Two Wings to Fly Away

by Penny Mickelbury

“It is good that you won’t let yourself get sold.”

  She was astonished. “How did you know that?”

  “Your Master told the desk clerk, and he told everyone else.”

  Clara closed the door. She had not decided until the man spoke the words that she would not allow herself to be sold. That she would go to Philadelphia. She ate the bread and cheese that the Master had ordered and lay down on the sofa. She did not know what time it was or how long she had until midnight. She did not expect to sleep because of all the thoughts in her head, but she jerked awake at the sound of the door opening and the Master stumbling in. He groaned as if in pain as he threw off his jacket.

  “Put two drops of laudanum in that glass of water, girl. Do it quickly!”

  “Yessir!” she said as she hurried into the bedroom where she quickly put three large drops of laudanum in the glass and swirled it around as she’d seen Rebecca do, “because it is most bitter.” She was swirling it when the Master stumbled into the room and snatched it from her. He gulped it down and fell onto the bed, groaning. She waited for him to say something, but he did not, and within what seemed a matter of seconds he was snoring. She backed out of the room and closed the door.

  The Master’s shoes and jacket were in the sitting room. So was the leather case that had held the money. She tiptoed to the door but she need not have bothered—she could hear the loud snores before she got there. She turned back to the leather case and opened it and her eyes grew wide: There was even more money than before. Much, much more. Bills and coins and, folded inside a heavy, white linen napkin, two diamond rings and a gold watch on a heavy gold chain. She pulled her battered travel bag from beneath the sofa and from within it claimed an even more battered and soiled reticule bag. She didn’t know if the servant girl who had packed it was being kind or insulting but since Clara had never had occasion to need a reticule she hadn’t given the matter much thought. Now she wished she had a handkerchief or a comb but all she had to put in it was money. She chose three bills and half a dozen coins. She did not know their value and she had no idea what the money could or would buy but she would learn.

  Before she zipped the money case closed she removed the watch from its chain and dropped it into the reticule. She had once known how to tell time—Rebecca and Beate had taught her—but there was no opportunity or need to practice since they left. Now, however, she thought it would be wise to know the time of day. She looked at the watch. Sometime before one o’clock in the morning. Then she had a thought that propelled her to her feet: Master had said that the man who now owned her was coming at nine o’clock to get her. She zipped the case and put it into her travel bag. Then she pulled the strings of the reticule, closing it tightly, and put it into her bag, closing it tightly as well. Now to make a plan that would get her to freedom without getting her caught or killed. The first part was easy: all the way downstairs to the servants’ quarters and out the door to the right. Then walk to the train station.

  Nobody stopped her. Nobody even seemed to notice her as she made her way through the hotel’s servants’ quarters to the back door. The same was true all the way to the train station where she expected to face her first real challenge: Which train was going to Philadelphia? However as soon as she entered the cavernous station signs pointed to all the trains and their destinations. She had only to follow directions, and once she found the correct train she followed a group of white people accompanied by several Colored people and, as Clara and her Master had done the day before, the two groups separated at the train and Clara followed her people and climbed into the servants’ car at the rear of the train. The ride was longer this time, but Clara was filled with anticipation and something entirely new: the thought, the realization, the knowledge that she was free! She no longer was a slave or a servant. If she got off the train in Philadelphia she would be a free woman of Color!

  The Philadelphia train station felt different from the Washington, DC, station both inside and outside, but Clara could not spend time wondering and thinking. One thing that was the same was the line of carriages waiting for passengers. And here was a new thought: Now that she was in Philadelphia where would she go? She knew not to attempt to hire one of the shiny black carriages, especially one with a white driver. Then, off to the side, she spied a single, beat-up and battered mule cart with a Colored driver. She hurried over to it and the driver smiled and tipped his hat.

  “’Morning, miss. Where ’bouts you goin’?”

  Clara smiled and returned the greeting and asked to be taken to dine. “Some place with very good food,” she said.

  “I know just the place,” the driver said as he reached for her bag. But she gave him her hand instead, and he pulled her and the bag up to the seat beside him. Clara held her bag in her lap and tried not to call attention to herself by memorizing her surroundings. Thankfully the mule’s slow progression made noticing landmarks easy. The driver’s constant chatter also helped, especially when he announced that they were entering South Philadelphia, the part of the city where many Colored people lived. “And a gentleman by the name of Joseph got a small eating place but the food is real good,” the driver said, and it wasn’t long before he slowed the mule to a stop, allowing Clara to jump to the ground.

  “How much do I owe you sir?” she asked, pulling her reticule from the travel bag.

  “Your ride is free if you’ll buy me a meal, miss,” the driver said.

  Clara looked askance at the little shack behind them, then the wind shifted and she got a whiff of cooking food and it smelled wonderful. Clara nodded and followed the driver to the door of the shack, which he held open for her. Half a dozen people were seated on benches at two long tables, and a huge cookstove was visible at the back of the room. A bearded man came toward them.

  “How’re you, Mr. Joseph?” the cart driver said jovially. “This young lady is gon’ buy me a meal ’cause I just drove her here from the train station. Ain’t that right, miss?”

  “Yes it is,” Clara said to Mr. Joseph. “And he says this is the best food in Philadelphia.”

  Joseph gave her a searching look. “I’m sorry to ask but can I see your money, miss?”

  Clara opened her reticule and when Joseph saw the bills and coins he begged her pardon and pointed to a place on the bench at the front table. Then he led the cart driver to a seat at the back of the place. Then he returned to Clara and asked what she wanted to eat as he told her what was available. “Fried chicken, rice and gravy, beans and greens. And sir? I’m very hungry.”

  Joseph nodded and walked away and Clara examined her surroundings, noticing a pile of newspapers on the floor near the front door. Nobody was paying attention to her so she went to the pile of papers and took a handful and brought them to her table. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing and reading, page after page of words that she knew but forming concepts that were completely beyond her comprehension. “You never seen a Colored newspaper before?” Joseph was standing at the table with her food, but even as hungry as she was her attention was captured by the newspapers.

  “No sir,” she said. “I never have.”

  “Well, you eat first and you can take some of them to read when you go.” He walked away and Clara faced food that engaged all her senses at once. She had never eaten food like this before. She’d never even seen food like this!

  Joseph said eat, and Clara did eat, more and better than she ever had, hoping that the food would strengthen her mind and spirit as well as her body so she could think where and how she would live in this city. She initially ate rapidly, as if the man, Joseph, would come and take the food away before she could finish. But the food began to do its work. Her insides began to calm and quieten. She now ate slowly and savored the food. Could she eat food like this, in a place like this, all the time? Perhaps if she had a place to live—money! She had money! Was it enough to buy a place to live?

  Joseph returned with a woman before Clara’s thoughts about money were in order. She watched th
eir approach with something resembling fear though she realized that she hadn’t been afraid since leaving Baltimore.

  “This is my wife,” Joseph said, “and she knows a lady who will rent you a room.”

  “It’s a clean, safe, quiet house and Mrs. Tillman is a good, God-fearing woman,” Mrs. Joseph said.

  “And it’s not far so you can take your meals here,” Joseph said with an appreciative glance at her empty plate.

  “That’s very good news and I thank you both,” Clara said.

  “What is your name, child?” Mrs. Joseph asked.

  With only the slightest hesitation the reply came, “Eugenia Oliver.”

  ✴ ✴ ✴

  “And that’s where and how Genie Oliver came to be,” Genie said.

  “How did you decide Eugenia Oliver was your name?” Abby asked. “Had you already chosen it?”

  “I liked the name Eugenia,” Genie said slowly, remembering. “I first heard it from Rebecca and Beate during one of their many arguments about whether or not saints were real.” Genie laughed at the looks on the faces around her and explained that Beate, a Catholic, often referenced saints, especially female ones, as sources of strength and courage. St. Eugenia, who, in the third century, disguised herself as a man to escape persecution, was one of Beate’s favorites.

  “Why was she persecuted?” Eli asked. “And when was the third century?”

  “Well we live in the nineteenth century,” Donald said, “so the third century—”

  “Was a way long time ago,” Eli said, “but what did she do to get persecuted?”

  “Let that be a story for another day, please Eli,” Genie said.

  He was disappointed but he nodded. “When did you stop being scared, Miss Eugenie?” he asked instead.

  “I thought all the fear had left me, Eli, until that morning I heard Montague Wright’s voice in the kitchen, just as I thought all vestiges of slavery had left me. But perhaps it never does.”

  “I didn’t stop bein’ scared ’till I come to live here,” Eli said, “and I ain’t been scared since.”

  “Haven’t,” Genie, Abby and Ezra said in unison, and they all laughed.

  “What about the Oliver part?” Eli asked.

  “Another saint—” Genie began but Donald began to sputter.

  “Not that bleedin’ Irishman!” he exclaimed.

  Ezra quickly changed the subject. “The Mrs. Tillman you rented a room from—”

  “William’s mother,” Genie said, “and I didn’t rent it. She gave me a place to stay the day I met her. She refused to accept any money. She told me I was safe. Constantly, over and over, she told me I was safe, told me not to be afraid, until I finally believed her.”

  “How long before you believed her?” Eli asked.

  “It took years.”

  “What made you believe her?”

  “When she told me the Master was dead,” Genie said.

  ✴ ✴ ✴

  Carrie Tillman was a tall-ish woman, and very thin. She was not young, but Eugenia could not assign an age to her. She stood straight as a fence post and looked as strong. White hair, gentle, dark brown eyes, and a soft, low voice. She led Eugenia into the parlor and invited her to sit down. Genie had never sat in a parlor. She felt the fear begin in her stomach. She felt it grow. She put on her mean face, which startled Carrie Tillman. Until she laughed.

  “Little girl! Why you make yourself so ugly like that?”

  “I’m scared, miss.”

  Carrie was taken aback. “You fear me, little girl?”

  Genie looked closely at Carrie. Then she looked all around. The parlor was very pretty. Genie was still standing in the middle of the room. She dropped down into a side chair because her knees buckled. “I fear everything and everybody.”

  Carrie knelt down beside the chair and wrapped her long, strong arms around Genie. Genie went rigid. Carrie tightened her grip. Genie stopped breathing. If she’d ever been held she didn’t remember it. Carrie held on. For a long time. Finally, Genie inhaled deeply, and when she exhaled, the fear bubble burst. She leaned sideways, putting all her weight on Carrie’s shoulders. Carrie held her there as if she were a young child. Again, for a long time they remained like that until Carrie’s knees could take no more.

  “Are you tired, little girl? Would you like to sleep?”

  Genie sighed. “Yes, ma’am. I would.”

  “Then stand up, little girl, and help me stand up, and I’ll take you to your room.”

  Genie’s room—Clara’s room—in the Will manse had been a space beneath the back staircase. She could neither stand nor lie straight. Her room in Carrie’s house was a room with furniture, windows and a door. Genie looked at the bed and almost fell asleep right then. “This is . . . a very beautiful room, Mrs. Tillman.”

  Carrie smiled at her. “Would you like to wash—can you keep awake that long?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am, I want to wash! Please can I wash?” Of all the slave things Genie hated, never being clean was at the top of the list. She would stay awake for another day if it meant she could wash herself clean. With hot water! When finally she was ready to sleep, she asked Carrie what time she should rise. “I have a timepiece and I can read it.”

  “You’re not here to work, little girl. You rise when your body says you have slept enough.”

  Fifteen hours later Genie rose. For several frightening seconds she did not know where she was. Then she remembered. On the chair beside the bed were a dress, shoes, and a piece of paper. A note from Carrie. I know you can read, it said. Put on these clothes and come to the kitchen. C. Tillman. Genie did and found Carrie seated at the table, two books and several newspapers in front of her. Carrie smiled at her—something she did often and which Genie would have to get used to. Beate and Rebecca were kind to her but they did not smile at her. “Would you like tea or coffee?” Carrie asked.

  “I never had coffee.”

  “Then you shall have it. Would you like cream and sugar?”

  “I never had cream and sugar.”

  Carrie fixed the coffee and gave it to Genie. She took a big gulp just as Carrie warned her that it was hot. It burned her throat but it was so good that she took another big gulp. Then she laughed. And Carrie seemed to know exactly why Genie was laughing because she laughed, too. Then she fed Genie ham and biscuits with red-eye gravy and more coffee. Then it was time to talk.

  “Tell me about yourself, Eugenia Oliver, and how you came to be in Philadelphia.” And Genie told her. Everything, every detail that she remembered of her life on the Will plantation in Maryland, up to and including the train journey with Master Will to DC to be sold. She told how she drugged him, and took his money. And how she fled to the depot, and became a stowaway on a train bound for Philadelphia. Carrie listened to every word, never interrupting and never commenting. Ten days later, when Genie was altering some dresses for Carrie, the older woman bustled into the room more animated and excited than Genie had seen her. She extended a newspaper and pointed to a story.

  “Is this a Colored newspaper?” Genie asked.

  Carrie shook her head impatiently. “It is the Washington Star. Read this,” and she pointed. Genie read. Then she read it again. Then she looked up at Carrie. She knew what she had read but she didn’t know what it meant.

  “Gerald Will, the man who was your master, is dead from a laudanum overdose following a night of poker and drinking. The men he played cards with say he cheated. The police said he was robbed: There was no money in his room, or the watch, rings, and other jewelry his poker-playing friends lost to him. But more importantly, Genie, there is no mention made of you. Which means no one is looking for you. Clara does not exist, and Eugenia Oliver is a free woman.”

  ✴ ✴ ✴

  “I lived with Carrie Tillman for three years,” Genie said into the stunned silence. “She taught me how to cook and how to take care of a house. And when the time was right, she introduced me to the man who built my own house.” Genie was sti
ll and quiet but they saw that she had more to say. “She also taught me how not to be afraid all the time. She taught me that fear was a tool to be used to save and protect myself and others if necessary.” She paused again, seeing and hearing Carrie: Use the fear, Eugenia, but never show it.

  “How did she find out?” Abby asked. “What happened to Gerald Will, and that you truly were free?”

  “She sent William to Washington. The air was abuzz with the story of the wealthy Maryland plantation owner who was found dead in his hotel room of a laudanum overdose. How he might have been a card cheat as well, who was robbed of his winnings. It was a fantastic story that lent itself to all manner of gossip. But he was puzzled that no one mentioned a Colored slave girl who was traveling with him.” Genie paused, thinking and remembering. “Few people wanted to discuss a man who’d come to Washington, DC, to sell a slave girl. It was whispered about but not discussed in polite company or published in the newspaper.” However, the Colored hotel staff in the basement knew about the slave girl who was brought to town to be sold, but that was not information they shared with white people, so no one was looking for her. Genie did not tell them that it was she who had robbed Gerald Will. Carrie and Abby knew but no one else needed to.

  “That’s why you always help us boys, Miss Eugenie? ’Cause Miss Carrie helped you?” How wise Eli was becoming.

  “Yes, Eli. That’s why.”

  “I wish the world would repay kindness with kindness!” Donald exclaimed. “A better world it would be. Though I still wish you hadn’t named yourself after that Irishman! Surely Scotland has men worthy of—”

  “We have many worthy men, Donnie. What we don’t have is the Catholic church. Now Abigail: How did Florence respond to your information?” Ezra asked, removing the focus from Irish saints.

  “Her face blushed so purple I thought she’d explode!” Abby answered truthfully because Florence had practically ignited when she learned that Sheilagh Callahan apparently was a spy in their abolitionist group. “And she said since they don’t know if other new members also are traitors—her word—she will recommend that they disband the group.”