Stillwater

by Nicole Helget

  “Pow,” he whispered. “Got you.”

  Soon Clement tired of his game, sat up, and rested his head against the trunk. He fell into a catnap. Not too deep. Enough of a rest to think about all the ways a boy could make a name for himself in bravery or honor. All around Clement, the world was changing. Men were inventing machines that made trains and boats go faster and farther, tilling land that had never been turned before and pulling great harvests from it, inventing guns that could shoot a mile away, organizing cities and states out of wild territories, discovering medicines for illnesses that had been incurable, and filling the newspapers with stories of dangerous fights against the Spanish in the South, battles against the weather in the Rocky Mountains, and discovery of gold in the place called California. Every man in the world seemed to be making a famous name for himself while Clement sat trapped in the little orphanage, under the tutelage of Mother St. John and Big Waters, who asked him a thousand questions about his whereabouts, his bowel movements, and his prayers, and hardly gave a boy room to grow up.

  Clement wondered what his great purpose was going to be and how long it would take him to discover it. He wanted to be important now. He was again thinking of owning a gun and shooting a great big bear when he startled himself out of his doze in time to hear the almost silent pulling of an oar through water. Clement squinted to see the place where the little rafts sometimes appeared, seemingly exhaled out of the night sky.

  He decided that there’d be no harm in showing this place to Angel the next time she came to school. He hoped she’d come back soon. But her mother had looked very angry. Clement felt sorry for Angel. He wondered what it was like to have that angry woman as a mother. Clement wondered about his own mother, his real one. The one who had left him, left them, if they were indeed twins, two eggs from the same mother swan. He wondered why. He wanted to know why. He wondered if he’d ever get to know. He thought that somehow, when he was big, he would know. He wondered why Angel wouldn’t talk to him now the way he liked, in his mind. He felt it would be easier to get through the days if he could only hear her voice in his mind. He wondered if she didn’t like him anymore, and that made his heart hurt. He wondered why not. He wished he hadn’t closed that door. He tried to imagine the episode from her perspective. He realized that she was unfamiliar with the room, and some people were afraid of the dark. He thought that the next time she talked to him or the next time he saw her, he would tell her again how sorry he was. If only she would talk to him. He hated waiting. For now, like so much of his life to this point, he would have to wait to know what he wanted.

  Soon a raft materialized from black shadow into a plainly visible thing creeping close to the shore. A man whose name Clement did not know poked a pole deep into the river and threw a rope to him. The man was one of the few free black men who worked on the river steamers.

  “Got it, boy?” he whispered.

  Clement scampered after it. He tied the rope around a fat tree trunk and slid down the muddy riverbank. The conductor jumped waist-high into the river. “Phew,” he said. “River’s mighty cold yet, and strong.”

  Clement started to move away from the shore.

  “Stay back, boy,” said the conductor. “Current’s strong too. Don’t want a mite like you to get pulled under.” He pulled the raft toward the shore. When close enough, Clement helped him lift one corner of it onto land. “All right,” he said toward a canvas tent on the raft. A tall black man seemed to unfold his long limbs out of it and then stood. He was taller than any man Clement had ever seen. Clement wondered how he had fit inside the tent and for how long he must’ve crouched in that small space. Clement held out his hand to steady the man as he descended from the raft to the shore.

  “My legs is shaky,” said the tall man. “Been cramped in the riverboat a long time. Thanks, son.”

  Clement nodded. A sliver of sunlight appeared on the horizon. The conductor untied the rope and wished the man luck. Clement took the whiskey bottle from his pants pocket and handed it to the conductor. He took it and slid back down the bank and onto his raft.

  Clement turned to the man. “We have to hurry,” he said. “Before it gets too light. Lots of people get moving at morning.”

  “Thank ya,” said the man. “Alone out here?”

  “Yes, but I know the way real good.”

  “Still, though,” said the man. “Big work for a small boy.”

  “I’m not small.”

  The conductor disappeared as seamlessly as he had appeared.

  Clement shook himself out of the straps of the satchel and tossed it to the man. “It’s only a short walk, but you’re hungry, I bet.”

  “That’s a kindness,” said the man. He opened the satchel and removed a piece of beef. He bit down on the leathery strip and tore a bite. “How old are you?”

  “Nine,” said Clement.

  “Ya don’t look no nine,” he said.

  “It’s getting light out,” Clement said. “We better hurry.” He knelt and pointed to a rock where the man should climb. “I’m big enough to have a rifle.”

  The man laughed and found his footing on the rock. “Ya got one?”

  “No,” said Clement. He reached down to help the man up. “Not yet.”

  The man extended his hand and looked into Clement’s eyes. He pulled his hand back. But then just as suddenly, he thrust it toward the boy again and grabbed hold. Clement helped heave him up the bank. “That the light playing on your eyes?”

  “No, sir. That’s just the way God made them.”

  “One brown, one blue?” asked the man.

  “Big Waters says it’s because I have earth and water in me.”

  “Big Waters your mama?”

  “No.” Clement noted the man’s eyes, light brown like coarse sugar. “Your eyes are odd too.”

  “Yep. My daddy wasn’t a nigger.” He hummed a couple of notes. “I gotta boy like you somewhere with his mama, I hope. I haven’t seen her in many years.”

  Clement thought of getting back to a big tin plate filled with pancakes and oatmeal, along with coffee. Big Waters made good coffee even when coffee beans were scarce. She ground acorns or dried beets and sweetened the concoction with cream. “We got good coffee back home for you to warm up with,” said Clement. “And I’m sorry about your wife.”

  “Got along with the Winstons. Maybe she’s been through here?”

  Clement had never heard that name. “I don’t think so,” he said. “We haven’t seen any ladies in a long while.”

  “’Spect not. It’s a hard road and that was a long time ago.”

  The pair trekked over tree roots and mud clots.

  “Where’s your son?”

  “Not sure,” said the man. He leapt over a downed tree limb. “I never knew nothing about him except that he was goin’ to be born. I guess he could be a girl, but I don’t know. His mama is clever and he is clever too, I ’spect.”

  “That’s good,” said Clement. Far off, hammers pounded metal. And the sun was coming up. The Stillwater workday had started. “We’re almost there.”

  The man stood. “Got a mill near here?”

  “Yes, but that’s the noise of the new prison going up.”

  The man started walking again. “I hope you get your rifle someday.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” said Clement.

  “Let’s get my papers,” said the man.

  “They’re ready,” said Clement. “And the priest’s got some money from the rich man for your trip.”

  “You among some mighty kind folks,” said the man. “Not many like ’em.”

  “I wish they’d give me a gun,” Clement said. “I’d be real brave.”

  When they arrived at the infirmary, Mother St. John welcomed them at the door and quickly shuffled the tall man toward the back. “I don’t mean to be rude, sir,” she said. “But you never know who’s watching. There are some fur trappers in this area who’ve taken up bounty work.”

  “Tha’s all right,” he
said. “You can call me Christmas. That’s my name. Jim Christmas.”

  “We don’t usually share names, sir,” said Mother St. John. “It’s better that way.”

  “Pardon me,” he said.

  “We’re going to get you fed and outfitted for the rest of the journey, which will start tomorrow night if all goes well. The priest has business with the archdiocese in Chicago, and you’ll be riding with him.” She pulled a horse blanket from a shelf and handed it to him. “Seems strange, I know. But we’ve got no way to go direct to Canada from here unless you want to set out on foot. I shouldn’t ask, but Christmas, did you say? Seems familiar, but I can’t quite place it.”

  “How many days walking is it?” he asked.

  “Too many,” she said. As she made up the bed, she explained that she’d made him free papers and that he’d be safe with the priest. She explained how they’d travel to Chicago, and there he’d have to choose. “You can stay there,” she said. “The city’s big enough now, with a large enough free population in which to mingle.” She looked at him to make sure he understood. He nodded. “Or,” she continued, “you can take a boat north to Canada through the Lake Michigan.” He nodded again. “Or,” she went on, “you can venture a bit farther east to Cass County, Michigan, where there’s a city of free Negroes starting up with the help of the Quakers.”

  “Many of us stay here?” he said.

  She sat on the end of the bed. “No. You can take your chances here too, if you want,” she said. “Do you pass? You’re lighter than most.”

  “Nah,” said the man. “Tried that for years. Works for a while, but when the folks find out . . . they mad as wildcats.” He rubbed his jaw and laughed at an old memory, it seemed, then straightened up. “My walk and talk give me away as a Negro.”

  Mother St. John nodded. “We’ve got a small population of free Negroes, fifty or sixty people, maybe. But since you’re new, you’ll attract attention and a lot of questions.”

  The tall man raised his eyes as though he was thinking about the possibility.

  “But,” said Mother St. John, “if I may, you might threaten the business we do here and be injurious then to any others who come here looking for help. The benefactor who funds this process wouldn’t be agreeable to it, I don’t think.”

  The man shifted his weight. “Awfully kind of him, to do this sort of thing.”

  Mother St. John got off the bed and gestured for him to sit. “Well, yes, I suppose it is.” She stiffened a bit at the thought of the benefactor. She’d heard he was a scoundrel, using the system to build his own reputation, betting the country would be crying for freedom in a few years. She’d heard he wanted to be on the right side of that argument. She’d also heard that should he get discovered, he had friends in high and powerful places to help him. She doubted he’d be so generous toward those, such as Big Waters, Father Paul, the whores, the boy, and herself, who did the most dangerous work. “Yes,” she agreed again. “Of course it’s very generous. Sit.”

  He did. “I’ll be on my way.” He lay back. He was so long, his feet hung off the end of the bed. “I been wandering and traveling a long time, and I don’t expect I’ll stop until I find my woman and that child she was having. It’s been so many years, I wonder if I’ll recognize them when I see them.”

  “I wish you luck,” said Mother St. John.

  “Do you know the state of affairs in Mexico and the islands south of the state that they call Floreeda? I surely do not like this cold weather you have here. I hear it snows half the year.”

  “A lot. Yes. But not quite half.”

  “My father was a cowboy and my mama said she lived ten years in Haiti before being brought to America. I think I would like to go to either of those places, should they be agreeable to freedom for all peoples.”

  “I do not know much about the world beyond this small place, I’m afraid. But you can ask the priest tomorrow or the Quakers in a day or two. Perhaps our benefactor could answer some of your questions. He makes quite a few trips to the South and might have better knowledge of the politics there than I do. Someone will surely answer your questions for you. Now I bid you good night, for I must turn out this lamp.”

  “Yes, I understand. Good night and thank you.”

  36

  Davis the Piano Player

  IN JULY OF 1855, a thick, damp heat settled over Stillwater. Davis opened all the windows of the Red Swan Saloon as wide as they’d go, but there was no relieving the heat really, though the open windows did help with the pervasive smell of human sweat and perfume and cat. Davis used sticks to prop the windows open. He put a pitcher of water and glasses on a table next to the door, stood in the doorway, and surveyed the sights. He bent down, selected a shiny stone, and put it under his tongue. Two cats wound around his ankles. He kicked each of them.

  To the south, the St. Croix River lazed along, like a giant gray snake hissing in the heat. A hazy combination of mist and humidity and mosquitoes hung above it. Davis rested his head against the doorjamb and tried to think about something other than the heat. But everything he thought of made him hotter. He was eighteen years old and had his sights set on two things, adventure and Angel Hatterby.

  As if to jolt him from his daydreams, up the dirt path waltzed Mr. Hatterby, the one person, to Davis’s thinking, who best exemplified the type of adventuring life he’d like to lead himself, with fine clothes, important friends, high-philosophizing talk, and coast-to-coast traveling and sightseeing. That he was the father of Angel did also occur to Davis.

  When Davis thought about Angel Hatterby, a blood rush surged to his groin. He spit out the stone and tried to take a deep breath. He wiped the sweat off his forehead.

  “Morning, Davis,” said Hatterby. “Hot enough for you?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Davis. “It sure is hot enough for me. Is it hot enough for you, sir? I mean, are you finding ways to stay cool, sir? I myself was thinking about taking a dip in the river, but I see it’s still quite high and running fierce, and I never did take the time to learn to swim, which was a mistake on my part, sir.” He wondered if Mr. Hatterby could read his mind. Davis worried that his face somehow gave away his thoughts. He put his hand over his mouth and pretended to yawn.

  Don’t ask about Angel, he told himself. Don’t ask about Angel, he repeated in his head. “How’s Angel been these days?” asked Davis.

  Mr. Hatterby untied his neckerchief and sat on the stoop of the Red Swan. “Did you say something, Davis?” he asked. He unlaced his boots.

  “No, sir,” said Davis. “I did not.”

  “I’m going to have Miss Daisy give me a cold bath. Would you fetch the water for me, son?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Davis. “Of course, sir. I will get on it right away.”

  “There’s a nice tip in it for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Start tonking that piano real loud in about a half-hour. Would you, son?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  The piano had been a gift to the Red Swan Saloon from Barton Hatterby. He was a raucous lover and insisted that the piano be playing when he did his business, to drown out the noise. He also donated one to the school where Davis played and sometimes taught music lessons to other children. Mr. Hatterby himself owned the only other piano in town, though neither his wife nor Angel played.

  When he threw parties at his mansion, Mr. Hatterby invited Davis to play, with these cautions: “Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t eat or drink anything. Don’t touch anything but the piano. Don’t ask to be paid. I’ll leave the money at the saloon. Respond with a pleasant smile if spoken to.” Mr. Hatterby appreciated discretion above all else.

  Davis loved playing piano at the Hatterbys’ mansion. Davis loved the white fence around the Hatterbys’ property. He loved the stone staircase that led to the huge wood door, which had a lion’s-head knocker. He loved the yellow paint and the white trim of the house. He loved it that the Hatterbys’ gardener had planted red flowe
rs beneath the windows. Davis imagined himself as king of the Hatterbys’ house. He pictured the maid opening the door to him as he approached, taking his coat from him, and asking him if he wanted a brandy or coffee. And although Davis had never been up the grand staircase, he imagined ascending it, passing the stained glass window, and going to his bedroom up there, where Angel would be waiting for him, where a fire would be burning in the fireplace, where he would lie down next to her.

  While Mr. Hatterby greeted guests and entranced them with his own ideas on abolition, which allowed for maintaining a certain natural hierarchy, while he explained that a certain order could be maintained without enslaving the darker race, Davis stared at Angel. He knew he ought to be interested in Hatterby’s musings. The man was a respected politician who could very well affect Davis’s life, whether he could earn the same wages as a white man, walk on the same sidewalk, sit in the same pew at church, legally marry a white woman. But Davis, wrapped in the cocoon of youth, wherein the fulfillment of every desire feels possible and deserved, thought only of Angel. He was dazed by the light that seemed to radiate from her pale skin. Aside from the natural nerves and follies and hesitations that rack a young man, Davis never considered not loving Angel Hatterby. Perhaps it was his bold mother’s genes or the unrestricted love he received from the women of the Red Swan, but Davis didn’t behave deferentially. He supplicated adults, catered to employers, and bowed to women because he’d been taught to be respectful, not because he was black. He loved Angel Hatterby, and he didn’t feel guilty for it.

  The first time Davis played for a Hatterby soiree, Angel smiled brightly, recognizing him. But her mother had yanked her arm and pulled her into the kitchen, and when Angel emerged, her expression had changed. At first, Davis had been hurt, but then he caught Angel stealing looks at him and he knew she loved him too.

  So he didn’t worry when she avoided him or turned her back to him when she caught him gazing. He grew giddy as the months and then years passed, and she became coy. She stood ever closer to the piano. Sometimes she’d stand next to it and study his hands as he played. She nodded at him, and he wondered. Was it a welcome into her heart? What should he do next? Should he smile or not? Should he pick a song to send a secret message? Which? He tried to think of something romantic, but his fingers began playing “I’ll Be No Submissive Wife” before he could begin something else. He watched and saw Angel mouthing the words to the tune.