Angels Watching Over Me (Shenandoah Sisters Book #1) (15 page)

‘‘All right, do that little part again . . .’’ she said, and we started over.

‘‘. . . then turn slowly around,’’ she said, letting go of my hands.

I kept watching and tried to imitate her. After three or four tries I started to be able to do it a little better.

‘‘That’s good, Mayme!’’ she said. ‘‘Now you do that part again while I play it on the piano. See if you can remember it and do it in time to the music.’’

She went back to the piano, got ready to play, then gave me a little nod with her head. I did what she’d taught me in step with the music. By now I could feel the rhythm of it a little better and went through the whole thing as she played.

‘‘That was good!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘Let’s dance it together again. Then I’ll show you the next stanza. You can help me sing now. Here’s how the next part goes.’’

She played it two or three times, then came back to show me what to do next.

After another fifteen or twenty minutes, I had learned it and we had danced the whole thing together.

‘‘That was fun, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ve never heard that kind of music before in my life. It’s real nice.’’

‘‘What kind of music did you have where you lived?’’

‘‘I don’t know—what’s called colored music, I reckon.’’

‘‘What’s it like?’’

‘‘Just singing,’’ I said, ‘‘sometimes with a fiddle or a banjo, but mostly singing and clapping with all the men and women singing lots of harmony.’’

‘‘Will you teach me a song, Mayme?’’

I couldn’t help chuckling at the thought of Katie singing a colored field chant, or rocking back and forth clapping and wailing to a camp meeting revival chorus.

‘‘What’s so funny about that?’’ she wanted to know. ‘‘If you can learn the minuet, why can’t I learn your music?’’

‘‘All right,’’ I said. ‘‘Let me see . . . I’ll sing you a revival song.’’

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘A song we sing when we go to religious meetings.’’

‘‘You mean church?’’

‘‘Not exactly, but a little like it, I reckon. When the white folks are having their camp meeting in a big tent, we have a colored revival out in the field.’’

I started clapping first, and rocking a little to get myself into the rhythm, then started singing.

‘‘Oh, whar shill we go w’en de great day comes,
Wid de blowin’ er de trumpits en de bangin’ er de
drums?

How many po’ sinners’ll be kotched out late
En fine no latch ter de golden gate?’’

‘‘I can hardly understand a word you’re saying,’’ Katie laughed. ‘‘It’s like Beulah and Elvia sounded when they talked fast to each other.’’

‘‘Who’s that?’’

‘‘My mama’s house slaves. They’re the ones . . . the ones you buried that day you came.’’

That quieted us for a minute. How strange it was that we’d been singing—almost like we’d forgotten for a few minutes what had happened.

‘‘Anyhow, that’s the way we coloreds sing it,’’ I said after a bit.

‘‘Teach me the words,’’ said Katie. ‘‘I want to sing it with you.’’

I repeated it line by line with her a couple of times.

‘‘Then this is the chorus,’’ I said.

‘‘No use fer ter wait twel ter-morrer!
De sun musn’t set on yo’ sorrer,
Sin’s ez sharp ez a bamboo brier—
Oh, Lord! fetch de mo’ners up higher!’’

‘‘And you gotta clap and sway in time to the music,’’ I said.

She tried it as we sang the first verse and chorus again, but she couldn’t quite get the rhythm right. I couldn’t help laughing, but then we tried it again.

After a while we were singing pretty good together, and I even tried a little harmony alongside her voice on the melody. Then I taught her the next verse, and we stumbled through it together, and then a third time.

‘‘W’en de nashuns er de earf is a stan’in all aroun’,
Who’s a gwineter be choosen fer ter w’ar de glory-crown?
Who’s a gwine fer ter stan’ stiff-kneed en bol’.
En answer to der name at de callin’ er de roll?
You better come now ef you comin’—
Ole Satun is loose en a bummin’—
De wheels er distruckshun is a hummin’—
Oh, come ’long, sinner, ef you comin’!’’

By now Katie was gradually getting the feel of the song, though she still couldn’t say the words like an old black man would say them. Then we sang the last two verses, and she was clapping in time with the best of them.

When we were finished, we fell down on the sofa, laughing like we’d never laughed before.

‘‘I don’t see how you can remember all that,’’ said Katie as we rested.

‘‘I’ve heard it fifty times,’’ I said. ‘‘Every word’s stuck in my brain. You did real good for your first time.’’

‘‘You did good with the dancing too.’’

‘‘It was fun, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘There sure are lots of different kinds of music. I’ve never danced like that before.’’

‘‘I haven’t danced the minuet since before the war,’’ she said slowly. ‘‘Mama and Daddy used to go dancing. Sometimes they’d take me with them. But after the war came, everything changed.’’

‘‘Well, we’ll dance again after your birthday supper. We’ll call it Miss Katie Clairborne’s birthday minuet.’’

She laughed again, and it was good to see. I was glad she could be a little bit happy on her birthday.

‘‘I can smell the cake already,’’ she said, then paused and looked over at me. ‘‘Thank you, Mayme, for making this a special day for me.’’

B
OOKS
, D
OLLS, AND
B
EDTIME
S
TORIES
21

A
N EVENING OR TWO LATER
I
CAME UPON
Katie sitting on her bed with a book in her lap.

‘‘What’s that about?’’ I asked.

‘‘A foolish little girl named Rosamond.’’

‘‘Why is she foolish?’’

‘‘Because she is very poor and needs new shoes, but she wants a purple jar instead. And her mother lets her have her choice between the shoes and the vase. Rosamond chooses the vase but soon sees what a foolish choice she has made. Then she has to wait a whole month for new shoes.’’

‘‘What’s it called?’’

‘‘The Purple Jar,’’
answered Katie.

‘‘Would you read it to me?’’

‘‘Here, you can borrow it and read it yourself.’’

‘‘I’m not that good a reader. I’ve never read a book like that before.’’

‘‘It’s so much better to read it to yourself.’’

‘‘My mama only taught me to read a little. We didn’t have any books.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘We were slaves, Miss Katie. We was poor as Job’s turkey. We didn’t have no money for things like books.’’

The idea of not having money or books seemed new to her.

‘‘Where did you live?’’ she asked.

‘‘From here, I’m not sure exactly. Over yonder somewhere.’’ I waved toward the east.

‘‘All you have to do to learn to read better is to read more,’’ said Katie. ‘‘You can ask me about the words you don’t know. You’re smart, Mayme. You’re about the smartest person I know—except for my mama.’’

‘‘I don’t know anything about the kinds of things you know about,’’ I said. ‘‘You know about books and music and places like the town where that Mozart man lived.’’

‘‘But you can
do
things, Mayme. That makes you smart in a different way. And sometimes I get confused and afraid . . . and then I don’t know what to do.’’

‘‘Everybody gets afraid, Miss Katie.’’

‘‘I’ve never seen you afraid.’’

‘‘I get afraid all the time. I was terrified out of my wits when those men killed my family, probably the same men that came here, those marauders like that neighbor fella said. I was plenty scared. And I’m still scared sometimes, when I’m lying awake in your brother’s bed and hearing noises, and I remember that it’s just me and you here, and I think what they’ll do to me if anyone finds me like this. And I start worrying about rape or getting murdered myself, and then I get so afraid I can’t stand it.’’

‘‘What’s rape, Mayme?’’

‘‘Something you don’t need to know about, Miss Katie. Let’s just hope it don’t ever happen to you or me. But let’s don’t talk about that any more. I want you to read to me from that book.’’

‘‘If you just try, Mayme, I know you could read it yourself in no time.’’

‘‘All right, I’ll try,’’ I said. ‘‘But for now, why don’t you read me some from it . . . to help me get started.’’

‘‘All right. Here, come and sit on the bed with me.—Wait, let me get my dolls!’’ she exclaimed.

She ran over to her dresser and grabbed two, then picked up two more from the foot of the bed. When she came back and sat down next to me, she had several dolls under each arm. She arranged them beside her on the bed.

‘‘This is Peg,’’ she said, ‘‘and Missie . . . and Sarah . . . and Rebecca . . . and Jane. Would you like to have one of them, Mayme?’’

‘‘I, uh . . . I don’t—no, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘They’re yours. I don’t—’’

‘‘But I want you to have one,’’ she said. ‘‘Here—I want you to have Rebecca. Her skin is white, but you like people with white skin, don’t you, Mayme?’’

I smiled. ‘‘Yes, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘I like folks with white skin.’’

‘‘Good, then from now on, Rebecca is yours.’’

‘‘But, Miss Katie,’’ I said, ‘‘she looks like she’s the most costly one of them all.’’

‘‘I don’t know about that. Mama and Daddy got these dolls for me in Charleston. They were all birthday presents. So now since it was my birthday two days ago, I’m making a present to you.’’

‘‘I . . . I don’t . . . all right, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘That’s about the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me. I don’t know what to say.’’ I looked over at her. ‘‘Thank you, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘This is something I won’t ever forget.’’

‘‘Now let’s read,’’ said Katie.

She picked up another book lying next to her, arranged it in her lap, then opened it to the first page. I looked at it over her shoulder. She pointed to the words, probably for my benefit.

‘‘ ‘Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do,’ ’’ Katie began. ‘‘ ‘Once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘‘and what is the use of a book,’’ thought Alice, ‘‘without pictures or conversations?’’ ’ ’’

‘‘Who’s Alice?’’ I asked.

‘‘I don’t know,’’ replied Katie. ‘‘I’ve never read this book before. It’s new. My mother got it for me only last month.’’

‘‘What’s it called?’’

‘‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.’’

‘‘That sounds interesting,’’ I said. ‘‘Read some more.’’

Katie picked up the book again and continued on. ‘‘ ‘So she was considering,’ ’’ she read, ‘‘ ‘in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her.’ ’’

Katie continued the story, her fingers following along the page, and I listened until Alice had fallen down the rabbit hole and was beginning to have all kinds of strange adventures.

After Katie had read several chapters, she put the book down and lay back on her pillows.

‘‘I’m sleepy,’’ she sighed.

‘‘Would you like to
hear
a story,’’ I asked, ‘‘like I used to tell my brothers and sisters?’’

‘‘You had brothers and sisters?’’

‘‘A whole houseful.’’

‘‘What’s happened to them?’’

‘‘They all got killed.’’

The thought seemed to sober Katie. It was quiet a minute.

‘‘I’m sorry, Mayme,’’ she said after a bit. ‘‘I forget sometimes that you lost your family too. But, please— yes, I would like to hear a story.’’

‘‘One that I made up or one that the old slave folks tell the young’uns everywhere?’’

‘‘Anything you like, Mayme. You choose.’’

‘‘All right—let me see . . . I think I’ll tell you about the fox and little rabbits.’’

‘‘Is it scary—he won’t eat them, will he?’’

‘‘You will have to wait and see. That’s just what I used to tell Samuel all the time—wait and see.—Do you want me to tell it like my grandpapa would say it to us?’’

‘‘You mean with the words sounding funny?’’

‘‘Just like my grandpapa talked.’’

‘‘Yes, I want to hear it like he told it.’’

Katie leaned back and got comfortable.

‘‘Well dar wuz a certain rabbit who’ll we’ll jist call Mr. Rabbit,’’ I began. ‘‘En Mr. Rabbit’s chilluns, dey minded der daddy en mammy fum day’s een’ ter day’s een’.’’

A little giggle came from Katie.

‘‘You sound funny, Mayme,’’ she said, giggling again.

‘‘You said you wanted me to make it sound like my grandpapa.’’

‘‘I do,’’ said Katie. ‘‘Keep going.’’

‘‘Well,’’ I went on, ‘‘as I was saying, Mr. Rabbit’s chilluns, dey was good chilluns. W’en ole man Rabbit say ‘scoot,’ dey scooted, en w’en ole Mrs. Rabbit say ‘scat,’ dey scatted. Dey did dat. En dey kep der cloze clean, en dey ain’t had no smut on der nose nudder. En ef dey hadn’t er bin good chilluns, der wuz one time w’en dey wouldn’t er bin no little rabbits—na’er one. Dat’s w’at. Do you want to know w’en dat time was?’’