by Carter, Noni
I dug my fingernails into the skin on my arms and turned back to John.
“But the fact is, it ain’t that easy. So I leave all those thoughts ’bout where I come from alone most times. It was like anotha life.”
John nodded. “You rememba much?”
“Not much—I was real little. But some things—strange things—like names; I rememba names betta than I rememba faces! How you reckon that?”
John shook his head. “I dunno. What names you rememba?”
I looked at him with a small smile, feeling very much at ease. “There was … I rememba a little boy—reckon he was kin to me, my brother. When I see him in my mind, the name Sentwaki jus’ jumps into my head.”
John repeated the name. “Reckon I see why you rememba it. That ain’t a name you fo’get.”
I nodded at him with a smile. “Ain’t talked ’bout none of this in a long time, John. I listen to my talk, sound like some story out of a book or somethin’, nothin’ else. Nothin’ else.”
My smile drifted away, and I could feel the faraway look return to my eyes. “I did fo’get so many things. Reckon that’s fo’ the best. Lot of things my mind tells me happened, I jus’ cain’t b’lieve, ’cause they seem so bad an’ I was so little….”
“Then, fo’get ’em, Sarah. Ain’t no need fillin’ a mind like yours—”
I cut him off. “Naw, John, it ain’t like … it ain’t like I can jus’ fo’get. I … I have some bad dreams sometimes. Don’t come often, but when they come …” I let my voice trail off, not wanting to complete my thought.
“What about?”
“I dunno most times. Things my mind has fo’gotten, my heart remembas when I’m sleep. I don’t rememba them much, but I know the heavy feelin’ inside when they come. I … I …” I frowned at him, at the spell he seemed to have cast.
“Sound like nightmares, almost,” he said softly, filling in the silence that had fallen.
I averted my eyes, becoming aware that I was with someone I had just gotten to know.
“Don’t know why I was sharin’ all that. That’s all jus’ stuff that cross my mind sometimes. I didn’t really have to share it.”
He chuckled softly. “Don’t know why I was jus’ sittin’ here listenin’ like that. Reckon I like listenin’ to things that take me away from here. Didn’t really hafta let them words touch me somewhere on the inside, but I did.”
A smile graced my lips, and I shook my head at his playfulness. “You need to leave me be up here an’ go on ’bout your business.”
“We was talkin’ ’bout flyin’ an’ sailin’ the wind, don’t you rememba?” he asked.
“Don’t matta much. I cain’t fly, John.”
“’Course you can. You see that bird?” He pointed a finger up toward a black bird circling the trees.
“Sho’ I see it,” I replied.
“Close your eyes, an’ see yourself up there floatin’.”
“Me instead of the bird? That’s pretendin’, John.”
“No, there’s a difference,” he said calmly. “Pretendin’ ain’t real, but imagination’s as real as you can get,” John explained.
“I imagine things, John, but you act like I’m s’pose to be a small gal actin’ like I’m some bird!”
John replied, “Who tole you imagination is fo’ little ones, Miss Sarah? It’s a kinda freedom on its own, don’t you know!”
I sighed, but John ignored my resistance.
“Well I ain’t leavin’ till you try it, so it’s all up to you.”
I laughed. “All right, then.”
He pulled himself up to sitting, closed his eyes, and leaned against my shoulder.
“Don’t look at the bird an’ wish you could fly. Act like you up there an’ do it yourself.” Amused, I shut my eyes too and did what he said. Slowly, I felt myself rising. Then I leaped up, floated, raced to the treetop, and flew into the sun’s rays.
But our imaginings were interrupted by the sound of rough footsteps. We both turned to see Masta Jeffrey angrily making his way up the hill. He was the oldest of Masta and Missus’s four children, somewhere near Daniel’s age. He seemed like a young boy in my eyes, reckless but uncertain, and I kept out of his way as well as I could.
It must be his rare time to check up on all us slaves. I wondered about his sudden, odd appearance as a fear settled in my gut.
“Git away from that gal, boy!” The words erupted from Masta Jeffrey’s lips as he approached the two of us. I stole a glance at John, his face set, almost calm-like, but his movements exaggerated in a clearly defiant manner. A frown broke through my blank face as Masta Jeffrey’s boot came up and caught John’s side.
“Move it!” he hollered, without even glancing over at me. I was frozen in place. Without flinching, John lifted himself up, moving as slowly as possible, and paused where he stood his ground quietly, quite obviously taller than Masta Jeffrey. He stared into the air. Anticipating the worst, I bit my lip in confusion, my fear growing.
“Didn’t I say git, boy? Git away an’ stay away. Too much work to be done round here on my father’s place for this kinda thing to be goin’ on. Go on now.”
John turned his back after running his eyes across mine, which held questions I had no answers for. As John walked down the hill, Masta Jeffrey began a loud rant, to me, about complaints his mother had of poor work being done in the house.
“You are a house servant?” he asked, glancing back to see John’s form still receding. I nodded but kept my gaze lowered, internally begging for that form to climb back up the hill.
Don’t leave me here with him!
Afraid of moving, I sat there waiting for Masta Jeffrey to finish what he had to say. But he was silent, and I knew he was waiting until John had completely disappeared.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me, darky. Look at me,” Masta Jeffrey demanded. I kept my eyes locked on the grass as if looking up would blind me for the rest of my life. He stepped closer to me. I pulled myself into a smaller ball. My heart was beating rapidly.
“I said look at me,” he spit out again. His voice didn’t have the same harshness it had when he was talking to John, but it remained forceful. I looked up, afraid that if I didn’t, he would lash me with his whip, or … worse. He smirked as we made eye contact. I quickly brought my eyes back down.
What does he want?
He bent down toward me. Startled, I tried to scramble backward, but a tree stood in my way. He bent lower.
“I said you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
How could I not be afraid? In truth, I knew it then. I knew exactly what he wanted. It was the way his eyes dipped over my small frame as if I were a slice of cake on a fancy platter. But the fact was, I didn’t want to know. As many times as I’d heard the whispered talk in slave row about young slave women being impregnated by their masters, I knew that just didn’t happen on our plantation. Mary and the older woman had been here for years and never had that problem. Somehow I could not bring my mind to latch onto the idea of this happening to me. And yet, that very thought kept appearing, hauntingly, in my mind.
Why doesn’t he have his way with me right now? What’s he waiting for?
Maybe … maybe he wants something else? But what?
He bent nearer.
I was caught—a bird in a net with nowhere to go and no one to help. It was then that the urge to fight awakened in me, and suddenly, I was afraid of what I might do if he bent any closer. I did a dangerous thing, following a stubborn impulse that raced through my bones—those bones that remembered the feeling of having been my own person those many years ago. I lifted my eyes again and looked directly at him.
Take that from me, I dare you.
The feeling, the glance, and the words they signified lasted only a split second, but it seemed to be just enough.
A different sort of look ran through Masta Jeffrey like a snake, and he took on the manner of a small child caught in a lawless deed. He rocked back slightly but
regained his composure in a matter of seconds.
I scrambled up in panic, wondering why I’d allowed myself to let my feelings bleed so easily through my actions. Surely he’d do something now. I had to get away….
I was on my feet, and I turned to run, but his hand came quick and fast around my arm. I tried jerking away, but he tightened his grip.
“You listen close, you better keep your mouth shut about me coming near you. This ain’t anybody else’s business.” The craze and excitement over the undone deed seemed to be melting away. He patted the whip at his belt and loosened his grip on my arm. I pulled free and ran.
“You understand?” he hollered after me.
I wanted to scream back, No, I don’t understand! What do you want? Tell me, so I know! But I kept running, and wouldn’t turn back.
I stumbled down the hill, scrambling when I had to. I couldn’t stop; I feared that if I faltered, he’d come storming down the hill behind me. I could have run back to my quarters and grabbed Mary in a tearful hug. But that was the direction I had seen John saunter, and I wanted to be alone. Nearing the woods, I dropped behind some bushes to listen for footsteps behind me. Straining my ears and hearing nothing of the like, I ran to the stream in the woods and cradled myself underneath a tree, trying to distract myself from the fear and confusion I felt inside. With my finger, I drew the letters of the alphabet on the tree bark, and traced words I needed to hear.
No, I will not cry.
I rested my hand, leaned back against the tree, and sat still and quiet, allowing my thoughts to channel themselves into a low, monotonous hum.
CHAPTER
8
IT HAD BEEN TWO WEEKS SINCE MASTA JEFFREY CONFRONTED me, two weeks of anxious thought and nervous work. I tried to bury my fear beneath my composure, but at times, I’d find Mary scrutinizing me. She said nothing, however. I feared that at any time—when I was walking back alone to the cabin at night or cleaning an isolated room in the Big House—Masta Jeffrey would find me and force himself upon me. But that didn’t happen.
I hadn’t seen John in those two weeks, except for glimpses of him in the fields, where I worked in the afternoons, and when he preached one Sunday as if nothing were amiss. He was not there afterward, and I had no intention of searching. I thought he must’ve taken what Masta said seriously, and with good reason. It seemed to me that everything that brought me joy was taken from me.
It was Sunday once again, and after an exhausting week I was back at the waterbed. Missus called it a stream, but it was deep like a lake. It had its rushing waters at times and another bank that stretched to the length of about two or three of me. With my rags of clothes hanging on a tree branch close by, I had entered the water, prepared for the chill. The day was unusually cool, considering that we were at least a month and a half shy of the fall season—the picking season. One of the days in this season had snuck up and turned me fourteen before I even noticed.
A group of trees stood directly between the stream and the back of the Big House, giving me the benefit of privacy. The cotton fields stretched out on the opposite side of the Big House. From where I was, I could spot anyone approaching long before they could see or hear me. There were no rules against slipping into the water; none I heard or knew of.
Slowly releasing my hand from the bank, I began kicking and paddling, doing my best to keep my head above the water. By now, I was pretty good at it. I’d discovered the stream when Mary took me with her to gather some herbs and fruit for cooking when I was much younger. A wild apple tree stood at the edge of the water. Masta and Missus had a small orchard of apples, but this tree grew the largest, juiciest apples of all. I remember climbing up to pull some of the fruit down for Mary. I fell into the water and couldn’t get back out until Mary, frantic with worry, found a rope to drag me out. I walked away shaken, shivering, and determined to be able to fight my way through the water myself. I resolved to teach myself, and that I did.
On this Sunday, as I made my way toward the bank, I suddenly had the sense that someone was nearby. Moving closer to the bank and lowering myself until my mouth was underwater, I looked around and spotted no one. Assuming my intuition was wrong, I started to turn back.
Then I saw him.
The outline of his tall body was all I needed to tell me that John was there.
How long had he been there? Had he seen my naked body in the water?
I knew he wasn’t that close, perhaps not even close enough to recognize that it was me. But a feeling of exposure made me shrink from his sight. His back was against a tree, feet crossed at his ankles, and he was fiddling with an object in his hands.
Carefully inching my way out of the water, I moved out of his line of vision. I grabbed my clothes and quietly struggled into them, still dripping with water. I ran my hands through my short hair to shake away what droplets I could. In order to leave, I had to cross back over to the other side of the bank. Silently, I made my way over, keeping my eyes on John’s figure. As much as I wanted to see and talk to him now, I knew I couldn’t; Masta Jeffrey’s threats rang like bells through my mind. One inch, two inches. I crept along.
Reaching the other side, my heart leaped with both relief and sorrow. I had escaped. But I looked away from my feet too soon, and my left foot clumsily snapped a twig. My whole body went rigid as John’s head snapped up. He looked right at me.
He turned my way and I waited there, knowing the best thing I could do was leave, to run. But I didn’t, I just stood, holding my breath. Doubts rushed to my head from two Sundays ago.
What does he think of me?
I knew I had to go, but my feet wouldn’t budge. Why was my heart always so stubborn against what my mind told me was right? I thought again about leaving, but it was too late. With a few strides, John was standing right in front of me.
“Your heart’s speakin’ loud today, ain’t it?” he said quickly.
I wanted to scold him for reading my thoughts so clearly, as he had done many times before. Without looking at him, I responded softly, “You don’t know nothin’ ’bout my heart speakin’.” I made a motion to leave.
“Don’t …,” he started, reaching out for my arm. But I held back.
“You know what Masta said,” I told him, my eyes set like stone on the ground, resisting the urge to meet his.
“Masta ain’t here. He gone off into town,” John said quietly. I didn’t even have to ask if he was talking about Masta Jeffrey or not—that was the only Masta on both our minds. His voice seemed to coax me into looking up at him, but I wouldn’t.
“Sarah.”
“What?” I asked as I crossed my arms and stared up at him with the emptiest look I could muster. He held on to it tighter than I expected.
“Did he … did he do somethin’ to you? He hurt you?” John’s voice was heavy, but it seemed patient. I lowered my eyes and said nothing, the fear of confronting Masta Jeffrey again and him carrying out his intentions swelling like powerful winds inside my chest.
“Sarah …” But he stopped, waiting, as if the very ground beneath his feet would rumble when I spoke.
I pursed my lips and looked back up at him. “Naw,” I said simply.
John gave into the silence that followed for just a moment, before concluding that I was not convincing enough. “You ain’t cryin’, but I can see tears runnin’ through you like a storm.” He said the words calmly, but I could hear an unsteadiness lurking beneath them. A wind blew past my face. I heard the water move behind me and a single bird chirp. Everything seemed to be saying, “You better not tell, Sarah, you better not.” Tell what? I had nothing to tell. Or did my heart know something my head didn’t want to accept? And did John know something I didn’t want to believe? I itched to get away, to escape confronting the very thing that frightened me when I worked in the Big House, anticipating the worst. But my feet remained firmly planted.
“He didn’t do nothin’, John.”
“He didn’t do nothin’? That the whole truth?�
� He questioned me calmly, but I heard a hint of mockery and anger, whether imagined or not.
“Naw, it wa’an’t nothin’. Jus’ a lotta talk comin’ from him.” I paused, then frowned into his eyes.
“But you already know what he wants…. You already know….” I frowned deeper. What right did John have to stand here and question me like he was? Was he blaming me for Masta’s intentions? It was my turn to show anger, and it leaked from my thoughts, misdirected, and seeped into my words.
“He didn’t do nothin’, John. That’s the truth—ain’t nothin’ else I can say! But I don’t understand. What you gonna do anyhow if Masta come to me askin’ fo’ what we both know he wanted? You gonna lash him with his own whip?” I was waiting for him to walk away—I wanted him to—to leave me to my solitude with my own fears and my own doubts.
But he stood there battling with the frowns in his cheeks, figuring how to reckon with his own pride, a stripped, bare pride that was being tested, scorned, and drained away, drop by drop, like blood from a slaughtered pig. My heart softened. He was as much a victim as I was, and he seemed wise enough to know that. “John, you really hearin’ me? I’m telling you the truth. Don’t you believe me?”
He nodded slowly, sadly. “’Course I do.”
“Well, you ain’t tell Daniel ’bout Masta Jeffrey, have you?” I asked softly, the anger dipping out of sight as quickly as it had come. He shook his head slowly, his eyes distant, staring through me.
“Don’t want you to tell Daniel ’bout Masta even talkin’ to me on the hill that day. You won’t tell ’im?” His gaze was returning back to focus.
“Sarah, there’s some things—”
“John, I know Daniel. Don’t want him gettin’ beat an’ killed ova somethin’ that ain’t even happen. He’s different from you. He ain’t gonna …” But seeing the look that passed over John’s face, I hesitated, having second thoughts on whether or not my brother and John were as unalike as I thought. He seemed to be struggling, as if his mask of passiveness wasn’t fitting quite well. I dragged my eyes away once again and drew circles in the dirt with my foot.
