“JACOB’S!”
“Ladder!”
“LADDER!”
… was that the crowd wasn’t really a crowd at all. They weren’t individuals but a single organism, yearning to rise into Heaven, each orbit around the fires like the pulse in one’s neck.
As their thoughts merged, the singing changed in her mind and imagination, even though the spoken words remained the same. Now, she heard only a single word inside her, from the organism, speaking with irresistible power:
Forget.
They threaded through the fires again, and Alice felt her pain rising within her like the cream she’d seen that afternoon. With her special sight, she saw it rise to the surface of her skin and drip onto the ground. The same thing happened to the others. Like hundreds of rivulets of dirty water, their poisons streamed into the fires, where it passed into the other world Alice had sensed.
Forget!
But it wasn’t really forgetting—more like a balm that removed the worst of the sting from one’s mind, whatever that sting might be.
Another circuit between the fires, and more of the liquid oozed out. And as when a stinger was removed, the pain spiked one last time before stopping. The last few years flashed before her eyes in an instant: Jesus’s curse upon her, the finality of moving away from home, the invisible weight that had crushed her down into her bed each day. The worst part had been the suspicion that life wasn’t worth living—that waking up each day, going about the tasks of breathing and walking and talking, then going to sleep, were exercises neither accomplishing nor aspiring to anything.
Their orbits continued well into the night, wringing pain from their souls.
Chapter 9
As Alice Norwick’s life continued relentlessly from 1864 to 1865, each day was a millstone that ground her up just a bit more, despite any temporary solution the slaves offered with their rituals.
She often reflected that much of life consisted of energy exchanges: a millstone transferring energy into grain, for example. Another was the transference between a man and woman during sex. Other energy movements were more complicated, such as the flow of sin and forgiveness, which Reverend Forney used to lecture about, namely: mankind’s sin flowed into Christ, and from there into oblivion, allowing God’s love to flow into mankind. She contemplated this cycle often.
She felt that the bonfire ritual had also facilitated an energy exchange: as the sharp edges of her depression flowed out of her, it was as if the slaves’ affection flowed in. For a time. Wherever she went for days afterward, they nodded and smiled, and she repeatedly thanked luck (not God) that no one but Eliza and Jonah Tefera had been in the kitchen building that afternoon when she revealed her knowledge of their “quilt code.” She kept her end of the bargain; she didn’t reveal its existence to anyone, and when, the day after the bonfire ritual, three slaves turned up missing—having escaped—Alice remained studiously unconcerned. The quilts that had been airing in the slaves’ windows subsequently disappeared for several weeks. The Teferas went out of their way to be kind to her: talking and joking and bringing fresh flowers every other morning.
But pain had a way of returning to its source, and as the Confederate cause’s prospects bleakened, so did hers. Soon, she felt just as depressed as she had prior to the ritual, and correspondingly, the slaves’ affections cooled. And no one’s disposition was helped by General Sherman’s passage through their area in November 1864, when Union looters robbed their food stores at gunpoint. (The only good that came from Sherman, as far as Alice could tell, was that soldiers lodging in the Rockford Baptist Church accidentally burnt it down, killing its minister.)
It was therefore no surprise to her that by the time the War finally ended in April 1865, she was suffering from an endless series of fevers, back aches, and head colds. It wasn’t the angel’s wings plaguing her again—they hadn’t debilitated her for years, and months often passed when she felt not the slightest stirring of supernatural forces, except for when she roused them for telepathic meditations of herself with the mirror. Instead, her illnesses were the end products of suffering for so long under the millstone she felt on her chest each morning: the grinding into nothingness. Not even the news of Lincoln’s assassination could lift her spirits.
One morning in late April 1865, Alice arose from bed and looked out her open window. There was nothing she wanted to do. It didn’t matter that it was shaping up to be a beautiful spring day. That just made her mood worse. She would have rather had it rainy. Not to mention that her nose was so stopped-up that she breathed with her mouth open, and her lips had dried overnight into ragged strips of cloth.
Something was different about this day, however, and she’d felt it the moment she opened her eyes. She turned to look at her canopied feather bed, now positioned in the middle of the room to catch spring breezes. No, the cause wasn’t there. Maybe it was in the General Lee painting over the fireplace. … No, not there either.
She continued looking about until she decided that the change she felt wasn’t external. It wasn’t in her environment and had nothing to do with current events, either—although it well could have. This had been a hallmark month, to be sure.
It took her until after breakfast to fathom this change in herself—or perhaps to admit what her deep-down feelings were saying. It was as if all this time a conviction—a decision—had been rising through the waters of her mind, collecting buoyancy from her depression, only to break the surface this morning. The image of General Lee signing the formal articles of surrender was what finally brought her thoughts into focus:
Surrender.
Reverend Forney would most likely have been pleased with this decision. She would surrender to Christ. Give up. She hated Him but felt as if He wanted her to return home to South Carolina and throw herself upon the mercy of the town by confessing to the murder of Forney. She would let the unjust Christ decide what to do with her. If He decided to destroy her once she’d lowered her defenses, then so be it. Anything was better than continuing like this. In a way, she had her former slaves to thank for this decision, because it wasn’t until she had lost and then regained her mental millstone that she had developed the perspective to decide she didn’t want to live this way for another five years.
Time to leave, but not today. Thanks to this head cold, the task of dressing with no help had left her exhausted.
✽ ✽ ✽
Obie Redger found her in her bedroom, hunched over a tiny dish of medicine, which was suspended over a candle. The quacksalver who sold it to her had called it a “vaporizer.”
Obie watched her take a deep breath of the vapors before harrumphing for attention.
She didn’t want to acknowledge his presence as this was the third time this week he’d bothered her. It wasn’t right, of course, that she kept herself secluded like this, but such had been her custom for five years.
Peering at him over the vaporizer, she croaked through her clogged throat. “What’s it today—another complaint about the negroes? They’re free. Not my property anymore.” As if they ever were her property and not Thorne’s, but she didn’t say that.
Obie scratched his armpit. Two things he’d lost during the War: syphilis symptoms (if he’d even had the disease to begin with) and manners. “Well, I’d be happy to say my piece again, but I came to give you this.”
He held out an envelope that he must have picked up during that morning’s trip to town. The addressee’s name nearly shocked Alice out of her chair: “The Honorable Jefferson Davis, President, C.S.A., Richmond, Vir.” Had a letter to Jeff Davis been misdelivered to her?
Not noticing her expression, Obie said, “Yes, as I was saying yesterday, the niggers is all lazier’n cowshit now that they know we’ve lost—is losing—the War. What, there’s still surrendering going on, right?”
She was still staring at the envelope. She didn’t recognize her own handwriting until she saw the slash through the president’s name, and someone else’s note: “Undeliverab
le. Return to sender (see reverse side).”
“But I sent this almost a year ago,” Alice said aloud.
Obie wasn’t listening to her, either. “So I’m wondering, like I said, what we’re going to do about planting. We haven’t sold a crop since Thorne left, and I need laborers if we’re gonna plant now. I want to whip ’em, but they might kill me if I try it. Do you think—”
“Obie,” she said, holding up her hand. She stood up slowly, looking wide-eyed into space. “Give me just a moment.”
Feeling a hundred years old, she stepped again to her window. Had her letter even been read? She examined the envelope. No, it hadn’t been opened. It must have languished, forgotten, in some post office basement since last summer. She opened it now and scanned her old words.
After the briefest of pauses, Obie continued: “I know you don’t like hearing about it, Miz Alice, but I give it a month before they start asking for money, or someone says we gotta pay ’em—as if you’re still rich. …”
His voice fell into the background, like distant wind, as Alice stared hard at the letter. It was an appropriate metaphor for her life: something that had gone nowhere, languished, been ignored and finally rejected. Again, she thought of her decision to leave. She hadn’t been sure how long it would take to summon the necessary courage. That was no longer a problem.
Turning on her heel, Alice cut him off in mid-sentence: “I’m leaving. Today.”
Blinking rapidly, Obie’s mouth worked like a fish’s after being thrown onto a wharf. “Wh—what? Where are you going?”
“I’m not living here any longer. I’m going to start a new life.”
“You … you’re just up and leaving?” When she didn’t answer, he gaped at her. “You can’t do that.”
“And why not?”
“This is your home.” Obie started licking his lips, keeping time with his fingers, which he began moving and snapping.
Ignoring his nervousness and finding that she didn’t give one tiny shit about him or the plantation, Alice said, “I’ve only lived here.”
“You can’t desert Thorne.”
As if she hadn’t been deserted? “Thorne’s dead.”
“You got word of that?”
“Yes, in this letter,” she lied. “Go have the magistrate read any will Thorne filed at the courthouse. If there is none, present the letter I’ll write before I leave.”
“Letter?”
“‘Dear Sir. I, Alice Norwick, make no claim to my husband’s property. In the event he died intestate, I request that all his worldly possessions fall to his loyal servant Obie Redger.’ Satisfactory?”
His face turning red—the first normal blush she had ever seen on him—the overseer looked at his shoes. “The estate’s nearly bankrupt,” he said, but his half grin said that wouldn’t be a problem.
“Sell the land, for all I care.”
He smiled broadly. “Where’d you say you’re going?”
“I’d rather not say.” If Thorne ever did return, she didn’t want him to find an arrow pointing the way to her—not that he’d care enough to follow it. “You’ll have to find someone else to complain to for now on.”
The insult hardly registered. On the contrary, she had never seen so many of Obie’s blackened teeth. He rushed forward as if to kiss her hand, but stopped short of touching her. “We’re already sad you’re going. I’ll have your things packed.”
He ran from the room.
✽ ✽ ✽
As the news spread, Alice’s former house slaves began popping their heads in, asking, “You really goin’?” When she answered yes, they would appear uncertain what to say next. They would stand there a moment, watching her pack her trunk (because the promised assistance never arrived, and these visitors weren’t offering), and then leave. The absence of help didn’t matter, though; the trunk itself wound up lighter than the conversation. She didn’t want to take anything but a few dresses, some jewelry—since the Confederate script was likely worthless now—and food, which she hoped was being packed for her. Pen, ink, and paper also went in, some of which she now used to write the promised letter for Obie.
She wished the Teferas would pay her a visit, however, and was sorely disappointed when they had not done so by the time she was ready to leave that afternoon. Depression pulled her down again. Was no one sorry to see her go? Had her time here been so empty?
Questions about the logistics of her decision also plagued her. She assumed Jonah would prepare the mule cart for her—the carriage had been destroyed in the stable fire two years ago—but she would likely travel alone. An inexperienced woman like her would be an easy target for thieves as she negotiated the Sherman-decimated travel routes to South Carolina. She didn’t know how to operate a gun, neither for defense nor hunting when her provisions ran out. For that matter, she didn’t even know how to build a fire. It had something to do with flint and rock, but such things had never been her responsibility. Maybe she should wait a few days and make better plans. Or maybe she should ask Obie to travel with her to the town of Depot, which was somewhere north—she wasn’t exactly sure where. Her heart sank as she realized she had no map of the area, nor knew how to read it if she did. And even if did she make it as far as Depot, she doubted the Elberton & Eastern railroad was still in operation. Maybe, then, she should commission a coach, but that was no guarantee, either.
They were enormous decisions for a woman who’d never made them, and they left her slumped in a chair. The head cold made it worse. When she heard feet climbing the stairs, her voice broke as she said, “Could you please take my trunk down for me?”
“Surely, Miz Alice.”
Jonah. A warm smile lit his face as he entered the room. He wore the blue tweed of slaves prior to the War. Noticing her looking at this, he said, “I wore it for the missus. Out of respect.”
She struggled to control herself, but tears still flooded her eyes. “Thank you, but you can wear whatever you like now. You’re a free …”
The word caught in her throat, and she covered her eyes, not wanting him to see her cry. It was silly to get upset like this, but she couldn’t help wondering who in the long run had the greater freedom: him or her.
Jonah’s smile fell away. He looked out the window and pretended not to notice. “Been here most my whole life. Ain’t sure what it means, bein’ free.” He stared at her hard. “Means I can travel?”
“Yes, I … I suppose so.”
“With whos’ever I want?”
“Yes, but it might be risky for you right now.”
He swallowed and then looked at her trunk meaningfully. “Eliza and me. We want to find the Jordan. Have our babies there.”
She held her breath, not sure what he was proposing and afraid to hope for it. Silence stretched out, each waiting for the other to speak. Not since last summer’s bonfire ritual had they communicated this way, as equals—and with the War’s outcome, they were closer to that in truth. Talking about raising a family was something one equal might say to another. With Jonah, this was an admission of anxiety. They’d had infertility problems like Alice. According to Obie Redger, Eliza’s one pregnancy had ended in miscarriage, a failure Obie had blamed—probably wrongly—on the Teferas’ age difference. Jonah was an old man of fifty, Eliza in her twenties.
Alice broke the silence: “Would you like to travel with me?”
A breath, then: “Yes’m.”
Relief flooded her, but she kept her face impassive, not wanting to show how much she needed him.
Now that it was said, Jonah’s normal confidence seemed to drain out of him. Maybe he had just realized, as she had, that they’d be equals on this journey, and the thought frightened him. Now unable to look at her, he stared at his feet, the trunk, and window. He rubbed his thighs and chin until he appeared as nervous as Obie Redger had earlier.
Alice stood and clasped his hands. They were rough with old callouses and scars. Big, warm—strong but gentle. They weren’t what she expected, even
after having touched several slaves during the bonfire—and she knew Jonah would never hurt her. His gaze came back to hers.
“You can go wherever you want,” she said. “You don’t have to stay with me.”
“Yes’m.”
“I’ll only need you as far as the Carolina border, then I can make it the rest of the way.”
He nodded, looking away until she let go. Then he stooped and easily lifted her trunk. Halfway through the bedroom door, he paused. “I think you be right about it being risky. If you wasn’t taking us, we wouldn’t make it far.”
She nodded and watched him go downstairs. She’d paid more attention to the newspaper recently and knew that although the Confederate government was finished, with Jeff Davis and his cabinet fleeing capture, the War itself was still in its death throes. And because of that, the negroes’ status was also in transition. Some would regard lone negro travelers as freedmen under the USA’s Emancipation Proclamation and unratified Constitutional amendment, but others would consider them runaway slaves. She was thankful for the ambiguity, though, because it meant she’d have someone with her most of the journey, and the Teferas knew how to survive.
As she put on her sun bonnet, she gave her bedroom a last look and sighed deeply. Leaving was the right thing to do. Whether Jesus exercised his vaunted Heavenly grace upon her, or whether He destroyed her, she would arrive somewhere when she got home. She would no longer be suspended between indecision and despair.
Outside, she was astonished to find that everyone had assembled to see her off—all the slaves (“freedmen” now, she corrected herself), Obie and his assistant overseers from town, and even a couple whites from neighboring plantations who she’d not seen in years. Alice paid her respects to these visitors with a shy smile and a curtsy long out of practice. More surprising was everyone’s demeanor. The freedmen weren’t as hostile as she’d perceived them during the past year. Sure, a few stood with crossed arms and cold stares, appearing to be there only because the others were present, but the rest smiled warmly. They said things like, “Goin’ miss you, Miz Alice,” and, “Lord travel with you.” (She pretended not to hear the latter.)
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