Wench (14 page)

S
unday morning. Two male slaves jumped. The preacher hummed a tune and the elder women moaned. A young woman shook her hands in the air. Drums had been outlawed in the entire county so two young male slaves tapped out a blunt rat-a-tat on a tree stump. Others clapped a rhythm.

Then the singing began. A woman with a strong, clear voice stepped forward and sang. When she stopped and sat down, a man stepped forward and picked up where she left off, lyrics choppy and improvised. When he paused, another one took it up. The preacher shook his leg in obvious delight.

Lizzie sat back, slightly outside of the circle, each child perched on a leg. They stared curiously. Although several of the slave women danced with babies tied to their backs, Lizzie’s children had never been to a Sunday meeting. During the last decade of Big Mama’s life, she claimed she was too old to make it down the hill, and had made her own Sunday morning right there in her cabin where she quoted Bible verses from memory, holding
the Bible right up to her nose as if she were actually reading it. Once Lizzie learned to read, she read the Bible to Big Mama on Sunday mornings while the children restlessly fidgeted before they were allowed to go outside and roam the empty quarters.

Sunday morning meeting was held a slight ways off from the plantation in a hollow. Most of the slaves eagerly made their way down the hill to the grassy clearing where their own homegrown preacher took up his most respectable aspect and preached to them. He couldn’t read, but his memory was such that he could recite all of the books of the Bible in order, backwards and forwards. He had been raised by a Bible-loving woman who had a smattering of reading knowledge but had been too intimidated by her master to pass along that precious knowledge to her son. Instead, she taught him to memorize the passages. Pretty soon, the slaves learned the litany he recited at the beginning of each meeting:
MatthewMarkLukeJohnActsRomans….
naming the books of the Bible was a prayer in itself.

Lizzie knew her children were frightened by the dancing and shouting, but she also wanted them to know something about religion, especially now that Big Mama was dead. She put her arms around them. She closed her eyes and let the music seep into her.

She began to pray. She could not remember the last time she’d prayed so hard. She prayed for Billy who was back with his mother and recovering from the gash in his scalp. She even prayed for Fran who was heartbroken now that her nephew was gone. She prayed the Lord would straighten out Dessie’s back. She prayed for Big Mama who was sleeping with the angels. She prayed that she would see her sister Polly again. But most of all, she prayed Drayle would free her children.

And then one of the women took her children from her and another lifted her to her feet. They pulled her into the dance, and Lizzie tried to imitate their movements. They swished their skirts
around and Lizzie did the same. They shook and trembled and some even spoke in tongues. Lizzie did the same, the language coming from somewhere inside of her she had not found before. They surrounded her. The elders moaned while the men and women welcomed her into their circle.

“Hallelujah!” the women shouted.

Despite the clumsiness of her steps, they forgave her mistakes. She danced and the women embraced her.

The drumbeats slowed and the women knelt to the ground. They clasped their hands together in supplication, and the preacher spoke above them all. He spoke of trials and tribulations, rivers and mountains, and paradises. Oh, if they could only make it to the other side. They just had to hold on.

As she walked back from the meeting, her children skipping happily behind her, she felt lifted. A light filled her chest.

The three of them entered Philip’s cabin, a noisy bunch. Lizzie swung the door open wide.

Standing in the center of the one-room cabin was Drayle. He held his arms out.

He had come for her, and she willingly went to him.

O
nce again, Drayle and his two slaves took the steamship up the Mississippi to the mouth of the Ohio River. All slaves traveling on the
Madison
slept on deck, chained to iron posts, surrounded by cargo that included bales of cotton, bundles of sugar, hemp, and tobacco. Although they had always worked in the sun, the slaves’ skin turned even darker on the river and they eagerly awaited the cool of sunset when the shadows would stretch long again. Most slaves were headed downriver, so by the time Lizzie and Philip reached Cairo, Illinois, and veered northeast on the Ohio, most of the other people sleeping on deck were roustabouts and deckhands. By her third summer of travel, Lizzie had become accustomed to the strange accents, mostly German and Irish, of the poor whites. Yet she was still confused by the sight of these whites working alongside the free blacks on the ship.

The first time she saw a steamboat she could not believe her eyes. She stared at the wide hurricane deck, small pilothouse, two chimneys shooting black smoke. How on earth did the ship move
against the powerful downstream river current, which any slave knew could sweep you to your death in seconds? She feared the floating house would sink. Or explode. On the first day, there was a storm and the boat swayed dangerously. She became so sick she thought she might be pregnant. But she learned quickly that this feeling in her stomach was not uncommon on the water. One of the chambermaids gave her a brew to drink and it helped. Lizzie wanted to ask the woman about life aboard the ship, but the woman’s hardened face did not invite idle chatter.

The ship made stops along the way. Even before it reached the riverbank, the passengers could hear a cacophony of noises—bells ringing, people shouting, horses clattering. Lizzie watched as men loaded even more cargo onto the decks, sometimes piling it so high the passengers could not see out of their stateroom windows. It took several men to roll a single bale of cotton up the gangway. Then they tied a rope around it and pulled it up using a capstan until they had secured its place among the stacks.

Lizzie tried hard to forget the voyage that first summer. Instead, she concentrated on Drayle’s desire to protect her. She tried not to remember the man’s body on top of hers, pinning her down on the rough sack of cotton seed she’d made her bed. When the memory threatened to surface, she focused on the image of the black sky she’d watched as the man moved on top of her. She’d flexed her arms so tightly that the chains had gouged her wrists and left her bleeding, but she tried not to remember that as well. In her rearrangement of this memory, the ordeal had not lasted long.

Philip had been nearby, seen the entire incident, helpless in the chains that prevented him from moving close enough to help. Her shouts had been lost in the sound of the river current and steam engine. In the end, she’d had no choice but to acquiesce to the violence and pray it would end quickly.

Philip told Drayle what happened the next day, and he im
mediately moved Lizzie to his stateroom. The room was small, about six feet square, with a bed, small table, and chair. Despite its size, it was as fine a room as Lizzie had ever seen, but she chose to sleep on a narrow slip of floor. When he saw that he could not convince her to share the bed with him, he made a sleeping pallet for her out of his own clothes and Lizzie lay there at night. In the daytime, she was taken back to the upper deck and chained near Philip where he kept a close eye on her. The head deckman ordered his hands to leave this particular favored slave alone. Then, at night, Lizzie retreated again to the protection of Drayle’s room where he let her sleep undisturbed.

This third summer, in the year 1853, Lizzie stepped down the gangway behind Philip, her ankles chained to his. Drayle had already disappeared in the coach of a carriage headed up the hill to the train depot. Lizzie and Philip were assigned to a man, a handler of sorts, who saw to it that they made it without incident from the levee to the depot. Two trains left daily headed north on morning and afternoon runs. The three arrived at the station around noon and had to wait for the train’s next departure. The sun was hot and there was not a roof under which the two slaves could stand. The handler placed iron clasps around their necks that were so tight, they left marks. They were seated backs to one another in the middle of the platform, joined together tightly enough that they could only move to scratch an itch, one body against the other. Sweat ran down them and soaked the wooden platform around them.

When the train arrived, the handler took his time loading them, waiting until all the whites boarded first. Once the slaves were settled into the hindmost train car, the man released the iron clamps from their necks and chained them by the ankles to iron bars bolted to the floor.

Lizzie preferred the train to the ship by far even if the train did reek with the odor of livestock. The loud din of it, the clucking
of the chickens in the cages above her, the roar of the engine, the steady lurch as they tumbled along the iron T-rails did not bother her as much as the ship.

She slept most of the way to Xenia. Sometimes, she stayed awake long enough to hear Philip tell stories of rabbits and foxes and men with conjuring powers. Each summer, Philip had murmured these stories to her during the voyage. She would listen while she looked out the window at the Little Miami River, a tributary of the Ohio that surged along beside the rail. Other times, she retreated into her head, thinking of the women she was soon to see again. During those moments when she was jolted awake, she held on to his hand and listened for his clucking sound beneath the roar of the engine.

The rail stretched sixty-eight miles from cincinnati to Springfield, but they would disembark at Xenia, hours before the train reached the end of its line. She wondered what Drayle was doing in the forward car. She’d caught a glimpse of its interior—green fabric stretched taut and tufted over spaciously placed seats. She closed her eyes and tried to raise the voices of her children in her head over the train’s loud chuffing.

At Loveland, the train slowed to a stop and an elderly colored man boarded. He tipped his hat when he saw Lizzie and struck up a conversation with Philip. His hair was sketched with gray, and in the places where the hair had thinned, the skin shone through. He was a narrow-skulled man and reminded Lizzie vaguely of a rat. When he looked her way, Lizzie recognized the glow of his eyes as the beginnings of blindness.

“Where y’all headed?”

Philip finished sizing the man up before he spoke. “Tawawa house, suh.”

“Tawawa who? I is headed to columbus myself. I been down to Kentucky looking for my family, but the old house is run over
with weeds. She ain’t there no more. Ain’t nobody there no more.” he looked down at his hands.

“You got folks in columbus?” Philip asked after a few moments.

The man shook his head. “I reckon I gots to start over.” he smiled. His teeth were crooked and brown. “But I is a young man yet. I reckon I can find me a new family. A job.”

His voice sounded unconvinced. He took a paper out of his coat pocket and waved it at them. “These here is my papers. Reeeeeal United States government papers. The man say can’t nobody take ’em away from me.”

Lizzie leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the writing on the paper. She could barely make out the curves of someone’s handwriting.

The train slowed and Lizzie braced against the seat in front of her. A chicken squawked overhead and stirred the others. Soon the car was filled with the racket of chicken clatter. As the birds struggled against one another, the car filled with a dust laced by the occasional feather.

The door to the train rattled open and a white man in a gray uniform pointed at the senior.

“You there! Off my train.”

He reached for his cane. “Why, sir? I paid my fare. I is going to columbus.”

“I don’t care what you did. I don’t want you on my train.” he pointed at Lizzie and Philip. “These two are traveling with someone. You aren’t.”

The elderly man pulled himself up and looked back at the two. Lizzie moved a foot and her chain rattled against the floor. The man looked down with a start, as if he had not realized they were slaves. Then he turned from them without another word and used the handrail to step down from the train car.

Lizzie turned her thoughts again to Drayle and the white cottage. She thought of the parlor and the stove that burned coal. She thought of her friends—the warmth of Reenie’s laughter, the squeak of Sweet’s voice, the determination of Mawu’s shoulders—and took comfort in the world that awaited her.

L
izzie wasn’t sure if Mawu forgave her for what she’d done the summer before. Everything seemed to be fine, but she knew that memory was a funny thing. It reared its head at the least expected of times. She felt as if she were holding her breath, waiting for the punishment Mawu would enact to avenge herself. They had never even said goodbye, and here they found themselves back in each other’s company at the resort again.

For Mawu’s part, she acted as if nothing had ever happened between the two women. Her tongue was its usual sharp self, but it wasn’t particularly aimed at Lizzie. Not so far.

When she saw Lizzie for the first time, Mawu offered her an even-toned “how you been” and Lizzie replied with a low-voiced “mighty fine.” The other times the two women had seen each other had been in the presence of Sweet and Reenie, so things had seemed like they were back to normal. This day was no different.

The four women were visiting the Bath of Gold, named by the Shawnee because of the shining metallic rocks that lay beneath
its surface. They had seen it from the top of the ravine a few times but had never descended into it to check it out. Usually, the white guests chose this spring over the four smaller ones, both for the refreshing cool of its clear, soft water and its two spring houses divided by sex. Swimming in the pool had been Mawu’s idea, and Reenie had checked on how long the families would be gone. They weren’t expected until well after dark, so the slaves had an unusual stretch of free time.

Sweet’s belly rolled in deep waves, the skin still stretched from her last pregnancy, and the fat on her legs jiggled as she walked. She walked into the water, squealing as she went.

“Ohhhh!” she yelled out.

Mawu and Lizzie were already in the water. Mawu’s head bobbed once and then dipped beneath the surface. Lizzie could still see her. The water was so clear she could see all the way to the bottom.

“Reenie, come on and dip your feet in!” Lizzie shouted.

Reenie pulled her knees to her chest and scooted farther back from the water’s edge. “Don’t you worry none about me.” even several feet back from the edge of the water, she looked nervous.

The evening sky was a warm color. It made the stones glow more red than gold. Mawu swam over to a rock and climbed up. She stretched out like a nymph and leaned back on her hands. Water rolled down her thighs.

“Ooh, girl don’t you have no shame? What if somebody see you?” Sweet said.

“Let ’em see.” Mawu shook her hair out.

Lizzie swam over, inspired by Mawu’s brazenness. She climbed up on the rock and blew water from her nose. She looked down at her own body and then studied Mawu’s. She couldn’t help but notice Mawu’s taut skin showed none of the sag of her own. Mawu looked unreal in the deepening shadows, like a ghost that would disappear at any moment.

“It sure is nice out here,” Lizzie said. “This water makes me feel real good.”

“Why you think the white folks come here?” Mawu swirled a finger in the rivulets of water on her stomach.

Sweet swam over and watched the two women quietly for a moment. “You think this summer gone be any different?”

“What you mean?” Mawu said.

“You know. You think the menfolks will be more decent? I just want to have some peace and quiet,” Sweet said.

Lizzie understood what Sweet was trying to say. As much as she could, Sweet wanted to enjoy the summer the same as the white visitors. She wanted to have her own kind of vacation, free from the pressures of the plantation.

“Peace and quiet. What that is?” Mawu said.

Lizzie wondered if the memory of Tip’s humiliation had risen in Mawu’s mind. She tried to change the subject. “Don’t y’all think Reenie looks different this summer?” Lizzie couldn’t figure out what it was that looked different about the eldest of the group.

Sweet held on to the side of the rock. “Seem more sad, don’t she?”

Mawu whispered: “A lifetime can pass between these summers. No telling what done happened since us been gone.”

“You sure the mens ain’t gone be back for a while?” Sweet glanced back in the direction of the resort.

“Reenie told the woman at the hotel to ring a bell if she sees them coming,” Lizzie said. “How are your children doing?” she asked Sweet.

“They doing just fine,” Sweet said, her face lighting up. “I been teaching my youngest how to read. I swear that boy a natural born storyteller. I think he gone be a preacher.”

Lizzie thought of her Nate, too angry at the world to ever preach. It seemed like the older he got, the more sullen he became. He had his bright moments, but for the most part he wore a
frown these days. Drayle said children had natural born tempers that couldn’t be messed with. Lizzie wasn’t sure that was true.

“How is that boy of yours?” Lizzie asked Mawu, still trying to gauge the woman’s feelings toward her.

Mawu gave her an empty look and said, “What boy.”

“Reenie?” Sweet said. They looked over at the other side again. Reenie had lifted her skirt and was standing in the shallow part of the water.

“I thought she wouldn’t set foot near the water,” Lizzie said. Reenie had told them that she was so afraid of water she wouldn’t even allow the preacher to baptize her in a knee-deep pond.

“Guess she done changed her mind,” Mawu said.

Lizzie waved at Reenie. The woman closed her eyes and turned up to the sun. Lizzie caught a glimpse of Reenie’s younger self. It reminded her of the first time she had met her. They had been almost certain they might be kin. They’d later learned they weren’t related by blood at all. But they were still close and each seemed to know exactly what the other was thinking. Sometimes. Right then, Lizzie thought she knew what Reenie was feeling. The water felt like relief. Being in it made it easy to forget the words, licks, disappointments that had sliced at every little part of them over the years.

Reenie stepped deeper into the water. The pool rose to her thighs, hips, stomach. The three women watched, perhaps believing Reenie would paddle over to the other side and join them. So when Reenie took one more step and disappeared beneath the surface, none of them reacted right off.

The drops of water on Lizzie’s skin turned cold. “Reenie!” She sprang into the water, followed closely by Mawu. The mineral pool dropped off swiftly from the wide shallow ridge to the deeper center, and when Lizzie saw Reenie bob up out of the water, coughing, then down again, her arms flailing, she knew the woman had
already taken in a mouthful of water. It seemed Lizzie could not reach her fast enough. She wiggled her body, moving through the water like a fish.

She could see Reenie’s dark mass in the clear water ahead of her. When she reached her, Lizzie locked an arm around Reenie’s neck and tried to pull. The older woman punched the water with her fists. Lizzie could see her opening her eyes and mouth. Bubbles raced to the surface. She caught Lizzie in the face with an elbow and Lizzie sank, momentarily stunned. Lizzie had a piece of dress in her hand, but she wasn’t sure which part.

Mawu clutched Reenie from the other side, and pulled at one of Reenie’s arms. Mawu hadn’t sucked in enough air, and was clearly struggling to get to the surface herself. Reenie kicked Mawu in the stomach, and Mawu choked. The three of them burst through the surface of the water, sputtering and Lizzie finally felt the ground beneath her toes.

“What was you doing?” Mawu demanded when she had caught her breath and was standing on the shallow ridge, the rocks beneath her bare feet. Sweet was sitting on the grassy bank, her stroke not good enough for her to help the other women. She was crying softly, hugging her knees.

“Leave me be, leave me be,” Reenie said.

“What do you mean,
leave you be
,” Lizzie said as she and Mawu pulled Reenie up onto the bank.

The three women sprawled out on the grass. Lizzie tried not to think about what all of them were trying not to think about. Reenie coughed up water, loud hoarse coughs from deep within her chest. Lizzie looked down at Reenie’s hand and saw it before the others. The tip of Reenie’s finger was missing. It looked as if it had been sliced cleanly off. The skin had grown over the wound and it looked blunt and hard.

“Get up.” Mawu motioned to Reenie.

When Reenie didn’t respond, Mawu said it again with more force. “I said get up.”

Reenie sat up, her bottom lip quaking. She muttered something the rest of them did not understand. Lizzie helped Reenie to her feet and pulled the wet dress over her head. She wrung it out over the grass. Reenie’s naked body stood wrinkled and thin in the afternoon light.

“Shut up with all that mumbling,” Mawu said, still talking in her mean voice. Again, Reenie listened. The talking stopped.

They waited for Lizzie to get as much water out of the dress as she could. Lizzie put her own dry dress on Reenie and put the wet one on herself. The coarse cloth would dry quickly in the sun.

After they had all dressed, they walked toward the cottages, quietly, as if to fend off the admission that Reenie had almost crossed a line they dare not mention. Mawu had been the only one of them with enough courage to stand up and say Reenie was not going to take them to that dark place.

Sweet walked beside Reenie and held on to the woman’s elbow. Behind them, Mawu and Lizzie watched Reenie’s back, poised to catch her should she fall. The cold of the wet dress numbed Lizzie’s skin. Mawu moved toward her and put an arm around her waist. Lizzie leaned into her, hoping it meant she was forgiven but suspecting the gesture had nothing to do with her.

They walked back to the resort, four shadowed figures holding in yet another secret on only their third day back in Ohio that summer.