Remembered

by Yvonne Battle-Felton

  “What about the baby, what will he eat?” Spinner asks. “Let him stay with me, till he’s off the teat.” She’s reaching for you, her fingers opening and closing like claws.

  You’re all I have. Besides, your mama would kill me. I’m shaking my head no. You watching me with your mama’s eyes just daring me to give you away. “We’ll figure something out,” I say. I swear you smile up at me and wink.

  We have a minute to say goodbye and then a truck pulls up behind the shop. The back is full of furniture, mattresses, and people. Farm hands, travelers, and other workers take up each inch of space. Franklin goes around front to talk to the driver. Two men jump out the back. They exchange brief greetings before Buddy hops in. The driver’s still fussing about numbers not adding up. After a bit of to and fro Franklin comes back, lifts you up to Buddy, hoists hisself up and puts his hand out to me. It’s crowded but people make room.

  “If anyone asks,” he says, “you Buddy’s wife, this his boy.”

  No one asks the entire ride but I’m rolling the words around my mouth just in case. We ride for miles, stopping every few feet for someone to jump off and a new somebody to jump on. Each person has a story. Your pa tells one about the war. By the time he’s finished, he’s made you a gourd and fashioned a nipple for you to chew on. Your uncle’s tale is about the last time he saw his mama. Mine is about the last time I seen mine. It goes on like that for hours. Laughing, crying, whispering, singing, shouting, we swap stories in between bumping along the road. We’re supposed to remember them, to pass them on to folks we meet. Everyone’s looking for someone. Like a bucket, I’m carrying a head full of names and stories. Older ones spill out to make room for new ones.

  After a while it’s our turn to jump off. We’re in the middle of a field. Somebody has given us milk for you and apples for each of us. If this is Philadelphia, it sure ain’t what I pictured. It stinks of horse manure. Piles of it are just stacked on top of each other like crates. The air is so thick with flies I can’t tell where the dirt ends. But it’s free thick air and though I can’t hardly breathe, I’ll make do. Tracks run through the fields. On either side of them, rickety shacks rattle and shake every time the wind blows good. Don’t look like they big enough to hold all of us but if we take turns, one inside, one out, we’ll be alright. I just hope we don’t have to walk too far to use the pot. Buddy and Franklin start walking beside the train tracks. I’m right alongside them. You’re in Buddy’s arms, sleep-smiling up at him like you know he’s family now. The sun’s bright but it’s cold. It’s winter. We’re walking farther away from the smell of dung. Grass crunches beneath our feet. Birds sing. The air is crisp with the smell of snow. Fat flakes begin falling. A train whistles from far off. Smoke billows across the sky.

  “I thought there’d be more people in Philadelphia,” I say.

  They laugh, mouths open, heads back, laughter. Even though they laughing at me, it sounds good.

  “If this was Philadelphia, these railroad tracks would be dollar bills. And them shacks would be grand houses. Them horses and cows over there would be Misters and Missus lined up with trays of fish eggs and frog legs and champagne just waiting to serve someone like me.”

  “Franklin’s just funning. In Philadelphia, all the buildings this high, and the men are this tall and the women right up there, this tall. You short. People will know straight away you ain’t from there. But me and Brother will fit right in, we’ll tell them you’re with us. You’ll be fine. They got roads and streets bigger than any you seen before. The sun shines longer, brighter cuz it’s bigger there.”

  “You been there?” I ask. Your father nods, yes. “Then why you come back?”

  “I come back for what’s mine.”

  His eyes get dark. Franklin smiles but I don’t think Buddy’s talking about him and I don’t ask.

  “What kind of work they got there in Philadelphia?” I ask.

  “Bud and me got factory jobs lined up. All sorts of steel work for train parts, buildings, automobiles, you name it, they need it. They got factories for factories. Buttons, shoes, dresses, rugs, anything you can think of come in or out of a factory.”

  “Maybe I’ll get me one of them factory jobs.”

  “You could get a job as a domestic like this,” Franklin snaps his fingers, “cooking, cleaning, baking, washing, mending, or farm work.”

  “And I’d get paid for it, right?”

  “Sure enough, gal! This ain’t slaving, this working,” he says.

  “We have to get you fixed up, of course,” Buddy says. “Can’t have you out there looking like no slave.”

  Before I know it, I’m walking faster. They huffing to keep up.

  “You beautiful all cleaned up,” he continues. “Don’t see why the world shouldn’t see how pretty my woman is.”

  Now, between you and me, I ain’t have no intentions on slowing down. But my legs start to thinking it’s a good time to stop moving. Buddy and Franklin speed right on past me before they notice I ain’t coming. I gather my common sense and catch up. Buddy puts his hand in mine. We talking about how we gonna save money to buy a big house. Each of us will have a room and there will be a room for our mamas, Spinner and her mama, anybody else that need a room. We’ll charge for dinners, have rent parties. Between all us working and making money doing odd jobs, we’ll be rich. I don’t know how long we walk. The train whistles again. It’s loud and close. It’s barreling down the tracks. A flash of yellow, purple, red, black.

  “Hop on,” Franklin calls. He’s halfway in.

  Your father hands you to your uncle and leaps in beside him. All that smoke and noise and y’all rolling right out of my life on a fast-moving monstrous beast. My feet scramble every which way. I’m close enough to touch the side. I lift my arms up to try to slow it down or grab hold of something. Buddy grabs one hand, Franklin takes the other, and they hoist me up and into the car. We all huffing and puffing. I’m loud-laughing so they don’t hear my heart.

  After a while we settle down and I can look good around the car. It’s a freight train. We ain’t the only ones in there. Skeletons of machines, stacks of crates, and people cram just about every inch of that car. Outdoors races by. Inside we rock and shake as we rumble across the country. Smoke and whistles. I jump at each wail of the train. My stomach lurches with each dip and bump. I busy myself with you. But soon as you fed, you fall asleep like the loud noise suits you just fine. I clear off a little patch of floor that isn’t covered in hay and whatnot and set out supper. I can’t eat none of it. With all this rocking, don’t expect it would stay down no how. I make the mistake of taking a deep breath. I like to choke. Sweat, bodies, manure, dirt. Going up north sure better be worth it.

  People hop on and off all the way to Philadelphia. Some of them don’t hardly say a word. Some won’t stop talking. To pass the time I pull out the book me and Tempe made. After a while I get folks to write their name or make their mark in it. Some write a few lines. Some draw pictures. Some give me clippings to add to it. Newspaper headlines, pages from books, Wanted posters, receipts. The longer we rattle on, the more I collect. I tell stories. Grand ones about escapes and revolts and little ones about people holding on to treasures. The whole world races pass.

  By the time I finally get to sleep, Buddy’s shaking me. Franklin’s hollering, “This our stop!” like the train ain’t still moving. If I was awake good, no telling when we’d have got off. I must be still half asleep. The train’s moving through a station. We’re going slow enough that I can see the wooden platform, the yellow-and-green station house, the looks on people’s faces. Franklin’s at the opening, folks lined up beside him. Buddy’s still shaking me. He pulls me up, gathers my bundle, pulls us toward Franklin. Before I can say a word, Franklin leap-steps right off the train. The others follow. It’s our turn and I’m saying, “I can’t do it.”

  You sure is gonna do it.

  M
y whole body leaps into the air. Tempe’s pushing me. My feet hit the wood and don’t stop moving till I feel a hand pulling me back.

  “Slow down there,” Buddy says. He’s laughing and wiping sweat from his forehead. “We got a while to travel before we home. You plan on running all the way?”

  The station ain’t but a little thing. We in it and out it in one step. It’s nice, though. Shiny wood benches, wood doors; my back aches for whoever’s got to scrub all that. I know right then I was born to be in Philadelphia. Smells of baked bread, fried fish, and smoked meats hit me as soon as I’m outdoors. Right in front of the station, women braid and sell warm pretzels. Boys roast chestnuts, sell newspapers. Men sell shoe shines, information, and rides. The street is a ball of bees and they all buying or selling something. Franklin gets directions and we’re on our way. Whole hogs glare at me through plate-glass windows, merchants yell prices, housewives haggle over discounts. People rush through the streets, work clothes starched and pressed. Trolleys drawn by horses trip up and down Chestnut Street. I feel eyes watching us like we’re some picture show. I feel myself shrinking. Head down, shoulders slumped, body folded inward to make myself smaller, to disappear, I shuffle between the two brothers. I don’t look back but I know Tempe ain’t far behind.

  Franklin pinches me. “Stop walking like that,” he says. His back is straight, so is Buddy’s. They fit in with the crowd of folk going and coming. Out the corner of my eye I see Tempe. She’s wearing a clean dress, her hair is neat, she’s wearing shoes. She belongs. I clutch you tight, straighten my shoulders, hold my head up and do my best to look like I belong too.

  We reach the church before nightfall. It’s a stone building with a wooden cross on the front. I want to touch it. Men and women rush in and out of the door carrying slips of paper, pressed uniforms, bags of food. Little kids play outside while older children learn their lessons. “A, B, C,” they repeat. I want to stay and listen but Buddy’s got his hand pressed against my back pushing me across the threshold. Inside, music plays, a choir sings, people laugh, argue, pray. For a little while, it feels like home.

  The woman, Mrs. Leyland, rolls her eyes for what has to be the umpteenth time. She sucks her teeth. Crosses herself. Whispers a prayer under her breath and tries again. “What did you do before you got here?” She holds the pencil poised over the form.

  “I done told you,” I answer, “I was a slave.” I have told her no less than five times. “I done everything.”

  She drops the pencil to the desk. Rubs her eyes. She closes them, then peeks from under her long lashes. I’m still there. She stares at me like she wishes I wasn’t. Her eyes liked to burn holes through mine.

  “I told you, I can’t write that. People don’t want to hire ex-slaves.”

  “It’s the truth. All of us,” I point to Buddy and Franklin, “born slaves.”

  “That may be true, but I can’t write that on this form. Ms. Spring, no one wants to be reminded you were a slave. Is that what you want people to think of when they look at you? When they look at your boy?”

  “Well, I ain’t lying,” I say. I cross my arms. The wooden chair creaks as I lean forward. “I did the planting, plowing, harvesting, washing, mending, baking, cooking, smoking—” She holds up a slim, manicured hand. I hide mine, nails bit short, skin calloused, beneath me. She snatches up the pencil, scrawls on the page. “Domestic,” she says. “It means you good at everything. I have quite a few domestic positions. Once we get you cleaned up, you’ll be good for any one of them. Got to get someone to care for the baby.” She taps her nails on the tip of her desk. “I got just the place!”

  “I ain’t giving up my boy.” I’m ready to go.

  “Of course not,” she says. “We have to get you set up with a place to live and I have something in mind for you and the baby.” Barely looking up, she glances at Buddy and Franklin. “You two come with fine references. One of you will be working at the shipyard, the other at a steel factory.” She shuffles papers in her hands. She looks Buddy over, then Franklin, reads the forms again. “Here.” She gives them each a sheet.

  They look them over, switch the papers and fold them carefully in their pockets. Franklin gives her a wink. Mrs. Leyland don’t say nothing. She goes back to filling out the form. Race, religion, age, she asks. Don’t seem to matter what I say. She’s half writing before I open my mouth. She pushes away the stack of papers and pulls out a thick book. She thumbs through listings of rooms for rent. Some have photos; others are just markings and checks in boxes. “You two have been set up on the even side of Grammercy and it just so happens that we have an opening across the street for your wife and boy.”

  Your father thanks her.

  “I’ll put you on the family list so when a spot opens you can live together. Do you know what date it was when you got married?”

  No women praying over me, no splashing through the river, no love. Married and not even a pretty dress.

  “Wasn’t too long ago, ma’am,” Buddy says.

  She fills out a paper. “We’ll just set it for today. Pastor will sign that. He doesn’t place much stock in jumping the broom weddings. Did you have one of those?”

  I close my eyes. I can see your mother flitting through the woods searching for Edward.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “It doesn’t seem likely a slave owner would allow time for much more than that anyhow. We just need to get a few more papers filled out. What’s the baby’s name?”

  Just as I open my mouth to tell her, your father answers Bud. Like that’s a name.

  What?

  A rush of hot air. Mrs. Leyland’s papers get to trembling. She don’t notice cuz she’s busy fanning herself. She starts writing like she can’t see me shaking my head.

  “It’s Edward, ma’am,” I say.

  “Bud Edward? Or Edward Bud?” she asks.

  “Just Edward.”

  Tempe stops throwing a fit. The hot air winds down. “Now, that’s an interesting name.” Leyland’s smiling and nodding. “Short for Justice? One of them powerful names. People need strong names to live up to.”

  I don’t understand city folk. Franklin’s smiling and flirting and smoothing corners. He’s saying your name is Edward and how youse named after a friend of the family. Every so often she smiles and nods. She’s shuffling papers and asks, casual like, “What’s the family name?”

  We standing there inventing whole lives and got five minutes to do it. Walker? Too much tied up to that place. Everything I had, I got and lost right there on Walker land. Walker wasn’t family. No matter what happened before, Buddy, Franklin, and you are the only family I got. Right now I can choose a different me. Free from years of slaving. Free from being a second-best miracle. Seem like everybody I met was shedding theyselves in the woods, in the truck, on the train, right here. I can let loose the past. I’m rolling names around on my tongue. It’s got to be a name with a future. One that’s strong and proud and free.

  “Well, ma’am,” Buddy’s saying, “we all free men, all of us.”

  “That’s fine, Mr. Freeman,” she says as she writes.

  Chapter 20

  1866

  Grammercy don’t look nothing like it do now. Rows and rows of houses line both sides of the streets. Each brick house is shoulder to shoulder with the next one. Scrubbed walkways lead up to spick-and-span steps and fresh-painted doors.

  When we finally get to Twentieth Street, we’re tired. I’ll be at 117 Twentieth Street. Buddy and Franklin at 120, across the street. We stand out front for a good while. It’s neat, cared for. My first three-story house. The door is painted red, the steps damp and freshly scrubbed. It smells of honeysuckle and lemon and fresh bread. I’m hoping it’s the right place. The house next door looks empty. Flower petals litter the front of sagging, dirty steps leading up to a peeling door. It’s staring at me through gaping holes where windows should be.
I can see clear through. Cross the threshold through the dining room, sitting room, kitchen, and out back to the gardenless yard. I can picture it, though. With your father fixing the roof and your uncle fixing the floors, and the rest up to God, it could be a home.

  “You ain’t near as ornery looking as I heard you was,” a woman says. She introduces herself, laughs. “Ain’t that just the prettiest little baby?”

  I turn fast, almost spinning right into the prettiest woman I have ever seen, Sable. Her voice is sweet like music. She’s smiling. Her black hair is pinned up into tight curls that bounce when she talks. She don’t look much older than us. Since this is a rooming house, she must be one of the boarders. She studies my face, hands, body, feet. “Etta Mae got you signed up for all sorts of classes, don’t she?” She laughs. “You and the baby will be staying here. I got a boy of my own. One big as you.” She points to Buddy and Franklin. “His name’s Christian. He’s on his way back. Fought in the war.”

  “Now, you look too good to have a boy grown as me,” Franklin says.

  “Etta Mae already has a line of gals in mind for you to meet,” Sable says. “Eligible ones.”

  He winks.

  “For marrying,” she continues.

  Your uncle does a pretend shiver. “I’d just as soon wait on you to marry me, thank you.”

  “I done married and buried men twice your age,” she says. She reaches her arms out and you wiggle like a pig at a fair. You two always been thick as honey. “You’ll work during the day and go to classes at night.” She sways side to side while she speaks. Before long you give in and sleep. “I’ll mind the baby while you work, study, or go to church. Seeing as you’re married, I’ll make an exception on male visitors but no single ones. One other boarder shares the house. We share the kitchen, outhouse, and dayroom. We all do the cooking, can you cook?” She don’t wait for an answer. “Good, this ain’t no hotel so we all got to do.” She edges us up the path and closer to the steps while she talks. “I own the house next door too. Getting it fixed up for when my boy gets back. You girls will move there soon as it’s ready. You two should get going.” She waves your father and uncle off. “You’ll be staying with Mr. Johnson. If you need someplace quiet to think, just go right next door, let yourself in, and while you’re there, pick up a hammer, some nails, and put your hands to use. Your backs too,” she laughs.