“Da birth wuz slow an’ difficult. Yo mama wuz exhausted an’ we wuz worried ’bout whether she’d live through it. Yo mama must hab been thinkin’ da same thing. With sweat pourin’ off her forehead an’ dripping down her cheeks, she motioned ter me ter come closer. So I did.
“She pulled my ear down close ter her mouf.
“ ‘Tell them all to go away,’ she whispered, ‘—just for a minute . . . all but you . . . I want you to stay.’
“I didn’t know what it wuz all about, but I got up an’ told Hazel what she’d said. Den da other women left da cabin for a minute.
“ ‘I’m afraid, Josepha,’ said yo mama. ‘Promise me, if something happens to me—’
“I tried to tell her nuthin’ was gwine happen to her. But she said, ‘If it does, promise me that you’ll look after my little girl.’
“Of course I said I wud.
“ ‘I know it’s a girl,’ she said. ‘I can tell . . . promise me you’ll take good care of her.’
“ ‘You can rest easy, sweetie,’ I said. ‘We’ll all look after you and yer child.’
“ ‘Please . . .if I die, make sure she has a good life—as good a life as a slave can have.’
“ ‘I’ll do my best,’ I tol’ her. I remember I even said, ‘And maybe she won’t always be a slave.’ Though I’m not sure I really believed sech a thing back den.
“Den I asked her, ‘Ef you know she’s gwine be a girl, what do you want ter call her?’
“ ‘Mary Ann,’ said yo mama. ‘She’ll be Mary Ann.’ ”
By then I was in tears as I listened.
“It wuz ’bout an hour later dat you wuz born. An’ though yo mama’s life was never really in any danger and she fully recovered, I never forgot my promise.
“Den yo mother married Hazel’s boy a couple years later, an’ dat’s why you an’ yo whole family wuz called Jukes. I didn’t see as much ob you all or Lemuela as I wanted, since I wuz in da big house. But yo mama an’ I wuz always special friends.”
I lay in my bed peacefully after Josepha left. Gradually so many thoughts about my past were fitting into place.
A BOOKCASE
27
ONE AFTERNOON WHEN WARD AND TEMPLETON were out in the fields and Mayme was ironing, Josepha slipped out of the house and headed for the cabins.
Henry was outside sanding boards. She paused in the shade of the old oak and watched him for a minute or two. When she had caught her breath, she walked the rest of the way.
“Afternoon, Henry. Whatchu workin’ on?”
“Just a coupler planks fo inside da kitchen,” he said, nodding back toward the house that was slowly taking shape.
She walked closer, looked at the board, and ran her palm across it.
“Mighty smooth,” she said. “Seems almost too nice for da kitchen. What’s it fo?”
“A work counter.”
“Yep, den it needs ter be nice an’ smooth. Dis’ll be right nice. Nice hard oak too so’s it won’t git all knicked up. But you know, seein’ dat board puts another idea in my head.”
“What’s dat?” asked Henry.
“Dat unless I’s mistaken, Mayme’d like a bookshelf in dat house too. A nice big bookshelf full er lots an’ lots er books.”
“Hmm . . . dat’s a good idea, all right. Mayme read lots er books?”
“She an’ Miz Katie’s always got dere heads in some book or nuther, least it seems dat way ter me. Not dat Mayme’s got too many books er her own, but I reckon she will someday.”
“Well, den, maybe I’ll jest pick up a few more planks in town, narrower den dese, an’ see what I kin do. Yes, sir’ee . . . dat’s a good idea, all right. You read, Josepha?”
“I kin read all right, I reckon, but I always kept it to myself when I wuz at da McSimmons’.”
Henry chuckled.
“You’s right, some white folks, dey don’t like coloreds knowin’ how ter do too much. Like readin’.”
“Or thinkin’ at all . . . dey don’t want you ter know how ter hold a single idea in yo head.”
This time Henry laughed outright.
“You know how ter read, Henry?” asked Josepha.
“Yep, I do. Not real good, but enuff ter git by. But my ol’ master, Mister Clarkson, he hated me fo it. Dey hate what dey call an uppity nigger an’ I reckon dat’s what I wuz. I wuz a little uppity an’ it got me an’ Jeremiah an’ his mother into trouble. After dat I kept what little readin’ I done ter myself.”
“You ever read dat Uncle Tom’s Cabin?”
“Nope, jes’ heard plenty ’bout it.”
“Nuthin’ but trash,” said Josepha. “Bein’ a slave weren’t no picnic, we all know dat, but dat lady didn’t know nuthin’ ’bout how it really wuz. It sho wuzn’t as bad as she tol’ it.”
“Some folks might not agree wiff you on dat.”
She shrugged. “I reckon I din’t have it as bad as some.”
“Well, Josepha. Now dat you’s free,” said Henry, “ef you wuz gwine hab a house er yo own someday, an’ you had a bookshelf, what kind er books would you put in it?”
“Well, I reckon dere’d hab ter be dat Pilgrim’s Progress. I ain’t never had a copy er my own, but I’s seen real pretty ones an’ heard it read ter me when I wuz young an’ learnin’ ter read wiff Miz Grace. An’ dere’d have ter be a Bible, wouldn’t dere? An’ it’d be pretty special ter hab a book ob poems ob my very own. I’d like ter be able ter read more poems sometime. What ’bout you?”
“I don’t know . . . neber thought er havin’ books er my own. Men don’t keep books—dat’s mo somefin’ for women.”
“Nonsense, Henry Patterson—where’d you git a fool notion like dat? Books is fo anybody dat kin read.”
Henry chuckled at Josepha’s pretended outrage.
“I reckon you’s right. I’s trying ter teach Jeremiah ter read. Being aroun’ Micah got him interested in learnin’, an’ I reckon I’s usin’ a book fer dat.”
“What book?”
“One er dem McGuffy Readers I borrowed from Miz Kathleen.”
Henry continued to sand the plank as Josepha stood watching.
“You ever used ter dream ’bout havin’ a house er yo own?” Henry asked after a minute.
“What . . . me?” said Josepha.
“Yeah.”
“A house . . . ob my own? I wuz a slave, what would I be thinkin’ ’bout such things like dat for?”
“I mean after you wuz free.”
“How cud I? I wuz too old an’ didn’t hab a penny ter my name.”
“Maybe you’s right—din’t you eber think ’bout marryin’?”
“Don’t reckon I ever did,” replied Josepha. “Who’d marry da likes er me? One er my masters tried ter git me married an’ I tol’ him not ter think ob it ef he wanted my cakes an’ breads ter turn out da way he liked.”
“Why did you tell him dat?”
Josepha thought a few seconds.
“To tell you da truf, I ain’t altogether sure,” she said. “At da time I didn’t figger I wanted nobody else. Maybe I’d been hurt too many times. Maybe I figgered I cud take care ob myself an’ dat wuz fine wiff me.”
She paused and a distant look came into her eyes.
“To tell you da truf, Henry,” she said again, “I don’t know why I said it. But den a woman gits ter my age, when it’s too late fo all dat, an’ den suddenly she finds herself a free woman, an’ I reckon it’s natural she’d sometimes wonder ef she made a mistake.”
Josepha’s voice quivered momentarily. She paused and glanced away. A quick hand against her eyes was the only betrayal of the lone tear that had risen and was quickly brushed away. She drew in a deep breath.
“But den dere ain’t no goin’ back in life, is dere?” she said.
She looked up at Henry. His hand lay still on the board and he was listening intently.
“Uh . . . uh, no,” he said, “dat’s da truf—dere ain’t no goin’ back.”
“So what ’bou
t you,” said Josepha. “You wouldn’t hab asked a question like dat unless you’d had such notions. So how wuz it dat you thought ’bout havin’ yo own house? Dat muster been when you wuz married.”
“No, not den,” said Henry. “We wuz slaves den too, an’ freedom wuz too far off er thing ter see back in dose days. But den when I got my freedom, an’ den when Mister Lincoln freed all ob us, dat’s when I began ter dream ob findin’ Jeremiah’s mama an’ maybe, jes’ maybe gittin’ enuff money saved ter hab a house er my own. My own papa dreamed ’bout it, but den I thought dat maybe I cud do it. Really do it. I reckon dat’s every man’s dream. But den when I foun’ out she wuz dead . . . it didn’t seem ter matter much no more after dat.”
Again it was quiet. Henry looked down at the board beneath his hand and slowly began sanding again, though his thoughts were far away.
“I’s sorry ’bout yo wife, Henry,” said Josepha after a while. “Must be mighty hard ter love someone an’ lose ’em like dat.”
Henry nodded. “But like you say, dere’s no goin’ back. All we kin do is look ahead. Life only goes one direction, don’t it—dat’s forward.”
Josepha took in his words thoughtfully, then turned and began making her way back to the house. Henry watched her go in silence. They were both full of many thoughts, but for the present neither had anything more to say.
That night Josepha lay awake thinking.
Talking with Henry over the last few weeks, gradually telling him her story, and especially today’s talk, sent Josepha’s mind back to the past more than it had in years.
Would Mose ever really have loved her . . . as a woman? Or had it only been a friendship of childhood and youth?
She would never know. The years had quickly slipped by, and now . . .
She shook from her mind thoughts of what might have been. Choices were made for her, and then she had made her choices through the years too. It was too late for all that, too late to turn back, too late for regrets. Her life was what it was. No more, no less. Just like she had said to Henry, there was no going back.
Henry also lay reflecting on his talk with Josepha. But whereas Josepha was thinking about what had never been and what was too late for her to know, Henry was thinking about what had been and what he had known. He thought of his papa and mama, but especially about Jeremiah’s mother, Lacina. Not a day went by that he did not think of her. He had lost his life’s only love and had never expected to love another.
But these last few weeks he had found himself genuine enjoying the company of a woman his own age again. Everyone else was wonderful to him. Templeton and Ward had become good friends. But there was something different about laughing and talking and sharing with a woman of your own kind, your own background, who had been through some of the same kinds of things and was at the same stage on life’s journey. It wasn’t the kind of friendship you could have with another man, or that a black man could have with a white man.
He hoped Lacina didn’t mind. He was sure she would understand.
Henry continued to lay awake thinking about the day recently past. He had not expected it, not suspected how slowly and invisibly a quiet affection for the dear lady had snuck up on him.
He smiled to himself as he thought of her. She was different than Lacina. They were as different as two ladies could be. But he wouldn’t want them to be the same.
Was it too late, he wondered—too late for the kinds of strange sensations he felt stirring within him for the first time in more than twenty years?
Or was it ever too late for love?
TALK ABOUT THE PAST
28
One day I was in my room. I’d been spending a lot of time upstairs since the snake bite. I seemed to get tired easily and usually had to lay down for a nap on most days.
I heard Henry’s hammer in the distance. I looked out the window and there was Josepha on her way down to see him. I kept watching. She got there and Henry stopped hammering. Pretty soon I could hear faint laughter. It was so nice to see Josepha laugh.
I turned and began to go downstairs. Voices from below stopped me.
It was Katie and her two uncles talking.
I didn’t want to intrude, so I sat down on the stairs and listened. I didn’t feel too much like I was eavesdropping, since they were my kin too.
“. . . doing in California, Uncle Ward?” Katie had just asked.
“Trying to find gold, little girl—what else?”
“And you did too!” laughed Katie. “But why did you go to California in the first place? Was it only for the gold?”
It was silent a moment.
“I don’t know. I was always sort of like the black sheep of the family,” said Ward after a bit.
“I thought that honor was reserved for me!” laughed Templeton.
“Maybe we both were,” said Uncle Ward. “The two girls—your mama and Nelda—did what they were told and we two boys were always in trouble for something. Boy, Pa could black our bottoms with his belt and with that paddle of his.”
“That thing stung like the devil!” said Templeton.
“But God bless him,” said Ward, “he knew right from wrong and was determined to get the difference through our thick skulls. But you were smooth. You could talk your way out of anything.”
“Not with Pa!” laughed Templeton. “He always saw through me.”
“Yeah, but with everyone else.”
“Did it bother you?” asked Templeton.
Ward seemed to think a minute.
“I don’t reckon I ever thought about it much,” he said. “I don’t think I blamed you about it. That’s just the way you were. I knew you meant me no harm. But it did rile me sometimes that everyone else—everyone but Pa, that is—couldn’t see past it like I could and that things fell on me instead.”
Templeton chuckled a little sadly.
“I am sorry about that, Ward,” he said. “I was just a conniving little kid who didn’t know any better. I suppose I learned early that I could fast-talk my way through most things with a smile or two, and I never stopped to think about what might be happening to you.”
He paused.
“Who am I trying to kid?” he went on. “I did know better. I knew it was wrong. But when you’re young you don’t see that wrong really is wrong.”
“Yeah, well . . . that was a long time ago. No hard feelings. You were my brother and best friend. Life was always fun with you, but by the time we were sixteen, eighteen, something like that, I figured I’d be better off maybe keeping my distance from you. Maybe I just wanted to be my own man, I don’t know. I reckon I’d felt a mite overshadowed by you and maybe I needed to know who Ward Daniels was all by himself.”
“So what did you do, Uncle Ward?” asked Katie.
“I left home and bounced around on what jobs I could get for a few years—”
He stopped. “It was hard on Ma and Pa, wasn’t it?” he asked, turning to his brother.
“Your leaving . . . yeah, it was,” replied Templeton. “Ma cried and cried after you left. Pa was just quiet. Back then I always used to think those silent spells of his meant that he was mad. I hated it when he got quiet. Later I realized that he was just hurting inside. He carried his love deep. That was Pa.”
“He cared about us more than we ever knew.”
“Yep, you’re right about that. But we were just boys. We couldn’t see it until it was too late and he was gone.”
“Where did you go, Uncle Ward?” asked Katie.
“I bounced around from here to there—St. Louis, Chicago, Memphis. If you went west, you could always find work of some kind—pounding nails, digging ditches. The country was spreading west and there was plenty to do. Of course, back in those days St. Louis was a western frontier town. Things have changed since then! I just worked enough to keep traveling about. I saw a lot of country, but now I regret I didn’t keep in closer touch. I never wrote home—they never had any idea where I was. By the time I finally went back, Pa was gone
.”
He sighed and the room got real quiet.
“I miss him, you know, Templeton,” said Ward at length. “We thought he was pretty hard on us, but he really wasn’t. He just wanted us to learn to keep our mouths shut and show respect. He was a good man. Actually, he was a good friend to us when we were growing up. Remember how we used to laugh and play with him? But . . . after I left I never saw him again. I never knew what we had till it was too late. By then Ma was older and I’d hurt her so much by the way I just left without a word that we could never really patch it up. I’m not saying she didn’t forgive me. Knowing Ma, I’m sure she did. But I had hurt her too deep. She had the two girls, and it was like we split into two families—the girls and the boys. You ever think of that, Templeton?”
“Can’t say I did. But now that you say it like that, it’s kind of how it was, all right.”
“Then the news of the gold hit and I was on my way within a week. That was just the kind of adventure I’d been looking for! Remember how I talked you into going with me, Templeton?”
Templeton laughed. “How could I forget? I thought I would never forgive you during those months on the trail! Indians, sun, rain, draught, snakes . . . weeks and weeks in the saddle! I wasn’t cut out for that kind of thing. It wasn’t my idea of a good life. But once we got to California . . . San Francisco was something in those days, wasn’t it, Ward?”
“A wide-open raucous place!” laughed Ward. “I wonder what it’s like now. Maybe we ought to go back sometime, Templeton. We could take the train now.”
“I don’t know, brother Ward. Don’t you think we’re getting a little old for such adventures?”
“Probably. But I’d still like to see the place again.”
“What did you do?” asked Katie.
“Same thing as thousands of other men were doing—we wandered around up in the gold country looking for a place to stake a claim that wasn’t already taken.”
“Did you find one?”
“We bounced around some, working the rivers and streams. There was gold too, but it was hard work. We worked a short while in a little place called Miracle Springs—remember that old prospector who helped us get started . . . what was his name?”
Never Too Late Page 13
