The jail felt calm that time of night. Even the dogs were silent, but I knew the ones locked inside were suffering just a few feet away. Monroe was snuggled in July’s arms on her pallet and I decided not to disturb them. Instead I watched his chest rise and fall, the tight curls on his head bathed in his sweat. Would my sacrifice protect him? Once in bed, I searched for sleep, pleaded with it to put me out of my head, my misery, but it would not come.
When I rose the next morning, it felt like I had spent the night in a boxing match. My insides were sore, and my belly knotted with self-loathing. I stood at my washing basin and scrubbed every inch of my skin, but I could still feel his breath, fluids, and fingerprints all over me.
July was nibbling on a biscuit with jam, and I sat sipping lukewarm tea when Abbie found us at the servants’ table in the house shed.
“Morning, Abbie.”
“Mornin’, Miss Pheby.”
“Why you being so formal with her?” July laughed with her mouth opened.
I looked up from my cup, surprised, but Abbie avoided my gaze.
“Miss Pheby, Marse asked me to move your things to the bedroom ’cross the hall from him.”
“Abbie!”
She kept her face cast down to the floor, not meeting my eye like usual. The message traveled on the silence between us. The Jailer had told Abbie to address me as such. Sharing his bed had separated me from the others, and I would be treated differently going forward. My face grew hot with embarrassment. July looked from Abbie to me and slowly her jaws closed. “I will gather up Monroe’s things.”
“Marse wantin’ Monroe stay down wit’ you.” Abbie put her hand on July’s shoulder.
“What?” My voice rose, startling Monroe, who slept across my lap. I patted his back but he would not be soothed.
I pushed back from the table, screeching my chair hard across the floor. My son and I belonged together. I would not leave him downstairs. How would I attend to him if he cried in the middle of the night? Monroe continued to fret in my arms, as if he understood our new fate. My bargain with the Jailer seem to already fall short.
“It is what he say. Marse don’t like to be question’t. Best make haste.” Abbie retied her beige apron and then limped ahead of me.
I sat on the bed and nursed Monroe as Abbie gathered my things from the chest of drawers and placed them in a basket. When Monroe settled on my chest, I opened the closet and dug under the chest for my diary. Discreetly, I slipped it into my pocket. Mama’s red calico dress hung from the center of the rack. Even though I had washed, repaired, and starched it the best I could, the dress would never return to its regal glory, but I needed it with me. I gathered it in my arms, and Monroe craned his face to feel the fabric. I tried to rest in the notion that he would be just a floor away from me. In the mornings, I could tie him to my back and take him to the sewing shed. We would only be separated in the evening. The split had been ordered to give the Jailer full access to my body at night.
My new bedroom proved more spacious than the one downstairs, by at least a quarter of the size. The four-poster bed draped in lace and the white-and-lavender floral wallpaper made the room feel dainty. A white dressing table stood opposite the bed, with an oval mirror attached, and a cushioned stool. Everything about the room echoed fit for a lady. The wide-plank floors creaked beneath me while I crossed to the window. As I pushed back the heavy curtains, I took in the cobblestone courtyard; a side section of the tavern, not twenty-five yards away; and a full view of the two-story wooden jail. I dropped the drapes back into place. Abbie entered with a water pitcher.
“Who lived here before?”
“Marse’s mother use to take this room ’fore she got ill.” She poured a glass of water and held it out to me.
“Abbie.”
“Make peace with it, Miss Pheby.”
“But I—”
“Be best for everyone. ’Cluding Monroe.”
I took the glass and drank.
“Needin’ anything else?”
I shook my head no, and she limped out, closing the door behind her.
I sat on the edge of the bed, trying my best to take in my new situation. When I stood to leave for my shed something caught the corner of my eye: a dusty leather-bound book on the nightstand near the far wall. I had not been near a book since I arrived at the jail. I listened for footsteps. My heartbeat increased as I turned the book over in my hand. The cover read OLIVER TWIST BY CHARLES DICKENS. When I opened it, I had to press the leaves down a few times at the front and then the back for it to fully spring to life. Mama’s voice nagged in my head, cautioning me on the dangers of reading. I returned the book, but as I moved through my day in the shed, I wondered what words I would find on those grubby old pages.
The last girl of the day I was responsible for dressing up had left for the tavern just as the sun bled pink across the sky. I reached for a small tin of lard and massaged the cramps from my palm as Monroe squirmed to be untied from my back. When we got to the house, I ate chicken and dumplings with July and nursed Monroe while agonizing over our first night apart.
“He be fine, Miss Pheby.” July pushed her thick braid over her shoulder as she got up off the floor. She had grown the habit of knowing what I thought without me saying it.
“If he wakes in the middle of the night?”
“I will rock him.”
“Usually means he needs a change. Dry him good.”
We both turned at the sound of the Jailer entering the house. He called to Abbie for his meal. I turned Monroe over to July and made my way up the backstairs.
I paced the floor anxiously, looked out the window, and then stopped at the dressing table. There were a bristle brush and comb set on a silver tray. I did not remember seeing it that morning. I dropped onto the stool and undid my hair. It soothed me to let my locks hang loose and brush my curls free.
Since Abbie had not sent for me, I assumed the Jailer did not need to be entertained, so I changed into my dressing gown. As I pulled back the covers resolved to sleep, I heard the Jailer fumbling on the other side of my door. My stomach burned bitterly at the sight of him. His cheeks were red, his shirt half untucked, and his belly protruded over his belt.
“I want to see you.”
He lifted me from the floor as if I weighed nothing, then placed me across the bed. He panted hard as he undressed me, and I shivered under his gaze. Whiskey-scented sweat oozed from his skin and permeated the air around us as he crawled over me.
“You are a sight to behold.”
I tried not to show displeasure as the bed made a thud under his hefty weight. He quickly began thrusting into me, pummeling so hard I choked and gasped, like he was forcing my head underwater for too long. When I maneuvered for air, I bit my lip so I would not cry out. Being underneath him was a duty, just like my job in the sewing shed preparing the girls. I closed my eyes and searched for a scenario into which I could escape.
He whispered in my ear, “Oh, Pheby. You are so special.…”
His moist hands seemed to be everywhere at once. His cracked lips ran over my neck, breasts, and face, then rested on my cheek. Finally, I heard a gurgle pass through his throat. He raised up on his forearms, stretched his neck back, and squeezed my wrists painfully as he released. When he let me go, I rolled away from him, begging God to make him leave. He snorted and then kissed me on the shoulder before gathering his things and leaving without another word.
I laid listening to the sounds of the house. When I felt sure that he had fallen asleep in his own room, I pulled the book off the nightstand. Under the candlelight, I flipped to the first page and slipped into the world of an orphan boy sold into an apprenticeship with an undertaker.
This became my nightly ritual. Once he entered my room, satisfied himself, and left, I would read, only allowing myself twenty pages so that I could make the book last. Oliver Twist, my friend deep into the night, helped me to cope.
* * *
“Mornin’ Miss Pheby,” the
boy Tommy greeted me, carrying water to the kitchen for Elsie. It had been a full three weeks, and I still had not gotten used to being called Miss. All of the servants except for Elsie had been nice before, but now they were respectful. Since moving me to the upstairs bedroom, the Jailer had given me full autonomy over getting the things needed for the fancy girls he sold. I had shopped the market twice without Abbie, though Monroe always stayed behind. The dressing of fancy girls became my arm of the Jailer’s chattel business and was growing each day. To keep up with the number of girls being sold, I purchased ready-made dresses. Even though I did not sew them by hand, they always needed alterations, which slowed me down. How to sew faster was the thought I was chewing on when July walked in with another young girl, rail thin, with big, hollow eyes that said she had seen too much in a short amount of time.
“Marse said thirty minutes.”
I untied the girl’s hands. “What is your name?”
“Agnes.”
I gave her a pail of water to wash her face with, and then laced her into a corset.
“What you prittin’ me up for?” She turned those hollow eyes on me. I did not meet her scrutiny.
“It is my job.”
“Where they takin’ me?”
This was the worst part: when the girls asked questions. I knew they were frightened for their lives and I could do nothing but feed them, pray over them, and record their stories. I turned her around so that she could not see the worry on my face while I finished getting her ready.
“I am not sure. If there was something I could do for you I would. May God be with you.” I squeezed her hand as Basil, the Jailer’s manservant, appeared in the doorway of the shed.
“You come for her?”
“Yes, Miss Pheby.”
I handed the girl over to Basil. “I have told you that just Pheby is fine.”
He stammered, “M-m-miss Pheby, Marse likin’ to see you. He in the whippin’ room.”
I opened my mouth but then pressed it shut. Basil took hold of the girl and left. I had never been to the whipping room, only overheard tales of the horror that happened there. As I walked to the holding pen of the jail, the barks of the dogs grew louder, hungrier. The chains of the imprisoned clinked and clanged. I stepped down the five steps into the whipping room, a dark dungeon, cool and damp. A small sliver of light slipped through a miniature window. When my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I saw the Jailer standing tall, wielding a whip that made ole Snitch’s whip look like a toy. It stretched out long and hungry, with a split tip. On the floor, a chestnut-colored woman lay facedown in the muck of the ground, stark naked, with her arms fastened over her head in shackles. Her legs were also tied down behind her so that there was no room for her to move. She whimpered softly.
“Come in,” he commanded me.
I slithered in with my back nearly scraping the wall.
He twirled the whip in the air, then brought it down on her back. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
The woman cried out after every lash. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
He stared at me, his eyes daring me to look away. Thwap.
Her skin opened and blood seeped from her stripes. Thwap.
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
She screamed until her throat was nothing more than a hiccup. His face became more alive with each swing of the whip. It took everything in me not to shrink to my knees and hide my face in the corner. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
Her voice was no longer audible but her body twitched out her pain, her back completely soaked. The Jailer did not appear to slow down or tire. He tore into the woman like he was engaging in his favorite sport.
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
Dear God, had it been an hour? The woman barely moved and I feared she had passed out. My knees wobbled against each other and just when I thought I could not stomach a moment more, the woman gave a shout that sounded like a goat being strangled. Out from between her legs a red mass slithered against the ground. I blinked. It was a baby. It flailed, squirmed, but then fell still.
He looked at me to make sure he had my audience. The vomit in my mouth seemed hard to swallow back, but I forced it down by grinding my teeth. He dropped his arm and called to the two white men who stood outside.
“Get rid of that thing and return her to her master. Let him know I will gladly punish anyone who teaches slaves to read.” He looked at me then. “It is against the law.”
The men unchained the woman. She appeared dead, but then one of them threw cold water on her to revive her. She jumped and hacked as they carried her away.
He put down his whip and then folded his hands behind his back while taking a step closer to me, his face redder than I had ever seen it. Aglow. Like on fire.
“Something you want to tell me?”
The book. Oliver Twist. It had been a trap and I had fallen for it.
“How come you did not disclose that you could read?”
“My mama said to keep it a secret. Now I see why.” I looked at the spot where the woman’s fluids gathered.
“There are no secrets between you and me.” He grabbed hold of my chin and brought his face so close to mine that I was forced to breathe what he exhaled: the scent of her blood.
“If I catch you aiding any slave in learning how to read, I will forget my affection for you and flog you myself.”
“I understand.”
“We cannot educate these niggers, lest they forget who the master is. Guessing that is what happened to you.” He stroked my cheek. I tried not to flinch. Then he had his hand around my neck and was crushing his lips into mine. I could feel his manhood grow against my thigh. I thought he would take me against the wall right there, but then Basil called to him.
“Marse, they ready.”
“Mmmm.” He pulled back. “Go pretty yourself for supper. I will be up to the house shortly.”
As I turned to go, he patted me on my ass so hard, it caused me to fall forward into the daylight. My feet felt spongy, but I willed myself to walk quickly. When I made it to the sewing shed, I closed the door behind me and dropped my head into my hands. Who could whip a woman until she lost her child? Only a monster.
When I crossed my hands over my lap I felt my diary with the log of girls in the hidden pocket of my skirt. What if he had discovered it? I looked over the shelves in the shed and my eyes landed on an old canister covered with dust and cobwebs. I stuffed the diary in the canister and covered it over with old scraps of material.
That evening, his appetite for me was insatiable. The skin on my shoulders and neck were bruised crimson from his teeth. When he finally left my bed, I could not feel my legs. Could not find sleep either. My eyes stayed fixed on a crack in the ceiling. There I watched the dead baby slip from the woman’s womb.
Elsie’s voice played over in my head. They call this place the Devil’s Half Acre. Now I knew the devil.
CHAPTER 18
Deliver Me Lord
It only took four months of his regular visits for me to know I carried his child. I felt the pressure across my lower back and my cheeks were fuller, puffy like Mama’s, even though I did not eat much. Food stopped agreeing with me again. My breasts throbbed, and the pain his lips caused when he sucked and pulled on them was excruciating. He acted like a baby in that way, always reaching for my breasts, like they gave him life.
He had started falling asleep on my pillow some nights, too exhausted to walk across the hall to his own room. That’s when I tried to make sense of him. Besides insisting I watch that awful whipping, he had been consistent in doing things he believed would please me. When he discovered me sniffing flowers out behind the kitchen house, he had Abbie arrange pretty bouquets that she changed out every few days. Gifts of fancy gloves, lace corsets, new shoes, hairpins, and chocolate waited for me weekly on my nightstand. Some days, it felt like I had been living in the jail for two lifetimes, not a few weeks short of a year.
This new pregnancy also made me fret over Monroe’s futu
re. The Jailer mostly pretended like Monroe did not exist. I hoped he would honor my request and not separate us. I hated having to rest my hopes on another white man. But it was not up to me. In this world, the men called Master held all the power.
Ever since Abbie had told me the bakery was a stop for runaways, I had thought about asking them to smuggle my boy and me up North and give this new baby a chance to be born into freedom. It was a thought that I indulged in the middle of the night, but the people of Richmond were so afraid of Rubin Lapier that I doubted they would risk their lives to help me. Even before I asked, I would need to find a way to get my son off the premises of the jail—a near impossible feat, because the Jailer’s guards watched everyone.
* * *
The August heat made it too warm in the supply shed to shut the door, so I kept it propped open and wished for a cool breeze. Lavender plants were stationed at the front of the door to dissuade mosquitoes from bothering me. In those first few months, I had turned the space into a full-fledged dressing room. A sheer piece of material hung from the ceiling to give the old room a sense of warmth when the girls were herded in. Buttons, fringes, feathers, ribbons, lace, gloves, and bonnets—all accumulated from my weekly trips to the market—were organized into drawers. Fabric was rolled neatly and the dresses were hung. I even managed to string together some jewels for the highly prized girls, the ones the Jailer thought would fetch eight or nine hundred dollars. I liked to keep things tidy, since the space was small. I stood sweeping loose ends from the floor when Basil approached with the next group.
There were four fair-skinned girls. They introduced themselves as Missy, Taffy, Beth-Anne, and Brenda. Brenda was the oldest of the bunch. I could tell by the way she poked out her lip that she had lived a life that afforded an air of stubbornness.
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