Then he did an astonishing thing. He glanced curiously at Sophie for a long second, then pushed his way through the throng over to the sledge-hammer game, yanked the ten-pound mallet out of a customer’s hand and cried out, “Another kewpie for the great lady!” He raised the hammer as easily as a match to light his pipe and brought it crashing down on the button; the clapper shot up the stiff pole as if it were greased, and slammed into the bell so vehemently the ringing shook the lions awake in their cages a hundred feet away.
Of all the magical fairy-tale acts in the centre ring Lily was thrilled most with Mademoiselle Mimi and her Flying Arabians. A fanfare of trumpets and a drumroll heralded their entrance through the beribboned portcullis at the east end: six snow-white geldings surmounted by six beautiful female riders clad entirely in florescent red satin that shimmered under the arc-lights leading them into the ring. The crowd, still stirring from the acrobat’s mile-high sleight-of-hand, was drawn reluctantly towards this fresh commotion of colour and brass and galloping drum. Into the ring they pranced, steed and maiden, jogging in happy tandem to the music which – the moment the beasts formed the unbreakable circle of head and tail and head again – quickened to a brassy canter. The scarlet riders took the cue, jettisoned the reins and all hope of control, as the pace of the geldings accelerated – their manes and tails blown back in immaculate fans – Mademoiselle Mimi stood upon her alabaster saddle and uncurled her scarlet arms like a tanager’s wings on a morning breeze. One by one her nestlings did the same, and while the crowd applauded with appropriate awe, the Arabians began to gallop with a rhythmic frenzy that pulled the music with it – trumpeting and martial. Mademoiselle Mimi, with no expression on any kind on her face, did not return to the safety of her saddle; she lifted one foot in the air whirling past her and using it as a rudder or fantail she titled outward from the centre of the vortex, and by the time her chorus had repeated this folly, the chargers were circling so rapidly they began to blur at the edges, till Lily could see only hoof and flank and flared nostrils and wild desert-eyes and music-driven muscle and a halo of centrifugal hair; and above them in a separate corona of motion, attached to the lower one only by six fragile stems, whirled the scarlet forms skating some incredible edge of gravity and cadence. Just before the band stopped and the tableau ended, Lily was certain that Mimi’s toe floated free of its pinion, her body, already blurred and insubstantial – a mere penumbra of blood brushed into air.
So it was that Lily did not notice little Bricky had fallen asleep in her lap.
Lily carried him into the sunlight where he awoke, pale and peevish.
“Funny, we ain't seen Blub or Robbie all day,” Brad said, blinking at Wee Sue.
“They went to the freak shows, I bet,” said Wee Sue, reluctant to let go of Brad’s hand.
“You take Bricky along with you on the trolley,” Lily said right through Brad’s frown. “I need to walk some. Sophie’ll likely be home by now anyway.”
“I never knew Ma to get sick to her stomach before,” Wee Sue said. But she picked up her brother and gave Brad a look that brought him trailing along after her, muttering. She’s two years older than him, Lily thought.
With the music of the Flying Arabians still echoing inside her, Lily set out across Bayview Park. Something more than music had made her anxious, she was sure. Something to do with Brad or with Robbie who’d been depressed lately, or with Sophie herself. If I walk it off, perhaps nothing will happen, she told herself. The unlandscaped section of the park was very pleasant. She avoided the stone bridge, took off her shoes and waded across the drain thick with aging lily-pads and young jack-in-the-pulpit. On the other side she veered off the path into the swail that wound its way through the scattered maples and brought you out behind St. Clair Street.
Lily was upon them before she could stop herself. They were sprawled in the tender grass at the bottom of the swail. The carnyman lay on top of her with neither his hands nor feet touching the ground, his knees braced on the promontories of her thighs, his torso nestling in the crevasse of her breasts, the gnarled brown root of his back twisting and flinging the buttocks forward in frantic spasms. He seemed to be floating entirely on flesh, a-bob on the blood-tinted acreage of her skin like some scorched Casanova riding the cornucopia of Aphrodite’s thighs, the coral shell of her bedchamber, and the resurrecting wave under it. Against the sea-heave of his paramour’s breath, the carnyman exhaled a sequence of abrupt barking sounds, like a dog being kicked repeated in the ribs. Sophie opened her eyes and through the glazed lattice of her lust she looked up at Lily, then twirled the kewpie doll on one finger, like a trophy.
Don’t stare at me like that,” Sophie said in the kitchen an hour or so later. “I ain’t pissed in the Holy Grail, you know.”
“It’s not that, really,” Lily said. “It’s just, I thought all them things you said about Stoke, you know, whenever he –”
“I meant ’em, every word. Stoker’s damn good to me, we been good together for as long as I can remember. But how often is he here, eh? How many times does he leave me high an’ dry an’ hangin’ out there like a wash in the wind? You think the bugger keeps it in his pants all those weeks in the bush, or up in Fort William overflowin’ with squaws an’ hooers?” She was slowed by a new look of amazement in Lily’s face.
“Then the carnyman...”
“Of course he wasn’t the first, don’t you listen to what a body tells you? But I ain’t no hooer like them floozies up at Hazel’s or them harlots of Sarie McLeod’s. You ain’t thinkin’ that sort of thing?”
Lily touched her friend’s arm. “I ain’t thinkin’ anythin’, Soph, you know that. If you want to tell me, fine. It don’t matter, really.”
“I can’t help myself,” Sophie said. “I try real hard, but then some night a young sailor boy comes totterin’ down from Hazel’s lookin’ sad an’ lonesome, and I call over to him and ask him if he’d like a good cup of tea, an’ sometimes he comes in, an’ usually he’s been disgusted by what he’s seen up the hill or he got to the porch an’ turned back while his buddies made fun of him, and I just settle him down an’ we talk in the dark, real quiet like, an’ once in a while I just take him into my bed, and it’s as warm an’ toasty an’ nice as you could dream of.”
“Does Stoker know?”
Sophie went white. “Stoker must never know. I’m no hooer. What’s done in the Alley is never told.”
“An’ the park?”
“The only time, I swear it.” She shivered. “Never again, not like that.”
They sat in silence for a while, listening to Wee Sue’s laughter and Bricky’s squealing from the other room.
“Are you tellin’ me you ain’t been with a man since Tom?” Sophie said casually as if they had been in the middle of a conversation.
Lily nodded.
“Then you mean that devil’s shivaree an’ your house burnin’ down was all for nothing?”
“Ti-Jean wasn’t there, he left to see his mother.”
“He was one handsome fella, eh?”
“Uh huh.” For the first time Lily was able to smile, feeling once again the undefiled kinship between them.
“You need to take a lover,” Sophie said very quietly.
Lily was just putting Brad’s supper on his plate and beginning to wonder where Robbie had got to, when Sophie pulled open the front door and stood on the stoop trying to catch her breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“They’ve run away with the circus,” she gasped. “Stumpy saw them gettin’ on the train at the park.”
“Who, Sophie, who!”
“Freddie, an’ your Robbie. They’re gone.”
Lily grabbed Brad and pulled him past Sophie. “Run up to the station an’ see if the circus train’s left yet. Hurry.” Brad was already off, his whippet legs flashing in the sunset over the river flats. Lily followed only yards behind him even though her heart, after the first convulsion, refused to make another move. Sophie rumbled after
them, sobbing and thrashing her hands. The circus train with its purple and yellow-striped coaches and box-cars could be seen against the orange glow of the horizon ahead, moving slowly and inexorably around the curve that would take it north out of the country, out of all reach, beyond the range of forgiveness and regret. The derision of its chattering bogie-wheels stunned the two women as they came to a foolish halt among the milkweed and the wild mustard and the evening swallows overhead.
“Stoker’ll kill me,” Sophie said.
Suddenly Brad shouted and the women turned to stare across the space just cleared by the deserting train. A male figure, only a shadow against the perishing sun, was trotting towards them and holding something aloft in its right hand like an offering. No one moved an inch until Robbie came right up to them, the fishing rod over his shoulder and a string of perch thrust out for admiration and approval.
“Can we have them for supper, Ma?” he said amiably.
Sophie sat in the swelter of her kitchen wrapped in a shawl and sipping from a glass of brown liquor. “Go on, have some, it won’t kill you. John the Baptist makes his pig try it first. Go on.”
Lily let a drop of the hooch slither its way over her tongue.
“He’ll kill me, you know. He never got over Burton stayin’ up in Bruce County, an’ he keeps askin’ why Stewie an’ John don’t come home to see him no more, an’ I tell him they’re busy gettin’ their lives started on the Great Western, an’ he yells ‘yeah, two fuckin’ miles away!’ and I can’t think of a thing to say back except that Peg brought her little one over here last month an’ he was so happy with that baby I thought he’d cry, but then he an’ Peg got to arguin’ about religion an’ how her husband insisted on havin’ Peg dunked in Perch Creek an’ gettin’ the baby baptized too an’ then Peg just up an’ leaves, and I want to say, ‘See, it ain’t all my fault, you can’t blame me for Peg nor for Marlene, no sir, it ain’t my fault Marlene won’t ever come home or even see her own brothers an’ sisters or tell anyone where she’s livin’.”
“I’ll stay with you,” Lily said. “I ain’t afraid of Stoker.”
“No. You mustn’t do that, you mustn’t ever think of doin’ anythin’ like that.” She drained her glass, keeping her lips sealed to trap the afterwaves of the whiskey. “You promise me that.”
“Why don’t you leave him?”
Sophie flinched at the question and the long look she gave Lily ran the gamut through incomprehension to resentment, hurt, self-loathing and resignation. “You don’t understand, Lil. I deserve it.”
26
1
One Monday in June of 1877 Lily was a bit later than usual in arriving at Hazel’s as she and Sophie had been up most of the night sitting with Bricky who was down with the mumps and having a bad time of it. Sophie said she was too tired and too hot to come so Lily walked on by herself. As she went past Stumpy’s and waved to Cap Whittle on his bridge, she felt a deep unease inside, and quickened her pace. Violet had not been well, Winnie was thought to have got herself pregnant again and was very depressed – there was something waiting for her in the yellow and purple house at the top of the rise, of that she was certain. She leaned on the newel-post, her head woozy, her breath staccato. I’m just tired, she thought, and went in.
Everyone was listening so intently to the newcomer that Lily was able to slip unnoticed into her usual chair in the corner by the south-east window, and note with relief that both Violet and Winnie were hanging on each word being spoken by the tall, silver-haired man. He was like no other Negro she had ever seen – with his gold-rimmed spectacles, his trim business suit, white shirt and cravat, his patent leather shoes and the pearl-knobbed cane he leaned on from time to time for rhetorical effect. His voice was baritone, beautifully cadenced, and urban to the last vowel. He was a sixty-year-old American gentleman – whose skin had been accidentally charcoaled. Lily caught the very end of what had obviously been a detailed story of hairbreadth escape and considerable pathos. You could hear the whisper of Hazel’s taffeta all the way across the room. A single gold tear rolled down the right cheek of Shadrack Lincoln who was seated, or kneeling, at the feet of the stranger and peering up with adoration and awe.
Winnie leaned over and spoke into Lily’s ear: “He’s Mr. Abraham Jackson, from Philadelphia.” And, Lily learned later, come to the County in search of the long-lost cousin of a friend in Pennsylvania who turned out to be their own Shadrack Lincoln. The story, just completed, had been one of a series Mr. Jackson had been urged to tell about his days on the Underground Railroad.
“Those were exciting days and they were dreadful days. But of course even now we have much work to do. Many of the committees we formed then are still in operation, but instead of helping people to escape to freedom, we’re involved in a variety of Negro causes, including this one – searching for missing relatives and trying to put back together families who were so cruelly broken up by the heinous institution of slavery. We’re also helping many of the people who fled here to Canada without wives, children or parents to resettle back in their home counties if they wish to.” He glanced at Shadrack.
“Tell us more about the Railroad, Mr. Jackson,” Hazel said, as if she were coaxing a reluctant diva towards an encore. “Did you ever get up as far as Canada?” She looked about for support and got it. Betsy filled his cup with alacrity for they all knew he had to catch the late-afternoon express for London.
“I worked out of Philadelphia. I worked for Stephen Smith, a wealthy lumberman of my own race who financed much of the local operation, which was centred around Mr. William Still, whom you’ve heard about. I was supposed to be an agent for the lumber company, but my travels in Pennsylvania were really designed to keep supplies and money flowing to key points along the line. We were the principal relay station on the main route from the Carolinas over what we called the Great Black Way of the Appalachians and thence on to Ohio. And no, I never did get to Canada myself, but naturally I heard detailed accounts of the bravery and dedication of Canadians, and a number of them came to work for us on the American side. In fact, it was through the Partridge family in Moore Township that we were able to get a line on the whereabouts of Shadrack here. Many of the old railroaders continue to help us out in any way they can. I talked with Harry Partridge before I came up to Sarnia, and we reminisced about the old days. In particular we talked about the Canadians who’d served the cause so well back in the ‘fifties when the Fugitive Slave Law made it a very dangerous business. You may already have heard of the exploits of Bill Shepherd, Harold Flint, Michael Corcoran –”
“Quick, get the smellin’ salts, Vi,” Hazel cried, holding Lily in her arms.
Here in the Alley, no questions were asked; Hazel had given them her own sitting room where the curtains, carpet and plush chairs combined to soften voices and accentuate intimacy. Abraham Jackson sat no more than a yard from Lily and delivered his soliloquy in a hushed, umber, elegiac tone, as if the theme itself might overwhelm the solitary listener or crush the fragility of the words themselves.
“I knew your father long before I met him; he was an early organizer of the Railroad at the Michigan-Canadian border-crossing, one of the most dangerous spots on the line because after the Fugitive Slave Law the bounty-hunters concentrated on these crossing-points, and they didn’t care who they killed to get their quarry. I heard of your father’s courage from the great Harriet Tubman herself. So when he came over to our side of the border in 1851, he had many influential friends to help him. I met him that fall in William Still’s living room in Philadelphia. We never asked him much about why he had to leave Canada, but I could see that he was suffering a great deal as a consequence. Later on he confided to me that he had, in a vengeful rage, accidentally killed a man who had committed some crime against his family. He feared there was a warrant out for his arrest. Only a few years ago did I learn that there never had been any such warrant. Nevertheless, the Lord saw fit to bring him to us, and we were grateful. Your father becam
e the most important person in the human chain of ties, rails, siding and way-stations that made up the Underground Road to Freedom during those grim years before the War. His job was to pick up refugees along the edges of the Carolinas and direct them or lead them himself over the Appalachian Way, with bounty-hunters and bears and renegade outlaw bands all looking for the same helpless prey. Twice he was shot, frost-bitten many times, cut his way out of a southern jail before a lynch mob could take its revenge – he was a legend among the Negros and Abolitionists everywhere. He was a man possessed, a man with a mission.” He paused as if to let that much sink in, but Lily’s querying, avid eyes urged him on.
“I met him often at Still’s house during our many strategy sessions, and it was there that I saw him for the last time in March of ’fifty-eight, almost twenty years ago. I remember ever detail of that evening because all the important people on the Railroad were there to meet and listen to another legendary figure of the day – John Brown, Old Brown of Ottawatomie. He was there with his son, John Jr., looking for money and for recruits. That night he got both. I tried to talk your father out of it, but like so many others, he too had glimpsed the apocalyptic blaze in Old Brown’s eye, and I guess he felt the same frustrations that Brown did after a decade of danger, miniscule hopes, senseless death and no sign of victory anywhere they looked, only the trickle of lives they had redeemed with such expense of body and spirit, while the principal evil festered and gloated on every side. They were ready to chance Armageddon, to drive the money-changers from the temple with a single, sacrificial blow; they were willing to use their bodies like sword-blades and ultimately as fodder for gibbets and the poles of crucifixion. We never saw him again.”
Lily's Story Page 49
