Authors: Ann Rinaldi
"No," I said. And I stepped forward. Safron stopped. Everyone did, it seemed. Aunt Sophie was patting her hair and peering at herself in the mirror. But she stopped cold, too.
"What is the meaning of this? How dare you revoke my orders? Sis Goose, take up the pot."
Sis Goose stood unmoving, confused. I stepped between the pot and her. "She isn't here to empty chamber pots," I said firmly.
"It's part of her job."
"She doesn't have a job. If you make her do it, we will leave."
She sneered. "And say what to your mother when you get home?"
"Pa said we could. He said if you treat Sis Goose like a no-account, we should get our horses and leave."
She didn't expect that. She'd had many an argument with Mama, but she was a little afraid of my pa. He took no sass from her.
"If you do that," she said evenly, "I shall exercise my rights and take her back. And there's nothing you or your pa or your precious brothers can do about it."
Sis Goose stepped in then, bless her. "No disrespect, ma'am, but if you make me live here, I'll run away."
"And be caught by the first slave catcher roaming the countryside. They're still out catching runaways, you know. And you'd be sold into slavery. And I swear, I will not stop it."
We were deadlocked, stuck in the mud like pigs after a hard rain. And then I had a thought.
"She can do all the chores she wants," I conceded, "except the chamber pot. If you make her do that, I'll tell Rooney Lee when they get back. I'll bring it up at supper."
Aunt Sophie blinked and her cheeks flushed. She did not want to be known amongst the cream of Southern society as a cruel and nasty woman. She did not want censure from Rooney Lee. What if he told his father?
I had her where I wanted her. Like a fox in a leg trap.
"Very well then," she said, "no chamber pot. Safron, you may take it out. But there will be other chores. Does making candied violets suit you?"
"You should know that we're, neither of us, strangers to the kitchen," I told her quietly. "Mama wouldn't allow that. I can fry bacon and make a decent pecan pie. So can Sis Goose. My brothers are mad for my sugar cookies. I can not only shoot a wild turkey but bring it home, strip off the feathers, take out the innards, and cook it. And Sis Goose makes a rhubarb pie that the Yankees would lay their guns down for. But no," I allowed, "we've never made candied violets. And we'd both like to."
F
IRST WE
had to dip the violets, which Aunt Sophie had dried and preserved, into beaten egg whites. Then we held each violet upside down by the stem and dipped it carefully into sugar until they were coated. Then we set them aside, one by one, to dry and be stored away.
Suzy, the kitchen maid, showed us how. I'll say one thing for Aunt Sophie: She knew which flowers you could eat and not become sick from. She always served some kind of flowers at her table.
"In Europe they do this," she told us.
I could have told her that you didn't have to go to Europe to eat flowers. Mercy Love, our own hoodoo woman at home, ate them all the time.
We enjoyed making the candied violets that day. And afterwards we rode out into the brisk December air to cut and bring home holly and evergreen branches. Tomorrow, when the men got home, we were going to help Rooney Lee and the servants decorate the house.
The next few weeks before Christmas there would be
a round of visiting on the plantations. My parents would start theirs off by coming here and fetching us home.
We all hoped the boys would make it home for the holidays. Gabe always rode out and cut the tree, and Granville brought home the big yule log.
After the candied violet episode, Aunt Sophie becalmed herself a little and entered into the spirit of the season. After all, she must supervise the blowing up of hog bladders for children to pop over the fires; there were her slaves who would sing for her company and they had to be practiced; not to mention baking to be done, turkeys to be readied, and dances to be planned.
W
E WENT
home with Ma and Pa after two days to keep our own Christmas. And so Sis Goose and I had to ride out again to get the holly and evergreens. We popped the corn to string on the tree, the tree that Sam the overseer brought in because Gabe never made it home in time. Part of that holiday included the visit Sis Goose and I paid to the hoodoo woman.
Every Christmas season it was our job to bring Mercy Love her gifts. Pa picked out what she was to have because all year long she kept him apprised of what the weather would be. Several times a year, when the sky was blue, he'd take up his cane and put on his best frock coat and cravat and walk down to the quarters to visit Mercy Love. Sometimes Sis Goose and I would go with him, one on
each side, holding his arms. But we'd wait outside the small log cabin, if we went along, for him to come out.
"Rain," she'd tell him. "Lots of rain. The moon is tilted downward so the water can come out."
"In how many days?" Pa would ask. And she'd answer, "Count the number of stars in the halo around the moon."
She was always right, Pa said. You could set your clock by her predictions, whether they be about storms or drought. To a cotton and wheat and corn planter, this meant more than gold.
So Christmastime Sis Goose and I took her tokens of appreciation from Pa. Actually, he kept her supplied regular-like in shanks of ham and bacon and a possum or two for her pot, potatoes and sorghum, and even rum. She especially liked rum.
This year we took a ham bundled in burlap, a side of bacon, and a heap of sugar cookies. She ate like a ranchhand, that woman, and she was the skinniest little bit of a thing.
She kept an owl in her cabin. Her husband had long since died and she said she buried him standing up and facing west, with his jug of corn likker at his feet.
I don't know where she got it, but when we visited she always had candy for us. Peppermint and wintergreen.
Her small log house was surrounded with hedgerows of Cherokee roses, an evergreen with the sharpest of thorns. No animal or human could get through unless you knew
the place on the side where there was a break in the hedgerows and you could shimmy through sideways.
Of course she could see the future. That goes without saying. She did it with cards or with tea or by reading your palm. I got the feeling they were only props and it all just came inside her head.
This time it was still early in the day, but the darkness was already threatening. She had candles lighted all over her cabin. And seated on the table, right next to her, was Sasquatch. He peered at us with eyes as impenetrable as a backwoods swamp. He was a snowy owl. I'd looked him up in one of Pa's books. His Latin name was
Nyctea scandiaca.
And he was a rare bird that sometimes honored Texas with his appearance.
He ruffled his feathers and raised his wings, showing off his wingspan.
He would never fly again. He'd come to her with a broken wing, which she'd mended. But whether it was not mended right or he refused to leave her, she would never know.
"Like with some people," she told us, "it's better we don't know."
She wore something black that draped around her and she smiled at Sis Goose. "How you doin', little girl?"
"I'm fine, ma'am."
She would not take her eyes off Sis Goose. It was like I didn't exist.
Today she was reading tea leaves. And as she peered at them in the bottom of the cup she said to Sis Goose quietly, "You ready to meet your papa?"
Sis Goose smiled. "I haven't seen him since I was a knee baby. Why would I see him now?"
"Only he knows that. Maybe he come to fetch you home."
"I don't belong to him anymore. I belong to Aunt Sophie, remember?" Sis Goose asked.
Only then did Mercy Love look at me; a long, haunting look. And in that instant it was as if I could hear her speaking inside my head. "So, you ain't told her she's free yet, is that it?"
Then she broke into insane laughter. But there were tears in her eyes.
"This war be over soon," she said. "An' then you all be free."
"And you?" I dared ask it. "What will you do when you're free, Mercy Love?"
She shook her head and sighed. "I's free now, little girl. And when they say I am I won't ever be." More laughter. "You go on and figure that out."
She gave us gifts. She came forward with two pennies, each wrapped in tissue paper. "Put these in your left shoes," she ordered.
We each took off our left shoe and put the pennies in. "What will they do?" Sis Goose asked.
"Wear them for three days, then throw them in the
creek. Keep you from the cholera or the bilious fever or typhoid."
We dared not disbelieve her.
Then she brought to the table a bowl of clear water and some soap. "Wash your hands together," she said, "so you can be friends for life."
We did so, gladly. Then she gave us each a conjure bag, with goofer dust from the graveyard in it. For good luck.
As we turned to leave she patted my shoulder. "You should know that Gabriel brother of yours will be home soon," she said, "though he have a wound in his leg from the Indians."
Before I could say anything, she laughed. "But he ain't your Gabriel brother anymore. He's this one's lover." And she laughed quietly. Then, "You bring me a piece of his clothing," she said to Sis Goose, "an' I keep him safe for you."
I drew in my breath, wondering why, when the war was almost over, I had feelings that worse times were yet to come.
S
IS
G
OOSE'S LOVER.
Sometimes Mercy Love teased. Most times likely not. The thing is you have to remember that that Christmas of '64, Sis Goose was sixteen already and I still a child of thirteen. Sure, she sometimes acted younger than me. Sometimes Gabe told me to look after her when he was gone, and I did. But when it came to falling in love, when it came to Gabe, she was somehow looking like twenty.
There were days she wanted nothing to do with me because of the age difference, days she considered herself older than the stars and full of secrets I'd never be privy to. These days she'd hurt me and I'd secretly cry. And there were days she shared with me her dreams and some of those secrets and I needed nothing else to keep going.
T
HE HOUSE
was all decorated with garlands on the banisters and fruit on the mantels, and the tree in the parlor glowed with candles and smiled with cut-out paper decorations and strung popcorn and berries. With both my brothers
home, the house took on another life, the way it did when there were men around. Their hound dogs lounged in front of the hearths, dirty paws and all. There wasn't much Ma could say about it. The dogs were usually confined to the front hall, but the boys loved them too much.
Mama said we were starting to look like a book by Charles Dickens. She looked at me in my ruffled skirts, my polished boots, my high lace-collared blouse, and my dark hair drawn back with a ribbon, when she said it.
"Go upstairs and get your brothers down, Luli," she said. "Mr. Smith and your pa haven't got all morning."
Mr. Smith was Sis Goose's father, the ship's captain, come to visit. A surprise visit, though Sis Goose and I had been forewarned by Mercy Love. He was in Pa's study, having a wake-up toddy and talking.
Sis Goose hadn't met him yet. She was just about champing at the bit, helping Ma see over last-minute details of the table.
I went upstairs, sneaked down the hall, and stood silently outside the door of Gabe's room.
"Mr. Gabriel, sir." It was Arnold, Granville's "man," who went everywhere in attendance with him. He was helping Gabe with his cravat. Gabe was an utter failure with that particular piece of menswear.
"I know she's there, Arnold," Gabe said, calmly adjusting what Arnold had done on the necktie. "You have to get used to her," he teased. "You'll find critters like her all over
the house this time of year. Well, step out into the open, miss. Do you have something important to tell me?"
"Yes."
"I'm waiting."
It was about the lotion Granville had brought home from Mexico. He was wearing it. I was disappointed in him. He never used such rot.
"You smell like a pimp," I told him. "You go downstairs smelling like that and Pa will put you with the hogs."
He stopped fixing his cravat. He adjusted the suspenders on his shoulders. He looked like I'd thrown yesterday's hog slop in his face. "Where'd you learn that word?"
I shrugged. "I know just about as much as Sis Goose does about things."
"Do you now?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well then, you better know enough to run for your life right now, little girl. Because if I catch you, I'll take you right to Granville and you can tell him your opinion about the lotion he brought home. And we'll let him decide what to do with you. You know Granville's not very patient with little girls who bad-mouth their elders. Did you know that?"
My stomach was starting to churn. I shook my head no.
"Now, go on. Get the hell out of here."
He must have drank too much last night, I decided, or he'd never speak to me like that. That in itself was worse than anything Granville could do to me. I left.
***
T
WENTY MINUTES
later we were all seated around Mama's Christmas breakfast table, eating the specialties I and Sis Goose and Mama and the servants had prepared all week. Everything between Gabe and me had been forgotten, or so it seemed. Mr. Smith was still in Pa's study with him.
Pa had sent out word for us to go ahead and eat.
The boys were solemn on this visit, because the end of the war was in sight. And the South was bound to lose. Granville had brought the big-city newspapers, like gold to us, and they all said Atlanta, Georgia, had fallen in the autumn.
Ma comforted the boys. She said they'd fought the good fight and that was all that mattered. After all, the Yankees weren't here yet. We might still get a spring crop planted before they came and freed all the slaves.
I finished my breakfast and went to stand by Gabe, hoping to be forgiven and not sent away. These were serious matters they were discussing, and I needed comfort.