoir, Josephine supported her weight on the door breathing unevenly. Now the woman will surely leave, she’ll sneak out in the night frightened by Josephine’s desire. She hit the floor with her shoe and straightened herself up. There was nothing she can do about it now.
Josephine peeled the dress off her body, sprinkled her hair with water to look as she just exited the cold tub, and rang the bell to call the maid standing in her underskirt as she usually did after a bath.
They sent a pregnant Sue. That was always the case when they are afraid, and they were usually afraid of her when she withdrew into herself. For years, Josephine didn’t court a maid, but they never seemed to let it go. To be involved with a maid was bad for the morale of the rest of the staff, and it never was free from the sense of obligation. Josephine didn’t want to force herself on anyone.
When Sue entered the lavatory, she unnoticeably looked around checking the room. However, it was noticeable how she sighed with relief seeing that Josephine is already half dressed. The maids hated to dress Josephine, and she could understand that.
