The Underground Railroad(24)
Presently she arrived at the dormitories. The two-story red brick buildings had been completed only a short time before Bessie’s arrival. In time the saplings and hedges on the perimeter would provide shade and character; now they spoke of fine intentions. The brick was a pure, unsullied color, without so much as a dot of mud splashed from the rain. Not even a caterpillar crawling in a nook. Inside, the white paint still smelled fresh in the common spaces, dining rooms, and bunk rooms. Bessie wasn’t the only girl afraid to touch anything apart from the doorknobs. To even leave a speck or scratch mark.
Bessie greeted the other residents as they crossed each other on the sidewalk. Most were returning from work. Others departed to watch over children so their parents could partake of the pleasant evening. Only half of the colored residents worked on Saturdays, so Friday night was busy.
She reached number 18. She said hello to the girls braiding their hair in the common room and darted upstairs to change before dinner. When Bessie arrived in town, most of the eighty beds in the bunk room had been claimed. A day earlier and she might have been sleeping in a bed beneath one of the windows. It would be some time before someone moved away and she could switch to a better position. Bessie liked the breeze afforded by the windows. If she turned her body the other way she might see stars some nights.
Bessie opened the trunk at the foot of her bed and removed the blue dress she bought her second week in South Carolina. She smoothed it over her legs. The soft cotton on her skin still thrilled her. Bessie bunched her work clothes and put them in the sack under the bed. Lately she did her washing on Saturday afternoons following her school lessons. The chore was her way of making up for sleeping in, an indulgence she allowed herself those mornings.
Supper was roast chicken with carrots and potatoes. Margaret the cook lived over in number 8. The proctors felt it prudent that the people who cleaned and cooked in the dorms did so in buildings other than their own. It was a small but worthy idea. Margaret had a heavy hand with the salt, although her meat and poultry were always exquisitely tender. Bessie mopped up the fat with a crust of bread as she listened to the talk of evening plans. Most of the girls stayed in the night before the social, but some of the younger ones were going out to the colored saloon that had recently opened. Although it wasn’t supposed to, the saloon accepted scrip. Another reason to avoid the place, Bessie thought. She brought her dishes to the kitchen and headed back upstairs.
“Bessie?”
“Good evening, Miss Lucy,” Bessie said.
It was rare Miss Lucy stayed this late on a Friday. Most proctors disappeared at six o’clock. To hear the girls from the other dormitories tell it, Miss Lucy’s diligence put her colleagues to shame. To be sure, Bessie had benefited from her advice many times. She admired the way her clothes were always so crisp and fit just so. Miss Lucy wore her hair in a bun and the thin metal of her eyeglasses lent her a severe aspect, but her quick smile told the story of the woman beneath.
“How are things?” Miss Lucy asked.
“Think I’m gonna spend a quiet night in the quarter, Miss Lucy,” Bessie said.
“Dormitory, Bessie. Not quarter.”
“Yes, Miss Lucy.”
“Going to, not gonna.”
“I am working on it.”
“And making splendid progress!” Miss Lucy patted Bessie’s arm. “I want to talk to you Monday morning before you head out for work.”
“Anything wrong, Miss Lucy?”
“Nothing at all, Bessie. We’ll talk then.” She gave a little bow and walked to the office.
Bowing to a colored girl.
—
BESSIE Carpenter was the name on the papers Sam gave her at the station. Months later, Cora still didn’t know how she had survived the trip from Georgia. The darkness of the tunnel quickly turned the boxcar into a grave. The only light came from the engineer’s cabin, through the slats in the front of the rickety car. At one point it shook so much that Cora put her arms around Caesar and they stayed like that for a good while, squeezing each other at the more urgent tremors, pressed against the hay. It felt good to grab him, to anticipate the warm pressure of his rising and falling chest.
Then the locomotive decelerated. Caesar jumped up. They could scarcely believe it, although the runaways’ excitement was tempered. Each time they completed one leg of their journey, the next unexpected segment commenced. The barn of shackles, the hole in the earth, this broken-down boxcar—the heading of the underground railroad was laid in the direction of the bizarre. Cora told Caesar that on seeing the chains, she feared Fletcher had conspired with Terrance from the very beginning and that they had been conveyed to a chamber of horrors. Their plot, escape, and arrival were the elements of an elaborate living play.
The station was similar to their point of departure. Instead of a bench, there was a table and chairs. Two lanterns hung on the wall, and a small basket sat next to the stairs.
The engineer set them loose from the boxcar. He was a tall man with a horseshoe of white hair around his pate and the stoop that came from years of field work. He mopped sweat and soot from his face and was about to speak when a ferocious coughing wracked his person. After a few pulls from his flask the engineer regained his composure.
He cut off their thanks. “This is my job,” he said. “Feed the boiler, make sure she keeps running. Get the passengers where they got to be.” He made for his cabin. “You wait here until they come and fetch you.” In moments the train had disappeared, leaving a swirling wake of steam and noise.