Yellow Wife

by Sadeqa Johnson

  We were crammed into the already overcrowded holding cell, forced against the sweaty flesh of unknown bodies. The door quickly locked behind us. There must have been hundreds of people already packed in the room when we were added. Heat and funk surrounded me. The combination of feces, blood, and vomit made breathing impossible. I could taste the rotten air settling in my throat. When I walked, my feet trod through a runny, sticky substance on the floor. How could Missus Delphina send me to hell? This place that was completely unfit for human habitation? My head started to spin and I felt myself descending. Before I reached the floor, Matilda grabbed my arm and held me up.

  “You okay?”

  I could hardly make out her face in the dark, so I rested my head on her breast.

  “This be the jail. We stay in here till they get us ready for auction.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Been here ’fore I’s sold to my last massa.”

  “Do they ever clean it?” I hacked.

  Matilda patted me like Mama would have. “You get use’t it.”

  But I knew I would not. I had entered the bowels of slavery. My stomach contracted again, and I dry heaved until the sensation passed. I was alone and scared; sweat dripped all over me. Once our eyes adjusted to the blackness, people started moving around, looking for lost relatives and friends, seeking news of their whereabouts. Then Matilda gave a shout and scuffled away from me. She threw her arms around a tall man with broad shoulders. They hugged, kissed, and hugged again. I stood watching until she looked my way.

  “This be my husband,” she explained with tears in her eyes. “He sold ’way from me three years ago.”

  “Sam.”

  “Pheby Delores Brown.”

  “Ain’t that a lotta names?” Matilda laughed, and even in the dark her true beauty shined through. Watching them together made me long for Essex. “Nice to meet you.”

  I walked on to give them time. After what Matilda had gone through, she deserved this slice of happiness, if only for one night. I turned sideways, stepping over bodies and into piles of crap as I made my way back to the front of the room. Mama often said that her mind was most clear after she had a bit of rest. I covered my nose and mouth with my sleeve and leaned my head against the grimy wall.

  * * *

  I did not know that the sun had risen until the door creaked open. The men shielded their noses and mouths behind white cloths as they belted out orders.

  “Girls, move out.”

  Matilda found me. “We goin’ to the block now. Some ain’t so lucky. Runaways be sent here for the whippin’.”

  A fresh terror came over me. I whispered that my missus had wanted me punished for raising a hand to her.

  “Pretty gal like you worth more unharmed. Copy me and don’t worry none.”

  I followed her into the light. The air blew a little fresher and I breathed deeply.

  “Over here.” The men handled us roughly, the same way they would push and prod hogs. We were divided into packs of five and then led into the yard where there were four water pumps.

  “Clean up well.”

  Two of us used one pump at a time, and while I waited my turn I noticed that some had small bags with them. I only had my diary stowed in my secret pocket, along with the necklace Essex had given me. Nothing to change into. When I stepped up to the spigot, I could only splash my face and hands and dampen my hair in the few minutes allotted. Next, we were directed into a small back room where a few servants handed out tin pans containing cabbage, Indian peas, and cornbread. I felt so relieved to have real food that for a split second I forgot my circumstances.

  “May I have a spoon?” I asked.

  The woman standing before me was dressed well, with her hair pinned up in an elaborate bun. “A spoon? You ain’t in the big house no mo’.” Her eyes chastised me, and she clucked her tongue before moving on.

  Embarrassed by my mistake, I buried my face in my food. Using my fingers, I dipped the cabbage and Indian peas between my teeth. The dish could have used a bit of salt but besides that, it was indeed the best meal I had had since leaving the plantation. Once everyone in my group had eaten, the same servants returned with things for our hair. Wire cards, like the ones we used on the plantation for wool, flax, and hemp. Some of the women tied red scarves on their heads. I combed my hair simply because it felt good to groom myself, and then twisted it away from my face. My dress contained stains from my journey, and my shoes were mucked in waste, but I did not plan to doll myself up to please anyone. If Parrott brought Master Jacob to Richmond by carriage, he would get here fast enough to stop all of this foolishness. I just prayed that his injuries would not delay him further. After my many days of torture, I was ready to return home, even if it meant dealing with Missus Delphina.

  The men barked more orders, and we were led toward the back door to one of the smaller buildings on the lot. A red flag hung over the entranceway. I could smell smoking pipes and hear men talking loudly, laughing, from inside. I was with five other women including Matilda, and four men followed closely behind. One of the women clutched a young girl to her chest, her eyes blazing with worry. Must have been her daughter. I prayed these men would be kind and keep them together.

  The room we entered was small and stuffy. White men sat in tight rows; some stood along the back wall. All were wearing the latest fashions akin to the pictures in Missus Delphina’s magazines: highly starched cravats, silk vests. Some wore frock coats, even though it was hot as the dickens. A wooden platform shaped like a block sat in the center of the room. We walked in a row and stood in front of it. The first man on line was ushered up on the block. A robust white man with ruddy cheeks stood at the podium, cleared his throat, and began to read.

  “Full Negro called Arthur. He comes from the Madagascar tribe. A skilled blacksmith and carpenter. He can also work the fields. Perfect health.” As the presenter spoke, a potential buyer stuck his hand in Arthur’s mouth. Another pinched his limbs and asked him to bend over. I did not understand if the men were looking for something specific, or just wanted to humiliate him further. As if being under the foot of their dominance did not demean him enough.

  “Drop you pants. Turn around and squat.”

  When Arthur turned, I could see the anguish in his eyes, but he did his best to keep his face pleasant.

  “There is no lameness or weakness. He had been examined by one of our best doctors. His price starts at one hundred and fifty dollars.”

  The bidding for Arthur ended up being a battle between two men. Arthur’s eyes dashed between them, probably praying under his breath that he would leave with the kinder master. In the end, he fetched seven hundred and fifty dollars.

  Next up, Matilda. She whispered to me that she had hoped to stay with her husband, who was in the group behind ours.

  “Disrobe.” Matilda’s upper lip trembled but she gave no resistance. She slid her arms out of her burlap sack dress and let it fall to her knees. She wore nothing underneath. Her hands flew to her full breasts to hide the milk that leaked. I turned my head, ashamed by the scene.

  “Face back and squat.”

  When Matilda obeyed, a trickle of blood ran down her thigh.

  “I would like to see her up close,” a large man called from the back.

  “Very well. Step down and follow the gentleman.”

  Matilda stepped off the platform with her dress still in her hand. She caught my eye before following the man into the side room. My heart sank. She had just lost a baby, reconnected with her husband, and was now being taken advantage of by a stranger, for no other reason than that it was his right, and she had none.

  “Next!” the ruddy-cheeked man called to me.

  My dress got snagged on my shoe and I almost tripped up the steps to the top of the block. I wished for something to hold onto. Somewhere to rest my hands.

  The presenter read from his slip. “Mulatto girl from Charles City named Pheby. This here is a house nigra. Excellent at sewing a
nd knows how to work the loom. She is prime age for breeding and would also make a fine fancy girl.” He made his tone deep and melodic, like he was describing a prized possession.

  “Disrobe in order that we might see how formed and sound you are.” He looked at me.

  I did not budge.

  “Disrobe now.”

  Wringing my hands, I responded. “I will not.”

  The room gasped and murmured while the presenter’s cheeks deepened even darker. He looked like a lobster ready to claw my eyes out.

  “Disrobe, wench, or we will have you struck with one hundred lashes!”

  Something shifted inside of me. I had never been whipped in my life, but I had been snatched from my home, lost my mama and my truest love, traveled on foot in ropes for days, starved, slept in the equivalent of a hog pen with feces up to my ankles. Nothing else scared me. I would not take off my dress in front of these men. I would not follow Matilda into that back room. I would not sink further into degradation than I already had. They would have to kill me first, and I stood with my feet grounded, preparing to put up a good fight.

  “I plead to be exempt from this exposure. My credentials shall suffice.” I stared the presenter square in his pig eyes.

  He signaled to two armed men standing by the door. “Remove her dress, now.”

  When they came for me, I braced myself to bite, kick, scream, fight to the death, but before they reached me a voice called out.

  “Stop.”

  The men froze and we all turned toward the speaker. He stood tall, outfitted finely with a tie at his neck. His snuff-colored hair fell long over his ears with the front swept back in a wave. He moved through the crowd like a man who only had to say things once. When he got to the block he reached for my hand. The men in the room huffed.

  “Get down.”

  His skin felt soft, and besides Master Jacob it was the first time I had touched a white man.

  “I will take her.”

  “But…” The presenter stumbled. “We have to bid.”

  A hush fell over the entire room, and I felt my stomach give way.

  “I said she is mine.” The man’s eyes dared the speaker to question him again, and he did not. There was a servant boy at the back of the room, and when the man lifted his hand, the child appeared by our side.

  “Take her to Elsie, and see that she is fed well and dressed properly.”

  He let my hand go, and I had no choice but to follow the lad. We walked across the courtyard and over to the kitchen house. I knew that this was not the end of things. If anything, it felt like the beginning, and I did not know if I should be relieved by the gentleman’s kindness or frightened to death.

  CHAPTER 12

  Elsie

  On our short walk through the courtyard, I learned that the boy went by the name Tommy. Born at the jail, he had no memory of his mother and had grown up running errands for the master. Tommy was dark and skinny, with slits for eyes, and a head that seemed impossibly large on his little neck. He led me up three short steps to the kitchen house, a wooden A-frame building with smoke puffing from the chimney. When we entered, the heat rose just like in Aunt Hope’s kitchen and something in the air caused me to sneeze.

  “God bless you,” said the thick-hipped woman who appeared to be the cook. When she turned my way, I saw that she was the lady from whom I had earlier requested the spoon. She sat at the table and began to shuck corn. She did not seem surprised to see me. I could tell by the way her lip twitched that she knew something that I did not.

  “Marse Rubin said to feed her and give her a dress.”

  The woman put an apple in Tommy’s hand. “Go ’n fetch some water for the bath.”

  Tommy skipped off.

  “What’s your name?” She appeared to be my senior by about ten years, like Lovie. Round in the cheeks, with a gap between her two front teeth. Her face arranged itself unkindly.

  “Pheby, ma’am.” I hoped addressing her formally would make up for our rough start.

  “Elsie.” She stood and turned her back while fixing something on the cookstove. “We don’t have to like each other. Just needs to get along.”

  The tin bowl she handed me was filled with steaming salted pork, cabbage, and rice. Then she made a show of handing me a spoon. I sat atop a stool and ate quickly. “This is delicious.”

  “You wantin’ more?”

  “Yes, if that is okay. It has been a long journey.”

  “Where you come from? Talk like them white women.”

  “Charles City.”

  She gave me another serving and I devoured it, then washed it down with a sweet, lemony drink.

  Elsie wiped down the stove. “Done here. You can go up in my quarters and take a bath. Tommy should have it ready by now.” I offered to help clean the dishes but she sent me on.

  Clearly the kitchen was her domain. I took the narrow wooden stairs. The heat from below ascended to the second floor, making it airless. The upper room did not seem as large as where I lived with Mama, but would serve me better than being roped to a gang, with nothing at my back but the whine of wind and wolves.

  The tub was a big silver bucket, filled with hot, steamy water, that sat in the middle of the floor. I peeled out of my soiled layers of clothing. The man who had rescued me from the auction block expected something from me. Elsie knew it. Mama often said, no kind deed from a white person went without a return. I squeezed the rag of dripping water over my shoulders, then dunked my head back until my hair sopped with wetness. As soon as I submerged my body in the water, the tears fell. The hurt in my gut clamped down unbearably. I told myself I could only cry for one minute; that was all Mama made way for. One minute of sorrow and then back to a straight face, a stiff back, and work. But that one minute of sadness melted into ten minutes, and before I knew it, I had cooled off the water with my steady stream of grief.

  A swift knock shook the door, and then Elsie breezed in with two dresses in her arms. “This one you can sleep in. Other one for work. Marse asked that you join in servin’ him.”

  “Marse?” I repeated. Did she mean Master?

  Elsie looked appalled. “Yes, Marse Rubin Lapier. The one who own this jail. Ain’t they got marses where you from?” She reached for the calico dress. “This we’ll take out to burn.”

  “No, wait.” I held my hand out. “Please, that was my mama’s.”

  “Smells bad, but up to you.” Elsie bunched the dress in her arms. As she moved to put it down, her fingers touched my diary. I stayed still, remembering Mama’s warning about slaves who could read and write getting their fingers chopped off and eyes washed with lye. She made no eye contact as she draped the dress neatly across the chair. I hoped to God that meant we had an understanding.

  “Get dressed. Then take a rest. I will wake you in ’nough time to prep for servin’.”

  Elsie shut the door behind her. The room had little furniture. Three pallets for sleeping, two chairs and hooks fastened to the wall where skirts were hanging. In the far corner, there was a table with a lantern. I dropped down on one of the pallets like a lump of coal. There were windows on two of the walls, which let in a cross breeze. I heard the depressing sounds of the prisoners. Suffering as I had just one night ago, trapped in the bowels of that hellhole. The scratchy blanket became too much and I pushed it off, but then I felt cold. Back and forth I went until I drifted. When I opened my eyes, Elsie stood over me.

  “The matter wit’ you?”

  I tried to speak, but no words pushed past my lips. She tipped the canteen to my mouth and I drank, then fell back on my pillow. I woke, slept, drank, shivered, threw up, cried out. But the fever would not turn me loose. On the third day, Elsie brought me a stew but I could not stomach more than two or three bites.

  “You must not want to get betta.” She sounded offended, so I held my head up and took down a few more sips. As I leaned in for more, my stomach bubbled, and all the food came back out and onto the floor.

  “Why th
e hell you got me cleanin’ up after you? You ain’t the missus, and this sure ain’t the big house.”

  I felt terrible for making Elsie so mad, so I forced myself up, took the towel from her, and started wiping at my waste. I only lasted a minute; then my head got light and I fell back on the pallet. The only thing that brought me comfort was sleep, so I coasted off again and could not only see Mama, I could also smell her. We were curled next to each other in our old bed and I felt at peace. She brushed back my hair and whispered in my ear.

  “Have her make you a tea with white willow or meadowsweet. Drink that three to four times a day. Slice a piece of onion and leave it in a dish next to your bed. That should break the fever.”

  I wanted to hold Mama, but just like that she disappeared. When I asked Elsie for the tea, she grumbled about having to go find the herbs. “If Marse wasn’t worryin’ me sick ’bout you.”

  A young girl appeared the next morning with the tea and onion.

  “I’s July. Marse told me to sit wit’ you till you feelin’ well.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her kind smile soothed me. She was a pretty girl with strong hair woven together into two long braids. Her skin brought to mind gingerbread, and her eyes were like two chocolate drops. She served me tea four times that day and stayed while I slept. As I dozed, she swept and sang a song that Lovie used to hum while she worked. By night, I felt well enough to sit up a little and eat the stew. The tea drew the fever out and had me feeling myself again by the next morning.

  Elsie lifted the curtain. “Most sleep you ever gon’ get. I hears you can sew.”

  I nodded.

  “Left a pile for you up front that need mendin’. No time for lazin’ ’round here. Work to be done.”