The Amalgamation Polka (17 page)

“Perhaps it was part of His plan,” Roxana replied. “To awaken the conscience in you.”

“I don’t believe I’m required to take lessons in morality from my own child,” answered Mother, drawing herself up in her seat. “I talk to God daily and that is more than sufficient.”

“And what does He say to you?” inquired Roxana with a note of genuine interest.

“He gives me guidance.” Her mother spoke with an air of self-satisfied finality. “He directs my mind and my heart.”

“He directs you to keep slaves?”

Mother stared coldly at her daughter, her lips thin and firm. “Yes,” she replied.

They sat there for a moment, turned toward each other like figures molded from the same block of wood. Then Roxana looked away. “That isn’t God you’re listening to.”

“I’ll not have my personal relationship with the Lord questioned by anyone.”

Roxana did not reply. She stared at the sea swelling and subsiding like the breast of a breathing creature.

For the duration of the voyage they spoke civilly but avoided discussions of any kind on topics any weightier than the dinner menu, the day’s clothing, the passing sights, etc. In New York they transferred to the boat to Albany, cruising up the Hudson among a group of northern merchants who talked monomaniacally of money, and Mother remarked it was like listening to a pen filled with hogs rooting for grub. The coach from Albany to Saratoga was overpacked with all male passengers, each of whom was either smoking or chewing tobacco, filling the interior with clouds of repulsive vapors, the floor with an inch of brown spittle that rolled back and forth with the movement of the coach, staining their shoes and the hems of their dresses. By the time they arrived at the Congress Hotel in Saratoga, Mother was so thoroughly depleted from the ardors of the journey that she had to immediately retire to her room for her medicine and a nap. She told Roxana she didn’t care what she did, but that men, particularly Yankee men, must always be regarded with grave suspicion.

Roxana found an unoccupied plush chair in the lobby where she could sit, Bible in her lap, and entertain herself with the prodigious spectacle of guests in transit. When anyone inquired whether she needed assistance, she merely replied, no, she was fine, she was simply waiting for her mother. Though the hotel seemed smaller to her than it had in previous years, the clientele seemed much the same: the well-to-do of both North and South. She was personally greeted by several Charlestonians and recognized many others passing through the great lobby, their servants trailing dutifully behind and often outfitted in clothes as fine as those of their masters. The absolute strangeness of the system of slavery, of one man literally owning another as if he were a mere yard dog or a soulless inanimate object like a chair perhaps, seemed up here in Yankeeland to be even more peculiar. How could this have happened? How could people in every other way kind and decent tolerate this cruelty and barbarousness in their midst? She didn’t know and just thinking about the subject, if it failed to ignite her anger, had a tendency to collapse her body and her will. What could she, a plain girl, do to help drive this injustice from the world when she could not even influence the opinion of a single family member?

She was sitting there reflecting upon such pressing issues when she noticed a young man in a chair across the lobby who appeared to be aiming his rather magnetic smile precisely at her. Quickly she looked away, pretending she had not noticed his attention, but each time she happened to glance surreptitiously back she saw the same dazzling smile attached to the same handsome face which at the moment seemed to be the only face in the vast milling lobby. She could feel the blood coming up into her cheeks like a draft of warm air blowing across her skin. She pretended to study the people at the desk as if the person she waited for was finishing up his business there and would return momentarily and then she would leave with this person and just before passing out the door she would turn for one last brief glimpse of this silly young man.

Then, after an eternity of not looking, she allowed herself one tiny glance, and there he was, still staring quite openly at her, only now no longer smiling, and even as she watched he rose and began striding purposely toward her. Refusing to be embarrassed or intimidated any further, she remained frozen in her chair, face set, shoulders squared, and awaited his approach.

“Excuse me,” he said, removing his hat and bowing slightly. “I’ve come to tender my apologies. I hope you’ll forgive me for staring so openly, so impolitely, but I simply found myself quite unable to do otherwise. I know that’s no excuse for such rude behavior, but it is the truth. At first, you see, I thought you were someone else, someone I knew back in the city, but then I realized my error, though now, interestingly enough, standing here before you, I can see that, yes, perhaps I do know you.” And the smile appeared again. Then, noticing the oddly fixed expression on her face, he stopped talking. “There, I’m sorry again. You must think me an absolute madman, accosting you here in public, babbling on like an idiot, and we haven’t been introduced.” He extended his hand. “Thatcher Fish,” he said. “Yes, I know it’s an odd name. Some people mishear it and think I’m referring to a business—hatch fish—but it is a name people remember.”

Roxana waited a moment just in case there was more, and when convinced he was finally done, she smiled up at him and said, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fish. I’m Roxana Maury.”

“Not the Maurys of Charleston?”

“Why, yes,” she answered, brows lifting in surprise.

“I believe my father does business with your father. Textiles,” he said. “Fish and Sons Textiles.”

“Perhaps he does, but I wouldn’t know,” replied Roxana, not unkindly. “I’m not permitted to know. I’m a girl, you see.”

Thatcher flashed that smile again which, appearing now up close, forced her to look away. “I do see,” he said. “Do you mind?” he asked, indicating a nearby chair.

“Oh no, not at all. Please do.”

“I assume you are here with your family,” he asked, seating himself. “A vacation?”

“Yes,” Roxana replied. “We’ve been coming every year since before I can remember. At the moment, though, it’s just my mother and I.”

“I’m here with my family, too. My father is sick. He comes for the water.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Thatcher brushed the comment aside with his hand. “It’s nothing, really. He’s always sickly. Digestive problems. He needs to get away from the business more often.”

“I understand. But up here at least you don’t have to contend with the summer sicknesses we are subject to.”

“You know,” said Thatcher, “and please do not think me too forward, but I must say you have the most beautiful voice. I’ve never heard anything quite like it before.”

“Thank you,” said Roxana, unable to think of a single additional word to say.

“So,” asked Thatcher, “what’s it like growing up on one of those big old southern plantations?”

“Quite pleasant,” she said. “As long as you don’t mind keeping your eyes strictly closed.” She couldn’t understand what was happening to her. In the presence of this stranger the internal barriers that usually moved into place in the company of eligible men had seemingly dissolved away, leaving her feeling disturbingly open—a sensation she didn’t believe she had ever experienced before.

“I imagine you must have witnessed some terrible events.”

This is a rather bold gentleman, she thought, but just as she could not look too long directly into his face neither could she refrain from answering whatever question he posed. “Yes,” she said simply. “I’ve witnessed.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that up here we hear so many shocking stories you can’t help but wonder how true they are. I’ve often thought about one day taking a trip down there. See for myself.”

“Then you should.”

“Yes, and the notion is even more inviting now that I know someone who actually lives there, someone I might possibly visit.”

“Mr. Fish, you are always welcome to pay a call at Redemption Hall. I think you’ll find our hospitality as satisfactory as any.”

They sat quietly then, side by side, gazing off in opposite directions. Finally, Thatcher turned to her and asked, “How long do you and your mother plan on staying in Saratoga?”

“I don’t know,” replied Roxana. “And, frankly, I don’t much care. We are here, you see, for my health.”

“Are you ill?” asked Thatcher, obviously alarmed.

“No, not really, only insomuch as morally objecting to a brutal system of involuntary servitude is an illness.”

“Give me your hand,” said Thatcher, and cradling it in his palm he gently kissed the back.

“Mr. Fish—” she began.

“No, no,” he answered. “It’s all right.” As their eyes met Roxana found herself gazing into something so alive, so astonishingly real, she momentarily forgot where she was.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the lobby conversing upon the fateful “subject.” Thatcher, too, had alienated himself from the affections of his family through a too vigorous questioning of the issue of human bondage and his father’s financial implication in it. Some years before, Thatcher had met a young Quaker girl who had attended many meetings devoted to the cause, seen Garrison himself dragged through the street with a rope around his neck, the remandment of Anthony Burns, and she began to educate Thatcher on the scourge of slavery. They became engaged to be married but several months before the ceremony she contracted cholera and after much painful suffering she died.

“I’m sorry,” said Roxana, tears gathering in her own eyes.

“No,” said Thatcher. “I’m the one who should apologize yet again. I should not have burdened you with my past.”

“But we all have pasts. That’s who we are.”

They saw each other every day after that, meeting first in the lobby, then taking long strolls through the town. All these hours spent in the company of a strange man, a strange northerner at that, quite alarmed Mother.

“Who is this person?” she demanded to know, unconsciously pleased that she and her daughter now had a topic other than politics or religion to discuss.

“His name is Thatcher Fish. He’s studying to be an attorney. His family are merchants. They’re all rich. And he’s a staunch abolitionist.” The word fell between them like a bloody knife and Roxana waited, unblinking.

The reaction, however, was not what she expected. “Sit down,” said Mother calmly. “I want to talk to you.”

They sat facing one another, Roxana’s countenance grim and implacable.

“Roxana,” her mother began. “You know your father and I both love you dearly. Since your sister died you have become even more precious to us. So we’ve been most concerned with this recent behavior of yours. It seems your intention is to deliberately provoke as much dissension as possible within the family. You seem to wish to separate yourself from the care of your father, your brothers and myself. Unhappiness roosts in our house and you have called it in. And I want to tell you that personally I do respect your beliefs. All I ask is that you also respect mine.”

Before Mother could continue, Roxana broke in with, “But I cannot. Does it not say in Psalms 2:3 ‘Let us break their bonds asunder and cast away their chains.’”

“Don’t start quoting Scripture at me,” said Mother angrily. “I can quote passages right back at you.”

“Slavery is wrong,” argued Roxana, her own voice matching her mother’s in emotion. “It is not only wrong, it is evil, and to participate in it, to profit from its fruits, is to make one an accomplice in evil.”

Mother sighed. “Are you suggesting to my face that I and your father and brothers are evil?”

Roxana didn’t answer.

“Are you also suggesting that you, too, are evil. Because this trip and this room we’re sitting in have been paid for with money earned from the products of our fields, of our hands. So, too, has the food you’ve eaten, the clothes you’ve worn, the clothes you’re now wearing.”

Without a word Roxana rose in fury from her chair and, seizing her dress at the collar with both hands, began to pull frantically at the cloth until it started to tear. Then, her hands working now in a frenzy, she yanked at the material, opening the tear down to the hem, and, pulling her arms from the sleeves, she stepped out of her dress and stood before her mother in white undergarments that, after a pause, she began to pull from her body.

“Roxana!” her mother shouted. “Stop! Stop this instant!”

Glaring fiercely back, she refused to stop until she was completely naked and her mother, in a single swift motion, rose up and slapped her across the cheek and, as though it were all part of one continuous movement, Roxana’s hand flew up and slapped her mother across her cheek.

“How dare you?” Mother asked coldly, her eyes searching the room.

“What are you looking for? Your cane?”

“One more word from you and—”

“And what?”

“Put on some clothes. We’re leaving this wretched place today.”

Roxana pulled a sheet from the bed. “Considering where we are I suppose this is somewhat less sinful to wear since it was probably woven by free labor, even if the bolls it was made from were probably splashed with blood.” She wrapped the sheet around her body and walked out the door.

“Roxana!” called her mother. “Roxana!”

Not until she had closed the door behind her did she allow the sobs to come, but she kept moving, her bare feet marching down the carpeted corridor, hair askew and cheeks wet. She could feel the eyes upon her, hear the gasps, the startled whispers, but she stared straight ahead and kept on down the hall, then down the stairs to the next floor and the door whose number she had involuntarily memorized after hearing it spoken just once, and she rapped timidly, once, twice, and when the door was opened and she saw Thatcher she felt herself begin to fall and it was not entirely unpleasant, this falling, as she gave herself up to the sensation and thinking before thought ended that she didn’t care where she landed.

She never saw her mother or her father or her brothers or Ditey or Sally or Eben or Redemption Hall ever again.