“Oh, Ailey! You just don’t know! I never thought—”
“—I have cleaned this office from top to bottom. And it was a lot of work. I cried, several times. Like, sobs.”
“I’m so sorry, Ailey.”
“It’s fine. But now that I’ve gotten everything clean, please don’t come back with more office supplies. Please, Jesus. My nerves can’t take it.”
She cackled. “Ailey, you sound like an old lady!”
That was the day she paid me. She placed my monthly check in a cream-colored “Routledge College” envelope, sealed it, and handed it to me, telling me, be sure to leave early so I could catch the bank. I didn’t want to open it in front of her, so I waited until I was in my car. Inside the envelope was a personal check for four hundred and sixty-four dollars. On the enclosed note, she’d written that she didn’t know how to calculate a half cent, so she’d rounded up the mileage reimbursement to thirty-three cents a mile.
When I arrived back in Chicasetta, I stopped first at the bank and deposited the money in the account Uncle Root had opened in my name. Then I drove to the Pig Pen and used my checkbook to buy groceries: a raw chicken, instant oatmeal, a head of garlic, soul food seasoning mix, two loaves of whole wheat bread, butter, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, salad dressing, and a quart of chocolate-chip ice cream. I carried that out to the car, then decided to go back and buy a gallon of milk, a pint of heavy cream, a half gallon of orange juice, and a twelve-pack of toilet paper.
When I walked into his house toting my plastic grocery bags, the old man was on the settee, reading. I told him that I’d be buying groceries every week. I knew I couldn’t cover everything, but I wanted to contribute something. He nodded, inquired about our dinner menu, and went back to reading his book.
After four months of working for Dr. Oludara, her research office was finally organized. No longer were there unlabeled boxes with unfiled articles tossed inside, books sitting on the floor, or plastic bags of unopened office supplies crowding the closet, but she hadn’t gotten used to the sight of order. Every time she knocked on the door and entered, she marveled at what I had done. How I had helped so much, because her book project was so complicated.
She hadn’t intended to write a book on the largest slave auction in the history of the United States, an event that had taken place in Savannah, just a two-and-a-half-hour drive away. Scholars called it “the weeping time,” because of all the enslaved Black families that had been separated. Initially, Dr. Oludara’s project had been for more personal reasons. She’d only wanted to compile a family history on her ancestor, the slave woman her father had named her for. All anybody in the family knew was that the ancestor had been called Mother Belinda, and that she’d talked about the weeping time auction until the day she died. When Dr. Oludara had started doing her research on her ancestor, she’d become interested in the four hundred other enslaved folks who had been sold during the auction as well. She’d known about that auction since graduate school. But now it was personal.
It made Dr. Oludara curious about where those other folks had gone, especially since her ancestor’s two children had been sold from her at the auction. And though Dr. Oludara knew her search for those children would be fruitless, she hadn’t stopped looking. She’d framed her book outline as a story of her own family, interwoven with the larger, public history of the auction and what became of some of the other enslaved folks sold there. And maybe another pair of eyes could help her. And since I’d been so great at organizing her research, could I stay on and maybe reread some of the materials? She’d already done the reading herself, but after seven years of research, she was so close to the material; she wanted a pair of young, fresh eyes.
I looked at her bookshelves. There were at least seventy books on those shelves, and at least a hundred articles that I’d filed.
“Um . . . I’d have to think about that. I’m not trained for this kind of work. And, you know, I might be going back to the City soon.”
“Really? I thought you were staying here for a while. That’s what Dr. Hargrace told me.”
At home, I told the old man I was not an indentured servant. He couldn’t loan me out to his friends however he felt like it. And those articles were too dense for me. I’d cracked a couple open, and they were worse than my college biology textbooks.
“There’s a way to read them, sugarfoot. I can show you, if you like. It’s a magic trick.”
“You mean, how you tricked me to take this damned job as a research assistant?”
“Oh, no, sugarfoot. That was basic manipulation.”
The next morning, I called Dr. Oludara’s office on campus. If she still wanted me to work for her, I could start on reading her materials. But with respect, I would need a raise. She asked, how about twenty-five more dollars a week? I told her that sounded fine to me.
* * *
During the summers, Routledge didn’t offer classes. The campus was closed to students from the third week of May until the first week of August. I let myself into the faculty office building and listened to the quiet. I knocked on Dr. Oludara’s door and told her that I was headed to work. She answered that she was working herself. I whispered, afraid to break the quiet. She told me she would let me work in private, but when I got back home, don’t forget to shower and pray before bed. Put on something white or light.
“Don’t forget, okay? And if any research ideas come up, call me, even if it’s late. Don’t worry about the time. If you don’t want to call, just write it down. Remember, I need fresh eyes.”
She had left typed notes for me, telling me where the white side of the story had started. It was easier to start with that side; unlike African Americans, white people had decent records. Their names, their birthplaces and dates. Sometimes even the color of their hair and eyes. Dr. Oludara had put a copy of a diary on the office table, written by an actress known as Frances Anne “Fanny” Kemble. She was the Englishwoman who had been married to Pierce Mease Butler, a slaveholder who’d been so wealthy he’d owned an island that carried his last name.
When Mrs. Butler aka Fanny went to live with her American husband, she was so appalled and disgusted by the way he’d treated the Black folks of Butler Island she’d left him, but she’d also kept a diary of the human offenses she’d witnessed. Mr. Butler wasn’t only cruel to his slaves: after his divorce, Mr. Butler sued for and gained custody of their daughters. He thought that would be the end of his trouble with his English ex-wife, but in 1863, fifteen years after their divorce, his ex-wife published her diary during the Civil War, under her maiden name. But even before its publication, manuscripts of her diary had privately circulated for some years. Mr. Butler’s reputation in the north had been permanently damaged, as the news of his brutality toward his slaves spread among abolitionist circles. Abolitionists added Mr. Butler’s name to the growing pile of evidence of slavery’s evils, a hill already built by narratives published in the north by escaped slaves. But Mr. Butler’s name was damaged even further: he’d been very bad with money, and in 1859, he sold at auction over four hundred of the enslaved Black folks who’d lived as one community on Butler Island. One village on an isolated island off the coast of Georgia was destroyed in the auction called “the weeping time.”
Beside the diary, Dr. Oludara had included a copy of the original newspaper article about the auction, written by a dude with the most ridiculous name ever, Q. K. Philander Doesticks. And though Fanny Kemble’s journal hadn’t yet been published officially—that wouldn’t happen until four years later—apparently, Mr. Doesticks had seen a private copy of the diary, because he called his article “a sequel to Mrs. Kemble’s Journal.” He had been at the auction and had witnessed the group of over four hundred enslaved people waiting for their fate. At the auction, these people had been broken into parcels of four or five enslaved folks. But Mr. Doesticks had focused on individual, personal stories of the Black folks who would be sold, like that of Jeffrey and Dorcas.
Jeffrey, chat
tel No. 319, marked as a “prime cotton hand,” aged 23 years, was put up. Jeffrey being a likely lad, the competition was high. The first bid was $1,100, and he was finally sold for $1,310. Jeffrey was sold alone; he had no encumbrance in the shape of an aged father or mother, who must necessarily be sold with him; nor had he any children, for Jeffrey was not married. But Jeffrey, chattel No. 319, being human in his affections, had dared to cherish a love for Dorcas, chattel No. 278; and Dorcas, not having the fear of her master before her eyes, had given her heart to Jeffrey. Whether what followed was a just retribution on Jeffrey and Dorcas, for daring to take such liberties with their master’s property as to exchange hearts, or whether it only goes to prove that with black as with white the saying holds, that “the course of true love never did run smooth,” cannot now be told. Certain it is that these two lovers were not to realize to consummation of their hopes in happy wedlock. Jeffrey and Dorcas had told their loves, had exchanged their simple vows, and were betrothed, each to the other as dear, and each by the other as fondly beloved as though their skins had been of fairer color. And who shall say that, in the sight of Heaven and all holy angels, these two humble hearts were not as closely wedded as any two of the prouder race that call them slaves?
Be that as it may, Jeffrey was sold. He finds out his new-master; and hat in hand, the big tears standing in his eyes, and his voice trembling with emotion, he stands before that master and tells his simple story, praying that his betrothed may be bought with him. . . .
On my drive back to Chicasetta, I stopped at the Cluck-Cluck Hut and bought a family-size bucket of chicken with biscuits, and three orders of fries. Uncle Root didn’t fuss at me when I ate too much at supper. He only laughed, saying I sure was going to sleep well with all that food in my system. I was so hungry that I ate until my stomach hurt. As the old man had predicted, I went to bed early.
In an hour, I awoke, heart jumping. I felt my stomach roil. I ran to the bathroom, closed the door, and quickly stepped out of my pajama pants. I didn’t want to piss on them when the vomiting started. The next wave of nausea came over me, and then another, and when I kneeled in front of the toilet, the air rushed out with a high sound. Another wave, and a scream hit, before I hurriedly covered my mouth.
I don’t know how long I stayed on the floor, waiting for vomiting that never came. Rocking and patting my arms. I don’t know what time it was when I called Dr. Oludara.
“I know it’s late, but something’s wrong—”
“—you didn’t shower and pray, did you, Ailey?”
“No, ma’am.”
“But I told you to do that.”
“I know, Dr. Oludara. I’m so sorry.”
She told me, no need to apologize. But go ahead and take that shower now, and if I had some light-colored pajamas, put them on. She’d hold the line. She promised she wouldn’t hang up. Then we’d pray together.
You Can Be Proud
In late July, Dr. Oludara asked, did I want to take a road trip? It was her last week of freedom before she had to start prepping for classes. She’d visited the site before but wanted to hear my impressions.
When I hung up the phone, I pretended to Uncle Root that I was annoyed by the intrusion on my free time, but I was excited. I went through my clothes and found Dear Pearl’s old yellow-and-white dress but left her heels in my trunk. I found some white flats, dusting them inside with baby powder. Then I called Miss Rose’s and asked for Mama, who had come back down that summer. Could she come to town and stay with the old man, in case I was held up overnight? I had to take a business trip. I felt so much satisfaction as Mama repeated that phrase, raising her voice in a question: Business trip?
It was a three-hour drive in Dr. Oludara’s car from campus to the plantation, one that had housed three enslaved women who had been sold at the weeping time auction. The highway narrowed as we drove away from campus. We wouldn’t be taking the interstate, Dr. Oludara told me. We’d have to take the back roads.
About an hour into our journey, she stopped to get gas and returned with a packet of peanuts and two grease-stained packs. Did I want a fried pie? She had no intention of starving me, she said. We’d eat on the way back, but there were some sandwiches she’d made in the cooler. She reached in the back seat into the small cooler and pulled out a bottle of cola. Before she opened the door of the car, she told me, don’t judge her, please. Then she held the cola out of the door and dropped half of the peanuts into the bottle. The liquid bubbled up, and she slurped at it.
The plantation that we visited was small and separated from the rest of the town. The guide told us that the owner’s descendants had sold off all but twenty-five acres of the land. The property was owned by the state of Georgia now, including the house. It was huge and built in the Greek Revival style. The guide was an elderly white man with a thick head of white hair that would have made the old man envious. He was tall and thin, with a blue polo shirt tucked into khaki pants that were pulled up several inches above his natural waist. He told us that he was a retired history professor, and an expert on antebellum architecture.
There were no other guests on the tour, only Dr. Oludara and me, but our guide’s voice was loud, his laughter timed with the amused tone of his statements. This house had been built in 1841. The original size of the property had been seven hundred and fifteen acres. Then the owner had sold off five hundred of his acres to a Yankee carpetbagger after the Civil War. Don’t be fooled by the thick green lawn at the back of the house—right there had been a man-made pond that the owner had stocked with trout. And the columns on the front of the house? They had been chiseled out of whole trees and painted to look like stone, because the owner lied to his neighbors about the columns and told them that’s what they were made of. It was only a hundred years later, when the state took over the plantation, that the truth of the columns was revealed.
“Thank goodness the termites hadn’t eaten through them,” our guide declared dramatically. “There was some chemical in the plaster and paint used to cover the wood that poisoned the termites. I can’t tell you what it is, though. I’ve been trying for years, but nobody knows what it was. Probably some secret of the Indians!”
I’d brought a small notebook and scribbled my impressions. I leaned close to but did not touch the shiny emerald-green fabric that covered the walls of the plantation house. I counted the number of steps to the second floor. I noted that the portraits of the master and his children showed dark hair and eyes and wrote down that perhaps that meant Native American blood. I leaned and peered at the furniture in the parlor. What kind of wood? Cherry or walnut? It was too dark to be oak.
The tour took an hour. By the time it was over, the pits of my sundress were soaked with sweat. The house had not been altered, and there was no air-conditioning. And I had several mosquito bites, one in the middle of my back. Our guide thanked us for coming and led us to the front hallway, where our tour had started. He invited us to sign the guest book and offered to sell us postcards with scenes from the plantation as it would have looked before the Civil War. Also, there was a booklet with information about the architecture, and how the plantation had escaped Sherman’s March to the Sea during the Civil War. The original property was located too far inland and surrounded on three sides by a river that the soldiers had not wanted to cross. The owner had burned the bridge that crossed the river.
“Are there any other buildings on this property?” Dr. Oludara asked.
“There’s the old kitchen house, but it’s closed for renovations. That will be opening next year for tours.”
“Any other buildings?”
“Well, there’s the quarters.” Our guide waved his hand. “But those are further back in the woods.”
“Aren’t they part of the tour?”
“Technically, yes, but I refuse to go back there. They’re practically falling down. I don’t know why the state hasn’t destroyed them. They’re a real safety hazard.”
“I know how busy you are, so ju
st a couple more questions. Who was living here before the owner took over the property?”
“Oh, nobody! He was the first owner.”
“But what about the Indians?”
“Oh, them. Well, they left. After the Removal and all that.”
I made a noise, and Dr. Oludara grabbed my hand. She asked, how many slaves were owned here? After a long pause, our guide told her, there had been thirty-nine people who labored on the plantation. They all had been treated exceptionally well.
“This house was built by slave labor, no?” Dr. Oludara asked.
Our guide’s blue eyes twinkled. “Oh yes! And you can be very proud of that, can’t you? That your Negro people built this wonderful place!”
I caught my breath loudly, and Dr. Oludara squeezed my hand several times, an emotional Morse code: Keep it together.
“Is it all right if we walk to the quarters?” she asked.
“Surely, but I must warn you that any injuries incurred are your own responsibility. Thank you so much for visiting Moss Road Plantation.”
Our guide smiled brightly, and then he left us at the entrance.
Dr. Oludara and I didn’t have that long of a walk. The quarters weren’t deep in the woods, only fifty or sixty yards away from the plantation house. The three cabins were huddled together, a few paces between each. There was a plaque in front, telling us that the thirty-nine slaves who had worked the fields of Moss Road Plantation had lived in these three cabins. Perhaps as many as fourteen individuals had crowded into each structure, living and sleeping in one room.
The first and second cabins were empty. Nothing on the walls or the floor, though light peeked in through tiny holes in the wood planks. The stone fireplace took up most of the north wall. The third cabin had furniture, such as it was. There was a rope bed with no mattress, and a chair with the bottom missing. Propped against the stone hearth was a large pot that would have been black, if it had not been covered in rust.
The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois Page 56
