Glory Over Everything (3 page)

Pan continued to surprise me with his quick mind, and because of his keen desire to learn, in time I began to teach him to read and write. One late afternoon, less than a year after his arrival, he stood beside my desk while once again I attempted to correct his use of the English language. As I was doing so, he leaned over to catch my eye. “Mr. Burton, why you doin' this for me?” he asked.

“Why
are
you doing this for me?” I corrected.

“Yes, Mr. Burton. You right. Why are you doing this for me?” he repeated my correction.

“You
are
right,” I corrected again.

“I know I's right,” he said. Then he repeated himself again: “I say, ‘Why are you doing this for me?' ”

“Can you be more explicit?” I asked. When I saw the confusion on his face, I worded the question another way. “What do you mean to ask when you say, ‘Why are you doing this for me?' What do you think that I am doing for you?”

“You a white man helpin' out a nigga chil'. You teachin' me how to talk white like you. Why you doin' this? Why you foolin' with me?”

His earnest gaze touched me, and I was stung by his honest question. I turned away and felt for my handkerchief, then blew my nose. After folding my handkerchief, I was about to replace it when, without asking, Pan took it from me.

He leaned forward. “Look at me,” he said, and with his small hand, he reached over and pulled my chin to face him. Then, with supreme care, he used the cloth to dab away a droplet of water that had slipped from under my eye patch. “That eye weepin',” he said. I was so touched that I rose and went to stand before a shelf of books, feigning interest while I composed myself.

He waited until I was seated again. “That eye hurt you much?” he asked.

“Does your eye pain you?” I corrected.

He gave a deep sigh. “Mr. Burton. You keep stoppin' me, tellin' me how to talk, I don' ever get a chance to hear what you got to say,” he protested, then looked puzzled when I chuckled.

A
S TIME PASSED,
Pan continued to help Robert around the house and Molly in the kitchen—Molly's only complaint now was his constant correction of her grammar—but increasingly, I called on him to assist me with my many projects. In his eagerness to understand, he was filled with questions and freely shared his observations. His carefree countenance broke through my guarded reserve, and over the next five years I came to care deeply for the boy.

But now he was missing! Could it be that he was stolen for a slave? It was a constant fear among the Negroes of Philadelphia, for it happened often. I imagined how desperate Henry must feel, as I recalled his own terror at being taken again for a slave. The thought of Pan meeting with this fate filled me with dread. He was quick-witted but had always been frail and surely could not survive the hard life of a slave.

If he had been stolen, he must be retrieved. And since I was traveling south for my work, could I not do so? Yet, the thought of it—the idea of deliberately exposing myself to people who bought and sold Negroes—terrified me. I had worked hard for the last fifteen years to move away from my past toward safety, and now the leaden ball of fear, one that had receded but had never truly left me, began again to grow.

A
FTER MY MAMA PASS
, my daddy got no place for me to go, so one Sunday he brings me to Mr. Burton's house. How my daddy knows this white man, he never say, he just tell me to keep my mouth shut while he do the talkin'. We go 'round to the back door, where a black man, dressed slick, name's Robert, comes to the kitchen and takes us to what he calls the study. That place—I never seen nothing like it—is full of books and dead birds. While we's waitin', I take hold my daddy's hand to stop it from shakin', but I know him good enough not to say nothin'.

Soon as Mr. Burton walks in, I see he don't want nothin' to do with us.

My daddy push me ahead. “Mr. Burton,” my daddy say, “this here Pan.”

Mr. Burton looks down at me, then looks back up at my daddy like he don't know what to say.

“I never ask you for nothin', but now I's askin' you to take in my boy,” says my daddy.

“Henry, you know I am indebted to you, but he's too young, and I don't have need of more help. I would be happy to give you a purse, if that would help you out.”

“I'm not here for no money! I'm here 'cause my boy need work and a place to stay. His mama die las' week and now she gone, he got nobody . . .” My daddy's voice start to shake and I grab hold a his hand. He still can't talk about my mama leavin' us without cryin'. He holds tight to my hand and starts talkin' again. “My boy can't stay in town by hisself, and I's still working outta town like before, so he can't stay with me.”

Mr. Burton looks down at me. “How old are you?”

I'm guessin' this man only got one good eye, 'cause he got a black patch coverin' up the other one, but with the look he gives me, he only need the one.

“Tell him, boy,” Daddy says, bumpin' my shoulder.

“I's eight years old,” I say loud, knowin' my daddy count on me to speak up.

“You appear small for eight years,” Mr. Burton says.

I don't wait for Daddy to poke me again. “Not too small to carry in wood,” I say. “Carry in water, too, you needs it.”

Mr. Burton look up at my daddy. “Isn't he too young to stay here on his own?”

My daddy talks quick. “He old enough to stay. He work hard, don' need nothin' but a place to sleep, somethin' to eat, and somebody to show him what to do. I come get him every Sunday mornin', see he get back by Sunday evenin', no need for me to come in the house.” Then he looks down at me. “You ready to stay here an' work, isn't you, Pan?”

“I is,” I say real loud, makin' my daddy nod to Mr. Burton.

Nobody say nothin' for a while, then Mr. Burton say, “Henry, I owe you. We'll give it a try, but if by next Sunday the boy doesn't work out, you must take him back with you, and I will give you a purse.”

My daddy don' t say nothing but turns and goes and leaves me standin' there. Him goin' like that makes it look like he don't care, but I know better. He jus' no good at sayin' goodbye.

Mr. Burton calls Robert in. They both stand there looking my way, like they's tryin' to figure me out.

I don't like it that quiet. “Where's the work?” I say. They look at each other, then Mr. Burton smile, like I say something funny.

“Can you find some simple tasks to keep him occupied?” Mr. Burton asks Robert.

“I'll have to give it some thought,” says Robert, the slick man. “He's too young to be capable of much.”

What he know! I been takin' care a my mama right through the week, till when my daddy gets back in town every Sunday. “My mama say I's real handy to have around,” I say.

“But don't you want to stay with your father?” Mr. Burton asked.

“He try takin' me with him to the tavern, but they say he got to get rid a me or he's out a job,” I say.

“And won't you miss him?” Mr. Burton asked.

“He come see me every Sunday, jus' like he do when Mama still here.”

“Your mother recently died?”

“No, she don't die, she jus' release herself from her earthly body, jus' like she keep tellin' me she got to do. But she with me right now. We jus' can't see her.”

The two men look at each other again. Mr. Burton take in air and let it out real slow. “Robert, take him in to Molly. Ask her to give him a room and set him up with a few light chores.”

“I suppose you could learn to polish silver?” the slick man says, takin' hold a my shoulder and steerin' me downstairs.

T
HIS HOUSE SO
big, I don't know how I ever gon' find my way 'round. The room off the kitchen that Molly puts me in to sleep is bigger than the room that I was livin' in with my mama. After Molly says to get to sleep and then closes the door on me, I start cryin'. I miss my daddy, but most, I miss the way my mama always kiss my face good night—smoochin' on me until I tell her to stop. I just want to feel her kissin' me one more time. I'm scared here by myself. This big house is too quiet. I's used to hearin' noise at night, those my age out runnin' the streets shoutin' each other down, men drinkin', gamblin', laughin' with each other, and women, too, that fool with the mens. Some nights they get to fightin' an' I get afraid they're comin' in, so after Mama throws the bolt she takes her chair an' sits in front of the door, tellin' me that anybody come in, they got to first get past her. Then I can sleep. My mama never was too big, but she got plenty of fight in her when it comes to lookin' out for me.

“Why don't we tell Daddy he got to stay with us?” I ask at those times.

“He doin' the bes' he can do,” she always say.

“But why don't he stay?” I ask.

“Chil', he bring us his half dollar every Sunday that pays the rent. We got nothin' to complain about.”

“He brings us the money, then why you got to take in all that sewin' the way you do?” I ask.

“How you think we gon' eat? How we pay for that wood to cook up the grits and to make us a fire when it get cold? You look 'round you. How many does you see shiverin' when it snowin' outside and they don' got the clothes to cover up? Don' you members las' winter, when we go over to see to Mr. Woods and he—”

“Don't, Mama,” I say, “don't talk 'bout that.” I don't like to think of that man we found layin' on the dirt floor of his room with nothing but a small rag covering his dead self and his woman sittin' there cryin' 'bout what she gon' do now.

“There lots a people out there like Mr. Woods,” she said. “Your daddy always make sure we got a good room with a fire and a roof over our head.”

“But why don't he live with us?” I keep askin', till one day she sits me down.

“Nex' time your daddy here, you watch the way he keeps on his feet. You ever see him sit? No, you don', and I gon' tell you why. He always be ready to go. He run from bein' a slave, and he still think they comin' to take him back. He got work outside a Phil'delphia at the tavern where all the coaches stop. By watchin' out who comin' into town, he think that he gon' see if anybody come lookin' for him. Here in town your daddy always afraid somebody gon' see him and send word to his old masta.”

“So why don't we go live with him?” I ask.

“Out in the woods Henry keeps movin' 'round 'case somebody get wind a him. An' he don' want us there if he get picked up. He 'fraid they get us, too. Sell us for slaves.”

“An' we don't wan' be no slaves, like Daddy. Sheila say slaves is low-down.”

“Son! I don' wanna hear you say that no more! The word ‘slave' don' mean somebody's bad. Plenty of folks 'round here come from bein' a slave. It mean that somebody got hold a you and you don' have no say. Your daddy can't help once bein' a slave. There no shame in that. There only shame in the man who use him like that.”

T
HAT FIRST NIGHT
in Mr. Burton's house, I'm wonderin' where my daddy is, but I go to sleep crying for my mama.

The next morning I wake up, sun's coming in the small window that sits over my bed. Real quick, I pull my clothes on and get myself out into the kitchen, but Molly's already working at the stove.

“You shoulda woke me up so I can get to my work,” I say, afraid Mr. Burton will find out and send me back.

“Come over here and get yourself somethin' to eat,” Molly says, and sits me down at the table, then sets a plate of two eggs with a big slice a ham in front of me. I sit quiet and wait for her to come back and take out what she gonna eat. She looks over at me. “Go ahead,” she says, nodding at the plate.

“How much a this do I get to eat?” I say.

“That is all for you.”

“I got to eat all this? What you goin' to eat? What Robert goin' to eat?”

“Chil',” she says, “we already got our food. You go ahead now and eat up. I give you some milk when you finish.”

I dig in with the spoon, but when I lift the meat with my fingers, Molly comes over.

“Here,” she says, “this is how we work it in this house.” She cuts the meat with a knife, then gives me a fork to spear it.

I never do see two eggs on a plate like this before. Eggs is hard to come by, an' even though some folks keep chickens, they don't stay for long 'cause they get eat up.

I'm done eating, my stomach all puffed out, when Robert comes in. Quick, I get off my chair to show him I's ready to work. He looks me over, then goes over to a hook on the wall and takes down a big green apron that he ties around hisself.

“We have our work cut out for us,” he says. “I've found some suitable clothes, but first we must get you scrubbed clean.”

“But you washed me last night,” I say to Robert.

“And today you shall have a full bath,” he says.

I ask if I should start to carry in the water. Like he don't hear me, Robert jus' goes over and turns on a inside spigot that's right there in the kitchen, and water starts pourin' out! He puts it in two big kettles, and while he's waitin' for it to get hot he has me stand on a stool so he can cut my hair. I keep lookin' at that spigot. I'm glad if this means I don't have to carry in water, 'cause it gets heavy.

After Mama got sick and she couldn't lift no more, I carried the water in from the outside spigot that everybody get to use. The water for washing was always cold, and we didn't waste the wood just to heat it up, except for in the winter, when the fire was already going.

Carryin' in the water was heavy, so I brought in just a half bucket every time I made the trip, and Mama always said that was enough. Even though she'd stand at the door and watch for me, I didn't like to go out in the alley, past the heaps of dirt piled up and the rats big as cats digging in everybody's slop. The winters wasn't as bad, 'cause the piles was froze and the smell wasn't so strong. But when it got to warmin' up, the folks like Mr. Woods, who lived out there in the rooms close to the outhouse, they had a stink.