Genie was not familiar with Apted Street but wherever it was, she imagined a long, cold walk back the way she’d come would be required. She checked with Richard to confirm her suspicion, looked again at the card she held, thanked Reverend Richard Allen for his help, and offered him several coins in gratitude. He refused to accept them. “You earned it, Richard,” Genie said. “Please take it.” She held out her hand, the coins in her flat palm.
“Can I have me some warm clothes, Miss Eugenie?”
She scrutinized him as she’d not done before: His clothes were as threadbare as Eli’s had been, the primary difference being that Richard had what appeared to be some kind of animal skin wrapped around his feet. “Of course. Go see Miss Adelaide—”
“Can we go now, Miss Eugenie, to get me some warm clothes?”
She shook her head. “I must get a message to Mr. MacKaye—”
He turned away from her and whistled loudly—three short, shrill bursts followed by two longer ones. Almost immediately a horse cart emerged from the narrow alley between MacKaye’s building and the one next door. The driver wore a semblance of livery: A moth-eaten top hat perched on top of a too-large head, a coat several sizes too large for the narrow body, as if to offset the hat, gloves with no fingers, and a bright red scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. The cart stopped smoothly beside Genie and Richard. “This Absalom and he gon’ take you to where Mr. MacKaye is on Apted Street.”
Genie, suddenly aware that they were being observed, quickly clambered up into the cart, as much to prevent Richard forgetting that she was not Eugenia and trying to help her, as to get them moving. Three Colored men together in the street, even one as busy as Flegler, was dangerous. Sensing it, Richard quickly followed and told Absalom to “git up,” but it was unnecessary—he had clicked the reins and the horse was moving quickly and steadily back toward their own part of town.
The wind had picked up and all three of them were freezing and shivering, and Genie knew how much worse it would have been had she been walking. She could and would stop first at the shop to get warm clothes for these boys, and when they walked in the door Adelaide took one look at them and hurried to the pile of men’s clothing, beckoning the boys to follow her. In short order the boys were dressed and bundled but, unlike Eli, they kept their old clothing, adding the new garments on top.
“Miss?” Absalom spoke quietly, almost fearfully, and when both Genie and Adelaide looked at him he cringed.
“What is it, Absalom?” Genie asked gently.
“Can I have a blanket or something to put over top of me at night when I’m sleep in my cart?”
“You sleep in your cart all night?” Genie asked.
Absalom nodded—with some difficulty because he had two thick scarves wrapped around his neck. “Yes’m. The man I drive drinks and gambles all night—it’s his cart—and I have to be ready to take him wherever he wants to go, which sometimes is all over Philadelphia, sometimes even out to Kensington or Southwark.”
“And you remain in the cart?” Adelaide was appalled, and Genie was again reminded how narrow her friend’s view could be, despite her inherent goodness. Adelaide was born a free woman and while she despised the horror that was slavery, she could only imagine it. No slave ever forgot how deeply it harmed. Genie had thought Absalom owned the horse cart. Now that she knew differently she had no trouble understanding how Absalom slept overnight in the cart without complaint. It was his job, and failure to follow orders could result in a beating—or in death—as easily in Philadelphia as in Georgia or the Carolinas or any slave state. So before Adelaide could question Absalom’s behavior, Genie asked her about an especially ugly pair of parlor draperies they had on a shelf in the storeroom—so ugly that no woman, no matter how poor, would wear a dress or coat made from the material. However, it was heavy and would serve Absalom’s needs perfectly.
The boy almost wept when Genie handed him the hideous purple, green, orange and yellow material, but she didn’t think he saw the colors. He held it close to his body and it was the weight of the material that he responded to. “I thank you, truly I do.”
“You’re welcome, Absalom,” Genie said.
“And it’s wide enough to keep your employer warm, as well,” Adelaide said.
Absalom shuddered as if the frigid wind had permeated the walls. “He can’t know ’bout this, Miss. He’ll think I stole it and he’ll take it ’way from me and he’ll beat me.” And as if expecting the man to walk through the door, Absalom unwound the material from his body and folded it into a neat square. He touched the scarves at his neck. “I’ll have to hide these, too. I’ll put it all under the bench. He don’t look under there.”
“But doesn’t he get cold?” Adelaide asked, and Absalom laughed and explained that his master had a “big bear rug” that he wrapped around himself, even covering his head when it snowed. And before Adelaide could speak again Genie headed for the door.
“I must get to Mr. MacKaye before it gets too dark.”
“We gon’ take you in the cart, Miss Eugenie,” Absalom said with a courtly bow, and they left. It was a relatively short ride but Genie was grateful she didn’t have to walk. When they reached Apted Street and Genie saw what was to her way of thinking a mansion that would have been right at home on the Main Line, she truly was surprised. It was a huge house, and a beautiful one, and it looked nothing like a rooming house. Nor did it want to, Genie thought as Absalom drove the cart past No. 765 and turned into a paved and well-tended alleyway that would have been right at home in Fairmount Park. She understood completely why Ezra MacKaye chose to leave Flegler Street for this. The cart stopped at a wooden fence and gate behind what she was certain was No. 765 and Genie climbed down.
“Is it locked?” she asked.
Both boys shook their heads, then Richard said, “It wasn’t yesterday when we brought Mr. MacKaye’s things.”
Probably little need for locked gates here, Genie thought as she lifted the latch and entered a garden that even in winter was as magnificent as anything she’d seen in the South. She stood on the brick path admiring the space, elegant even with its fountains and ponds frozen, when she heard what sounded like a muffled scream. As she was convincing herself she couldn’t have heard such a thing, she heard another. She all but ran down the path, pulled open the scullery door, and rushed inside. What she saw froze her: A tall, well-dressed man had all but ripped the bodice from the dress of a beautiful, black-haired woman almost as tall as he was, and she was almost purple-faced with anger.
“Charles! Stop! Stop it this instant!” She was screaming and pounding on his chest.
He, too, was purple with anger. “Abigail! Listen to reason!” he said in a growl. “Why won’t you see reason?”
“I see you, Charles, and I don’t like what I see!”
What neither of them saw was Genie enter the kitchen slowly and quietly. She wasn’t certain what to do. Then she saw the body of a Colored woman on the floor, bleeding from her mouth and nose. No longer hesitant, Genie grabbed a skillet from the stove, came up behind Charles and hit him on the head as hard as she could. He whirled around, his fist raised to strike her. She hit him again on the side of the head and he crumpled and fell, blood gushing from the wound. She dropped the skillet and knelt down beside the woman on the floor to make certain she was breathing. Then she stood and faced Abigail, who was breathing heavily but was no longer purple. She held her bodice up with one hand and wiped tears from deep blue eyes with the other. The black hair had come loose from its pins and cascaded down her back. She looked from Genie to the woman on the floor.
“Is Maggie all right? Please help her! She tried to stop Charles from . . . hurting me and he hit her. Please, sir, make certain that she is all right.”
Genie knelt down beside Maggie again and studied her face. She had been hit hard but she was stirring. So was Charles. Genie jumped to her feet and started for the door.
“Wait! Where are you going? Who are you? I must thank you
—”
Genie was at the door, shaking her head. “I came to bring a message to Mr. MacKaye.” She took the note from her pocket and dropped it on the table. “But I can’t be here when this man gains his senses. He saw me—”
At that moment Charles groaned, sat up, saw Genie, and yelled, “Call the constabulary! That nigger hit me!”
Genie was out the door and down the garden walkway when the gate opened and Ezra MacKaye entered. His eyes widened in a mixture of shock and surprise, then narrowed in recognition. “Miss Eugenie indeed! You’re not Eugene Oliver at all, by God!” He grabbed for her but she slapped his hand away.
“Your landlady has been . . . attacked. I hit the man who did it with a skillet. He saw me and wants to call the police to arrest the nigger who hit him. I must leave now. There’s a note for you on the kitchen table.” She pushed past him, ran to the cart and climbed in, not seeing that he had traversed the garden walkway in three long strides.
Ezra threw open the scullery door, strode into the kitchen, and stopped, staring.
Abby leapt to her feet, fear etched in her face. It eased when she saw who it was. “Mr. MacKaye,” she whispered as she grabbed the ripped bodice of her dress and tried to hold it in place. Her eyes were on Maggie, who was struggling to sit up. Ezra hurried to help her up and into a chair at the table.
“Where’s the man who did this?”
The front door slammed shut and Ezra realized that cold air penetrated the kitchen despite the fire in the stove, then Charles Gresham strode in on a wave of anger. He stopped short at the sight of Ezra. “Who the hell are you?” he growled.
Ezra grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and yanked him forward, lifting him slightly. “I’m not a man who needs to harm women to prove his worth.”
“The Constabulary are coming and I’ll have them take you with the nigger!”
Ezra hit him hard on the side of the face, in the exact place Genie had hit him with the skillet, and he went down. Telling the women not to change anything—especially their appearance—before the police arrived, Ezra bolted, running as fast as his long legs would carry him. He had to reach Genie and the boys before they were seen by the law. He turned left out of the alleyway and into the main street, looking both ways. He spied them headed toward the river. He started to give chase but thought better of it as he recalled what had happened the last time he chased a Colored person. He didn’t think he’d be mistaken for a slave catcher this day, but he didn’t want to call attention to the horse cart slowly making its way with the other street traffic. A cart that carried three Colored people. He let loose a long, shrill whistle and Genie turned toward the sound as somehow, he knew she would. She saw him and he dropped his right hand down low beside his leg, palm down. She nodded briefly and turned around and almost immediately the cart halted, but not one of them turned to look at him. Who in the world was Eugene/Eugenia Oliver?! And could he hire him/her to be a private inquiry agent? Hire all of them, for they sat still as statues in the cart, not once drawing attention to themselves by turning to look his way.
He casually approached the cart and told them what had happened.
“How did he summon the police so quickly?” Genie exclaimed.
“He had a carriage waiting and sent the driver,” Ezra answered.
“That nice brougham that was in front of the house when we passed by,” Absalom said. As a driver he had noticed the carriage when the others did not.
“How close is the police station?” Ezra asked. He didn’t know this part of town; he’d have to learn, and quickly.
“Close,” Richard replied nervously, looking east.
“You boys go the other way, then,” Ezra said, “but slowly, you understand? Not like you’re running away from something.” And when they nodded their understanding he said to Genie, “You must come with me, Mistress Oliver—”
“Why? That man will say that I struck him and I’ll be arrested!”
Ezra smiled widely. “He will say that a Colored man struck him, but you’re not a man, are you? The police will learn that Mistress Read has two Colored women in her employ and no Colored men and that it was one of the women who struck him with the cook pot, which is why he regained consciousness so quickly. If a man had swung a cast iron skillet at his head he’d still be flat on his back. Or dead. Furthermore, I intend to focus their attention on the brutal attack on Mistress Read that made it necessary for one of the women to strike him.” He paused briefly to be certain the three of them understood and accepted his plan, then offered Genie his hand.
“Stand aside, Mr. MacKaye. Eugene Oliver requires no assistance.” And she proved it by jumping agilely down. She thanked Absalom and Richard for their assistance. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. Please be safe.”
“But Miss Eugenie—”
She saw and heard their worry. “I’ll be quite all right. Won’t I, Mr. MacKaye?”
“No harm will come to her, I promise you,” he said.
Neither of them responded. They had no faith in the promises of white men. Absalom clicked the reins and the cart moved slowly forward. Genie and Ezra turned in unison and moved quickly back to Abigail Read’s house, entering again through the gate at the back garden, into the scullery, where Ezra told her to wait. Then he hurried in and whispered to Abby, who in turn whispered to Maggie, and the two of them quickly approached her. Maggie took one look at Genie and her face wanted to break into a wide smile, but Charles Gresham had made that painfully impossible so instead she gently touched Genie’s face.
“I don’t understand how anyone could look at your face, look into your eyes, and believe you to be a man,” Maggie said to the beautiful young woman standing before her.
“But almost no one looks and fewer still see,” Genie replied, removing the hat and scarf and releasing her hair.
Abigail Read gasped and Ezra MacKaye stared. She was beautiful! Ezra didn’t know how he could have believed her to be a man, the masculine clothing notwithstanding. He turned and hurried back into the kitchen just in time to see Charles struggling to his feet. Ezra pushed him back down and threatened to hit him again if he moved. He didn’t, but Ezra sat where he could watch him.
Deep within the scullery, invisible to the men, Genie shivered in a woolen shift as Maggie Juniper hurriedly pulled a dress of heavy material over her head and guided her arms through the sleeves. It warmed her immediately and fit her almost perfectly. She guessed that it had belonged to Abigail Read since it was of a style no longer in fashion and it was in a storage cabinet in the scullery. It was a day dress, not an evening gown, but the fabric was rich and expensive. Oh what she could do with a dress like this in her shop! Because they wouldn’t need to be as elegant as Abigail Read’s, she could fashion three garments from this much material. She gathered it in her hands, weighing and feeling its value. She had made dresses like this for the women in the house where she served but she’d never worn anything so luxurious. She was forbidden to try on any garment belonging to white women. She closed her eyes to the memory. She opened them and looked into the deep blue eyes of Mistress Read, who had been observing her with an expression that she couldn’t read. Whatever it was though, Genie found that she couldn’t hold the gaze because it made her insides churn, so she looked at Maggie Juniper, who was looking back at her. Then Maggie looked at Abigail Read, then back to Genie, who was working to make eye contact with Abby. Maggie watched them watch each other and nodded her head as if in agreement with some words that hadn’t been spoken. Then everyone in the room jumped at the sound of pounding on the front door.
Ezra MacKaye jumped to his feet and pulled Charles Gresham to his. He sent Abigail Read to answer the door and called for Maggie to come into the kitchen where he whispered to her until Abby returned, two uniformed policemen trailing in her wake.
“A nigger struck me and I demand his arrest!” Charles wailed.
The policemen looked at Maggie, at her bloody, swollen face. They looked at Abby, still holding he
r ripped bodice with one hand. Finally, they looked at Ezra expectantly, and he answered the unasked questions.
“I am Ezra MacKaye and I rent a suite of rooms from Mistress Abigail Read. She was attacked by this man—it is my belief that he tried to have his way with her—and her maid tried to prevent that . . . that . . . bestiality. You can see what he did to her—”
“Lies! All lies!” Charles thundered.
“Then what happened to that good lady’s dress and her maid’s face?” The ranking officer finally spoke.
“Look at my head! Look at my face!” Charles pointed to his bloody wounds. “Arrest the nigger who did this to me!”
The policeman looked at Maggie. “Did you hit this man?”
“No, sir. I did not.”
“It was a man, you fool, not a stupid serving girl! It was a man who came up behind me—”
“Come out here, Genie!” Ezra called out, and she emerged slowly, timidly from the scullery. She had added an apron to the dress and wrapped her head in material she’d found in the cabinet. She had rolled the sleeves of the dress up above her elbows and counted on the fact that the policemen would see only a Colored servant woman and take no notice of the quality of the dress the servant was wearing. She kept her head and her eyes lowered. As much as she might wish it she could not forget the rules of slavery.
“What is your name, girl?”
“Eugenia Oliver, sir.”
“Do you know who hit this man?”
“I did, sir,” Genie answered, still looking at the floor.
“That’s a lie!” Charles thundered. “A man hit me, I tell you!”
Two Wings to Fly Away Page 4
