Yellow Wife(26)

“God bless you,” said the thick-hipped woman who appeared to be the cook. When she turned my way, I saw that she was the lady from whom I had earlier requested the spoon. She sat at the table and began to shuck corn. She did not seem surprised to see me. I could tell by the way her lip twitched that she knew something that I did not.

“Marse Rubin said to feed her and give her a dress.”

The woman put an apple in Tommy’s hand. “Go ’n fetch some water for the bath.”

Tommy skipped off.

“What’s your name?” She appeared to be my senior by about ten years, like Lovie. Round in the cheeks, with a gap between her two front teeth. Her face arranged itself unkindly.

“Pheby, ma’am.” I hoped addressing her formally would make up for our rough start.

“Elsie.” She stood and turned her back while fixing something on the cookstove. “We don’t have to like each other. Just needs to get along.”

The tin bowl she handed me was filled with steaming salted pork, cabbage, and rice. Then she made a show of handing me a spoon. I sat atop a stool and ate quickly. “This is delicious.”

“You wantin’ more?”

“Yes, if that is okay. It has been a long journey.”

“Where you come from? Talk like them white women.”

“Charles City.”

She gave me another serving and I devoured it, then washed it down with a sweet, lemony drink.

Elsie wiped down the stove. “Done here. You can go up in my quarters and take a bath. Tommy should have it ready by now.” I offered to help clean the dishes but she sent me on.

Clearly the kitchen was her domain. I took the narrow wooden stairs. The heat from below ascended to the second floor, making it airless. The upper room did not seem as large as where I lived with Mama, but would serve me better than being roped to a gang, with nothing at my back but the whine of wind and wolves.

The tub was a big silver bucket, filled with hot, steamy water, that sat in the middle of the floor. I peeled out of my soiled layers of clothing. The man who had rescued me from the auction block expected something from me. Elsie knew it. Mama often said, no kind deed from a white person went without a return. I squeezed the rag of dripping water over my shoulders, then dunked my head back until my hair sopped with wetness. As soon as I submerged my body in the water, the tears fell. The hurt in my gut clamped down unbearably. I told myself I could only cry for one minute; that was all Mama made way for. One minute of sorrow and then back to a straight face, a stiff back, and work. But that one minute of sadness melted into ten minutes, and before I knew it, I had cooled off the water with my steady stream of grief.

A swift knock shook the door, and then Elsie breezed in with two dresses in her arms. “This one you can sleep in. Other one for work. Marse asked that you join in servin’ him.”

“Marse?” I repeated. Did she mean Master?

Elsie looked appalled. “Yes, Marse Rubin Lapier. The one who own this jail. Ain’t they got marses where you from?” She reached for the calico dress. “This we’ll take out to burn.”

“No, wait.” I held my hand out. “Please, that was my mama’s.”

“Smells bad, but up to you.” Elsie bunched the dress in her arms. As she moved to put it down, her fingers touched my diary. I stayed still, remembering Mama’s warning about slaves who could read and write getting their fingers chopped off and eyes washed with lye. She made no eye contact as she draped the dress neatly across the chair. I hoped to God that meant we had an understanding.

“Get dressed. Then take a rest. I will wake you in ’nough time to prep for servin’.”

Elsie shut the door behind her. The room had little furniture. Three pallets for sleeping, two chairs and hooks fastened to the wall where skirts were hanging. In the far corner, there was a table with a lantern. I dropped down on one of the pallets like a lump of coal. There were windows on two of the walls, which let in a cross breeze. I heard the depressing sounds of the prisoners. Suffering as I had just one night ago, trapped in the bowels of that hellhole. The scratchy blanket became too much and I pushed it off, but then I felt cold. Back and forth I went until I drifted. When I opened my eyes, Elsie stood over me.

“The matter wit’ you?”

I tried to speak, but no words pushed past my lips. She tipped the canteen to my mouth and I drank, then fell back on my pillow. I woke, slept, drank, shivered, threw up, cried out. But the fever would not turn me loose. On the third day, Elsie brought me a stew but I could not stomach more than two or three bites.

“You must not want to get betta.” She sounded offended, so I held my head up and took down a few more sips. As I leaned in for more, my stomach bubbled, and all the food came back out and onto the floor.

“Why the hell you got me cleanin’ up after you? You ain’t the missus, and this sure ain’t the big house.”

I felt terrible for making Elsie so mad, so I forced myself up, took the towel from her, and started wiping at my waste. I only lasted a minute; then my head got light and I fell back on the pallet. The only thing that brought me comfort was sleep, so I coasted off again and could not only see Mama, I could also smell her. We were curled next to each other in our old bed and I felt at peace. She brushed back my hair and whispered in my ear.

“Have her make you a tea with white willow or meadowsweet. Drink that three to four times a day. Slice a piece of onion and leave it in a dish next to your bed. That should break the fever.”