Silent Thunder (14 page)

Mama turned to face me on the bench.

I said, “Learning letters is the same as when you make Missy's Claire's tea cakes or do her hair. Or help clear young Master Lowell's lungs during one of his wheezing fits. There's a true special beauty to doing each of them things. A gift that comes only from you. That's called
arts
, Mama—a fine and fancy way of making or doing something.” I was talking as fast as I could, pushing to get my words out before Mama shushed me. “You been knowing how to make special, beautiful things since forever, Mama. You're the only one who can make them the way you do. That's ‘cause you found your art. And your art makes you happy, don't it, Mama?”

Mama nodded. “It does,” she said. She was giving me the courtesy of listening carefully.

“Reading is arts
and
letters. Beauty and know-how, all in one,” I said.

I told Mama about my letter look-alikes. How she could even find letters in everyday things.

Mama shook her head. “Reading ain't the same as doing hair and making tea cakes. It just ain't, Summer. And I can't just learn to read, like you done. It ain't so simple as that.”

“You could learn to read if you
wanted
to.”

“
Don't
want to,” Mama said firmly.

Mama turned her eyes to the floor. “Even if I did want to make sense of all them letters, I ain't got the muster for it.”

I leaned in toward Mama. “But, Mama,” I said, “how do you know you can't read if you ain't never tried it?”

Mama tugged at her blanket. “I did try it once, Summer,” she said quietly. “Long, long time ago.”

I glanced sidelong at Mama. “Rosco showed you?” I asked.

Mama avoided my eyes. “No,” she said. “It was before Rosco and you was born.”

“Who, then?” I wanted to know.

Now Mama looked at me straight. “Gideon,” she said softly.

I had to make sure I was hearing right. “
Master
Gideon?”

Mama nodded. Her eyes jumped from me to the book in her lap, then back to me again. There was more coming. I could tell by the pained expression filling Mama's face.

Mama set the lesson book to one side of the bench. She held both my hands in hers. “Summer”—she was weighing her words—”Gideon Parnell, he's got a good heart.”

A smirk came to my lips. “Anybody who's sick with heart-shock ain't got a good heart.”

“Please, Summer, don't give me lip. Not now.”

I pulled my hands from Mama's hold. I folded my arms tight in front of me.

“When I first came here to the Parnell plantation, I was a bit older than you are now. And, like you, I was getting near to my woman years. Gideon had just taken over the plantation from his pa, who'd died not long before. Gideon's the one who brought me here. Purchased me from the sale of slaves at the Thornton plantation, down in Georgia. When I left Thornton land, I left everyone I loved—my own mama and pa, two of my sisters, and my baby brother, Jacob. It was a down-low hurt to be torn from my family like that. Hurts still.”

Mama had already told me how she'd come to Parnell's. I already knew the pain that slave-selling brings, and I knew about Mama's worry that me or Rosco would be sold away.

I was wanting to hear about Gideon showing Mama to read. “Telling me about being brought to Parnell's from the Thornton plantation don't have nothing to do with letters, Mama,” I said, shifting on the bench.

“It's got everything to do with it, Summer, if you just let me speak.” Mama squared my shoulders in her hands so's I'd listen. “When I first came here, Gideon took a liking to me right away. And I took a liking to
him. He was strong and handsome. A dandy, he was.”

“A dandy what?”

Mama still held me firm. She talked on, past my sassin'. “Seeing as Master Thornton had baptized me as a Christian, Gideon gave me a Bible of my very own. But I couldn't use that Bible, 'cause I didn't know how. That's when Gideon first showed me letters, and tried to teach me to read. I fell in love with the possibility of understanding all them holy words.” Mama took a slow breath. “And I fell in love with Gideon Parnell,” she said.

Just then a tight stab pounded at my chest. I was too stunned to speak.

But, Mama, she had plenty more to say. “It wasn't long till I was in the family way with Rosco, then later with you.” My insides were turning somersaults. My legs were as heavy as Clem's horseshoe iron. I thought my hearing was playing tricks on me. But my voice came back to me right then. “Gideon Parnell is my
pa
?”

“He is,” Mama said weakly.

Silence.

“How come Rosco don't know none of this?” I was still trying to make sense of it all myself. “Rosco knows everything,” I reasoned.

“Rosco ain't never asked me about his pa because he knows the truth of it in his bones, without askin'.”

My breathing had gone short. “Why don't you just tell Rosco, then?”

Mama didn't answer right off. “Rosco knows that if he don't ever ask, and don't ever hear me utter the truth, then he can live like it
ain't
the truth.”

There it was again. That word.
Truth.
It had a way of following me around—first in Parnell's study, and now here with Mama and me. Seemed to me truth was a lantern bright enough to light the road, but harsh enough to show the grit along the way.

My innards were churning something fierce.
Gideon Parnell. My pa.

“Does Master Gideon know he's our daddy?”

Mama nodded. “'Course he does. He just don't tell it out to people. He
can't
tell it out.” Mama grew thoughtful for a moment. She said, “Gideon takes a quiet pleasure in seeing you young'uns grow. That's why he asks to see you on your birthday. It's his small, secret way of being your pa.”

There was even more to what Mama had to tell me—more truth. She let me settle a bit. Then she spoke again. “When Gideon took over his pa's plantation, folks said the plantation was sure to suffer. Said Gideon didn't have the salt to run things. People laughed and laughed about the future of the Parnell legacy.

“At that same time, nigras learning letters was gathering a heavy dose of attention in these parts. Plantation owners were watching their slaves with possum eyes. Any time it came to light that a nigra knew
letters, the white folks in town talked a vicious streak about whoever it was that owned that slave. Said the master couldn't keep control of his own property. And the nigra who got found out met with the bullwhip, or got sold from them that was their own family.

“With all the talk 'bout reading, and with all that folks was sayin 'bout Gideon—putting him down and such—Gideon took a quick hatred to nigras learning to read. He took my Bible right back, too.

“The whole mess was made worse when Lowell came along, all sickly. When Lowell was born, Gideon knew that the Parnell family name would surely suffer the strikes of a bad reputation. Gideon was determined to do all that he could to prove every other plantation owner wrong. To show everybody that a Parnell man can handle his slaves, he took a hard line on letter-learning and books, as far as his nigras were concerned. Told me if I ever took to letter-dabbling, he'd have no choice but to sell me off from here.” Mama let go a heavy breath.

I twisted free of Mama's hold. Her hands on my shoulders were riling me.

“You can best believe I didn't have to give none of Gideon's words no second thought. When I birthed you and Rosco, I knew I'd been given two special gifts,” Mama said. “But I had to keep quiet 'bout where the gifts come from. Couldn't tell a soul 'bout who was the pa of you children. But that didn't fret me,
and it still don't. I was so happy to have been blessed with my own family, all right here with me.” Mama's face softened.

“I knew I'd find pleasure in learnin', but I put the notion of learnin' to read right out my head. I didn't want to have to hide another happy secret. It's hard to sweep your joy under a bushel. It hurts. As much as I wanted to learn letters, I didn't want to have to keep one more joyous thing locked up. So I turned away from reading and never looked back.

“You see, Summer, having babies don't invite no suspicion or no trouble. Letter-learnin' invites both. With you children as mine to raise, I couldn't risk diggin' into something that could bring on reasons for losing you or having me sold away.”

I sat real still. Now
I
was giving
Mama
the courtesy of listening.

“I would surely love to learn to understand the teachings of the Bible, the way they're outlined in the book itself. But I just can't, Summer. I can't.”

My hands had begun to tremble. I slid them between my backside and the bench.

“Anyways, I got to thinkin' 'bout that Bible Gideon once gave me. That's when I took out your lesson book. I been keeping it hid here in my prayer place, waitin' for a good time to take it back to the house without nobody seeing.”

Mama brought
The Clarkston Reader
back to her lap.
“I'd be dishonest if I didn't admit to taking a certain enjoyment from lookin' at the book's cover. It's got the same heft and beauty as the Holy Book.”

Mama traced the swirls along the book's top corner. Her fingers were bony as ever. They were strong fingers, though. Strong like all of Mama.

“I'm sorry 'bout snatching this here reader from you, Summer, “Mama said gently. “With Gideon's heart-shock, and with all this talk about letters, I been out my head lately. And I been fretting for the longest time 'bout the book being stolen from the master's study.”

Mama looked right at me. “Sooner or later, the book's gotta go back to the plantation house, Summer. Ain't no choices in the matter.”

As much as I loved
The Clarkston Reader
, I had done me plenty of letter-learnin' without it. “That book ain't no use to me now, anyways,” I said.

“I'm sorry, too, 'bout Walnut,” Mama said softly. “Ever since that day in Missy Claire's parlor, I been prayin' for your forgiveness.”

There was wetness coming to my eyes—my hooty-owl eyes, the same green eyes as my master's. Silence had me by the tongue again. I started to cry. Strange tears were rising out from me. I was missing Walnut My sweet little baby-doll friend, who wasn't here for me to hold.

I was crying for Mama, too. Mama, who'd had the gift of reading yanked out from under her.

Mama and I both turned to the window. Dawn's first
pale light met each of our faces. I was hoping to see the sun lifting up over the fields. But a thicket of clouds covered the sky instead.

Mama and me, we were through with words. There wasn't no more talkin' to do.

December 20, 1862

“N
OTHIN' BUT A
white man's critter.
”

Clem's words poked at me for days and days. Poked at me good.

Last thing I am is a critter. Dogs is critters. Coons is critters.
I
ain't no critter.

Mama had put me to work, making pine wreaths to hang on each door of the Parnell home. Thomas Farnsworth would be arriving any day now, and Missy Claire told Mama she wanted the house to look festive when her brother approached.

So here I was in the cramped side-door anteroom, near the back steps by the scullery, stitching together the limbs of a bough. Last thing I wanted to be doing was making wreaths. Them pine needles were prickly. And the fastening twine kept tangling between the branches. But today was Lowell's lesson day, and at least
I'd get to see Miss McCracken. The side-door window offered the best view of the lane, so I'd be sure to see her coming before her carriage even turned onto Parnell's entry road.

I worked as best I could to make sure the wreaths were stitched tight. As I knotted a lick of twine, a tiny winged beetle crawled from one of the pine branches. Crawled right onto my thumb and scuttled its way up my wrist, even as I stitched. I winked shut with one eye, and set the other eye to watching him go. Now
this
was a critter. “You headed someplace special?” I asked.

Soon as I spoke, that beetle stopped in its tracks. “Don't be scared now. I ain't got a mind to hurt you,” I said softly. If I could've seen that beetle's little bug eyes, I would've sworn they were looking right at me. He considered me for a moment, then kept on with his beetle walk. He was determined to keep going. And he did.

I set down my work and watched that little bug take himself over the wrinkles of my shirtsleeve, all the way to my shoulder. He made a slow climb. He never stopped to rest.

I kept still as stone, with my arm held out in front of me. When the beetle reached the place where my sleeve met my shoulder, he quickly flew up. I watched him hover in the air above me, then land on the doorjamb. When I opened the door and let him out into the
cold, white day, I realized that little lowly bug—that critter—had more freedom than I did.