‘‘Yes, sir.’’
‘‘Well, I heard they caught and killed a few of ’em on the other side of Greens Crossing, though Bilsby got away. Any word from your daddy when he’ll be coming home?’’
‘‘No, sir.’’
‘‘Well, can’t be too much longer, I reckon.—All right, then, Miss Kathleen, you tell your mama I was here and to let me know if she needs anything.’’
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Thurston.’’
I heard the door close. Quickly I went back to the window and peeked out. The man was walking toward his horse, though real slow and looking around every now and then. I couldn’t see his face, but I had the feeling he was turning some things over in his mind about what Katie’d said, as well as maybe wondering why the place didn’t look as tidy as usual. Luckily most of the broken windows were on the other side of the house. But he kept going, got on his horse and rode away.
I heard Katie’s footsteps behind me. I turned around.
‘‘You did real good, Miss Katie.’’
‘‘I didn’t actually lie to him, did I, Mayme?’’ she asked.
‘‘No, Miss Katie, that wasn’t really lying,’’ I said, though I felt a mite uncertain about the whole thing myself.
‘‘Maybe he could have helped us like you said,’’ Katie went on.
‘‘He might have helped you, Miss Katie. But the only help he’d have given me would be to take me as his own slave, or something worse. But who else you got for kin, Miss Katie? If you don’t want to live with those two uncles, who would they give you to?’’
‘‘I don’t know. There’s my daddy’s brother Burchard I told you about.’’
‘‘Where’s he live?’’
‘‘Someplace on the other side of Charlotte. But it’s kind of a long ways away. We didn’t see them very often.’’
‘‘Does he have a big plantation like this?’’
‘‘I think so.’’
‘‘Your mama—she got any kin?’’
‘‘She has a sister up North somewhere, my aunt Nelda. But I’ve never seen her. Mama says her family wasn’t too happy about her marrying a Southerner.’’
‘‘Who’s that other fella you said?’’
‘‘Uncle Templeton. He’s my mother’s brother—but Mama doesn’t—didn’t seem to like him much. And Uncle Ward too.’’
‘‘Who’s he?’’
‘‘My mama’s other brother, but I think he’s dead. Mama talked about him like he was. Uncle Templeton used to come around, but he and Mama would always argue. Last time he was here, he stole Mama’s money.’’
‘‘When was that?’’
‘‘A while, maybe a year ago.’’
Talking to Katie about her kin didn’t get us much nearer knowing what to do.
INVESTIGATION
19
TALKING ABOUT KATIE’S AUNT AND THREE uncles got me to thinking about a lot of things. I wondered what kind of people they were, whether they’d come to take Katie when they found out what had happened. It seemed to me like she had to do something to try to get in touch with one of them.
‘‘You really oughta find out more about your kin,’’ I said to Katie the next day. ‘‘You need to decide what you’re gonna do.’’
I didn’t know if Katie realized how serious it all was. I was surprised to find out the next morning that she’d been paying more attention than I’d realized.
I heard papers shuffling when I woke up. I got out of bed and walked out into the hallway. In a small library next to her mama and daddy’s bedroom, Katie was in her nightgown seated at a big desk on the far wall with the top rolled up.
‘‘It’s my daddy’s secretary,’’ she said when she heard me walk up behind her. ‘‘This was his office. Mama used it after he left.’’
There were papers everywhere, in stacks and drawers and cubbyholes, and a couple of sets of keys on rings.
‘‘I thought about what you said,’’ Katie went on.
‘‘I’m worried about what would happen if Uncle Templeton came back. So I thought I would look through here and see if I could learn anything about him.’’
‘‘Find anything?’’ I asked.
‘‘There’s a letter here from my mama’s brother Ward, written from California.’’
‘‘When from?’’
She showed it to me. It was dated 1852.
‘‘That’s thirteen years ago,’’ I said. ‘‘You and I were barely born back then. Lots could have changed since. What does it say?’’
She took the letter and read a little of it out loud. The handwriting was as bad as mine if I had tried to write a letter like that. It looked like hen scratching.
Me and some other fellas, it said, think we hit a vein, Sis. If it pans out, I’ll git you everything you ever wanted.
I looked at Katie. ‘‘You ever hear any more about this?’’ I asked.
Katie shook her head.
She put the letter down. ‘‘Anything else?’’ I asked.
‘‘There’s this funeral announcement about Aunt Nelda’s husband from Philadelphia.’’
‘‘You know him?’’
‘‘No. Mama hardly ever talked about them, and we never saw them.’’
‘‘What about that fellow Templeton you were talking about?’’
‘‘I don’t think he’s the kind that writes letters,’’ said Katie.
‘‘And the other man, the one who you said had a plantation someplace?’’
‘‘My daddy’s brother Burchard—no, I haven’t seen anything about him either. Do you think it’s okay if I keep looking through my mama’s stuff?’’
‘‘Yeah, I do,’’ I said. ‘‘Seems likely one of ’em’s the one you’ll have to go stay with. Likely enough your mama and daddy’s plantation and this house and all the land, and maybe you too, belongs to one or the other of them—this place has gotta belong to somebody of your kin now that your mama and daddy’s gone. Seems like it’d be good if you knew which one. Likely as not it’s your daddy’s kin, probably that man with a plantation of his own.’’
Everything I said seemed to sober Katie pretty good. I don’t think it had completely dawned on her yet that the time was coming, sure as night followed day, that she’d have to go live with somebody else. I couldn’t see any other way it could be.
I sure didn’t know what would happen to me, but that’s what was likely to happen to Katie. Maybe things would work out and they’d let her keep me for her own slave.
Though my experience told me not to let myself hope for that too much.
SPECIAL DAY
20
IDIDN’T WANT TO MAKE HER NERVOUS AGAIN, so I didn’t bring up Katie’s kin for a few more days. I figured it was something she needed to do, and in a way it wasn’t none of my affair—just as long as I was gone before anyone found me here. But Katie didn’t seem all that inclined to do much about it, which puzzled me some.
Then what she said one morning showed me how little she was thinking about what was going to become of her.
‘‘Can we bake a cake?’’ Katie asked me while we were eating breakfast.
‘‘I reckon . . . sure,’’ I said. ‘‘Why do you want a cake?’’
‘‘I just feel like having cake,’’ she answered. ‘‘It’s my birthday, and Mama always made me a cake.’’
She looked away and started to cry.
‘‘Oh, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’
I walked over to her, hesitated a few seconds, then took one of her hands between the two of mine. She glanced up at me and wiped her eyes with her other hand.
‘‘I want my mama,’’ she wept. ‘‘I can’t stand it at night when I remember what happened. Sometimes I think I’m just going to die from being so sad.’’
‘‘I’m so sorry, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘I can’t make it go away, and I don’t reckon there’s much of anything I can do to make you happier. But it’s going to be all right. You and me are going to make o
ut all right. We’ll get through this somehow.’’
She sniffed and rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes again.
‘‘Your skin,’’ she said, ‘‘it feels the same as mine . . . only a little rougher—like my daddy’s.’’
‘‘That’s just from the work,’’ I told her. ‘‘Skin is skin, whether it’s brown or white, it’s still the same.’’
She reached out and touched my head, then smiled kind of sheepish-like.
‘‘But hair’s not the same, is it?’’ I said, smiling back.
She shook her head.
‘‘Mine’s wound in tight little curls, and yours is straight and soft.’’
‘‘I was curious what it felt like,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ve never felt colored hair before.’’
Katie held my hand a few seconds longer, like she was thinking, then slowly let it go.
‘‘Can I feel yours again?’’ I asked. I remembered how smooth it felt the day I washed it.
‘‘My what?’’ she asked.
‘‘Your hair. It’s so soft and silky.’’
‘‘I don’t mind,’’ she said.
I reached out and slowly ran my fingers through her hair, then drew my hand back and giggled. I couldn’t help it. We both laughed.
‘‘Happy birthday, Miss Katie,’’ I said after we were quiet again.
‘‘Thank you,’’ she replied.
‘‘I wish I had something for you.’’
‘‘That’s all right. You didn’t know. It won’t be the same without my mama, but I’m glad you’re here with me. If you’ll show me how to make a cake, that will be enough.’’
‘‘Then let’s go see what there is in the pantry and get started.—How old are you today?’’
‘‘Fifteen.’’
‘‘That makes you as old as me,’’ I replied. ‘‘For a while, at least. I’ll turn sixteen at the end of the summer.’’
We set about making the cake right away. It wasn’t anything fancy. Any cakes I’d had in my life had been few and far between. But I had something of an idea what to do, and we found a recipe in a book of Katie’s mama’s. I wanted to think of something special to do for Katie’s birthday, but all I could come up with was a stew made with some beef jerky from the pantry.
I was working on it in the kitchen, with water boiling on top of the stove as I was tossing things into it, and the nice smell from the baking cake was starting to fill up the house. I heard a sound coming from the parlor—like singing but not quite the same. I put down my knife and wiped my hands and went in. There was Katie sitting at the piano. It was the first time I’d ever heard piano music.
‘‘That sounds awfully pretty, Miss Katie,’’ I said after listening for a minute. It reminded me of evenings around the campfire and everyone singing our favorite songs. ‘‘I didn’t know you could play so good.’’
‘‘Mama taught me, along with the violin,’’ she said. ‘‘You should hear her play. She’s real good. She plays Chopin—’’
She stopped and took a deep breath.
‘‘She used to, I mean,’’ she added.
‘‘Well, that’s the best music I ever heard,’’ I said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘‘Keep playing, Miss Katie. I’ll listen while I’m making your birthday stew.’’
I went back into the kitchen and finished cutting up a few vegetables we’d found in the garden. I reckon there’s something special about music that gets under your skin—black, white, brown . . . any kind of skin. Music can make you sad, or it can make you happy. Katie had a music book in front of her and was playing from it. It had such a happy sound that it couldn’t help but liven up our spirits.
‘‘That’s so nice, Miss Katie,’’ I repeated when I joined her again. ‘‘I’ve never heard such pretty music. We used to sing a lot in the evenings, but there weren’t any pianos, and mostly no instruments at all, just voices. It was pretty enough. But what you’re playing is so different than anything I ever heard.’’
‘‘That was Mozart,’’ she said.
‘‘What does that mean?’’ I asked.
‘‘Mozart—he’s the composer who wrote it.’’
‘‘Oh. Who’s he? It’s a funny name.’’
‘‘He was a man who lived in Vienna,’’ Katie answered. ‘‘He was born about a hundred years ago. He wrote sonatas and dances and operas and all kinds of songs.’’
‘‘I’ve never heard of any of those kinds of things. Where’s Vienna?’’ I asked.
‘‘In Austria.’’
‘‘Well, all I know is that it’s mighty fine. It makes you feel like dancing a jig.’’
Katie laughed.
‘‘What’s funny?’’ I said, laughing with her.
‘‘You don’t dance a jig to Mozart,’’ she said. ‘‘You dance a minuet.’’
‘‘A min-you-what?’’
She laughed again.
‘‘A minuet. I was playing one of Mozart’s country dances. A jig is fast, a minuet is slow and graceful.’’
She played the little tune again.
‘‘See . . . like that,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll show you.’’
She got up from the piano stool and danced a few steps around the room, so light and delicate as she lifted up and down from her toes. She looked like a princess or something.
‘‘That’s real pretty,’’ I said.
Katie went back to the piano and played the melody again, then came back and stood in front of me.
‘‘Take my hands,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll teach it to you.’’
‘‘I could never do it like you did!’’ I said.
‘‘Sure you can . . . here, we’ll do it together.’’
She started to sing the melody she had just been playing on the piano. Not really sing it, because there were no words. But she hummed the notes, kind of like dum-dee-dee-dum-dee-dum, and then she started stepping slowly back and forth, holding on to my hands and leading me as she went.
‘‘Just do what I do,’’ she told me.
I tried to imitate her but felt like a brambling cow alongside her graceful steps.
‘‘All right, do that little part again . . .’’ she said, and we started over.
‘‘. . . then turn slowly around,’’ she said, letting go of my hands.
I kept watching and tried to imitate her. After three or four tries I started to be able to do it a little better.
‘‘That’s good, Mayme!’’ she said. ‘‘Now you do that part again while I play it on the piano. See if you can remember it and do it in time to the music.’’
She went back to the piano, got ready to play, then gave me a little nod with her head. I did what she’d taught me in step with the music. By now I could feel the rhythm of it a little better and went through the whole thing as she played.
‘‘That was good!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘Let’s dance it together again. Then I’ll show you the next stanza. You can help me sing now. Here’s how the next part goes.’’
She played it two or three times, then came back to show me what to do next.
After another fifteen or twenty minutes, I had learned it and we had danced the whole thing together.
‘‘That was fun, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ve never heard that kind of music before in my life. It’s real nice.’’
‘‘What kind of music did you have where you lived?’’
‘‘I don’t know—what’s called colored music, I reckon.’’
‘‘What’s it like?’’
‘‘Just singing,’’ I said, ‘‘sometimes with a fiddle or a banjo, but mostly singing and clapping with all the men and women singing lots of harmony.’’
‘‘Will you teach me a song, Mayme?’’
I couldn’t help chuckling at the thought of Katie singing a colored field chant, or rocking back and forth clapping and wailing to a camp meeting revival chorus.
‘‘What’s so funny about that?’’ she wanted to know. ‘‘If you can learn the mi
nuet, why can’t I learn your music?’’
‘‘All right,’’ I said. ‘‘Let me see . . . I’ll sing you a revival song.’’
‘‘What’s that?’’
‘‘A song we sing when we go to religious meetings.’’
‘‘You mean church?’’
‘‘Not exactly, but a little like it, I reckon. When the white folks are having their camp meeting in a big tent, we have a colored revival out in the field.’’
I started clapping first, and rocking a little to get myself into the rhythm, then started singing.
‘‘Oh, whar shill we go w’en de great day comes,
Wid de blowin’ er de trumpits en de bangin’ er de
drums?
How many po’ sinners’ll be kotched out late
En fine no latch ter de golden gate?’’
‘‘I can hardly understand a word you’re saying,’’ Katie laughed. ‘‘It’s like Beulah and Elvia sounded when they talked fast to each other.’’
‘‘Who’s that?’’
‘‘My mama’s house slaves. They’re the ones . . . the ones you buried that day you came.’’
That quieted us for a minute. How strange it was that we’d been singing—almost like we’d forgotten for a few minutes what had happened.
‘‘Anyhow, that’s the way we coloreds sing it,’’ I said after a bit.
‘‘Teach me the words,’’ said Katie. ‘‘I want to sing it with you.’’
I repeated it line by line with her a couple of times.
‘‘Then this is the chorus,’’ I said.
‘‘No use fer ter wait twel ter-morrer!
De sun musn’t set on yo’ sorrer,
Sin’s ez sharp ez a bamboo brier—
Oh, Lord! fetch de mo’ners up higher!’’
‘‘And you gotta clap and sway in time to the music,’’ I said.
She tried it as we sang the first verse and chorus again, but she couldn’t quite get the rhythm right. I couldn’t help laughing, but then we tried it again.
After a while we were singing pretty good together, and I even tried a little harmony alongside her voice on the melody. Then I taught her the next verse, and we stumbled through it together, and then a third time.
Angels Watching Over Me (Shenandoah Sisters Book #1) Page 10
