Good Fortune (9781416998631)

by Carter, Noni

  I felt miserable, and perhaps God knew so. He brought down sheets of rain that lasted an entire week. Thunder shook the sky and wrung out any sunshine in our hearts. And at night, the lightning scared many out of sleeping. I couldn’t find John to talk to; Daniel and Mary didn’t know about me learning. There wasn’t anybody to convince me to keep going. So I succumbed to my doubts.

  It was in that manner, running from the demons and images my mind was creating, that I ran into Daniel one morning as he was trudging back from the parked wagon. The storm was coming to an end, and a strange gift that came to me unexpectedly renewed my passion.

  “Hey, Daniel,” I said. “D’you hear what happened to that woman, the one try to educate herself?” He nodded, then shook his head, leaning in so I could hear his whisper.

  “Bet that ain’t even stopped her, neither. Hard thing to jus’ up’n stop, learnin’ is.” An almost invisible smile caught the edge of his lips as his eyes danced around to make sure no one was close by.

  “You know what I’d give to learn?” he asked, capturing the thoughts that had been running through his head, and placing them on his lips. I looked at him closely, wondering if he was educating himself, too. But his face showed no signs. I listened quietly.

  “There’s places you can go from this hell, Sarah. I’ve seen it in the city,” he continued, his eyes wide and bright.

  “What you mean?” I asked him, puzzled. He shrugged.

  “Guess I’m just talkin’. But you remember that one day you asked me ’bout escapin’ that burnin’ feelin’?” he asked. I nodded. “Well, I met some folks know how to read an’ write. An’ I can tell, jus’ a talkin’ wit them, that learnin’ sho’ is one way to escape. Don’t you think?”

  “I think you talkin’ a little loud fo’ what you sayin’. An’ all that’s dangerous. Why even take them risks? What good does a little bit of learnin’ do?”

  Daniel looked over at me as if I were silly, a look that began to unwind the tight knots of doubts and tension within. “And that’s not a risk worth its dangers, Sarah?” I grew aware of the noise our feet were making in the cold mud. I shrugged.

  “Don’t rightly know.”

  He laughed and waved me away, walking off to do his day’s work—a day empty of the excitement of learning. I stared after my brother with wonder. Maybe learning was what I was supposed to do—what I was meant to do—if not for me, then for those who couldn’t quite reach it.

  The melancholy feelings and fear drained away from my spirit and sulked around like a sad shadow that knew it didn’t have long to stay. Then, a new passion touched me somewhere in my spirit. Beneath my fears, beyond my doubts, that passion began to grow within me larger than before, a passion to learn I never thought I’d possess. I made a promise to myself: I would never give learning up.

  CHAPTER

  13

  THE TWO OF US WALKED OUT THE FRONT DOOR. THE WOMAN I followed was some years older than me, and had a wise air to her. Her name was Zoey; she was a house servant—obedient, very tolerant, and tactful, quite different from me. She seemed to accept her lot in life without many reservations. I liked her well enough, however.

  In my hands, stacked almost higher than I could handle, was a bundle of white sheets and clothes from the house. I walked behind Zoey, trying to keep her bobbing hair, braided straight down her back, in my sight.

  “Zoey, slow down!” I demanded. She had a neatly wrapped bundle set atop of her head. With one hand holding the load, she was swinging her small hips back and forth as if hearing the sound of music, as she had seen me do before. She glanced back at me but kept her pace.

  “Slow down, I say, ’less you wanna take my load!” I said to her. She slowed until her strides fell in with mine.

  “Wish you’d hurry up,” she said with more excitement than she mustered most days. “Don’t you know what we in fo’ today?”

  “What you mean?”

  “You ain’t heard them yet, up at the Big House? It’s Octoba 18.”

  I nodded, remembering. It was the day Masta got his plot of land—the day we were made slaves on his plantation.

  “Why is it he always celebrate that day, you think?”

  Zoey shrugged. “Don’t know, but it don’t matta to me. You know they always celebrate, an’ they give us good an’ fine food fo’ dinner when they do.”

  There were a few holidays in the year that Masta and his family celebrated, and October 18 was one of them. For Christmas and New Year’s, he and Missus would give us a resting period that lasted about a week after Christmas. That period offered me space to think. It was my relief.

  Later that October day, I stood by Mary as she handed me some pots of food to take out for our feast. There were greens, cornbread, and bacon—bacon! I let the smell rise up and seep into my waiting nostrils, and shut my eyes for a moment with satisfaction. I looked over at Mary with a small smile.

  “Look at this food, Mary!”

  She chuckled at me. “Ya, and got y’all a surprise fo’ later, too.”

  “What is it?” I asked with wide eyes.

  “Said I got you a surprise. Ain’t gonna tell you now what it is. You go on an’ take that food down to Daniel an’ the othas. I’ll bring it with me lata.”

  “All right, well, let me help you at the sink, Mary,” I said, setting down the food.

  “Naw you won’t. Go on wit that food …” Mary’s words trailed off as Missus’s form appeared before us in the doorway. Naturally, I washed all expression from my face.

  “You, girl,” she said, pointing at me, “I’m going to take you out of those fields. You’ll stay with the girls and Bernard, as usual, but you’ll be with them through the whole day.” I opened my mouth slightly to politely object, but Mary was shaking her head no with the slightest movements, so I simply nodded. As hard as fieldwork was, having the air and the space to think was my relief. I needed that, and Missus was stealing it away from me.

  “Good. They seem to have taken a liking to you. I’ll put a blanket on the floor near Jane’s bed. You’ll be staying in the girls’ room.”

  “Sorry, ma’am?” Surely she didn’t mean to say I was sleeping in the Big House? I looked over at Mary, but she acted as if nothing was happening.

  Back when I first started working in the house, Mary told me she thought it would be good if Missus would let me stay in the house. Over the months, she stopped mentioning it, but I feared she still felt the same way. Perhaps, even, it was she who had asked Missus to let me stay in the house.

  “What do you mean, ‘sorry’?” Missus asked, catching my attention once more. “Can you not understand me? I said you’ll be staying in my girls’ room.”

  “Yes, but ma’am, I can’t … I can’t do that.”

  “Excuse me?” she said, taking a dangerous step farther into the room. “You do what I say!” she continued, her voice rising. She waited to see if I was bold enough to say anything more. A small fear had settled in my chest. I couldn’t sleep in the Big House, so close to the heart of where our struggles lay. I couldn’t sleep there, so near to the danger that had seemed to disappear over the months but that sat in the back of my mind in the form of Masta Jeffrey. How could I make her see that I could not stay there? I didn’t know, but I had to try.

  “Missus, I done everything you say, I listen closely, an’ try so hard to do things like I’se s’pose to”—I paused, peeking at her stony face—“but … but … I cain’t stay.” She took two steps toward me and raised her hand to my face, but Mary stepped from the sink before Missus could strike. My breath was short, and looked fearfully at Mary. What would she say? Maybe she’d tell Missus that I’d love to stay, I was just talking a little out of my mind just then. Maybe she’d say I was a little scared at the moment, but after a day or so, I’d be excited to stay there. Instead, she said something quite different.

  “Missus, ma’am, don’t strike ha.”

  Missus turned to Mary with a different sort of look and hint
s of respect sitting in her eyes. “You hear her talking against me like that. She deserves a nice beat!” Missus said, waving her hand.

  “Naw, ma’am, you don’t undastand what she tryin’ to tell ya. She have sleepin’ spells, this one do,” Mary explained, looking over at me. Her eyes told me to stay silent. “Wake up sometime jus’ a yellin’. Have them bad dreams, she do. Don’t happen all the time, but when them fits come on ha, she cain’t help it, ma’am.” I stood quiet, wondering if Mary knew the real dangers she was saving me from. Mary finished, and Missus looked over at me, her eyes running up, over, and through me to see if she could find any flaw in Mary’s explanation. After a minute or so, her eyebrows curved down in a frown. She had found none.

  “Would it be best she come earlier fo’ they wake an’ stay wit them till they’s fall asleep?” Mary pushed. She was treading dangerous ground. Missus sighed heavily.

  “Very well.” Only then did she lower her hand.

  “That’s what’ll have to do. Can’t have a crazy servant waking up this whole house at night. My husband, Charles, wouldn’t stand it. You come earlier, and make sure they fall asleep at night. But”—she looked at Mary for reassurance—“I don’t want you sleeping here nights.” With that, she left. I waited until the sound of her light step on the staircase died away. I turned to Mary.

  “Mary—”

  She walked over to the food I had set down, and placed it back in my hands. “Nothin’ mo’, Sarah. Take these on down there.” She turned back to the sink and fell into a deep silence that forced me out of the room. I whispered a quick thank-you before I left the kitchen.

  When I got outside, a good-size group of folks had gathered to eat. Their laughter and good spirits pulled my mind out of pondering why Mary had had such a strong change of heart. Instead, I busied myself with setting out the food and cider and handing out fair rations. I collapsed on the ground, afterward, to eat my own meal. A familiar voice caught my attention.

  “Go on, set down ova here.” An older lady was clasping John’s arm, and the two of them were making their way over to the seated group. Another young man hopped up and helped John seat her as she welcomed all the greetings.

  Looking up at me, she said, “So this be the one called Sarah. Done seen you round here some. John tell me you’s a good storyteller.” I laughed, remembering the stories I told John about broken memories from my past that I fabricated with pieces from my imagination, and sometimes from pieces of dreams that seemed tied to my life before the plantation.

  “John, why you gotta tell …” But when I looked over my shoulder, John had already gone. I stared after him regretfully before turning back to the people around me.

  Masta isn’t here, so why’s he running off so quickly?

  The laughter and “nice” food pulled me back into the trance of the night. All of these folks gathered here shared a humanity that, on more days than we liked, was left buried beneath the work of the day. The small children ran around, evidence of raspberries on their lips. I shared a story that left the others smiling with a lightness I was glad I could bring out. Another man played a banjo made out of a gourd and some fishing string he told us he’d bargained for. By the time Mary quitted the Big House and headed our way, half of the folks had found their way back to their own quarters or to another small gathering elsewhere. Daniel disappeared away with them.

  It was all for the better.

  Mary carried a large pan in her hands—her surprise. It was apple pie. She didn’t stay, just set the pie down, grabbed herself a nice piece, and left for the quarters. The rest of us devoured the treat and savored the laughter that accompanied sugary mouths and sticky fingers.

  Heading home alone that night, a large piece of pie I had saved for Daniel sitting idly in my hands, I thought about John not staying at the gathering. Once again, despite the few times we had sneaked away together in the past few weeks—on the rare occasions when time permitted, on weekends, or on nights we could afford to sacrifice sleep—I found myself believing he had taken Masta seriously. I couldn’t help thinking that maybe I wasn’t even worth the risk. My heart told me I was wrong, but common sense washed over me. I licked my fingers once more and gazed up at the dark, starless sky.

  I tried to avoid the shadows, but shadows come as blessings sometimes, and it was from them that John emerged. He slipped beside me and lightly pressed something into my hand, then took my fingers, one by one, and folded them against the object.

  “This for you.” A simple whisper in my ear and he was gone again, back into the shadows. I peeked into my hand to see a tiny wooden object. I couldn’t make out its shape in the dark.

  In the cabin, I studied the gift by candlelight. John had carved out an angel with wings, smoothing it out as best he could. Touching it softly, I drew my finger across John’s perfect knife marks. I touched the curves in the face and cuddled its wings. After a few minutes, I set it on my pallet and marveled at the small wonder. I had told John about being free in my country. I had told him about Mama, Mathee, and how I saw her and felt her even now—as my angel. And now John had carved her. The design was so intricate, I wondered if God hadn’t had a hand in John’s project. It looked just like I saw her in my mind. The wings seemed to flow like a river, and her features reminded me of how beautiful my people were. My heart fluttered with a feeling that wouldn’t ever leave my soul.

  CHAPTER

  14

  MASTA’S HOLIDAY HAD PASSED US QUICKLY BY, AND THE WEEKS fell away as we molded back into our lives of labor. The day was cool, though I sat in the Big House. I was in the kitchen, cleaning, while Mary sat snapping beans for Masta’s supper. The silence created space for my busy thoughts. Knowing it was unwise, I thought about what I was learning with little Masta and Missus.

  Young Missus Jane ate a mo … mo … modicum of suga—no, sugar—from the bowl very furtive. No, that wasn’t it. Very … furtively!

  In the afternoons, the children would review their schoolwork from the mornings. I replayed in my mind their conversation from the day before.

  “No, Jane,” young Masta Bernard said, “furtively means softly.”

  “No, it don’t. It means secretively, just like I said!”

  “Boys is smarter than girls; therefore, I know!”

  “No, they ain’t!”

  “Yeah, they are. Sarah, ain’t boys smarter than girls?” young Masta Bernard asked me.

  “I don’t rightly know,” I responded.

  “Ah, ’course you don’t know,” he said, brushing my opinion away with a wave of his hand, “you ain’t s’pose to be smart.” He laughed. “Jane, boys are smarter an’ that’s that!”

  “Nuh-uh. See? Look.” Young Missus Jane held up a sheet of paper that her teacher had written on, and read the definition.

  “Furtively means secretly. Miss Jane ate a m-o-d-i-c-u-m of sugar from the bowl very f-u-r-t-i-v-e-l-y!” she said. “Told you I was …”

  My thoughts hushed abruptly. I had seen a quick movement below, just outside the cracked kitchen window. I knew nobody was supposed to be out at the water well at that time of day.

  I edged myself to the window, trying not to raise curiosity in Mary.

  There it was again—that movement from one bush to another. I had stolen a long enough glance to know that it was Tucker. His limber form knelt, waiting. I moved closer as another figure approached him from behind, though I couldn’t see who it was. Tucker whipped around quickly, so the two figures were face-to-face. I could only barely catch their brief exchange.

  “It’s the preacher, is it?” came Tucker’s soft voice.

  “I ain’t no real preacher. Only speak fo’ freedom.” The voice was very low, but I would know its bearer anywhere. John continued with his response. “It’s tonight?” I heard no answer and could only imagine Tucker bobbing his head in reply.

  “Where?”

  “Empty cabin, mile east of the cornfield, an hour after work is done.” That was the last sound I heard. Pe
ering again through the window, I found that the two men had disappeared.

  Glancing over at Mary, I eyed her carefully to be certain she’d heard none of the conversation. She hadn’t. She was speaking to me, but my mind leaped about elsewhere. I got it in my head to find John, somehow, someway, before the day was out, and to find out what was going on.

  I don’t know what possessed me to follow my curiosity all the way down to the cornfield and to the empty cabin. I hadn’t found John that day, and good reasoning told me to leave it alone. Through the rest of the day, I convinced myself that I had left it alone, and I went about my business without letting the kitchen-window conversation enter my mind.

  But by the time nighttime crept upon the house and I sat rocking young Missus Jane’s baby sister to sleep, all the thoughts I had locked away came cascading down in front of me. I fought with my spirit—that whisper in my ear persuading me to sneak down there, but the resistance was in vain. I realized after a while that from the moment they started speaking, I had already made up my mind to go.

  I slipped between trees and crawled through open areas, praying that young Missus Jane would stay in bed. Young Missus Jane, I had found, was a sleepwalker, and Missus had asked me to stay later in order to make sure young Missus Jane didn’t get herself into a fix. Because I would only be there for part of the night, Missus ordered an older woman, a house servant, to sleep in the girls’ room. But this night, I had slipped out a little bit early. On my way out, I’d knocked into the clock that sat in the girls’ room and almost woke them up, but I’d stood frozen, listening to its ticking, and willed it to let me out the door.

  The small, abandoned cabin finally came into my view. I stopped to study the surroundings, a bit nervous that I might have come on the wrong night. Whatever type of meeting this was, I knew it could not have been authorized by any plantation master, and therefore, they probably had a watchman waiting outside. But perhaps this was not the meeting day—perhaps no one was here! I shuddered to think I was out there alone. The warnings in the back of my mind surfaced, but then dissolved a moment later.