Irene then made shirts for each of her brothers-in-law—which genuinely moved them, even Ashford—and finally matching aprons, smocks, and bonnets for Matilda and herself. Nor were Missis and next Massa Murray any less openly delighted with the amazingly finely stitched dress and shirt she made for them, from cotton grown right on their own plantation.
“Why, it’s just beautiful!” Missis Murray exclaimed, turning around displaying her dress to a beaming Matilda. “I’ll never figure out why the Holts sold her to us at all, and even at a reasonable price!” Glibly avoiding the truth that Irene had confided, Matilda said, “Bes’ I can reckon, Missis, is dey liked Tom so much.”
Having a great love of colors, Irene avidly collected plants and leaves that she needed for cloth dyeing, and the weekends of 1859’s early autumn saw cloth swatches in red, green, purple, blue, brown, and her favorite yellow hanging out to dry on the rattan clotheslines. Without anyone’s formally deciding or even seeming
to much notice it, Irene gradually withdrew from doing further field work. From the massa and missis on down to Virgil’s and Lilly Sue’s peculiar-acting four-year-old Uriah, everyone was far more aware of the increasing ways in which Irene was contributing a new brightness to all of their lives.
“Reckon good part of what made me want Tom so much was’cause I seed we both jes’ loves makin’ things fo’ folks,” she told Matilda, who was rocking comfortably in her chair before her dully glowing fireplace one chilly late October evening. After a pause, Irene looked at her mother-in-law in a sly, under-eyed manner. “Knowin’ Tom,” she said, “ain’t no need me axin’ if he done tol’ you we’s makin’ sump’n else—”
It took a second to register. Shrieking happily, springing up and tightly embracing Irene, Matilda was beside herself with joy. “Make a l’il gal firs’, honey, so I can hug an’ rock ’er jes’ like a doll!”
Irene did an incredible range of things across the winter months as her pregnancy advanced. Her hands seemed all but able to wreak a magic that soon was being enjoyed within the big house as well as in every slave-row cabin. She plaited rugs of cloth scraps; she made both tinted and scented Christmas-New Year holiday season candles; she carved dried cow’s horns into pretty combs, and gourds into water dippers and birds’ nests in fancy designs. She insisted until Matilda let her take over the weekly chore of boiling, washing, and ironing everyone’s clothes. She put some of her fragrant dried-rose leaves or sweet basil between the folded garments, making the black and white Murrays alike smell about as fine as they felt.
That February Irene got urged into a three-way conspiracy by Matilda, who had already enlisted an amused Ashford’s assistance. After explaining her plan, Matilda fiercely cautioned, “Don’t’cha breathe nary word to Tom, you know how stiff an’ proper
he
is!” Privately seeing no harm in carrying out her instructions, Irene
used her first chance to draw aside her openly adoring sister-in-law L’il Kizzy, and speak solemnly: “I’se done heared sump’n I kinda ’speck you’d want to. Dat Ashford whispin’ it roun’ dat look like some real pretty gal beatin’ yo’ time wid dat railroad hotel man Amos—” Irene hesitated just enough to confirm L’il Kizzy’s jealously narrowing eyes, then continued, “Ashford say de gal right on de same plantation wid one o’ his’n. He claim Amos go see her some weeknights, twixt seein’ you Sundays. De gal say fo’ long she gwine have Amos jumpin’ de broom fo’ sho’—”
L’il Kizzy gulped the bait like a hungry blue catfish, a report that was immensely gratifying to Matilda, who had concluded that after her covert observations of her fickle daughter’s previous swains, Amos seemed the most solid, sincere prospect for L’il Kizzy to quit flirting and settle down with.
Irene saw even her stoic Tom raise his brows during the following Sunday afternoon after Amos arrived on his borrowed mule for his usual faithful visit. None of the family ever had seen L’il Kizzy in such a display of effervescing gaiety, wit, and discreetly suggestive wiles as she practically showered on the practically tongue-tied Amos, with whom she had previously acted more or less bored. After a few more of such Sundays, L’il Kizzy confessed to her heroine Irene that she finally had fallen in love, which Irene promptly told the deeply pleased Matilda.
But then when more Sundays had passed without any mention of jumping the broom, Matilda confided to Irene, “I’se worried. Knows ain’t gwine be long fo’ dey does sump’n. You sees how ever’ time he come here, dey goes walkin’, right ’way from all us, an’ dey heads close togedder—” Matilda paused, “Irene, I’se worried ’bout two things. Firs’ thing, dey fool roun’ an’ git too close, de gal liable to win’ up in a fam’ly way. Other thing, dat boy so used to railroads an’ folks travelin’, I wonders is dey maybe figgerin’ to run off to up
Nawth? ’Cause L’il Kizzy jes’ wil’ ’nough to try anythin’, an’ you know it!”
Upon Amos’ arrival the next Sunday, Matilda promptly appeared bearing a frosted layer cake and a large jug of lemonade. In loud, pointed invitation, she exclaimed to Amos that if she couldn’t cook as well as L’il Kizzy, perhaps Amos would be willing to suffer through a bit of the cake and conversation. “Fac’, us don’t never hardly even git to see you no mo’, seem like!”
An audible groan from L’il Kizzy instantly squelched with her catching a hard glance from Tom, as Amos, without much acceptable alternative, took an offered seat. Then as the family small talk accompanied the refreshments, Amos contributed a few strained, self-conscious syllables. After a while, apparently L’il Kizzy decided that her man was much more interesting than her family was being enabled to appreciate.
“Amos, how come you don’ tell ’em ’bout dem tall poles an’ wires dem railroad white folks ain’t long put up?” Her tone was less a request than a demand.
Fidgeting some, then Amos said, “Well, ain’t rightly know if’n I can ’zackly ’scribe whatever it is. But jes’ las’ month dey got through wid stringin’ wires crost de tops o’ real tall poles stretchin’ fur as you can see—”
“Well, what de poles an’ wires fo’?” Matilda demanded.
“He gittin’ to dat, Mammy!”
Amos looked embarrassed. “Telegraph. B’leeve dat’s what dey calls it, ma’am. I been an’ looked at how de wires leads down inside de railroad station where de station agent got on his desk dis contraption wid a funny kin’ o’ sideways handle. Sometime he makin’ it click wid his finger. But mo’ times de contraption git to clickin’ by itself. It mighty ’citin’ to de white folks. Now every mornin’ a good-size bunch ’em comes an’ ties up dey hosses to jes’ be roun’
waitin’ fo’ dat thing to git to clickin’. Dey says it’s news from different places comin’ over dem wires ’way up on dem poles.”
“Amos, wait a minute, now—” Tom spoke slowly. “You’s sayin’ it bringin’ news but ain’t no talkin’, jes’ de clickin’?”
“Yassuh, Mr. Tom, like a great big cricket. Seem like to me somehow or ’nother de station agent be’s gittin’ words out’n dat,’til it stop. Den pretty soon he step outside an’ tell dem odder mens what-all was said.”
“Ain’t dese white folks sump’n?” exclaimed Matilda. “De Lawd do tell!” She beamed upon Amos almost as broadly as L’il Kizzy was.
Amos, obviously feeling much more at ease than before, elected now without any promoting to tell them of another wonder. “Mr. Tom, is you ever been in any dem railroad repair shops?”
Tom was privately deciding that he liked this young man who appeared to be, at last, his sister’s choice to jump the broom with; he had manners. He seemed sincere, solid.
“Naw, son, I ain’t,” Tom said. “Me an’ my wife used to drive by de Company Shops village, but I ain’t never been inside none de buildin’s.”
“Well suh, I’se took plenty meals on trays from de hotel to de mens in all twelve dem different shops, an’ I reckon de busies’ one de blacksmith shop. Dey be’s doin’ sich in dere as straightenin’ dem great big train axles what’s got bent, fixin’ all manners o’ other train troubles, an’ makin’ all kinds o’ parts dat keeps de trains runnin’. It’s cranes in dere big as logs, bolted to de ceilin’, an’ de reckon twelve, fifteen blacksmith’s each got a nigger helper swingin’ mauls an’ sledges bigger’n I ever seen. Dey got forges big enough to roas’ two, three whole cows in, an’ one dem nigger helpers tol’ me dey anvils weighs much as eight hundred pounds!”
“
Whew!
” whistled Tom, obviously much impressed.
“How much yo’ anvil weigh, Tom?” Irene asked.
“Right roun’ two hundred pounds, an’ ain’t ever’body could lif’ it.”
“Amos—” L’il Kizzy exclaimed, “you ain’t tol’ ’em nothin’ ’bout yo’ new hotel where you works!”
“Hol’ on, none o’
my
hotel!” Amos widely grinned. “Sho’
whist
it was! Dey takes in money han’ over fis’! Lawd! Well, ’magines y’all knows de hotel ain’t long built. Folks says some mens pretty hot under de collar ’cause de railroad president talked wid dem, but den picked Miss Nancy Hillard to manage it. She de one hired me, memberin’ me workin’ hard fo’ her fam’ly, growin’ up. Anyhow, de hotel got thirty rooms, wid six toilets out in de backyard. Folks pays a dollar a day fo’ room an’ washbowl an’ towel, long wid breakfas’, dinner, supper, an’ a settin’ chair on de front porch. Sometime I hears Miss Nancy jes’ acarryin’ on ’bout how mos’ de railroad workmens leaves her nice clean white sheets all grease an’ soot-streaked, but den she say well leas’ dey spends ever’thin’ dey makes, so deys he’pin’ de Company Shops village git better off!”
Again L’il Kizzy cued her Amos: “How ’bout y’all feedin’ dem trainloads o’ folks?”
Amos smiled. “Well, den’s ’bout busy as us ever gits! See, every day it be’s de two passenger trains, one runnin’ eas’, de odder wes’. Gittin’ to McLeansville or Hillsboro, ’pendin’ which way it gwine, de train’s conductor he telegraphs ’head to de hotel how many passengers an’ crew he got. An’ by time dat train git to our station, lemme tell y’all, Miss Nancy’s got all de stuff out on dem long tables hot an’ steamin’, an’ all us helpers jes’ rarin’ to go to feed dem folks! I means it be’s quail an’ hams, chickens, guineas, rabbit, beef; it’s all kinds o’ salads, an’ ’bout any vegetable you can name,’long wid a whole table nothin’ but desserts! De peoples piles off dat big ol’ train dat sets dere waitin’ twenty minutes to give ’em time to eat fo’ dey gits back on boa’d an’ it commence achuffin’ out an’ gone again!”
“De drummers, Amos!” cried L’il Kizzy, with everyone smiling at her pride.
“Yeah,” said Amos. “Dey’s de ones Miss Nancy purely love to have put up in de hotel! Sometime two, three ’em git off’n de same train, an’ me an’ ’nother nigger hurries up carryin’ ’head o’ ’em to de hotel dey suit bag an’ big heavy black web-strap cases what we knows is full o’ samples whatever dat ’ticular drummer’s sellin’. Miss Nancy says dey’s real gen’lmens, keeps deyselves clean as pins, an’ really ’preciates bein’ took good care of, an’ I likes ’em, too. Some jes’ quick to give you a dime as a nickel fo’ carryin’ dey bags, shinin’ dey shoes, or doin’ nigh ’bout anythin’! Gin’ly dey washes up an’ walks roun’ town talkin’ wid folks. After eatin’ dinner, dey’ll set on de porch, smokin’ or chawin’ ’baccy an’ jes’ lookin’, or talkin’ til dey goes on upstairs to bed. Den nex mornin’ after breakfas’, dey calls one us niggers to tote dey samples cases over crost to dat blacksmith’s what fo’ a dollar a day rents ’em a hoss an’ buggy, an’ off dey drives to sell stuff at I reckon ’bout all de stores ’long de roads in dis county—”
In a spontaneity of sheer admiration that Amos worked amid such wonders, the chubby L’il George exclaimed, “Amos, boy, I ain’t realized you is leadin’ some life!”
“Miss Nancy say de railroad bigges’ thing since de hoss,” Amos modestly observed. “She say soon’s some mo’ railroads gits dey tracks jines togedder, things ain’t gwine never be de same no mo’.”
CHAPTER 108
C
hicken George slowed his galloping, lathered horse barely enough for its sharp turning off the main road into the lane, then abruptly his hands jerked the reins taut. It
was
the right place, but since he had seen it last: unbelievable! Beyond the weeds’ choked lane ahead, the once buff-colored Lea home looked a mottled gray of peeling old paint, rags were stuffed where some window panes had been; one side of the now heavily patched roof seemed almost sagging. Even the adjacent fields were barren, containing nothing but old dried weathered stalks within the collapsing split-log fences.
Shocked, bewildered, he relaxed the reins to continue with the horse now picking its way through the weeds. Yet closer, he saw the big-house porch aslant, the broken-down front steps; and the slave-row cabins’ roofs were all caving in. Not a cat, dog, or chicken was to be seen as he slid off the horse, leading it now by its bridle alongside the house to the backyard.
He was no more prepared for the sight of the heavy old woman sitting bent over on a piece of log, picking poke salad greens, dropping the stems about her feet and the leaves into a cracked, rusting washbasin. He recognized that she had to be Miss Malizy, but so incredibly different it seemed impossible. His unnecessary loud “
Whoa!
” caught her attention.
Miss Malizy quit picking the greens. Raising her head, looking about, then she saw him, but he could tell she didn’t yet realize who he was.
“
Miss Malizy!
” He ran over closer, halting uncertainly as he saw her face still querying. Her eyes squinting, she got him into better focus... suddenly pushing one hand heavily down against the log, she helped herself upward. “George... ain’t’cha dat boy George?”
“Yes’m, Miss Malizyl” He rushed to her now, grasping and embracing her large flabbiness within his arms, close to crying. “Lawd, boy, where you
been
at? Used to be you was roun’ here all de time!”
Her tone and words held some vacantness, as if she were unaware of nearly five years’ time lapse. “Been crost de water in dat Englan’, Miss Malizy. Been fightin’ chickens over dere—Miss Malizy, where my wife an’ mammy an’ chilluns at?”
So was her face blankness, as if beyond any more emotion no matter whatever else might happen. “Ain’t nobody hardly here no mo’, boy!” She sounded surprised that he didn’t know it. “Dey’s all gone. Jes’ me an’ massa’s lef ’—”