I fell in and out of consciousness; I moaned from the pain of the whipping, and I cried over Warren’s death. By nightfall, my arms were burning from being stretched out and tied up. I couldn’t stand it any longer. With what little strength I had left, I maneuvered my wrists to loosen the ropes. It took hours, and I sobbed the whole time, moaning and screaming into the mattress, but finally I was able to free one arm, then hours later, the other. The room had no light; the outside shutters were sealed over the only window that may have let in any moonlight. I remembered the candle and matches in the armoire, but I had no strength to move. For the remainder of the night I lay in the darkness, on the soiled bed, and wondered if I was, indeed, in Hell.
Abigail was sent in to clean my wounds and dress me sometime the next day. I didn’t open my eyes when the door was unlocked; I believed Grandmother was there to beat me again, so I was surprised when I felt someone gently stroke my short, ragged hair. I slowly opened my eyes and looked up at Abigail. Her soft, pitying brown eyes were full of tears, and she whispered in my ear so no one could overhear, “I’m here. No more worries, Miss Lillian.”
Abigail carefully rolled me to my side and began to clean the dried blood from my back. She was as gentle as she could be, but the pain was so overwhelming that I begged her to stop. It was almost as bad as the actual whipping.
“I’m trying, Miss Lillian, not to hurt you more than you already are,” she said.
“Just leave me, please; let me get an infection and die,” I moaned.
She didn’t listen and continued. I gripped the mattress; I bit into it until she was finally finished. I turned over and breathed a sigh of relief. She went to the armoire and took out a dress.
“Your momma was so pretty. You look just like her,” she said, and carefully sat me up. “This was her favorite dress.”
It was a lovely shade of green with different shades of green on the pagoda sleeves and trim, and it had pretty lace on the collar and cuffs.
Abigail, I could see, had once been a beautiful woman, but years of slavery had taken its toll on her. Her face was full of lines; her brow covered in wrinkles. Her hair was fine and completely gray. Her hands were full of calluses from years of hard labor.
She was fond of me, and the fact that she knew Momma gave me the strength to sit up and be dressed. I was stiff and sore beyond belief, but glad to be decent once again and in the comfort of Momma’s favorite day dress. After I was clothed, Abigail left, but before she locked the door behind her, she smiled and said in a hushed voice, “You aren’t always going to be locked up.”
I lay still, staring at the door. Things had been so different the day before; I was only hours from freedom. I had laughed and been in the care of a man who was so genuine and sincere it melted my heart. It amazed and frightened me that one day could be so devastatingly different from the next. I wondered if any day could be worse than the day Warren was murdered and I was taken away to be brutally whipped and beaten, treated worse than an animal. I didn’t know where I could find the faith and will to go on to another day. It just didn’t matter. Daddy had forgotten about me; for some reason I could never begin to understand, he no longer wanted me. The realization of that left my heart shattered in a hundred pieces. I would never be the same again.
As the wounds on my back slowly healed, my heart remained crushed and void; it felt as if I no longer possessed one. I was left in Abigail’s care, and though she had obvious compassion for me, I was numb to her kindness. Each day was indistinguishable from the next. Each morning, Hamilton brought me one egg and a glass of water, and in the evening Abigail came with my cornpone and another glass of water.
Throughout the day and nights, between their quick deliveries of food, I lay in bed, staring up at the drab ceiling or at the door. I could stare and not even blink my eyes for hours at a time. I didn’t think of anything or anyone; my mind was a blank slate. Abigail remained committed to my care, both physically and emotionally. It seemed as though Grandmother didn’t want to know anything about my existence and didn’t return to the room after the beating.
One stormy summer afternoon, Abigail came in unexpectedly. I had been awake and staring at the ceiling all morning, listening to the rumbles of thunder that shook the enormous mansion.
“Sure is storming out there,” she said from beside me. “Mrs. Arrington went to Savannah. I’m here to brush your hair. It’s starting to grow back, see?” She handed me a mirror. I hadn’t seen myself in months, and as I gazed at myself for the first time since my long hair was sabotaged, I burst into tears. I was thin and feeble looking. My face was sickly pale, my eyes hollow and my beautiful, long locks of hair were gone.
“Now, now, Miss Lillian; it’s coming back. Sure has come in fast,” she said, trying to console me. “Let me brush.”
I sobbed uncontrollably as she worked out the knots in my short hair. She tugged, and it hurt, but not as much as the pain of the sight of myself. When she was finished, she pulled a bonnet from the pocket of her apron.
“When you don’t want to see yourself, you can wear this.”
It wasn’t a solution, and I didn’t care. “Just put it in the armoire,” I said, and collapsed back down on the bed.
“Hamilton is gonna bring you a fresh pillow later,” Abigail said before she left. “And,” she added, “Mrs. Arrington got plans to go to Atlanta at the end of the week. She gonna be gone for two days.”
It was obviously unusual for Grandmother to leave Sutton Hall; Abigail made that perfectly clear to me. If it meant anything, I didn’t care. She left, and I fixed my eyes on the ceiling, staring up at it for the rest of the day.
Storm after storm pounded the deep South all week with wicked thunder and torrential winds—and inside, I felt as heavy as the rains. There was a leak in the corner of my room that mesmerized me. I stared at the water that slowly trickled down the corner and onto the floor; one drip after another. The sound of it could have been enough to drive someone insane, but I enjoyed the monotony. After all, it was my life—one day dripping into the next, one miserable, rainy day that never seemed to end. Even when Abigail came in to tell me that Grandmother was away and offered to take me out of my room, I didn’t care. I didn’t even bat an eye when she said it. What was there on the other side of the door? Certainly not my freedom. That was gone. There was no one to greet me, to hold me and love me and take me away. Those men were gone, either by choice or unfortunate circumstance.
“Come, Miss Lillian. The rain has stopped. Fresh air will do you much good.”
She tried to nudge me up, but I wouldn’t budge. Hamilton stood in the doorway and wildly waved his hands around, which was his way of communicating with Abigail. From what I gathered, they were husband and wife.
“She doesn’t want to go!” she shouted at him.
I shifted my eyes back and forth, trying to understand how she knew what he was trying to say. It caught my interest; it reminded me of all the years I spent learning sign language and the wonderful days I spent with Heath teaching Elizabeth. They were surprised when I sat up and said, “Doesn’t he know any sign language?”
Abigail frowned.
I demonstrated how to say, “Hello” in sign language, then “goodbye.” Then I proceeded to show them the alphabet, using my hands to make the letters. They were stunned.
Hamilton came over and used gestures to tell Abigail to have me teach him more.
I got off the bed and took his hand, then maneuvered his fingers to spell Hamilton.
“That’s amazing!” Abigail cried.
“I can teach you, if you really want to learn.”
“Sure thing, Miss Lillian.”
Hamilton was all smiles; I had never seen him smile before. And I was smiling inside, when I truly thought I never would again.
“Now, do you want to come out?”
I wasn’t certain. I hadn’t been out of the room for weeks. I was safe there and didn’t feel ready.
“Maybe next time,” I
said, and lay back down. As exciting as teaching Hamilton a few signs was, I was drained and exhausted from using what little energy I had managed to store.
“Okay, then, Miss Lillian—next time,” Abigail said.
They departed and didn’t lock the door behind them. They were on my side, and to my own surprise, I actually felt an ever-so-slight glimmer of hope.
The first time I ventured out of the room, on the day Grandmother took a day trip into Savannah, I was like a terrified animal coming out of its cage. I walked slowly, encouraged by Abigail. The house seemed larger and more ominous than I had remembered when they brought me in after taking me from Warren Stone’s cabin three months before. Abigail had snuck me extra food during my confinement, so I had the energy to walk the long halls and creep down the grand staircase of Sutton Hall. I followed her like a lost puppy, and as we stepped outside, the intense sunlight made me shield my eyes and step back into the shadows of the old house.
“Come now, Miss Lillian.”
Abigail took hold of my hand and brought me into the sunlight. It was warm, and although the air was heavy and oppressive, I was happy to finally be outside. The bonnet that covered my short, ugly hair gave me the confidence to move on and look around, to take in the place around me. The sweet fragrance of the mature magnolia trees were more distinct than any I had ever encountered before. The colors—the green leaves of the live oak trees, the pastel blue sky—were more vibrant than I remembered. But Sutton Hall loomed in front, menacing and threatening, and looking up at the ominous mansion made me shiver, especially when my eyes fell upon the only room with sealed shutters.
Abigail was anxious for me to see her quarters. We proceeded behind the mansion, past the the small ice house until we came upon a small row of shacks, the prior slave quarters. Now it was a simple home for Hamilton and Abigail. She stepped upon the front porch of the first drab building, then turned to me and said, “Well, this here is mine and Hamilton’s.”
It was sparse and meager, just as was my own. They had a small mattress on the floor to share, a rocking chair, and an old, broken table with two chairs. In the corner was a cradle. I supposed she had had a child, or children, that must have been grown and long gone. When she saw me gazing at it, she took my hand and led me back outside, into the woods near the river, to an overgrown area under a group of pine trees.
“Over here,” she said, stopping at a small stone. It was a headstone.
As I looked around, I saw dozens of them, all under fallen branches and layers of pine needles. Abigail had me look closely at the headstone, and as my eyes narrowed onto the letters, I gasped and stepped back. It bore the name “Jacob-Thomas.”
“That there was my baby boy,” she said somberly.
Jacob-Thomas, the name Momma repeated over and over after she went mad. The grave held the boy that Momma was so fond of and wanted to remember for always.
“I must get back to make the supper. You get back before dark.”
Abigail knew I wouldn’t try and run; I wouldn’t risk my own life, as well as hers. For certain, if Grandmother discovered I was let out, Abigail and Hamilton would be beaten. I wouldn’t put them in jeopardy, and after all, there was nowhere and no one to run to.
I made my way down to the river and sat watching the herons and pelicans walk along the marsh area. The scenery was so different from Jasper Island. I missed the enormous whalers out on the sea, I missed the seagulls hovering above the beach, and I longed to hear the waves crashing against the rocks of the island. I craved the smell of salt air and the cool ocean breezes. I pulled my legs up against my chest, closed my eyes, and envisioned the tall lighthouse again. I could almost see Daddy up there in my mind; cleaning the Fresnel lens and oiling and winding the clockworks. I pictured Heath and Ayden and baby Elizabeth. I imagined they had acquired a healthy summer glow, unlike the sickly, pale, prisoner’s white that covered my face like a veil. It saddened me to think of them, to imagine all I was missing, and to see how much had been taken from me.
Afterwards, I realized, as I lay on the warm ground and began to cry, that I was more fortunate than Abigail. After all, Heath, Ayden, and Elizabeth were alive; I hadn’t lost them for good. Someday, when life turned good for me, there would be a day when the door to my prison would be permanently unlocked and I could leave the place where the devil lived and return to Jasper Island. With any luck, I would get there before Edward and Opal moved away to take Elizabeth to the school for the deaf. But if indeed they were gone, I would stay on as lighthouse keeper, just as Daddy said I could someday.
It felt good to have a plan; it gave me something to hold on to and think about in my most wearisome times. I knew better days were ahead of me, though my life had turned into a cruel joke, and I no longer believed there was a God. Maybe Grandmother was correct; maybe I was full of sin and it was all because I didn’t want to believe God could leave me so desolate and wretched. From everything Momma had taught me, as far back as I could remember, we were all God’s children, and if we prayed hard enough and were good servants to him, all of our prayers would be answered. None of mine had ever been answered. I had been good; I lived according to the Ten Commandments. Was it because I loved Heath and longed for Warren to desire me that God, if he indeed existed, had turned his back on me and believed I was the devil’s spawn? I wasn’t sure, and there was no one, no minister to guide me through my troubles and doubts about God and myself.
With a weary heart, as the day spilled into another sweltering evening, I returned to the mansion. I was just turning the corner when Abigail ran over, her hands flailing over her head in a panic.
“Miss Lillian, hurry,” she said, out of breath, taking my hand and pulling me through a back door into the mansion to a dark, mysterious stairway.
“Abigail, what is it?”
“Mrs. Arrington. She’s come home early. You need to get back to your room.”
We ran up the narrow stairway and threw open a door to the second floor. We hurried down the hall and got to my room just before we heard voices down below.
“Who is here?” I asked as she began to close the door.
“She brought back Mr. Arrington.”
“My grandfather?” I asked, shocked. I thought he was dead.
“He’s been sick in the hospital. He’s home now, and I have to be tending to him.” Abigail scurried off, and I ran to the door and put my ear up against it to hear what was going on. However, the mahogany door was thick, and I couldn’t hear a sound. All the months I had been locked away, I had no idea my grandfather was alive and returning to Sutton Hall.
As I sat back on the bed, I thought about what he might look like and if he was anything at all like Grandmother. Maybe he was a kind old man, and once he found out I was kept locked away, he would demand my freedom. With rekindled hope, I got up, went to the armoire, and took out the brush and mirror Abigail had given me. I pulled off my bonnet, and with the mirror in one hand and the brush in the other, tried to fix my hair so that when Grandfather came up to see me, I would look my best. My hair had grown back to the top of my shoulders, but the ends were dull and uneven. I did the best I could; I brushed one hundred strokes, then sat up and waited for the door to be unlocked. I kept my eyes on the door knob, waiting to see any sign of movement. But as the hours passed, and light no longer seeped through the cracks of the shutters, I fell onto the bed and sighed heavily. The room was dark; the one candle I had was burnt down to the wick. The only time considerable light came into the room was when someone walked along the corridor carrying a lamp. On that night, no one came, not even to bring me supper.
When I woke the next day, there was a plate on the floor with my one hard boiled egg and a glass of water. I went to rise from bed to retrieve the plate, when I doubled over in pain from a stomach cramp, and felt wetness trickle down my leg. I lifted my dress to see my legs covered in blood. I couldn’t see where it all was coming from, and I began to panic. I went to the door and peeked through the keyhol
e, then yelled for help.
“Please, someone; I’m bleeding!” I screamed. “Abigail? Someone!”
Before long, a key was shoved into the lock and I stepped back. It was Grandmother.
“What is going on? Why are you screaming?” she demanded. I was filled with so much terror that I couldn’t speak. In the dimness of the room I stood, so frightened of her I couldn’t move. She stepped in and saw the blood then she stormed inside and slammed the door.
“Don’t you see what this is?” she said in a tone that made me tremble. When I didn’t answer, she lifted my dress and pointed, then said, “You are bleeding from the place where babies come. Now, for certain, if any man touches you or kisses you, you will grow a baby inside your stomach and when it is ready to be born, you will lay on the bed in anguish and die before it comes out.”
Just the thought of what she said made me sick, and I ran to the chamber pot with dry heaves.
“Abigail will bring up rags for you so you don’t stain the floors,” she spat, then took her lamp and left. I was confused and terrified; I didn’t understand what she meant. She didn’t explain why I was bleeding, when or if it would ever stop, or what it had to do with having babies. I only knew that a man, with even the slightest touch, could put a baby in me. Daddy had touched Momma, and she never had a baby after me. I fell to the floor and bawled, afraid and perplexed, and wanting more than anything not to have the burden of shame that womanhood put upon me.
Abigail found me on the hard floor, lifted me, and handed me the rags to put between my legs to keep the blood soaked up. “It’s gonna be fine. Only few days, and it will pass,” she said as I sat up, then she hurried out as Grandmother hollered for her return.
I used the rags to stop the mess then pulled myself onto the bed. I wasn’t able to eat and could only lie still and moan over the terrible cramps that plagued my stomach area. The pain lasted and I used rags for five days. I realized in the weeks ahead that it would happen again, every month. I didn’t understand why, but it was just another burden, one of the many dreadful things that became commonplace while I was at Sutton Hall.
Box Set: The ArringtonTrilogy Page 50
