The Color Of The Soul (The Penbrook Diaries) (5 page)

Cat’s
round eyes
filled with fear. “W–we just talked.” Blood trickled from a cut on her
bottom lip.

“Henry, for the love of God,
leave
her alone.” Madeline knelt beside her. She removed the
handkerchief from beneath the cuff at her wrist and dabbed at the child’s lip.

“Don’t lie to me,” Henry screeched. “Did
you lie down with that boy?”

Cat’s gasp mingled with Madeline’s. “No,
sir!”

“Liar! Why else would you sneak off to
meet him after dark?”

“Henry, Cat is a good Christian girl. She
wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“She’s a liar. They’re all liars. And
they have no morals. Why do you think there are so many yellow babies?”

Madeline’s face burned. She knew only
Henry’s drunken condition could have induced such an indelicate remark. Still,
she refused to let the statement go unchallenged. “I would say, Henry, that
that
unfortunate circumstance is due to certain men, rather than the slave women who
have no choice.”

He ignored the comment and addressed Cat.
“Does the boy know what you are?”

Confusion clouded Cat’s eyes. “I–I
don’t know what you mean.”

“Henry, please.” What sort of monster had
her husband become?

He glowered at Cat. “I
mean--”
His eyes darkened, narrowed. “--
does
your lover know you’re nothing but a darkie?”

“Henry!”

Cat’s face blanched. “N–no.” Her
voice seemed to come from far away.

“So you thought you’d snag a white man by
pretending to be a white girl?”

“I--I never thought about it.”

 
Madeline’s heart nearly broke for the
girl, and for the first time since moving to Missouri, she wondered if she had
done the child a favor by allowing their neighbors to believe her to be white.
In truth, marrying a white man was out of the question unless the girl fell in
love with a man of broad ideas and they moved to Canada. Cat would probably
never look at a Negro man as a suitable match, any more than Camilla would.

Oh,
Father, what have I done?

“Cat, darling. We’ve heard enough. I’ll
decide your punishment for sneaking out of the house and inform you in the
morning. Run along to bed.” She pulled the girl to her feet, careful to use her
own body as a shield from Henry.

Henry spoke up. “She’s not sleeping in
Camilla’s room any longer.”

“What are you saying?”

An uneasy tension formed a knot in
Madeline’s stomach as Henry’s drunken gaze slid up Cat’s form. “She’s not a
child any longer. It’s time she starts acting like a proper servant.”

“Henry!”

“No arguments.” He raised his hand to
silence her. “As a servant, it isn’t proper for her to sleep in our daughter’s
room.”

“You agreed, Henry. Years ago. Cat is not
to be treated as a slave.”

But Henry would not be deterred this
time. “I
shoulda
left her with my father when he
wanted to buy her. We
shoulda
stayed in Georgia.” His
bloodshot eyes glowered at
Maddy
. “I
shoulda
never married a Yankee.”

Madeline was past caring whether Henry
loved her or not. The years in Missouri had not only proven that he did not,
but his behavior had caused her own love for him to wane. This wasn’t about
their marriage. “Be that as it may. I insist you hold to the original agreement
and allow the child to go to bed.”

“Sure.” He grinned, evil shining from
eyes that looked positively black beneath squinted lashes. “She can go to bed.
But not in my daughter’s room.”

“Well, then, Henry. Since you insist upon
doing the
dis
honorable thing.” Fury
shook Madeline’s shoulders and she turned on her husband, meeting his gaze head
on. “In the absence of slave quarters, where would you have her sleep?”

He shrugged as though the matter was
settled. “She can make up a pallet in the storeroom off the kitchen. If that
isn’t good enough, she can sleep in the barn with the rest of the stock.”

Cat’s head dipped in shame and her lower
lip trembled, but she didn’t weep as Henry stumbled from the room.

Madeline gathered the girl into her arms
and, for the first time in all the years she’d been caring for her, felt
resistance in Cat’s slight form.

“Oh, Cat. Perhaps Henry will be
reasonable tomorrow after a good night’s rest.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her voice devoid of
emotion, Cat patted Madeline’s back. “Don’t fret, Miss Maddy. I’ll be all
right.”

Hot tears slid down Madeline’s cheeks as
Cat pulled away and regarded her through long, bristly lashes. “Don’t cry,” she
said. “Please don’t cry for me.”

Chicago,
1948

“I’m back, Mama.” The back screen door
swung shut with a bang behind Lexie and she struggled into the house carrying
an armload of freshly dried clothing from the line.

Mama appeared in the doorway as Lexie
deposited her burden onto the kitchen table with a heavy breath. “Gracious,
Lex, you near gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to let it
bang. My arms were full. It’s starting to rain outside.”

A smile showed Angel Kendall’s strong,
white teeth. She glided across the room, despite her two hundred pounds, and
flapped her hands. “I’ll live.” She lit the stove and pulled the iron from the
shelf over the burner. “How was work?”

With a shrug, Lexie dropped into a wooden
kitchen chair and toed off her brown platform shoes. Bending forward, she
rubbed her aching arches. “Mrs. Bell hollered at me again. I swear, Mama, I
think that woman is losing her mind.”

Angel’s lip pushed out indignantly.
“What’d she shout at you for?”

Lexie frowned, remembering the
sixty-year-old woman’s dark accusations. “I slipped on the freshly scrubbed
foyer floor, and Mr.
Bell.
. .steadied me.”

Mama nodded. “That woman knows her man
likes the colored girls. I’m surprised she don’t hire on poor whites.”

A bitter snort left Lexie’s throat. “They
won’t put up with as much meanness as we do. Whites know they can find other
work.”

“You know Andy didn’t want you workin’
for that woman in the first place. He
don’t
want you
workin’ period.”

At the mention of her husband’s name,
Lexie’s stomach dropped a foot. “A lot he really cares. He’s as bad as Mr.
Bell, chasing other women. It doesn’t matter if he likes me working or not. I’m
not taking him back this time, so I gotta have a job.”

Angel opened a cabinet door and pulled
down the ironing board. She licked her index finger and made a fast tap on the
hot iron. Her saliva sizzled. With a satisfied nod, she snatched up Pop’s white
Sunday shirt--the only shirt he owned that wasn’t looking worn in spots. “Jesus
hates divorce, my girl. And your poppa and me, we didn’t raise you to be
gettin’ no divorces.”

“I know, Mama. But our marriage isn’t
like yours and Pop’s. If Andy treated me the way Pop treats you, I’d be kissing
the ground he walks on. But he doesn’t.”

“He’s just still trying to prove he’s a
man, Honey.”

With a snort, Lexie eyed her mother
critically. “Half the women in Chicago know he’s a man. You’d think he’d have
figured it out by now.”

Angel cackled, then turned, her
expression sobering. “Honey, you can’t expect a man who is bound by the prince
of this world to think the same way your pop does. He don’t know
no
better.”

“I can expect him to love me like he
promised.”

“No, you can’t. Only God is love. Outside
of a walk with God, a person can’t even begin to understand what it means to
love.”

Frustration shot through Lexie, loosening
her tongue. “Mama, I mean the kind of love a man has for his wife. Not God’s
love.”

“Husbands, love your wives as Christ
loves the church.” As though that settled the argument, Angel hung up the
freshly ironed shirt and reached for the next.

Lexie stood and grabbed her shoes with
one hand. “Do you want some help with the laundry?”

“No, Baby, you’re looking awfully tired.
Go on upstairs and lie down for a while. I’ll holler when supper’s ready.”

Lexie trudged up the steps, her
stockinged feet making no sound as she padded down the hall and into her
bedroom.

Tears formed in her eyes. She hadn’t
exactly been living like she knew any better herself. If she’d been serving God
when she met Andy, he never would have looked at her twice.

She was only eighteen at the time and
pushing against the confines of being a deacon’s daughter. Sheila’s Swing Club
seemed like just the place to dust off a little energy. When Andy entered the
noisy, smoke-filled room, everyone else ceased to exist. Seven years her
senior, Andy already held a steady job. He seemed so sophisticated and suave.
He’d swept her off her feet the instant their eyes met.

As much as she loved him, she’d managed
to stay out of his bed until their wedding night. That was probably the only
reason he’d married her.

Eleven years later, she regretted
ever stepping
foot inside that swing club. If only she’d
never met him. If only she could stop hurting. If only she could stop loving him.
If only she could stop crying.

Georgia,
1948

Please
don’t cry for me.

A rap on the door pulled Andy from his
reading. Reluctantly he closed Madeline’s journal and set it aside. He pulled
his watch from his pocket. Good Lord, it was nearly six p.m. He’d been in his
room, reading, all day.

The knock sounded again, more insistent.

“Coming.” Andy sat up, buttoning his
shirt. The metal headboard clanged against the wall as he stood, then strode across
the room. He opened the door to find Buck scowling on the other side.

“’Bout time.”

“Sorry,” Andy muttered. “What can I do
for you?”

“My missus says you should come down and
take supper with us. It’s rainin’ cats and dogs out there. Ain’t no sense you
gettin’ sick goin’ out to get somethin’ to eat when we got plenty.”

A bright flash through the window
punctuated his words. A clap of thunder shook the house. Andy raised his brow
in surprise. He had been so absorbed in his
reading,
he hadn’t even noticed the rain. “Tell your wife I appreciate her kindness,” he
said. “I’ll wash up and be right down.”

Fifteen minutes later, Andy sat at a
table laden with fried okra, biscuits, and a mound of barbecued ribs. His mouth
watered at the sight and smell of all that food. He glanced around, waiting for
someone to offer him a platter of something. Instead, Buck eyed him for a
moment, then bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Andy studied the top of his host’s head.

“Heavenly Father,” Buck began, “we thank
You
for this bounty on our table. And for the guest
You
’ve sent our way. Lord, we pray
You
’ll
help him find whatever it is he’s lookin’ for. Bless his life and keep it from
destruction.”

Andy felt his ears burn at being the
center of a prayer, and when he looked up he expected to find everyone staring
at him. At the very least, he anticipated an awkward silence. But the contrary
proved to be true. Six children, ranging in ages from toddler to nine or ten,
Andy guessed, all began speaking at once.

Chuckling, Buck held up his massive hands
for silence. “Hold on, now. One at a time.” He turned to a pigtailed girl to
his left. “We’ll start right here at the front of the table. Aletha, Baby, what
can your daddy do for you?”

Andy’s insides twisted with longing for
children of his own--the what-ifs that always accompanied thoughts of the two
children he and Lexie had lost. If he had children, would he be a better man?

The little girl sent Buck a broad grin.
“Miss McGuffy says I have to have my science project in by tomorrow, and I need
help.”

Andy accepted the platter of ribs from
Buck’s wife, Lottie.

“Aletha, how long have you known about
this?” Buck asked sternly.

The little girl shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Buck gave an exasperated sigh. “All
right. Bring it to me after supper and we’ll see what we can do.”

“Thank you, Daddy.” Her face beamed with
relief.

Andy’s mind wandered back to the diaries
as Buck moved to the next child in line. He needed at least a week in Oak
Junction, maybe two, to finish reading the diaries, make his notes, and conduct
another interview with Miss Penbrook.

Andy felt like there was much more at
stake than a simple biography. This was about the heart and soul of three women
and their different perspectives on the world that held them captive.
Madeline’s
and Cat’s captivity were obvious. Madeline was
chained to a man whose ideals were opposite her own. Cat was a
slave.
. .literally held in bondage. Miss Penbrook had to be
Camilla.
. .he couldn’t figure her out just yet, but
he would. Or he hoped he would, because the old lady obviously wouldn’t be much
help, other than perhaps to fill in some of the gaps. Thank God for the
diaries.

He ate the last bite of his fluffy
biscuit and pushed back his plate. “Thank you, Mrs. Purdue. Everything was
delicious.”

Lottie blushed under the praise. “I’m
glad you enjoyed it. But you’ll have to have a slice of lemon pie and a cup of
coffee before you return to your room.” She spoke with a quiet grace, her soft
tones almost melodious. Unbidden, the gentle face of his mother flitted across
Andy’s mind, sending an ache across his heart.
A longing for
something familiar.

“No, thank you, ma’am.” He wanted nothing
more than to escape this gathering and retire to the solitude the small room
upstairs afforded him.