Yellow Crocus: A Novel (32 page)
“What does she say?” wondered Matthew.
Lisbeth read out loud to Matthew:
Dear Elizabeth,
Thank you for the news of Samuel. Congratulations to you and your husband. I imagine you are proud to have a son. Thank you for the invitation to visit your home, but I am unable to travel at this time. Perhaps you and the baby can come to Virginia in the summer. Your father sends his best wishes.
Sincerely,
Your Mother
“I cannot say I am surprised,” Lisbeth said. “But I held a small hope that Samuel’s birth would be enticing enough for her to visit Ohio.”
“Perhaps my mother will convince her it is not as wild as she imagines. I am certain your mother will visit us one day.”
“I suppose,” Lisbeth agreed. She shook her head and went on, “But nevertheless, I shall not let her ruin my happiness.”
Past the town, small homes were surrounded by fallow fields waiting to be planted. Lisbeth noticed laundry hung out to dry and chickens milling around yards. Occasionally a dark-skinned person with a wide-rimmed hat broke from labor to stare up at the passing wagon.
Carefully reading Mrs. Williams’ directions, Lisbeth directed Matthew, “This is the turn. It is the third parcel on the left. Below the road, in the gully.”
Driving past the first and second farms, Lisbeth told Matthew to slow as they came to the third farm. The house was set back a hundred feet or so down a driveway.
“Here it is,” Lisbeth said.
Matthew was turning the horses at the top of the driveway when something caught Lisbeth’s eye.
“Matthew, stop!” Lisbeth whispered urgently.
Matthew stopped the wagon and looked over at his wife.
A gasp escaped from Lisbeth, and she went white. “Oh, dear God,” Lisbeth whispered. “It cannot be.”
“Lisbeth, you look as if you have seen a ghost!” Matthew exclaimed. “What is the matter?”
Lisbeth scrutinized the scene before her. Two figures were hanging out laundry. A child with a head of bouncy braids handed pieces of wet clothing to a woman. The woman, her head wrapped in a dark cloth with bits of gray hair showing through, efficiently hung the clothes upon the line.
“Lisbeth, what is the matter?” Matthew pressed again.
Without taking her eyes off the scene, Lisbeth replied, “That looks like Mattie.”
“Who?”
“My nurse, Mattie.”
“In Ohio? That is hard to believe.” Matthew shook his head in disbelief. “When did you see her last?”
“It will be ten years on June fourteenth.”
“Are you certain that is her?” he asked.
“No.”
Lisbeth stared as the twosome went about their chore. The daughter, teasing her mother, snatched away a piece of offered cloth at the last minute. The mother caught the end. A tug-of-war ensued, ending when the mother tickled her daughter to gain possession of the shirt. Laughter echoed up to Lisbeth.
“Her laugh…that is Mattie. I am certain.” Lisbeth was stunned. “The girl must be Jordan. She is so big. So very big. They look good…so happy.”
Lisbeth looked over at Matthew, tears pouring down her face. “I know I am foolish, but I have wondered for so many years…if they were even alive. To finally see them, and see that they are so well.”
Gazing at the pair in the distance, Lisbeth was transfixed. She took in their clothes, their hands, their faces. As hard as it was to believe, Mattie and Jordan were alive and well in front of her, only one hundred feet away.
“Should I leave them in peace?” Lisbeth wondered out loud. “Mattie must have known me at Samuel’s birth. She did not tell you she knew me?”
“No, but it is extremely dangerous for fugitive slaves right now. She does not know if she can trust me.”
“But she can,” Lisbeth said.
“Yes, she can, though she does not know that.”
“Do you believe she wishes to see me?” wondered Lisbeth.
“She was tender toward you at Samuel’s birth. It was very apparent. I believe she cares deeply for you.”
The tears streamed faster down Lisbeth’s face.
Eventually Mattie noticed the white folks hovering in her driveway. Recognizing Lisbeth at once, she rushed to pick up the basket of wet clothes.
“Come on. We goin’ in now,” Mattie commanded.
“But Momma, we got more to hang out,” Jordan insisted.
“See that white lady…?” Mattie gestured with her head.
“Uh huh,” Jordan nodded.
“I got to tell you somethin’ about her.”
Rushing into their cabin, Mattie explained to her daughter, “’Member how I told you ’bout the little white girl I used to care for? The one that made your baby quilt? Well, she up there on the road. Look like they came to bring me somethin’ for helpin’ her get her baby out. You got to call her Miss Elizabeth if’n she comes round. They may just drive off. I think she must have known it was me. It was her family we runned from.”
“She gonna tell on us?”
“No,” Mattie replied with certainty. “Help me get ready in case she comes down.”
“No white lady ever come in before,” Jordan said with wonder in her voice.
Finally Lisbeth decided. “Matthew, I will do what I set out to do this morning. Please bring me to Mattie’s home.”
A flick of the reins brought the horses to the house below.
Drying her cheeks, Lisbeth told Matthew, “You wait here with Samuel. I will come get you if I need you.”
Lisbeth cautiously climbed to the ground, mindful of every movement of her shaky legs as she went. Crossing to the door, she was acutely aware of the sounds around her: the clucks of the chickens in the wagon and the crunch of gravel under her shoes. She counted her steps from the wagon to the front door of Mattie’s cabin, 1..2..3…up to twelve.
Standing in the bright sunlight, Lisbeth stopped. Her heart beat furiously in her chest. This was foolishness. What was she thinking? Perhaps Mattie did not care to see her, to have her past dredged up, to risk the danger.
Then Lisbeth heard a voice cut through the wooden door: Mattie’s deep, warm woman voice, the voice that had soothed her when she was little, the voice that sang in her dreams. That was her Mattie inside. She raised her hand and knocked.
Mattie opened the door. She had planned to invite Lisbeth in immediately, but instead she stood in the doorway, taking in the woman before her. Tall and strong, so transformed from the little girl that Mattie loved, and yet, those eyes, they were the same. Mattie’s breath caught, her throat closed tight, and tears rushed to her eyes. Motioning with her hands, beckoning Lisbeth in silently, Mattie closed the door tight before she pulled Lisbeth into her strong, warm arms.
I
wish I could tell you that Mattie and I were like family to one another from that day on, but I cannot. As I told you, this is a true story. The only proper way for me to have Mattie in my home is for me to hire her, and I am not willing to order her about, and I do not suppose that she would agree to take directions from me.
The only proper reason for me to visit her home is to provide assistance, charity to a family in need. Which I would provide, without hesitation, if she ever needed me to, but she does not need me. She has Samuel and Jordan, her real children, to care for her.
Every Christmas I bring a package to Mattie’s family, a small token that does not begin to repay her for all that she gave to me. I pray that she feels the love and appreciation I pour into every muffin or quilt or jar of jam.
Occasionally we see one another in town. The last time was in the spring when my Samuel was seven. He ran from me, down the side of the general store, as we were going to make a purchase of flour and sugar for a cake. I followed, ready to chastise him, when she came around from the back. Too stunned to speak or move, I froze and stared at Mattie. She stared right back, looking at me like she knew my soul.
Then Samuel shouted, “Look,” breaking our attention from one another. “The first crocus of spring!”
Mattie and I gazed in the direction he pointed.
“Why looky at that. Yellow too, how lovely,” Mattie responded.
Samuel announced proudly, “Yellow crocuses are my momma’s favorites. My momma and I will have a picnic with black-eye peas today to celebrate.”
“That right?” Mattie said with a shake of her head. “In my family we do just the same thing. Imagine that.”
Our eyes met. I gazed intently at Mattie hoping she understood all that was in my heart. More than anything I wanted to rush to her and be embraced in her loving, familiar arms; to laugh and hug, to introduce Samuel to her, and have him know that this was the very person who taught me to hunt for crocuses. I wanted my Samuel to meet her, to know her, to love her. But I did not rush or introduce or laugh or hug; I simply smiled, a tender, moist-eyed smile across the vast distance between us.
Mattie smiled back at me before we went our separate ways.