Glory Over Everything (10 page)

“He said that I was a filthy pig,” I said.

“A pig!” Henry said. “He said you a pig!”

“Well, not in those words. He told me I need to get cleaned up.”

“Then he gives you the job?”

“I'll never know,” I said.

“Why you never know?”

“Because he insulted me! I'm not going back,” I said.

Henry looked about to make certain that we were alone, then he spoke in a low voice. “Now you thinkin' like a white boy. How you get ahead like that? You want somethin', you got to fight for it! That mean you got to get cleaned up and go on back there.”

Furious, I strode on, but as I began to pass by some clothing shops, my fury lessened. I finally stopped in front of one display window that featured a white shirt and a beautifully tailored green velvet dress jacket. The gold lettering on the window read “Gentlemen's Clothing.”

“Go on in,” Henry encouraged. “Get you some new clothes. You got the money.”

Embarrassed now at my appearance, I was reluctant to enter, but smarting from the silversmith's insults, I went in, determined to clean myself up. On my exit, I carried a new leather satchel packed with three white cotton shirts, two pairs of dark breeches, a black jacket, some stockings, and a fine pair of black shoes. I also now owned scissors, a hairbrush, and a sandalwood-scented bar of soap.

I handed Henry a shining black satchel similar to my brown one. “Open it,” I said.

He gave me a look of surprise as he dug though his bag to find a new muslin shirt, a bar of soap, and a wooden hairbrush. He smelled the soap and said nothing, but from his slight smile, I could tell he was pleased.

F
OR TWO DAYS
I could not find the courage to return to the city, but by the third day, Henry insisted I go. I had scrubbed myself clean and was dressed in my new clothing when Henry again led me through the woods, but this time when we came to the road, he handed me my satchel and encouraged me on my way.

“Aren't you coming?” I asked, alarmed.

“Time we cut ties,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

I looked around, trying to think of an excuse to have him come with me. “Maybe I shouldn't go today. It looks like it's going to rain,” I said.

Henry looked at the sky. “Rain or shine, you got to go,” he said. I was about to plead, but his face hardened. “Go on, now. Time you git goin'. Go on, now, and do somethin' with yourself.”

I didn't know what else to do, what else to say. My throat seized up, and fearing that I might start to cry, I abruptly turned and walked away. I knew why Henry was sending me away, but I felt he was all I had left of family, and I was heartsick at leaving him. When tears fell, I wiped them away, but hungry for a last sight of him, I turned back to wave. He was already gone, and it took everything in me not to run back into the woods to find him.

I waited awhile, hoping he might come forth to surprise me, but finally, I turned back to the road and forced myself on. By the time another farmer on his way to the market offered me a ride, my new shoes had rubbed my heels raw, and I was happy to accept. This wagon box was filled with baskets of alarmed chickens and I was grateful for the din, as it provided little opportunity for talk.

Once in town, I went in search of the silversmith shop. By the time I found my way there, my feet were burning from blisters. Though the sign for help was still in the window next to the silver birds, I dreaded entering, sure of rejection.

I dusted my pants clean and brushed at the front of my jacket, then stepped in to meet the same man who had seen fit to tell me to bathe. Surprisingly, he recognized me and greeted me with some enthusiasm.

“So,” he said, “you are back!” He came from behind the display case to look me over. “I see you took my advice.”

“I did,” I said, gripping tight to my satchel.

“I am pleased to see you,” he said.

“You are?”

“I am! You have a talent, my boy. I was hoping that you would return. And now I see that you can accept direction.”

I wasn't sure what to feel.

“So why did you return?” he asked.

“I need to work,” I said.

“You would be willing to clean the floors?”

“Well, yes, I can clean floors if you show me how,” I said, “but I would rather like to learn to work with silver.”

“We could arrange for that, but it would take years to learn the craft,” he said.

“Years?” I asked.

“Yes, but first you would have to start with cleaning the shop and running errands.”

“Would you pay me?” I asked.

“Not if you are my apprentice.” My face must have fallen, for he added, “But you will learn a trade, and while you are with me, I will supply your food and some coins as you might need them.”

“I will need them,” I said.

“Did you consult with your family?”

“I had only my grandmother,” I said.

“Your grandmother? And where is she?”

I wasn't prepared for the question. “She was in a fire. She died,” I blurted out.

“And your parents?” he asked.

“Umm . . . they are dead,” I lied. “I have no one.” Unexpectedly, for the second time that day, I fought tears, and when one slipped down my face, I quickly wiped it away with my jacket sleeve. “I don't like to talk about my grandmother,” I said as explanation, though truthfully, it was more likely the strain of leaving Henry and now my fear of being caught in a lie.

The man gave me a moment before he asked, “And what is your name?”

I looked down at the floor and lied again. “James Smith,” I said, calling up the name Henry and I had decided upon.

“And your age?”

I glanced up, and his expression was so unexpectedly kind that I told the truth. “I was thirteen years this past February,” I said.

He nodded, then smiled. “Thirteen is a good age to begin.” He stepped forward and offered his hand. “My name is Mr. Burton. Welcome.”

Yet I hesitated. Where would I live? I had coins in my pocket, but I was reluctant to use them, as I hated the thought of selling more of Grandmother's jewelry.

“What is it?” he asked, noting my uncertainty.

“Do you know of a place where I could sleep?” I asked.

“Ah! Well, it is common enough to offer a new apprentice room and board,” he said. “I can provide that for you in my home, where you will be downstairs with our household help. Your room will be small, but it will be warm and dry, and you will have enough to eat. Would that arrangement suit you?”

I was so relieved that I could only nod in reply.

U
NSPEAKABLY GRATEFUL FOR
the man's generosity, I was silent in the carriage that first evening when Mr. Burton took me along to his home. I had spent the afternoon cleaning up the silver shop, but I had left Henry early that morning, and I was dazed from the long day.

It seemed a short ride before the horses turned down an alley that led to the back of a four-story brick dwelling. After Mr. Burton and I left the carriage, the driver went on to the stables, and my host led the way into the house through a back door that opened into a small square entry where a welcoming lamp was burning.

From there I followed Mr. Burton down a short stairwell and into a large basement kitchen, where we were met by the scent of freshly baked bread and a simmering meat stew. The warmth and comfort of this large room contrasted sharply with the cold outside, but it was all so unfamiliar that I happily would have exchanged it for Henry and his outdoor fire.

Mr. Burton went ahead to a long pine table in the center of the room. There he lifted a blue-and-white-checked cloth. “Ah, Delia!” he said, breathing in the scent of fresh bread.

A thin Negro woman turned from the vast fireplace. “Done not two hours ago,” she said without a smile, then went back to stirring the contents of the pot.

“Don't tell me that's my favorite stewed beef,” he said, sniffing the air.

“Made just the way you likes it, with the cloves and extra onions,” she said.

“Now, that's a meal to look forward to, Delia!” he said.

The woman placed the iron lid back on the pot, then picked up a small bucket and brought it over to slide the onion peels from the table. As I watched her work, her dark eyes kept darting in my direction.

“How was Mrs. Burton today?” my new employer asked.

“Oh, she have a good day,” Delia said.

“She saw Malcolm?” he asked.

“Yessir, she go to his room. Like I say, she have a good day.”

“Fine, fine.” Mr. Burton looked back at me.

“We're trying out a new apprentice for the shop. This is James,” he said, by way of introduction. He waved toward a dark hallway. “Can we get that back room cleared out enough to make room for a bed?”

“The one 'cross from the wine cellar?” she asked.

“That's the one,” he said.

“I get Ed to take out some a those barrels what holds the apples and . . .”

“Fine, fine,” he answered, already on his way to the stairway. Before he began to climb the steps, he addressed me again. “Delia will get you straightened out. Be ready to leave in the morning at seven.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, so grateful for his kindness that tears threatened. I soon sobered when Delia and I were left alone to stare at one another. Her brown muslin head rag was tied low on her forehead, and her face appeared to be set in a frown, though it might have been her low-slung jaw and heavy bottom lip that made it look so. Hers was not a handsome face.

“No white boy been put down here with us before,” she said, clearly unhappy with my presence.

“And I'm not used to sleeping with servants,” I said sharply.

She gave me a quick hard look. While I found her stare intimidating, I would not allow a Negro woman to speak to me in that way.

She picked up one of the lamps and, while mumbling to herself, shuffled slowly across the zigzag pattern of the brick floor and into the dark hallway. When she sensed that I wasn't behind her, she turned back. “You comin'?” she called.

I followed as she led the way to a small back room half filled with large barrels. In the lamplight, I saw there would be space enough to place a bed under the narrow window and away from the small fireplace.

“Set your bag down, and Ed see to get a pallet for tonight. Tomorrow we get a bed set up. What else you think you needin' in here?” she asked.

I decided it best to present a full list. “I suppose I shall need a desk,” I said, “and a floor covering. Of course I will need a lamp and a washstand and a mirror—”

“I say what you needin', not what you wantin',” she said, then abruptly left the room. Since she had the light, I had no choice but to trail back after her into the kitchen. With nothing else to do, I sat on a stool and watched as she bustled around, preparing a supper tray for the Burtons. When she finished, she carried it to a corner in the room and there opened a small trapdoor to load the tray inside. After she gave a few yanks to a cord, which rang a bell on the floor above us, there was a low rumble as someone in the dining room above began to use a pulley to bring the meal up.

I couldn't stop myself. “Who is up there?” I asked.

“Robert,” she said.

“Robert?” I asked.

“He the butler.”

“The butler?” It was an unfamiliar word, one I could not recall having heard before, but I would not show my ignorance.

“That what I say,” she said, then directed me to a corner of the table and set before me a large pewter spoon and a wooden bowl filled with the hot stew. Until now I had felt too drained from the day's events to eat, but the aroma awakened my appetite.

I was relieved to see that she was not joining me. It was one thing to share my meal with Henry out in the woods, but to sit at the table with a Negro house servant was another thing.

“Would you have a napkin?” I asked.

She went to a sideboard and opened a long drawer from which she pulled a folded white cloth that I suspected was used for drying dishes.

“This suit you?” she asked, setting it down beside me.

“Thank you,” I said, shaking it out and folding it across my lap before digging in to the aromatic stew.

Delia spread freshly churned butter over a thick slice of bread and handed it to me. She was cutting another slice of bread when she gave me a sly look. “You know what a butler do?”

I dipped the bread into the sweet onion gravy, then took a bite and chewed it slowly before I replied. “I'm assuming he collects supper trays?”

“He don' collect no nothin',” she said.

“Well, then,” I said curiosity getting the better of me, “I suppose that you had best inform me.”

She glared at me. “After Mr. Burton, Robert the boss a this house, so you bes' mind him.”

“Surely he doesn't have charge over Mrs. Burton?” I asked.

“Mrs. Burton don' do a thing without askin' me first,” she said. “Ed and me was here before Robert.”

As I took the second piece of bread that she handed me, I remembered the carriage driver. “Is Ed your husband?” I asked, more to make conversation than out of a need to know.

“Ed my baby brother,” she said.

Her baby brother? How old was she? As though to answer my question, she said, “We both been here with Mr. and Mrs. Burton since they buy us, but we free now. We's here a long time.”

I asked if the Burtons had children.

“One boy. They bury him back when the yellow fever comes through, back in '93.” She looked at me and asked, “That before you was born?” Caught unaware, I didn't respond, so she asked another question. “Where was you born?”

I worried that I might say the wrong thing. “I prefer not to talk about myself,” I said. Having finished the meal, I rose to take my leave, then remembered my manners. “That was an excellent supper,” I said. “Thank you, Delia.”