The Girl in the Maze

by R. K. Jackson

  Martha thought back, remembered her view from the window of her room at the Pritchett House. Squares of shell-encrusted stone, overgrown with grass.

  “Mistah Clyde’s was a grand place, for true. A big empty mansion, but like the owner, it was a little bit formal and cold. That place had yet to know the commotions of family life.”

  “Did he have a wife?” Martha asked.

  Albertha nodded. “She were a moonface gal name of Abigail Thomas. Hair like goldenrod. Weren’t but sixteen year when she was sent over to become his lawfully lady. He wanted someone to help oversee the affairs of the household while he managed the crops, and also to take away his loneliness.

  “Well, from the git-go Mistah Clyde and Mistress Abigail didn’t mix together so good. That gal was a wildflower. Orphan child, whose parents was took by the yellow fever. She like to flash ’bout alltime, make trouble. And Mistah Clyde, he was jes the opposite. He was a fussy and orderly man, and their differences caused them to fight like roosters in a pit.

  “But they had one thing in common—all two wanted children more than anything on this Earth. They wanted to fill that great big house with laughter and games and tears and joy. But two years crawled by, and them wishes went unanswered. Some folks say that bout with yellow fever had left Mistress Abigail for barren. That would happen sometime, in that day.

  “So there Mistah Clyde was, stuck with a gal-child he cherished but could not tame. And Mistress Abigail was bored and lonely and no-account.

  “And then come along this other problem I mention earlier, that slave name of Sattu Grundei. A slave Mistah Clyde could neither sell nor keep. His very presence in the fields inspired acts of mischief and gummed up the workings of Tarrant Plantation. Mistah Clyde had tried everything, but it became clear that Sattu’s spirit and power could not be broken by the whip, or by confinement, or any of those ways that slave owners used in that day to racktify hope and replace it with blind obedience.

  “Now, for all that, Mistah Tarrant weren’t an especially mean man, nor a cruel man. He was jes practical. So, what to do with this valuable piece of property for which he’d spent top dollar at the Savannah auction, but had brought nothing but trouble to his fields?” Albertha paused.

  “I don’t know,” Martha said.

  “I’ll tell you what he did. One day he come home after a day of supervising the harvest, bone-weary, and his lawfully lady had got into a game of sticks and balls with several of the young slave children. She done got herself filthy playing with them in the yard, and the housekeepers were sittin’ by, watching and laughing. Meanwhile, things had not got done in the big house. The cook fire had gone out, the wash weren’t done. They say Mistah Clyde was mighty het up that day, looked like he might explode. But he didn’t. Instead, Mistah Clyde got hisself a plan.”

  Outside, the wind roared like an engine. Martha heard something thump and rattle against the wall.

  “Afternoon next, the great house staff was all brung together in the main parlor for an announcement. Mistress Abigail was there, and so was Maum Libby and Daddy Major. Them two was head servants of that household. Now, Daddy Major was Mistah Clyde’s most loyal slave. But Mistah Clyde told them that Daddy Major was gettin’ up there in years, and soon it would be time for him to retire. And Mistah Clyde had done picked out a replacement. Then two of his strongest slaves brung Sattu Grundei into the room. Sattu was all cleaned up from the fields, dressed in trousers and a waistcoat. Mistah Clyde said he was promotin’ Sattu to the highest position a slave could aspire to on a plantation, that of head servant. Same-time, he said, Mistress Abigail would have a new role—she would teach Sattu how to run the big house, with oversight by Daddy Major. Sattu would become her new project.

  “Now, you might think that was a mighty big risk for Clyde Tarrant, bringing a man like Sattu into his household. But he had two of his strongest and most loyal slaves there alltime, to watch over the training and make sure there weren’t no trouble. And he figured Sattu might settle down once he was taken away from the misery of the fields.

  “As you might expect, this here project did not go smoothly at first. There was broken dishes and arguments and outright stubbornness. But it weren’t too long before everybody got themselves wound up in the task, good-fashion. And for the first time since he had arrived on this new soil, Sattu started to play ball. Because now, you see, he had a window into the world of the white folks. He could learn their ways, find out about their inventions. With enough knowledge, he figured, he could get the high hand.

  “Of course, learning the basics of table settings and household management weren’t nothin’ for Sattu. That was taken care of quick-fashion. But Sattu had a powerful mind that was hungry for knowledge, so he asked ’nuff questions, and Abigail fixed answers, as best she could. He was curious about how clocks worked, and what made the water flow easy from the spigots, the inner workings of sewing machines, kerosene lamps, and the like. But most of all he was curious about books. Come about, he persuaded Mistress Abigail to take one of the volumes from the glass case in the parlor, and show him the words and pictures.

  “Mistress Abigail also took down Mistah Clyde’s atlas and showed Sattu all the maps. She showed him the shape of Africa, his homeland, and the route the ship had taken ’cross the sea to bring him to this new land. He would point to the tiny words in the pages of the book, and even though so doing was to break the law, she told him their secret meanings.

  “Pretty soon, Sattu persuaded Mistress Abigail to start having private sessions. She would teach him in the parlor, in the middle of the day, behind closed doors, when Mistah Clyde was out managing the business of the plantation. ’Course, this weren’t no secret to the big house staff, who would alltime listen at the door, ears pressed against the wood. But they all kept their mouths closed, even Daddy Major, who gave every day reports to Mistah Clyde about the occurrences of that household. And Sattu and Mistress Abigail both came to enjoy their sessions in that parlor, with Sattu learnin’ new things and Abigail delightin’ in his progress.

  “So the weeks wore on, and Mistah Clyde noticed the progress that was bein’ made. Calm and focus had returned to the fields, but even more so Mistah Clyde noticed a change in his lawfully lady. For the first time, Mistress Abigail seemed happy. Part of him felt that maybe this project had gone too far—maybe she getting too caught up with Sattu. But he had his everyday reports from Daddy Major, and she was more loving, more passionate with him in bed than ever before. Mistah Clyde even began to have hope that she might finally beget a child for him.”

  Lady Albertha paused to tap out her pipe and began to refill the bowl from a leather pouch hanging from her neck. The rafters overhead groaned and sighed. The storm sucked at the roof with each passing blast of wind. Martha wondered if Carlos would at any moment wrench the roof asunder. But Albertha seemed calm, implacable.

  “And she did, didn’t she?” Martha asked.

  “Yes, they sure enough got themselves a child. But this story ain’t gon’ have no happy ending. That was the twisted nature of them days. Slavery was disease that poisoned everything it touched. It could turn joy into sadness, and goodness into evil.”

  Chapter 37

  Morris clenched the Maglite between his teeth and grabbed the psychologist’s ankles and dragged the near-headless body along the slick pavement toward the edge of the street.

  The doctor never knew what hit him. The discharge from a Remington Model 8 at close range was messy, but once again nature was helping him out here, with the deluge washing his scattered brain and body fluids into the curb drains. Morris gave the body a shove with the heel of his boot and it rolled down the embankment and stopped in a shallow ditch. He could deal with the remains later, but at least Dr. Do-Right was out of sight. Now he had a whole new problem to deal with.

  Morris went back to his car and turned on the external spotlight. His hand was shaking violently, so he had trouble finding the switch. He got the thing turned on and swiveled
it toward the far side of the street, panning slowly. The sheets of rain swallowed the beam so that it barely caught the dark storefronts. He swept the street again. Panic was clutching at his throat. The girl could be standing ten feet away and he might miss her.

  He turned off the light, got back into the cruiser, and shut the door. He yanked off his poncho hood. A gust of wind howled along the side of the SUV.

  What now? The body he could deal with. Plenty of options there. But that girl—she was crazy all right; about as crazy as a fox in a chicken house. He had let her slip through his fingers again, and this time there was no chance in hell….

  Don’t throw in the towel yet, Morris thought. You think you’re so damn smart. Prove it. Don’t panic. Think.

  He leaned his head against the steering wheel. Rain dripped from his hair onto the dash.

  Unless the girl was a complete psycho—and he knew she wasn’t, not at all—right now she would be trying to find shelter, someplace to hide. But Bay Street offered few options. Everything was boarded up tighter than a drum.

  Where would she go? He needed to calm down and think. What did he know about her? She was misunderstood, not really the person people thought she was. He could relate to that. Morris reflected on the few interactions they’d had. There was the time she came to visit him. What did he learn about her then? She was bright, but not too confident. He closed his eyes and visualized what she’d been wearing that day. He strained to focus his mind, to conjure the image: Jeans. Practical shoes—flats, beige. A white, button-up blouse. Jewelry? Just a couple of stud earrings. Nothing else. But on the blouse…

  Morris sat up. Son of a bitch. Of course. It was plain as day.

  He reached back, slid the poncho hood back over his head. He grabbed the Remington off the seat beside him. He took a deep breath, opened the car door, and ventured back into the rain.

  Chapter 38

  Albertha settled back into her rocker. “Sattu was changed, calmed, you see, because he was learning. He had formed a bond with Mistress Abigail, and vice versa. Every day, when Clyde would go out into the fields to supervise the harvest, there would be a time for education. Mistress Abigail would take Sattu into the study and take down another book, and tell him about another thing.

  “Mistah Clyde weren’t no fool, and of course he noticed a growing closeness between those two. But he also noticed how much happier, more alive and full of mojo his bride had become. He was rewarded at night in bed with her churned-up passion.

  “As I said, it was a crime to teach the slaves to read, but Abigail told herself this was different. What could be the harm in telling Sattu the meaning of a word here and there? And Sattu was learning more alltime, thanks to a child’s primer he slipped under his shirt one day. Now he would study each night by candlelight in the slave quarters.

  “As time went on, and folks weren’t paying no attention, an intimacy was growing between Mistress Abigail and Sattu, beyond that what forms between a teacher and student. In the end, they say, Mistress Abigail was done for. And they weren’t a soul in that household who weren’t aware of it. Except for Mistah Clyde.

  “He must have guessed,” Martha said.

  “Maybe so, maybe not,” Lady Albertha said. “Most folks say he jes believed what he needed to believe.

  “One day in late October month, the doctor told them Mistress Abigail had come in foal. At first, Mistah Clyde was full up with joy. He believed his luck had done turn around, good-fashion. His bride weren’t barren after all, he would at last have a family, and his emptiness would start to fill.

  “Then, as the weeks went on and the child started to grow inside Mistress Abigail, something started to grow in Mistah Clyde, same-time. Something dark and troublesome. He started to question the relationship between his lawfully lady and Sattu.

  “His suspicions just kept on gnawing at him, till all his joy was gone. One day, he told Mistress Abigail that her training of Sattu was at an end and sent him back out to the fields. They say Mistress Abigail throwed as big a tantrum as that household had ever seen. But once Mistah Clyde made up his mind about somethin’, trying to talk him in the other direction was like tryin’ to teach a mule to dance. And when he saw how much she protested, it just deepened his suspicions. It was further proof that the child Mistress Abigail was carrying weren’t his own, for true.

  “All through that nine month, he caused Mistress Abigail more stress than she had ever known before, grillin’ her at night in their bedroom, tormentin’ her with his worries. He told her Sattu would be sold. The servants could hear their yellin’ and accusations at night. One night he told her the baby’s skin had better be white, or it wouldn’t be allowed to live.”

  As pure and white as moonlight. Martha thought back to the terrible arguments she overheard at the Pritchett House.

  “Those awful fights kept on every night, the slaves said, and they was heard all through the household. He kept pressin’ her every night till, finally, he got her to confess.”

  “Confess?” Martha leaned forward, kneading the quilted fabric of the robe. The wind moaned overhead, and the windows shifted in their casements.

  “Yes’m. She confess that she been teachin’ Sattu to read and write, that was all. ‘And what else?’ Mistah Clyde ask. ‘What else?’ Alltime, the servants would hear sounds of broken glass and furniture hittin’ the floor.

  “In those long months, all the good that had come to Tarrant Plantation was turned around. Mistress Abigail got heavier, and Mistah Clyde become a haunted man. He grew cold toward Mistress Abigail. Every day he wondered—would he see his own features in the child, or would he see the arrogant, defiant eyes of Sattu, come back to avenge him, to avenge all the slaves, in his most sacred place?

  “Mistah Clyde tried to bury all his misery in bourbon. The fields was in chaos, the house was a mess. The slaves was neglected and abused. Mistress Abigail had done fell into a deep sadness. A lot of the house servants, the ones who truly cared for her, were heartbroke over what was happening. Regardless of the color that child would show, Tarrant Plantation was near ’bout racktify.”

  Outside, the rain slackened, stopped. The wind eased up. An eerie silence fell. Eye of the storm, Martha thought.

  “It was a warm morning in July month,” Albertha said, “when Mistress Abigail finally broke water. She were taken to the master bedroom and all the staff was gathered around. And that morning she found the strength to push out that child, to push it into the world of woe that Mistah Clyde had begat, maybe with the hope that it would shine a new light and melt his hate.

  “For true, when that child emerged, everything seemed to change. That child had hair, oh yes, a full head of it, and it was blond, the color of honey, and Maum Libby shouted it to her. ‘She white, Abby. Your baby is white as moonlight, and blond too, just like her mother.’

  “And at that moment, they say, Mistress Abigail wept tears of joy. The misery she had known in the months before was gone. The child was like the sun breaking through a black sky, she was already in love with that little girl, fresh out of her body. What difference did it make where it come from? This was a new life, a new chance, and she had brought it forth her own self.

  “The birth was completed without no complications, and they say it was a gorgeous baby. At that moment, they say, Mistress Abigail was finally a grown woman. And then she looked up at Mistah Clyde, who had been watching from across the room, half-drunk and leaning against the door frame, and she smiled at him. At that moment, she was ready to forgive him everything, to forget about those nine months of cruelty and madness. Different as they was, they say, some part of Mistress Abigail still loved that man. But Mistah Clyde was too ashamed, too drunk and full up with doubt, to let joy enter his heart. He turned from her gaze and left the room.

  “Mistress Abigail didn’t see her lawfully man no more for the rest of the day, but Maum Libby told her not to worry about nothin’. He just felt guilty for the way he had treated her, for his suspicion
s. He would come around.

  “Mistress Abigail went to bed that night believing peace had returned to Tarrant, that the healing had begun. That night she named the child all herself. She give her the name of Amberleen. The baby went to sleep at middlenight and was not heard to cry or stir again through the hours of morning.”

  Rain began to sprinkle on the roof again, like scattered handfuls of rice.

  “The child I saw—in the sack—” Martha leaned forward, worried. “She was Amberleen. Is she—?”

  “Listen, now, listen, be patient, and you’ll understand. Abigail slept in peace that night, the first time in nine months, but come about dayclean, she found out her nightmare had only just begun. She had woke up early, and in the dim morning light, she heard no sound, not even the baby’s breathing. That room felt more empty than it should be, and she knew somethin’ was wrong. She hurried over to the bassinet to see her precious, blond-haired creation, but she found it empty. She shouted for Maum Libby—maybe she had taken it out early, but Libby came in from the next room in her house robe, and she didn’t know where that baby had gone, and nor did Daddy Major. They ran through the house, shouting and asking questions of the other servants, who had just begun to stir, blinking and confused, and then down to the main parlor. That’s where Mistah Clyde sat in his wingback chair, wearing his dayclothes, ruffled and red-faced, his eyes bloodshot from the bourbon and lack of sleep.

  “ ‘Where’s the baby?’ Mistress Abigail shouted at him. They say she grabbed at his lapels, shaking him with a fury she had never dared before.

  “ ‘Whose baby?’ Mistah Clyde Tarrant said. ‘Just tell me that, Abigail. Answer that one question: Whose baby?’