Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(5)

Eventually, as Robert gave him more chores, I began to see Pan around the house more frequently. He was an uncommonly cheerful child, and when he saw me, he’d enthusiastically call out, “Hello, Mr. Burton!” And he didn’t leave it at that. Almost always his greetings included other comments, such as “Did you see my new shoes?” or “I’m sure gettin’ plenty to eat.” His demeanor was so winning that in spite of myself, I began to take notice of him.

Then came the day he found me cleaning the cage of my much prized cockatoo, Malcolm. When Pan opened the door to my upstairs room, his eyes opened wide. “What you doin’ with that bird?” he asked.

“I’m caring for him,” I said.

“Ain’t he supposed to be outside?” He looked back out the door. “Does Robert know you got him in here?”

Malcolm flew to Pan’s shoulder, and though the boy stiffened, he stood his ground. When the bird began to nose Pan’s ear, the boy did not move but rolled his eyes up at me. “He gon’ hurt me?”

“No, I rather think he likes you,” I said.

Malcolm leaped onto his favorite perch with a questioning squawk. Pan stared. “I sure never do see somethin’ like him before.”

“His name is Malcolm, and he is a salmon-crested cockatoo.”

“Where did you get him?”

“He was my first friend when I came to this house,” I said, surprising myself with my open answer.

“Your—”

“Naughty boy!” Malcolm interrupted, using his favorite phrase.

Pan gaped, then gave a nervous laugh. “That him talkin’?”

“It is,” I said.

“That bird was talkin’?”

“Yes, he mimics very well.”

The boy clapped his hands. “Make him talk again!”

His interest in the bird reminded me of myself as a child, and I decided to give him an opportunity. “I’ll tell you what. You have Robert send you to me every day at this time, and I will teach you how to take care of him. Then you can hear him speak every day.”

“You sayin’ you let me help you out with this bird?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Won’t be no work for me!” he said. “But Robert don’t want me foolin’ ’round the house outside a the kitchen, ’less he say so.”

“I’ll speak with Robert,” I promised.


IT WASN’T LONG before Pan was supplying Malcolm with the sycamore and dogwood branches that the bird loved to gnaw, and after the boy discovered how to keep Malcolm occupied, I often found the bird happily nipping at a swinging ear of corn or pecking at a carrot that hung above his perch.

Pan continued to surprise me with his quick mind, and because of his keen desire to learn, in time I began to teach him to read and write. One late afternoon, less than a year after his arrival, he stood beside my desk while once again I attempted to correct his use of the English language. As I was doing so, he leaned over to catch my eye. “Mr. Burton, why you doin’ this for me?” he asked.

“Why are you doing this for me?” I corrected.

“Yes, Mr. Burton. You right. Why are you doing this for me?” he repeated my correction.

“You are right,” I corrected again.

“I know I’s right,” he said. Then he repeated himself again: “I say, ‘Why are you doing this for me?’?”

“Can you be more explicit?” I asked. When I saw the confusion on his face, I worded the question another way. “What do you mean to ask when you say, ‘Why are you doing this for me?’ What do you think that I am doing for you?”

“You a white man helpin’ out a nigga chil’. You teachin’ me how to talk white like you. Why you doin’ this? Why you foolin’ with me?”

His earnest gaze touched me, and I was stung by his honest question. I turned away and felt for my handkerchief, then blew my nose. After folding my handkerchief, I was about to replace it when, without asking, Pan took it from me.

He leaned forward. “Look at me,” he said, and with his small hand, he reached over and pulled my chin to face him. Then, with supreme care, he used the cloth to dab away a droplet of water that had slipped from under my eye patch. “That eye weepin’,” he said. I was so touched that I rose and went to stand before a shelf of books, feigning interest while I composed myself.

He waited until I was seated again. “That eye hurt you much?” he asked.

“Does your eye pain you?” I corrected.

He gave a deep sigh. “Mr. Burton. You keep stoppin’ me, tellin’ me how to talk, I don’ ever get a chance to hear what you got to say,” he protested, then looked puzzled when I chuckled.


AS TIME PASSED, Pan continued to help Robert around the house and Molly in the kitchen—Molly’s only complaint now was his constant correction of her grammar—but increasingly, I called on him to assist me with my many projects. In his eagerness to understand, he was filled with questions and freely shared his observations. His carefree countenance broke through my guarded reserve, and over the next five years I came to care deeply for the boy.

But now he was missing! Could it be that he was stolen for a slave? It was a constant fear among the Negroes of Philadelphia, for it happened often. I imagined how desperate Henry must feel, as I recalled his own terror at being taken again for a slave. The thought of Pan meeting with this fate filled me with dread. He was quick-witted but had always been frail and surely could not survive the hard life of a slave.