The Girl in the Maze (26 page)

Lady Albertha paused to tap out her pipe and began to refill the bowl from a leather pouch hanging from her neck. The rafters overhead groaned and sighed. The storm sucked at the roof with each passing blast of wind. Martha wondered if Carlos would at any moment wrench the roof asunder. But Albertha seemed calm, implacable.

“And she did, didn't she?” Martha asked.

“Yes, they sure enough got themselves a child. But this story ain't gon' have no happy ending. That was the twisted nature of them days. Slavery was disease that poisoned everything it touched. It could turn joy into sadness, and goodness into evil.”

Morris clenched the Maglite between his teeth and grabbed the psychologist's ankles and dragged the near-headless body along the slick pavement toward the edge of the street.

The doctor never knew what hit him. The discharge from a Remington Model 8 at close range was messy, but once again nature was helping him out here, with the deluge washing his scattered brain and body fluids into the curb drains. Morris gave the body a shove with the heel of his boot and it rolled down the embankment and stopped in a shallow ditch. He could deal with the remains later, but at least Dr. Do-Right was out of sight. Now he had a whole new problem to deal with.

Morris went back to his car and turned on the external spotlight. His hand was shaking violently, so he had trouble finding the switch. He got the thing turned on and swiveled it toward the far side of the street, panning slowly. The sheets of rain swallowed the beam so that it barely caught the dark storefronts. He swept the street again. Panic was clutching at his throat. The girl could be standing ten feet away and he might miss her.

He turned off the light, got back into the cruiser, and shut the door. He yanked off his poncho hood. A gust of wind howled along the side of the SUV.

What now? The body he could deal with. Plenty of options there. But that girl—she was crazy all right; about as crazy as a fox in a chicken house. He had let her slip through his fingers again, and this time there was no chance in hell….

Don't throw in the towel yet,
Morris thought.
You think you're so damn smart. Prove it. Don't panic. Think.

He leaned his head against the steering wheel. Rain dripped from his hair onto the dash.

Unless the girl was a complete psycho—and he knew she wasn't, not at all—right now she would be trying to find shelter, someplace to hide. But Bay Street offered few options. Everything was boarded up tighter than a drum.

Where
would
she go? He needed to calm down and think
.
What did he know about her? She was misunderstood, not really the person people thought she was. He could relate to that. Morris reflected on the few interactions they'd had. There was the time she came to visit him. What did he learn about her then? She was bright, but not too confident. He closed his eyes and visualized what she'd been wearing that day. He strained to focus his mind, to conjure the image: Jeans. Practical shoes—flats, beige. A white, button-up blouse. Jewelry? Just a couple of stud earrings. Nothing else. But on the blouse…

Morris sat up. Son of a bitch. Of course. It was plain as day.

He reached back, slid the poncho hood back over his head. He grabbed the Remington off the seat beside him. He took a deep breath, opened the car door, and ventured back into the rain.

Albertha settled back into her rocker. “Sattu was changed, calmed, you see, because he was learning. He had formed a bond with Mistress Abigail, and vice versa. Every day, when Clyde would go out into the fields to supervise the harvest, there would be a time for education. Mistress Abigail would take Sattu into the study and take down another book, and tell him about another thing.

“Mistah Clyde weren't no fool, and of course he noticed a growing closeness between those two. But he also noticed how much happier, more alive and full of mojo his bride had become. He was rewarded at night in bed with her churned-up passion.

“As I said, it was a crime to teach the slaves to read, but Abigail told herself this was different. What could be the harm in telling Sattu the meaning of a word here and there? And Sattu was learning more alltime, thanks to a child's primer he slipped under his shirt one day. Now he would study each night by candlelight in the slave quarters.

“As time went on, and folks weren't paying no attention, an intimacy was growing between Mistress Abigail and Sattu, beyond that what forms between a teacher and student. In the end, they say, Mistress Abigail was done for. And they weren't a soul in that household who weren't aware of it. Except for Mistah Clyde.

“He must have guessed,” Martha said.

“Maybe so, maybe not,” Lady Albertha said. “Most folks say he jes believed what he needed to believe.

“One day in late October month, the doctor told them Mistress Abigail had come in foal. At first, Mistah Clyde was full up with joy. He believed his luck had done turn around, good-fashion. His bride weren't barren after all, he would at last have a family, and his emptiness would start to fill.

“Then, as the weeks went on and the child started to grow inside Mistress Abigail, something started to grow in Mistah Clyde, same-time. Something dark and troublesome. He started to question the relationship between his lawfully lady and Sattu.

“His suspicions just kept on gnawing at him, till all his joy was gone. One day, he told Mistress Abigail that her training of Sattu was at an end and sent him back out to the fields. They say Mistress Abigail throwed as big a tantrum as that household had ever seen. But once Mistah Clyde made up his mind about somethin', trying to talk him in the other direction was like tryin' to teach a mule to dance. And when he saw how much she protested, it just deepened his suspicions. It was further proof that the child Mistress Abigail was carrying weren't his own, for true.

“All through that nine month, he caused Mistress Abigail more stress than she had ever known before, grillin' her at night in their bedroom, tormentin' her with his worries. He told her Sattu would be sold. The servants could hear their yellin' and accusations at night. One night he told her the baby's skin had better be white, or it wouldn't be allowed to live.”

As pure and white as moonlight.
Martha thought back to the terrible arguments she overheard at the Pritchett House.

“Those awful fights kept on every night, the slaves said, and they was heard all through the household. He kept pressin' her every night till, finally, he got her to confess.”

“Confess?” Martha leaned forward, kneading the quilted fabric of the robe. The wind moaned overhead, and the windows shifted in their casements.

“Yes'm. She confess that she been teachin' Sattu to read and write, that was all. ‘And what else?' Mistah Clyde ask. ‘What else?' Alltime, the servants would hear sounds of broken glass and furniture hittin' the floor.

“In those long months, all the good that had come to Tarrant Plantation was turned around. Mistress Abigail got heavier, and Mistah Clyde become a haunted man. He grew cold toward Mistress Abigail. Every day he wondered—would he see his own features in the child, or would he see the arrogant, defiant eyes of Sattu, come back to avenge him, to avenge all the slaves, in his most sacred place?

“Mistah Clyde tried to bury all his misery in bourbon. The fields was in chaos, the house was a mess. The slaves was neglected and abused. Mistress Abigail had done fell into a deep sadness. A lot of the house servants, the ones who truly cared for her, were heartbroke over what was happening. Regardless of the color that child would show, Tarrant Plantation was near 'bout racktify.”

Outside, the rain slackened, stopped. The wind eased up. An eerie silence fell.
Eye of the storm,
Martha thought.

“It was a warm morning in July month,” Albertha said, “when Mistress Abigail finally broke water. She were taken to the master bedroom and all the staff was gathered around. And that morning she found the strength to push out that child, to push it into the world of woe that Mistah Clyde had begat, maybe with the hope that it would shine a new light and melt his hate.

“For true, when that child emerged, everything seemed to change. That child had hair, oh yes, a full head of it, and it was blond, the color of honey, and Maum Libby shouted it to her. ‘She white, Abby. Your baby is white as moonlight, and blond too, just like her mother.'

“And at that moment, they say, Mistress Abigail wept tears of joy. The misery she had known in the months before was gone. The child was like the sun breaking through a black sky, she was already in love with that little girl, fresh out of her body. What difference did it make where it come from? This was a new life, a new chance, and she had brought it forth her own self.

“The birth was completed without no complications, and they say it was a gorgeous baby. At that moment, they say, Mistress Abigail was finally a grown woman. And then she looked up at Mistah Clyde, who had been watching from across the room, half-drunk and leaning against the door frame, and she smiled at him. At that moment, she was ready to forgive him everything, to forget about those nine months of cruelty and madness. Different as they was, they say, some part of Mistress Abigail still loved that man. But Mistah Clyde was too ashamed, too drunk and full up with doubt, to let joy enter his heart. He turned from her gaze and left the room.

“Mistress Abigail didn't see her lawfully man no more for the rest of the day, but Maum Libby told her not to worry about nothin'. He just felt guilty for the way he had treated her, for his suspicions. He would come around.

“Mistress Abigail went to bed that night believing peace had returned to Tarrant, that the healing had begun. That night she named the child all herself. She give her the name of Amberleen. The baby went to sleep at middlenight and was not heard to cry or stir again through the hours of morning.”

Rain began to sprinkle on the roof again, like scattered handfuls of rice.

“The child I saw—in the sack—” Martha leaned forward, worried. “She was Amberleen. Is she—?”

“Listen, now, listen, be patient, and you'll understand. Abigail slept in peace that night, the first time in nine months, but come about dayclean, she found out her nightmare had only just begun. She had woke up early, and in the dim morning light, she heard no sound, not even the baby's breathing. That room felt more empty than it should be, and she knew somethin' was wrong. She hurried over to the bassinet to see her precious, blond-haired creation, but she found it empty. She shouted for Maum Libby—maybe she had taken it out early, but Libby came in from the next room in her house robe, and she didn't know where that baby had gone, and nor did Daddy Major. They ran through the house, shouting and asking questions of the other servants, who had just begun to stir, blinking and confused, and then down to the main parlor. That's where Mistah Clyde sat in his wingback chair, wearing his dayclothes, ruffled and red-faced, his eyes bloodshot from the bourbon and lack of sleep.

“ ‘Where's the baby?' Mistress Abigail shouted at him. They say she grabbed at his lapels, shaking him with a fury she had never dared before.

“ ‘Whose baby?' Mistah Clyde Tarrant said. ‘Just tell me that, Abigail. Answer that one question: Whose baby?'

“ ‘Clyde Tarrant,' she said to him, ‘you bastard, tell me where my baby is right now 'fore I kill you graveyard dead.'

“And Clyde Tarrant, drunk with despair and doubt and liquor, he got up from his chair and he said, ‘I'll do better than that. I'll show you.'

“And so Clyde led her out of the great house and across the dirt track into the smokehouse. It was a small shed built out of tabby with a heavy door.

“ ‘Go on in and see,' Mistah Clyde told her. They say Mistress Abigail hesitated, 'cause she was afraid of what she would find in that smokehouse, but then she heard a cry. It was the sound of little Amberleen inside, so she raised the hasp and pushed through that door.

“She looked around that room, and it was empty except for a cloth flour sack hanging from a hook. Then she heard the cry again, and the sack moved and wiggled, tiny limbs pressing against the inside. Mistress Abigail grabbed for the sack, but the slaves Mistah Clyde had brought along held her back. The baby kept on cryin'.

“Then Mistress Abigail turned to Mistah Clyde, and they say she poured out her very soul to him. ‘Take me, not the baby,' she said to him. ‘Kill me if you want to, I don't care, just let little Amberleen go. I know you were jealous, I know you think—you think Sattu and me…I know it's done made you crazy. But it ain't so.
You're
the father. We can put all this behind us, Clyde,' she said. ‘I know we can. We can change everything now. Just let her out of that sack.'

“But Mistah Clyde was a man of iron will, and he carried on with the plan he'd done laid out. He said to the servants, ‘Bring in the other one.'

“And the other slaves brought in Sattu, his legs and feet in chains, his eyes wet with fury.

“And Mistah Clyde picked up a butcher knife and stood next to the child. Mistress Abigail screamed as he held the knife under the sack.

“ ‘You want this baby to live?' Mistah Clyde said to all two of them. ‘Then it will. Just tell me the truth. Whose child is it really?' Then he pointed his finger at Sattu. ‘It belongs to that animal over there—don't it? It was his filthy seed that bloomed inside you. You weren't barren. It was me. Ain't that the truth?'

“They say Mistress Abigail just shook her head, tears rolling down her face. The slaves who were there said they couldn't read the answer in her. They figured Abigail herself didn't know the true answer. And to her it didn't matter. The baby was there, that was the important thing. And they say that woman actually loved Mistah Clyde, and she thought if she could just reach that part of him that had loved her, she could make everything specify.

“But like I done said, Mistah Clyde was a hard-headed man. He just had to know the truth. Some say, at that point, there was really only one answer he would believe, anyways.

“Mistah Clyde put the point of that butcher knife against the side of the sack and he ask again, ‘Whose child is it?'

“ ‘It's yours, cain't you see that? It's your baby in that there sack,' Mistress Abigail said. ‘Just let her go. Kill me if you want to, but not her. Just leave that baby alone.' ”

Martha dug her fingers into the threadbare fabric of the settee.

“Finally, Mistah Clyde lowered that knife. He put it down on the butcher block and he looked at Sattu and he looked at Mistress Abigail. And they say Mistress Abigail looked up through her tears at him and mouthed just two words, ‘Forgive me.' And soon as she done that, they say Mistah Clyde's face went red with fury again, the lust for vengeance rose up in his throat. He grabbed that knife and stuck it right into that flour sack. The shape in the sack wiggled and squealed, and dark blood ran down the blade of the knife.”

Martha stood up. “No.”

“Sit down, child. Calm yourself. That girl was all right.”

“But you said—”

“He killed the thing what was in the sack. That thing weren't Amberleen. It weren't nothin' but a runt pig. Mistah Clyde himself had put it in there, tryin' to get his confession out of those two. Amberleen was hidden under the table and wrapped in a blanket. When they heard her cryin', it weren't for nothin' but the pinch of the stomach.

“But soon as Mistress Abigail seen Mistah Clyde do that, she let out a howl so loud and so terrible, you can still hear it on some nights, you can hear it in the wind out there now. Mistah Clyde's servants had to carry her back into the house, kicking and screaming.

“And they say when Sattu was taken out, his face was frozen in a mask of forever hate.

“Mistah Clyde was mule-headed to the end, and stuck fast to his plan. He was gonna let Mistress Abigail suffer for one full day for her unfaithfulness, let her believe her precious baby was dead until next dayclean come around. He let the wet nurse tend to the child in the smokehouse until then.

“What Mistah Clyde didn't know was that for the Tarrant family, dayclean would never come. Back out in the fields, a storm was already brewing, talk of revolt led by Sattu, fueled by Mistah Clyde's neglect and drunken meanness. Plans had been made. It was like a mess of kindling waiting for a spark to ignite, and the spark came that day, in the form of Sattu's rage.

“He sent a message to Mistress Abigail and the house servants, told them to be out the house by middlenight. After nightfall, the slaves went to a gathering place about a half mile upriver, where they prepared for the attack, wrapping rags soaked in lard around oak branches. Them torches burned orange in the moonlight and they got into they wood skiffs and rowed downriver.”

Martha shivered. She thought of the lights she saw on the river, the view from her window of the Pritchett House.

“By the light of the moon, they came ashore and stole up to the big house. First they killed the overseer in his cabin, stoned him in his sleep. Then they raided the money stash downstairs and emptied the kerosene lanterns on the floors and furniture. Mistah Clyde was passed out drunk in his study. He didn't have no clue what was happening. Then they surrounded that whole entire house, a man outside every window, each with a large stone in one hand, a burning torch in the other. When Sattu give 'em the signal, they smashed the windows with the stones, breaking 'em all at once, and chunked them flaming torches into the house.