by Carter, Noni
No, you gonna be Sarah. You gonna be Ayanna Bahati!
I heard his voice echo in my head. I was doing this for him, for Mary, and for Tucker. For Daniel and Florence. I was doing this for Ayanna Bahati!
CHAPTER
37
NOVEMBER CAME AND LEFT, AND CHRISTMAS WAS SOON TO arrive, a Christmas I’d spend with Daniel and Florence. Mrs. Rosa excused us the last couple of weeks of December and the first week in January, but I continued studying through it all. December found the streets decorated in thin sheets of snow. The greetings from the folks in town left me feeling lighthearted. Winter brought a warm closeness to the community, and yet, the closer Christmas crept, the less happy I felt. An entire year had gone by since we escaped. It was my first Christmas in freedom, and John had not yet arrived. Was it safe to keep hope burning in my heart?
The cold brought Daniel home from the fields much earlier with less money. In addition, Daniel’s thoughts about leaving Mary on the plantation, and about her well-being, started to spiral in the wrong direction. In the first few months we were in Hadson, he had commented about John’s inability to find us, though he quickly promised never to mention his doubts again. But now I began to notice these very thoughts reentering our conversations. He never revealed his worries in front of Florence, at least not at first. It was to me his doubts would come spilling out, and I’d try to guide him back to reason as well as I could.
“What if she’s still there, Anna, still unda Masta’s hand?”
I shuddered at the thought and kept my fears to myself. “Mary’s safe, Daniel.”
He shook his head. “That thought of her still bein’ there jus’ ain’t easy to live wit.”
“Naw,” I said, shaking my head, “but she’s safe, Daniel. She’s not worrying, she’s not unhappy, because I’m sure in her heart she knows we safe.”
He shook his head vigorously. “This is ’bout her, not us. Who’s there fo’ her? Who?”
I felt a tear slip without my permission. “You know she takes good care of herself, Daniel. But I miss her, too, miss her plenty.”
He sighed. “I could’ve done so much more fo’ her. Shoulda brought her wit us.”
“Daniel, you done what you could. You know she wasn’t coming. An’ you know what John say. He gonna bring her.”
His face darkened, and he turned to me with eyes that looked beyond my face. “An’ what if … what if they don’t find us, Anna. They … they ain’t gonna find us. It’s me. I’m the one need to go back to get her.”
“Daniel!” I said, almost shouting. His face relaxed immediately.
“Anna, Anna, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean none of that. That’s jus’ my anga talkin’, Sarah. I don’t mean none’ve it.”
I tried to brush away his words. “Daniel, don’t want you talking about going back. That’s more dangerous than running. An’ if John already run with her, she’s not gonna be there if you got back anyway. So I wish you would hush up with all that talk!”
He came over to me, his emotions having settled back down, and looked me clearly in the eyes. “I’m not goin’ nowhere, sista,” he said, taking my words and placing them somewhere unknown to me in the storage house of his mind. I feared his thinking, though. If I had been irrational in seeking out an education, Daniel could be ten times worse in whatever he wanted to pursue. It would be impossible for a runaway returning south to find an escaped slave who was running north, let alone to avoid being snatched right back into slavery. I convinced myself that Daniel understood this. But the far-fetched notion of Daniel leaving left my spirit agitated.
Aside from this, however, December nights were rather joyful. After long days with the children and the housework at Mama Bessie’s, I was able to spend more time with my brother and my best friend, as well as my learning. I tried my best to push my thoughts about John to the back of my mind, and enjoyed the company of these companions.
Henry began to come around more often. He told Florence and me that he respected our company, and would sometimes come up alongside us as we talked in Mama Bessie’s yard and completed our chores.
“Here he is again, Anna. Wasn’t it just last week we saw him hiding in the bushes, watching the two of us?” Florence said on one gray day, just loud enough for him to hear every word.
“Sho’ wasn’t me hidin’ nowhere,” he said, striding toward us. We all laughed, but Henry’s chuckles were louder than ours, and off-key.
“Henry, don’t you have a job?” I asked him.
“Sho’!”
“Well, shouldn’t you be at it?”
“Shouldn’t be nowhere but right here for right now, don’t you think?”
I turned my eyes uneasily away from his and glanced at Florence, but she hopped up, saying she had a quick errand to run in the house.
I turned my eyes back to Henry. His upper torso and body sat awkwardly on his long legs, making him look taller and stronger than he really was. His hair was cut to perfection, and his smile curled his cheeks in so that they dimpled like a baby’s. Henry was a nice man, but sometimes his friendliness made me uncomfortable.
“Don’t suppose I could sit with you for a while?” he asked, standing over me as I turned my eyes back to my work.
“Won’t be out here long, Henry,” I said, the lie feeling unnatural on my lips. He sat anyway.
“Lookin’ quite nice today, Miss Anna.” I dug my eyes deeper into my work. I didn’t want to hear that from him, not at all.
“You hear about Mrs. Brown an’ her fits?” he continued, trying to share the town news.
“No, but I think I’d rather listen to my own thoughts, Henry,” I said, quite serious. He took it as a joke, however, and laughed some more.
“Well, looka here. I’m good company. I’m not headed nowhere special. Let’s listen to your thoughts together.”
His jolly smile left me uneasy. I stood and gathered my work.
“We have a lot of work, today, Henry, that’s gotta be finished before all the children wake up again.”
He stood up with me, trying to shake away his disappointment. “All right, then,” he said, watching me for a few moments as I busied my hands. “Gonna see you and Florence around later, then.” He watched and waited.
“Sure thing, Henry,” I said, then followed my heart where it had already disappeared: into the house.
CHAPTER
38
IT WAS MY FIRST DAY BACK AFTER OUR WINTER BREAK. OUR session had ended, but I stayed a bit longer to talk with Mrs. Rosa.
“You know what I think, Mrs. Rosa? I think the idea of being free means a little more than escapin’ from a plantation.”
Mrs. Rosa smiled and sat back in her chair. “How do you suppose that, Miss Anna?” Mrs. Rosa asked.
“It’s just a thought. I used to think coming here, to Ohio, meant freedom all in itself. But bein’ here, I figure it’s more than that. I think I’ve found some new freedom in learning, here with you, an’ I think I lost some old freedom in leavin’ people who meant a lot to me. Freedom ain’t just—isn’t just—having the chance to be free from slavery.”
“Sure, Anna. There are plenty of freedoms, different freedoms for different people.” She sat forward and leaned her elbows on the table. “So, are you saying to me that you don’t feel as free as you think you should?”
I laughed. “Well, course I feel free. I’m not bound to no whip any longer, Mrs. Rosa.”
“Any whip, you mean.”
“Any whip. Cain’t complain much about that. But see …” I looked up into Mrs. Rosa’s eyes, into the soft places behind the shell she wore while teaching. “See …” I began again, but held myself back. I looked deeper as she held my gaze, and found myself immersed in a world of understanding, even before my words about John had escaped my lips.
“What’s missing from your freedom, Anna?” Her words were almost a whisper, as if she knew exactly what was stirring inside of me. I shook my head and bit my lip to hold the tears back.
/> “Anna, it’s all right. What is it?”
I shook my head once more and bit my lip to hold the tears back.
“Mrs. Rosa, I can’t….” I fought to hold the feelings inside, but they had minds of their own.
“Go ahead, Anna. It’s all right to feel as you do. It’s all right to trust me.”
I felt as if my own mother had spoken, inviting me to share and to heal.
“Don’t know if he ever gonna find me,” I said. Her silence was just what I needed. “His name’s John, Mrs. Rosa. Got a few years on me. Had long, dark fingers an’ skin different shades of brown. An’ there was a mark on his chin always been there, always.”
A small smile crossed my lips.
“Called himself John. They called him a slave, and me, I called him my joy. Had some past on some other plantation—didn’t matter, though. Felt like I was holdin’—holding—the stars when he came around. We talked about heaven and hell and all matters of the day when we wasn’t working. He listened mostly. It was my mouth that ran with questions and dreams and things that lay far beyond that plantation. He was real patient and quiet, and smart and funny when he wanted to be. ’Cept when he was serious—the ground under his feet would shake when he was angry!
“We flew past the bounds of that plantation many times without ever going nowhere! Just our souls and our minds.” I paused, slightly embarrassed. Was I making any kind of sense? Mrs. Rosa nodded, and another tear slipped down my cheek. I continued.
“He never said I was beautiful, but he didn’t have to, I guess. It wasn’t about being pretty, naw. The way he did things—his silent gazes—that’s what told me what was in his heart. Never said things like, ‘I really do like you.’ Instead, when I asked if he did, he’d take my hand and wipe a tear that left my eye. Didn’t know my own tears could move anyone the way they did him. He wasn’t never mean but always said ’xactly what had to be said. There was never a soul that could make me more angry! But that never stayed long. He ain’t—he never had that controlling hand I saw sometimes in folks, and he … he was always there, somehow, in some kinda way,” I said with a short laugh, basking in the memory.
“He carved me things and sang tunes in those fields I could hear from a mile away. They were sad. Said, ‘I find my love at freedom’s gates in heaben.’” I sang it softly, then let the tune fill the space in my mind for a moment.
“Always told me we wasn’t slaves. Said it was all what you believed up here”—I patted my head—“in your mind. Said home was the heart, nothin’—I mean, nothing—more than that, nothing less. John had a dream, but didn’t we all! His dream was called freedom.” Ghosts from the past drifted by in the heavy silence. I longed to remain among the good memories, but my story had to continue forward.
“Masta said I was never to go near John, but John come around me anyway. Masta said he was gonna give me his child! ‘No, sah,’ John told to me, ‘you gonna save yourself.’ But that last night, John couldn’t save his own self. Masta beat the skin off his back for comin’ around me. Took his dream and left me with his broken body.” I felt the pain, then, spurting out from my soul like blood. I hadn’t really talked about John to anyone for nearly a year; I couldn’t even bring myself to say these things to Florence. Now they poured out faster than I could control. I brought my hand to my forehead.
“Saw John that day I left. He said to me, ‘I promise you, I’m gonna be as free as you; I’m gonna be free wit you.’” I opened my eyes and saw golden suns bidding me to go on, but I feared I had let out too much information.
“Mrs. Rosa, nobody really knows.”
She nodded vigorously and looked away from me briefly, attempting to hold back her own tears. But when she faced me again, her cheeks were wet.
“Shh, Anna. I understand. You don’t have to explain yourself, I understand.”
I nodded. “But am I free, Mrs. Rosa? I got this freedom …”
“You have,” she whispered, softly.
A weary smile came to my lips. “I have this freedom. I have this education. And I have his promise, Mrs. Rosa. Didn’t wanna hear it, didn’t want it to mean what it meant. But I heard, and I’m waiting, and I feel like I’m bleeding with all these days that go by.”
She took my hands. That’s when the rush came, the tears now spilling with sobs that heaved from my chest.
“Who’s the one who makes these things happen, Mrs. Rosa? I know I ain’t different from the rest of them whose lives are torn apart by that system of slavery. Death is what those slave holders want. Separation is what they want. They want us to hurt—to love an’ forget. They want us to hide our feelings an’ fear so that we ain’t no better than dogs. People seen this all they lives. Don’t see why my life would be different. So when I tell you I got this hope, it hurts even more to know that for all it’s worth, I might not even see my John again.” She watched me closely as my tears ceased and calmness took its place.
“He’s a piece of your freedom, is he?”
I nodded. “So if he never comes, you’ll never be free?”
I looked up at her, confused, wondering why even this had to sound like some sort of problem from a lesson that needed to be worked through.
“Mrs. Rosa, don’t know what you mean. Didn’t want this to be just another lesson.”
“Everything’s a lesson, Anna, even the things that feel like this. Now, look around you and see if you can answer my question.”
I did as she said, and my eyes naturally fell on the books.
“Education is my freedom.”
She nodded, but I felt unconvinced.
“So, you’re saying he ain’t part of my freedom?” I asked.
“You mean, isn’t a part of your freedom.”
“That’s what I meant. He isn’t a part of it?”
“I’m just sharing my opinion, Anna. I thought the same thing as you when I was younger. But what you feel in your heart is something quite separate from your freedom. It’s just a piece of your heart. Maybe he’s got that piece; maybe he’ll have it forever. But that doesn’t have to keep you from being free.”
“I think I can understand that,” I said, thinking hard about her words.
“And, you know, life’s greatest gifts come from pursuing and holding on to what gives your life purpose. For you, right now, that’s education.”
I crossed my arms and sighed. “Guess that is a purpose, a purpose I can sure live with and be happy about. But John gives me purpose, too, Mrs. Rosa,” I explained to her, readily awaiting her response. I found myself hanging on to her words with a strong respect.
“Well, let that purpose ring out in what you do! Let it drive you to make the most of the freedom you have.”
I nodded. “I … I can do that. Sure I can.” A few seconds’ pause followed my words.
“I’m scared, Mrs. Rosa. Scared he ain’t—he’s not—ever gonna find me. Scared he might give up and settle. Scared he gonna be found and taken back. Scared Masta gonna kill him!”
She patted my hand to comfort me, though tears still wet her cheeks. “It’s okay to be scared, Anna. Fear isn’t really a bad thing if you can see it for what it is without letting it stop you from doing what you have to do. Put a word or two in for John, a prayer as deep as you wish it to be. But you have a purpose, so keep your head up as high as you can and keep your passion churning in your soul. You go to church,” she said, needing no response, “so you know things are always going to happen by the grace of God.”
I bit my lip and nodded.
“Now, I don’t mean to always make something into a lesson—”
“No, it’s all right, Mrs. Rosa. I think that if my mother was living, she would be the same way.”
She smiled with appreciation. “But aside from all my words, there’s not much more I can offer you, Anna. You”—she laughed a little—“you’re like a good book to me. Every time you read it, you find something you never saw before.”
I laughed with her.
�
�Mrs. Rosa, is … is Little Sue’s father still around?”
“You mean, am I married, Anna?” she asked.
“That’s what I mean.”
“Yes, I am. But that’s enough of that. I wanted to give you something, a gift I forgot to give you for Christmas.” Mrs. Rosa walked out of the room and came back a few minutes later with a stack of bound sheets of paper that had been written on.
“I want you to have this. It’s a story about different people’s lives—about blacks in the south, blacks here in the north, and blacks across the waters.” She handed the stack to me.
“You’ve been to all these places?” I asked her. She nodded, pausing for a moment to consider what was on her mind, and continued, “My father was from Africa, taken to France as part of the slave trade. Our family was freed.”
I nodded but was shocked by the idea that she had lived in a world so far from here. “I guess that means you don’t really agree with much of what Miss Wheatley writes,” I commented, remembering some of the poems of hers we read about the land she came from.
“Well, no. I couldn’t ever feel right saying my father’s homeland was pagan, although back in France, they tried their best to instill that in me. Sometimes, reading what she wrote, I figure she knew that, but I can’t say for sure. But that’s beside the point. What she accomplished was amazing to me. That book you are holding is my dedication to her,” she said, pointing to it.
“The book is fiction, but the lives of the characters are as realistic as I could make them. I don’t plan on having it printed. I’d rather share my work with good people like you. So take it. Read it,” she insisted. Her eyes suddenly glazed over with seriousness. “But you keep it to yourself, you hear? Don’t let it get around …,” she dropped her defensive gaze quickly, “I mean, it’s just a simple, small thing. Enjoy it, but keep it to yourself, if you will.”
