A Perilous Proposal

by Michael Phillips

  We were all growing up—Katie and me and Emma and Jeremiah. Katie and I had met when we were fourteen and fifteen. Jeremiah had come to Greens Crossing when he was seventeen.

  But by the time the year 1867 gave way to 1868 and we began planting new crops for yet another year’s harvest, Katie was seventeen and would soon turn eighteen, and I was eighteen and would be nineteen about the time of the harvest in August. Jeremiah was practically a grown man now at twenty. Even little William wasn’t so little anymore.

  We’d all changed a lot since 1865. To me, it seemed that Katie had changed most of all. She was tall and shapely, with that long, curly blond hair of hers, and just about as pretty as anyone could imagine. She often wore her mother’s dresses now. They fit her real good. Her mother sure knew how to pick pretty clothes. She must have been a real lady.

  The South wasn’t the same as it had been before the war. But if it had been, I could almost imagine Katie as a Southern belle at her daddy’s plantation with all the young men clustered around her asking her for a dance at a party or ball, and trying to win her heart and ask for her hand. Of course, that South of plantations and balls and parties and slaves was gone forever now.

  Katie’s mama and daddy’s plantation had changed more than most, I reckon. There were more blacks living under Katie’s roof than whites. We were quite a mixed-up family—blacks and whites and half of each, uncles and cousins and brothers and friends—all coming and going and working together around the place. That made a lot of the local people, like Mrs. Hammond, pretty upset. But Katie was determined in her love and loyalty. She made all of us feel that we really belonged to the “family” at Rosewood. And four of us— Katie and me and Ward and Templeton Daniels— really were blood kin to Katie’s mama. Emma and her son, William, and Josepha, were still living with us too. And with Henry and Jeremiah living at the livery in town but coming out to see us all the time—no, the townsfolk didn’t like the goings-on at Rosewood one bit. They thought it was scandalous all the mixing up of black and white as if skin color didn’t matter at all.

  But I didn’t think it was scandalous. I thought it was right nice. It reminded me of the tunes Katie played on the piano in the parlor. All kinds of notes mixing together to make beautiful music.

  Like the day I walked into the kitchen and heard the strangest thing. Josepha was talking in what sounded like a foreign language! It was followed by the sound of Henry chuckling.

  They glanced toward me as I entered.

  “What was that, Josepha?” I asked.

  “What wuz what?”

  “Whatever you were saying. It sounded like some other language or something.”

  “It wuzn’t nuthin’. I wuz jes’ tellin’ Henry ’bout sumfin dat happened a long time ago, dat’s all.”

  I had heard and told plenty of slave stories in old “black grandpapa” language—but even I didn’t understand what they were saying!

  Josepha glanced toward Henry and they smiled at one another, like there was a secret they alone shared.

  The next moment Uncle Ward came in from outside and Katie came downstairs. Katie went to the pantry, and Josepha asked Mr. Ward if he wanted a cup of coffee. My papa came in and asked Henry’s advice on fixing the plough, and out on the porch, Emma was singing an old field song to little William.

  That’s the way Rosewood was—whites, blacks, halfwhites, men, women, old, young . . . and we were all a family together!

  The whole South was changing as fast as things around Rosewood. With the war over and slaves free, nothing was like it was before. The old way of life was gone. Northerners called “carpetbaggers” were coming down to the South. There were lots of resentments against free blacks. Greens Crossing was starting to grow with new people coming and going.

  The Rosewood plantation slowly began running halfway normally. We were growing crops and tending animals and making enough money and growing enough vegetables to feed us all and even to have a little money to spare—something Katie’s mama never had during the war.

  My papa and Uncle Ward were so different than they had been before! It was like they’d been running a plantation all their lives. Everyone at Rosewood thought the world of them and felt so safe now that they were in charge of things.

  But the rest of the community wasn’t so pleased, and didn’t think quite as much of the Daniels brothers as we did. In fact, there was a growing tension between Rosewood and the rest of the townspeople. The two “Northerners,” as people thought of them, were “niggerlovers” and people hated them for it. People thought of Templeton as a Yankee dandy and carpetbagger himself, just because of the way he used to dress and the polished way he spoke. Some people in town resented him and Uncle Ward all the more too because they seemed to be making a successful go of Rosewood again. When a lot of the plantations in North Carolina were struggling without slaves, here was a crazy little family of whites and blacks and kids and a former house slave . . . and we were making money.

  People didn’t like it.

  A DADDY FOR WILLIAM

  47

  ONE DAY JEREMIAH CAME AROUND THE SIDE OF THE house and saw Emma sitting on the steps of the big wide front porch. She was shelling peas and watching William running around on the grass playing with one of the dogs. Jeremiah walked over and sat down beside her.

  “Hey, girl, wha’chu up to?” he asked good-naturedly.

  “Jes’ shucking sum peas.”

  “I kin see dat,” said Jeremiah, reaching into the bowl and taking a small handful, then popping a few in his mouth.

  “Hey, you stay outta dere!” laughed Emma as she slapped at his hand. “Dose is fo our supper!”

  “Well, den, I’s jes’ havin’ myself sum supper right now!”

  “Dat right, dat right . . . you’s jes like all da rest!”

  “What dat supposed ter mean!”

  “Jes’ what Josepha sez—dat men’s always thinkin’ ’bout dere stomachs.”

  “I reckon dere ain’t no way ter keep from dat aroun’ here, with such good vittles as dere always is. It looks like dat boy ob yers been makin’ good use ob it too. He’s turnin’ into a right chubby little feller, all right.”

  Emma smiled and they sat for a few seconds watching William.

  “Yep, dat William be growin’ up like er weed,” said Jeremiah as they quieted.

  “Dat he is. An’ I owes it all ter dis place,” said Emma. “I can’t hardly imagine what I’d dun effen Miz Katie an’ Miz Mayme hadn’t taken care ob me like dey dun.”

  William came toward the porch, stared at Jeremiah, then walked up the steps and put his arms around him.

  “Hey, what dis, little man!”

  “Will you be my daddy, Jer’miah?” said William, staring up into Jeremiah’s face with wide, innocent eyes.

  “Shush yo mouf, William!” said Emma, embarrassed.

  “He only been mostly aroun’ white men,” she added to Jeremiah. “He ain’t neber had no black man up close afore you and Henry come. He’s always looked at you dif’rent.”

  Emma reached out to pull William toward her. But Jeremiah stopped her.

  “Dat’s all right,” he said. Then he looked into William’s face and pulled him up into his lap.

  “I can’t be yo daddy, William,” he said. “But I kin be yo frien’, jes’ like I’s yo mama’s frien’.”

  “Why can’t you be my daddy?”

  “’Cuz I jes’ can’t. But sumday I reckon dere’ll come a time when yo mama’ll fin’ sumbody dat’ll be a daddy ter you.”

  Emma glanced over with a strange expression.

  “You mean dat, Jeremiah?” she said. “Duz you really think so?”

  “Why not, Emma? Look at all da changes dat’s comin’ ter black folks like us. Jes’ think—we ain’t slaves no mo. We got people an’ frien’s and even a little money ob our own. Dis is a good time ter be colored. I figger we’s ’bout da luckiest colored folks dere eber wuz. An’ it’s gwine git better too, so I figger you’ll me
et sum black man one day who’ll take care ob you an’ William jes’ like Miz Katie an’ Mayme hab dun up till now.”

  It got real quiet for a while. William sat contentedly in Jeremiah’s lap. From the corner of his eye, he saw Emma brush a tear or two away from her eyes.

  Jeremiah looked up and saw Mayme bringing in the cows for the afternoon milking. She waved when she saw them sitting there. Jeremiah waved back.

  After a minute or two, William got up and scampered off again. Finally Emma spoke up.

  “You’s real sweet on Mayme, ain’t you?” she said in a thoughtful tone.

  “Yeah, I reckon so,” nodded Jeremiah. “She’s about the prettiest thing I ever saw.”

  “I see da way you look at her, like you can’t take yo eyes off her.”

  “You’s real pretty too, Emma,” said Jeremiah. “Dat’s why I said what I did. Sumday a man’ll come along dat’ll look at you dat way too.”

  “But it’s diff’rent wiff you an’ Mayme. Da way you looks at her’s not like dat. It ain’t da way men look at me. I know dat look men gives girls like me. I used ter think I liked it, but now it scares me right down ter my toes. But what I see in yo face is different. You ain’t jes’ looking at how pretty Mayme is. You’s lookin’ at sumfin inside her.”

  Jeremiah did not reply immediately. He watched Mayme lead the cows toward the barn and thought about Emma’s words. He wanted to get up and go help Mayme, but he reckoned there was more Emma wanted to say.

  “I shore hope sumday sumbody looks at me wiff dat kind er look,” Emma went on, “like dey’s lookin’ at who I is inside. Dere wuz a time when dere might not er been much down dere ter see. I don’t reckon I wuz too smart. But bein’ aroun’ Miz Katie an’ Miz Mayme . . . I reckon I’m changin’ an’ growin’ sum jes’ like William. Maybe we’s both growin’—but I hope I’s growin’ inside.”

  Jeremiah looked at her and smiled.

  “I reckon you are,” he said.

  “You think dat person you said would come along sumday fo me—you reckon he’ll see sumfin in me ter love like you see in Mayme?”

  “I do, Emma. Yes, I do,” said Jeremiah. “He’s gwine see a mighty fine young black lady an’ a real good mama ter her son. Dat’s what he’s gwine see.”

  Emma sniffed and glanced away. Her eyes were wet again.

  Strange feelings went through me at the sight of Jeremiah and Emma sitting there on the porch together, Jeremiah holding William on his lap. On one hand, it made me feel warm inside to see Jeremiah with William like that. I reckon every girl likes to see a young man she’s fond of being nice to children. But at the same time, it made me feel funny as I watched them, like there was a bond between them that I couldn’t share. I wasn’t jealous of Emma exactly. But for the first time, I did wish Emma wasn’t quite so good-looking.

  When Jeremiah walked into the barn a few minutes later where I was milking the cows, I still felt unaccountably strange.

  Slowly he began milking one of the cows too. For a few minutes the only sounds were the zing-zing of milk hitting the pails.

  “Dat William,” Jeremiah began, chuckling. “He shore is a cute one.”

  “Mm-hm . . . ” I muttered. I was still feeling unsettled from seeing Jeremiah and Emma laughing and talking together.

  “You know what he axed me jes’ now?” Jeremiah asked. “He axed me if I could be his daddy.”

  My hand stilled on the teat I was holding. I could feel my heart starting to beat faster.

  “Da way dat little boy was a lookin’ at me, eyes all shinin’ and hopin’,” Jeremiah went on, “made me think of my own daddy. How things was between us, afore. . . . well, dat’s anudder story.”

  I wondered what he meant but was too busy holding my breath to ask about it now.

  “Know what I said?” Jeremiah continued. “I said I couldn’t be his daddy. Know why?”

  “Uh, no .. . why?” I said.

  Jeremiah’s face appeared over the stall wall. He must have heard something in my voice. “Mayme. You ain’t jealous of Emma, is you?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  “You got no call to be. Emma is pretty, all right. Real pretty. But I tol’ her I was shore some nice black man wud come along someday, ter take care of her an’ William.”

  I heard the sound of boots crunching through straw. Suddenly there was Jeremiah standing beside me. He leaned down, hands on his trouser legs, and looked straight into my eyes.

  “Mayme. You knows I like ’bout everything ’bout dis place,” he said. “I like how dem Daniels brothers treat us all de same, and you knows I think Miz Katie’s ’bout the finest white woman dat ever lived. I like Josepha’s cookin,’ an’ I like lil’ William lookin’ up ter me, makin’ me wish I was as fine a man as he thinks I is. And, yes, his mama is mighty fine lookin’—mighty silly to boot. But none ob dem is why I keep makin’ dat long walk out ter dis place. You knows why I came here dat first time and why I keep comin’ back, don’t you, Mayme?”

  I reckon I did know, but I didn’t reply. Already I was feeling a little foolish for worrying about Emma.

  “I come ter Rosewood ter see one Miz Mary Ann Daniels,” said Jeremiah, “ter be with her, ter talk with her and see her smilin’ at me. Mayme, ye’re da reason I come here.”

  I smiled up at him and he smiled back. He leaned down, like he meant to kiss me. But the cow, impatient with waiting, turned her head and butted Jeremiah’s back, nearly pushing him over.

  “All right. All right.” Jeremiah chuckled, straightening up. “I get your meanin’.” He smiled at me once more. Then we both went back to work.

  MR. THURSTON’S BOX

  48

  MR. WATSON WAS WAITING FOR ONE OF HIS WAGONS to get back before Jeremiah could load it for a delivery. While they were waiting, he sent Jeremiah to Mrs. Hammond’s store to pick up his mail.

  By now Mrs. Hammond knew who Jeremiah was and how he was involved with the goings-on at Rosewood. But even though she pretended to have been in on the scheme all along, that didn’t make her treat Jeremiah any nicer. It didn’t make her treat any of them nicer. Jeremiah reckoned she enjoyed being ornery and contrary. Some folks are like that.

  Mrs. Hammond glanced up when Jeremiah entered her shop, her nose tilting slightly into the air.

  “Mo’nin’ ter you, Mrs. Hammon’,” said Jeremiah. “Mr. Watson sent me ter fetch his mail.”

  “I’m not about to give . . .you someone else’s mail,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m just not, that’s why.”

  “All right, den,” said Jeremiah, turning to go. “I’s jes’ tell him I axed for it an’ dat you refused to give him his mail.”

  He took several quick steps toward the door.

  “Wait . . . young man,” said Mrs. Hammond behind him. Mr. Watson was one of the town’s leading citizens and she didn’t want to anger him. “I . . . uh, don’t suppose there is any harm in it . . . that is, if he told you to pick it up for him.”

  “Dat he did, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Hammond handed him Mr. Watson’s mail.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Jeremiah with a mischievous grin.

  He left the store and walked along the boardwalk.

  A wagon was rumbling along in front of the store. The man guiding his team of two plough horses gave a wave to Jeremiah as he passed. A few seconds later a small bump in the street caused a box on the back of the wagon to jostle and fall to the ground. Jeremiah saw and ran after it.

  “Mr. Thurston,” he called. “Mr. Thurston, you’s los’ one ob yo parcels!”

  Mr. Thurston, one of the few local men who had developed a friendship with the Daniels brothers as their closest neighbor, reined in and looked around at the voice calling at him. He saw Jeremiah running into the street to pick up the box and bring it to him. He also saw Deke Steeves, Jesse Earl, and Weed Jenkins from Oakmont on the other side of the street where they had been watching Jeremiah since before he had go
ne into Mrs. Hammond’s, trying to decide how to cause him trouble without too much danger. They were afraid of Jeremiah’s fists, so they had to plan their mischief carefully. Steeves was holding a length of wood about three feet long he had picked up somewhere.

  “Hey . . . nigger boy, what you think you’re doing!” called out Steeves’ voice from where he stood leaning against a post.

  Jeremiah stood up with the box he had just picked up. He glanced toward them, then walked toward the wagon where Mr. Thurston had just bounced to a stop.

  “Hey, we’re talking to you,” said young Jenkins in a highpitched boy’s voice, trying to sound tough. His nickname had been given him because he was tall and scrawny as a weed, and he had a voice to match. Though Steeves was the obvious ringleader, the other two were anxious to show Deke they could be as mean as he.

  “That’s a white man’s box, boy,” added Jesse Earl. “He didn’t want your filthy nigger hands all over it.”

  Jeremiah continued to ignore them and walked toward the wagon.

  Steeves now strode into the street in front of Jeremiah with a cocky swagger, running his left hand up and down the club he held in his right. Jeremiah stopped. Steeves walked toward him.

  “You don’t seem to hear too good, boy,” he said. “We’re talking to you. Now you set that box down. I’ll see that it gets back up on the wagon.”

  Jeremiah stared into his eyes, but did not flinch.

  Behind him, he heard Mr. Thurston jump down from his wagon onto the dirt.

  “Steeves, you are a good-for-nothing blowhard,” he said, walking toward them. “Now get away from this young man and stop trying to bully him into a fight. He would pulverize you anyway. If he didn’t, I’d horsewhip you myself.”

  Stunned to hear the white man taking Jeremiah’s part, Steeves took a step or two back with a look of disbelief and rage on his face.

  “You young fools,” Mr. Thurston went on, glancing back and forth between Steeves and the other two, “if you had half the sense of this boy here, you’d try to make something of yourselves instead of going about causing trouble.”