by Naomi Finley
My nerves hummed as I slipped Kimie’s apron, which I’d retrieved from the hospital while Ben got his bag, over my head. I tied the strings with clumsy fingers.
“De loudest I ever heard de ’oman.” Joe clutched the pipe between his teeth. “Got herself a set of lungs after all.”
Pete came through the door, breathing heavily and carrying a bucket of water. Joe’s daughter, despite being but a babe herself, jumped up and brought a pot to heat the water while one of his sons stoked the fire.
Ben’s soothing words drifted out to us. “You will be just fine. Deep breaths.”
After the water was heated, I filled a basin and entered the room.
Pete sat by Tillie’s head, mopping pearls of sweat from her brow. She was propped in a half sitting, half lying position, with her head pressed against the wall, her eyes wide with fear. “Missus, you came?” Her voice hitched.
“I was visiting him when Pete arrived.” I nodded at Ben as I walked to the stand under the single window in the room and set the basin down. “I told you when your time came, if you needed me, I’d come.”
Ben rolled up his sleeves and moved to the basin.
“I awful grateful, Missus.” I moved to the side of the bed and perched on the edge, taking her sweaty hand in mine. Pain glazed her eyes, pulling at her face, and with a clenched jaw, she said, “I glad you here.”
I released her hand and rolled back the light gray blanket until her lower body was exposed. Wiping his hands with a cloth, Ben returned, and I switched places with him. He stared at the plank-board wall as he checked her cervix.
Tillie winced, and tears glistened on her cheeks. “I can’t do dis.” She peered up at Pete.
I’d made the same announcement during the hours I labored. “You will get through this. And the pain will fade from memory,” I said.
“I wish Mama was here.” Her hands twisted the blanket. Sara had passed on last year; died in her sleep.
“It appears this baby is determined to come tonight.” Ben removed his hand. “It will be crowning soon.” He fumbled through the medical bag at his feet.
“So soon?” I gawked at Ben, then at Tillie. “How long have you been having contractions?”
“De pain started dis mornin’ when I was down at de river, washing.” Tillie gritted her teeth and pushed her head back against the wall to brace herself.
“This morning?” I said, flabbergasted. “And you never said anything?” I recalled how, after her return from the river, she’d seemed pale and winded, but I’d chalked it up to the journey back. “You should have said something, but instead you spent the afternoon in the washhouse.” I balled a fist on my hip. “Did you seek to give birth on the washhouse floor?”
Tillie shook her head. “I don’t reckon so. I thought de pain would pass. Masa Hendricks said I ain’t due for another few weeks.”
I bit down to keep the rebuke at her foolishness on the tip of my tongue. We didn’t need any more deaths at Livingston—we’d suffered enough loss. “Babies don’t abide by anyone’s timing—”
Tillie opened her mouth and screamed as another contraction hit.
I took the cloth from Pete and dipped it into the pitcher of tepid water on the floor by the bed before handing it back.
Tillie’s contractions came harder and closer together, and soon the wail of a babe filled the cabin.
“You have a healthy boy.” Ben wiped a hand over the baby’s face to clear the birth matter, then gave him a quick but thorough check-over before laying him on Tillie’s breasts.
Tears pooled, and my chest rose and fell with an outpouring of happiness. The babe was healthy, and I’d wanted nothing more.
After the pulsation of the umbilical cord ceased, Ben tied a small strip of cloth to the navel rope. I handed him scissors, and he cut the cord. While he attended Tillie and the afterbirth, I took the babe to cleanse the vernix from his body.
As I bathed his tiny, slippery body, I marveled at the warmth and velvety feel of his flesh. An appreciation for life and its frailty stirred in me. “I wish you had been born free,” I whispered to the child. “May you grow into a man who recognizes your worth. I pray that one day you’ll know freedom. And may your children and grandchildren be born into a world where slavery is only something historians write about.” I wrapped the babe in a clean white blanket and kissed his forehead before handing him back to Tillie. “He’s perfect. I’m delighted for you both.”
Tillie beamed. “Many thanks, Missus.”
Ben and I finished caring for mother and babe, collected our things, and exited the cabin. As we walked along, I looked at the glittering grains embellishing the dark velvet draped overhead and thought of Tillie’s blessing. Although I’d tried to control my emotions all evening, I ached for the loss of my son. My thoughts turned to Bowden’s and my future. Would life grant us a child of our own?
Ben broke through my thoughts. “You did good tonight.”
“You did all right yourself,” I said as we came to the fork in the path that led to the main house. “Hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow?” He nodded. “All right, good night.” I kissed each of his cheeks and turned to leave.
He clutched my arm. “Willow.”
I hesitantly turned back. I’d noticed him contemplating me all evening, and dreaded what he was about to ask. I looked up at him.
“Are you all right?” He searched my face for answers.
Was I? No. I’d spent months pretending for those around me that I was healing from my loss—not for my sake, but theirs. The birth of Tillie’s baby expanded the gap of loss in my chest.
I failed to stop the tears that came next as he gathered me into his arms. Burying my cheek into his shoulder, I sobbed, soaking up the comfort of his embrace. He allowed me to cry without the need to soothe me with words, and for that I was grateful. When I pulled back, I blotted my face and patted his chest. “Thank you.”
“Get some rest. If you are up to it, I will meet you on the back veranda before the house rises for a morning coffee.”
My heart danced, and the sadness departed for now. “Truly? But…your responsibilities.”
“Helen’s rheumatism isn’t going to change in an hour of quality time spent with my favorite person.”
“The only person you give a moment of your time to,” I said with a laugh.
He rolled his eyes toward the heavens. “Don’t start. I’m perfectly content with the way things are.”
“If you say so.” I waved a hand in the air and marched on toward the house, all the while contemplating what type of woman would shake him out of the complacent life he’d fooled himself into believing made him happy. I’d tired of Bowden’s and Ben’s whining over my intruding into his private affairs. What did men know about love, anyhow? A wife was just the thing he needed.
“I mean it, Willow!” he shouted to be heard above the wind.
I grinned. We’ll see about that!
“GET YOUR PAPER.” THE NEWSBOY waved a folded newspaper in the air. “Runaway arrested in Oberlin. Read all about it.”
Whitney and I exited our carriage, and at the news, we regarded each other with concern. Every time I heard a fugitive had been apprehended, I feared for those who had passed through our hands.
“Here, boy, I’ll take one,” Whitney said.
The freckle-faced newsboy stopped and held out a grimy hand, awaiting a coin. Whitney withdrew a coin from the drawstring purse hanging from her wrist and shoved it into his hand. “Enjoy your paper, ma’am.” He handed her the newspaper and bounded off. “Get your paper. Runaway…”
“Does it say who it is?” I asked as she flipped open the Charleston Mercury and I regarded the bold heading: Fugitive Apprehended in Oberlin.
It went on to say a federal marshal had captured a runaway named Henry from Kentucky, who’d taken on the alias John Price.
“Isn’t Oberlin an abolitionist town?” Whitney asked.
“Yes.” I thought of our contacts in nearby Wel
lington, a farmer and his wife.
Whitney folded the paper. “To think what one must feel to have a taste of freedom only to be plucked back into bondage. I can’t begin to imagine.”
How could we relate? We witnessed slavery every day; slaves working in our fields and managing our homes was the backdrop of our reality. Although sentiment for the rights of the Negroes thumped in our breasts, we couldn’t begin to comprehend a life of being prodded into position or beaten into submission until your intelligence became stagnated—all because a master prohibited you from thinking for yourself. Your voice snuffed out. Hope extinguished. No, as much as we tried, all we’d witnessed, and the stories told to us, we could never truly understand the horrors and grievous treatment inflicted on the Negroes, or the discrimination shown to freed blacks. As a society, we’d become numb to the audacity that characterized our world.
Hadn’t history spoken of humans’ desire for supremacy over the weak? Humans had enslaved the vulnerable for thousands of years: the Greeks’ preference for women and child slaves to perform domestic work; the Hebrews, Rome’s gladiators killed in the arenas; their slaves worked to death while mining gold and silver. Vikings raiding Britain and auctioning off their captives. The Aboriginals. Irish immigrants. The Atlantic Slave Trade. Would I ever behold the dissolution of humanity’s need to hold people in bondage?
“Willow?” Whitney snapped her fingers in front of my face.
I shook my head and focused on her frowning face.
“Are you all right? You seemed to be on a journey of your own.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, if we are to meet Julia and her husband at the train station, we must make haste.” Whitney popped open her parasol.
Despite my delight in seeing Julia, my mind lingered on the captured slave. He’d been free, only to be dragged back to the plantation of his master. I thought of the utter despair he had to have felt. I recalled Eliza’s escape in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, a book I’d read some years prior, and the risk she’d taken to gain her freedom. And Harriet Tubman, the Negroes’ Moses, and her persistent bravery in raiding plantations to free her people. Then I thought of the lives enslaved at Livingston. Like the slave masters before me, would I, too, be remembered throughout history as another human who thirsted for power? Such depressing thoughts were suffocating.
News spread of John Price’s rescue by a group of abolitionists who barged into the hotel in Wellington and found him in the attic. They returned him to Oberlin, then on to Canada. Two men named Bushnell and Langston were charged with violating the Fugitive Slave Act and would soon face the federal courts for their involvement in the incident.
“What has captured your thoughts?” Mary Grace asked as she entered my chamber with a freshly pressed gown.
I closed the book I’d been trying to read all morning; I’d turned only a page or two. “It’s nothing.”
She arched a brow as she walked to the bed and laid the plum taffeta gown across it. “It didn’t appear to be nothing.”
I stood and pulled back the curtain to look down over the grounds. “We all envision a day when slavery is part of the past, but I fear at what cost freedom will come to those I love, both black and white. Politics have divided our nation and placed invisible borders between us, and there isn’t a thing we womenfolk can do about it.”
“Mr. Barlow says if it continues this way, there will surely be a war.”
I surmised she referred to the younger Barlow—I’d witnessed several interactions between them since his arrival a year or so ago. I released the curtain and turned to examine her. “I can’t help but notice how Magnus seeks you out when he comes to Livingston, and the humming that follows you the rest of the day.”
She lowered her gaze and turned to busy herself with smoothing the fabric of the gown on the bed, but not before I saw the rosiness creeping into her cheeks. “You imagine things.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“And I thought we were friends,” I said with a huff.
“We are.”
I walked to the seat. “True friendship is built on transparency and trust, no?”
“All right, yes, on Mr. Barlow’s visits, we have had conversations.”
“About courtship?” I sat taller, my body leaning toward her as I sought to pluck every last delicious detail from her.
“Have you lost your mind?” She feigned a scowl, foreign to her gentle spirit.
I rolled my eyes at her endeavor to mask the seriousness of their relationship. My eyes hadn’t deceived me. There’d been a particular incident I’d spied on from the music room window. Magnus had come to see Bowden about obtaining bricks to replace crumbling ones in the laundry house. That day, Mary Grace strolled up the path from the river with a basket of wet linens balancing on her head. Noah and Sailor had accompanied her that morning to play in the river. They skipped along beside her, lost in happy chatter. Magnus dismounted, wearing a grand smile, and strode to greet them.
At the sight of him, Mary Grace stopped in her tracks, appearing flustered. She spun and hurried to the veranda, leaving him to gawk after her. Not to be dissuaded, he hurried forward, halting her at the door.
“Good morning, Mary Grace.”
She closed her eyes and heaved a sigh before swinging to face him, resting the basket on her hip. “Good morning to you, Mr. Barlow.”
“Mama.” Noah clambered up the steps. “Sailor and I want to go fishing. Grandpa is busy with his tasks, and you said yesterday when your tasks were done you’d take me.” Sailor looked on with anticipation.
Mary Grace wiped a hand over her brow. “I know. Perhaps this evening. I’ve got plenty to do today.” Disappointment had shone in Noah’s face. “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll do my best.” She tried to sound cheerful, to no avail.
“Maybe someone else can take us?” Noah brightened at the thought.
“Everyone is busy with the harvest. Fishing will have to wait.”
“I could take them.” Magnus rested his boot on the bottom step.
The boys spun to look at him before exchanging a glance of pure delight.
“No,” Mary Grace said a bit too loudly, then softened her tone. “What I mean to say is, we appreciate your offer, but we can manage. Boys, go play with the other children.”
Heads hanging and arms slack at their sides, they obeyed. Mary Grace bid Magnus a good day and entered the house. I raced back to my chair and tried to look nonchalant.
“I mean it.” Mary Grace pulled my attention to the present moment. “Save your intrusive matchmaking for Mr. Hendricks.”
“Fine.” I put my hands up in surrender. Mary Grace could guard her heart, but Magnus had fallen in love with her.
“I almost forgot to tell you. A letter came for you and Master Bowden.” She retrieved an envelope from her apron waistband. “I meant to give it to you yesterday evening, but I found ya’ll…well…indisposed.”
Heat invaded my cheeks.
I recalled Mary Grace as a girl of eight or so, relating to me what occurred between lovers. She had witnessed two slaves copulating in the barn and raced to my chamber to describe the ghastly sight. After she’d finished, we sat together on my bed and made a pact that we would never disrobe in front of a man or let them touch our bodies. Nor would we giggle and carry on as shamefully as the woman had, acting as though the deed gave pleasure. I smiled at our innocence.
“I thought it best to wait for morn.” Merriment danced in her eyes. Gentle spirit? I think not! My dearest friend didn’t always play fair.
I snatched the letter from her outstretched hand and tore it open. It read:
My dearest brother and wife,
I hope this letter finds you well. I believe it’s been far too long since I’ve seen you both and I’ve decided to come to Charleston for a visit. If I can tie up my affairs here in Texas, I hope to join you this Christmas season.
With greatest affections,
Stone
I folded the letter and held it to my heart.
“What does he say?” Mary Grace eyed me with curiosity.
I smiled. “Look who’s guilty of intruding now.”
She laughed. “Fine, you win. But I still want to know.”
“He says he’s coming to Charleston and will be joining us for Christmas.” My mind raced with excitement. All thoughts of pairing up Mary Grace and Magnus were swept away by hope for the holiday season.
THE JOY OF CHRISTMAS RANG from every corner of Livingston, and with the social season upon us, preparations for our yearly banquet had begun. The aroma of roasting venison and baking pies wafted from the kitchen house, where Mammy and Mary Grace carried on the mother and daughter tradition of weeks of cooking for the upcoming festivities.
The scent of evergreen drifted through the house from the cedar boughs, bayberry, and holly draping mantels, tables, and doorframes. In the front parlor, I hummed “Jingle Bells”—a new Christmas carol—as I balanced on a chair, decorating the tree with the dried-fruit garland Tillie held. Her son sat on a blanket on the floor, grunting, a chubby hand outstretched, trying to reach the popcorn, lemon, and orange garlands slung over a nearby chair. Weeks prior, Tillie and I had painstakingly threaded each piece.
“Sho’ is a big tree,” Tillie said.
I straightened and regarded the tree with satisfaction. “Isn’t it perfect?”
“I wonder ef other white folkses got one so grand.”
“Bowden said it takes up too much space, but he resolved in our first year of marriage to let me be in charge of the season.”
Tillie laughed. “I reckon dat ain’t de only thing de masa let you be in charge of.”
“I’ve settled into marriage quite well, don’t you think?”
“Got more say den most white ’omen I seed. But Masa Bowden got a special love for you lak he did his mama. Got to admire a man dat speaks of his mama so highly.”
I paused and thought about what she said. “Yes, it is an admirable thing, isn’t it?” I leaned forward and wrapped the garland around the tree.
