Yellow Wife(30)

“July will stay with you night and day. Attending to your needs.”

I tried to keep my posture erect, but I was no longer comfortable in my body. I dropped my eyes, but not before they spotted the piano. It was even lovelier than the one on which Miss Sally had taught me. I recognized it to be a square grand piano made of rosewood with sparkling ivory keys. It had been so long since I had made music and experienced the release that playing gave me. I deepened my breathing, wishing I had brought the ball of pearl wool to keep my hands occupied.

“You look tired. Go get some rest.”

“Thank you, sir.” He stood when I did, and I could feel his eyes on me as I walked out of the room.

July was laying on her pallet next to the closet, practicing looping the wool. I had offered to share the bed with her, but she refused.

“What Marse want?”

“I have no idea.”

“He scary,” she whispered.

“What makes you say that?”

“He has two faces. One minute smiling, next you stretched on the whippin’ post. Basil know betta than all of us.” She turned over and got under her blanket. She fell asleep in the time it took for me to prepare for bed.



* * *



After that, the Jailer called for me nightly while he had his whiskey, newspaper, and nibble of dessert. Each time Abbie suggested that I put on one of the white-women dresses from the closet, but I continued to refuse. I did not want to ignite additional interest in me beyond what was there. When I sat with him, I stayed mostly quiet, thinking about the piano, my baby, and Essex while he read the newspaper. Then, about a week into our evening meetings, he ordered Abbie to bring me a slice of apple pie. My mouth watered for the treat. It seemed that the baby had me constantly craving sweets, and in this place sugary snacks proved hard to come by. Like a kid, I wasted no time cutting into the crust with my fork and bringing the thick candied apples to my lips.

“Do not rush, now.” His eyes twinkled. “I want to watch you enjoy it. Slowly.”

His rate of breathing had increased, and his anticipation took the satisfaction of the pie from my mouth. The Jailer kept his eyes on me while I slid the pie off my fork, chewing each bite carefully and until there was nothing but mush in my mouth, then swallowed. He leaned toward me from his chair, his cheeks red, his eyes glistening.

“Go on, lick the spoon. Do not waste a drop.”

I put the plate down on the table next to me and faked a smile I knew would not reach my eyes.



* * *



As the days grew shorter and the weather grew colder, the Jailer started trading his reading in favor of talking to me. He told me things about his chattel business. I did not say much in response—just offered a nod or some sign that I’d heard him.

Over bread pudding he revealed, “I was born here in Richmond. Lived in a two-room shack just up the road. After my father died, I had to figure out a way to put food on the table. We did not have much to begin with and I was never good at starving. My mother and younger brother needed me to look after them, so I left home at sixteen in search of work.”

He shared how he had gotten his start as an itinerant trader, much like the men who had brought me to the jail. Moving up and down the East Coast, knocking on the doors of tobacco and rice planters, inquiring whether they would sell.

“It took about four months to assemble a profitable coffle of about three hundred, and then we would march farther down south. I got good at trading and developed a reputation, but after a few years the travel wore on me. On a trip home, I saw this place for sale with all the buildings intact, and I knew it was time to settle down and expand my business endeavors.”

He purchased the jail for six thousand dollars and quickly established himself as the proprietor. While he spoke, I kept my face pleasant and my eyes on his large hands. The more he drank, the more he waved them around to illustrate his point.

Not once on our nightly visits did he ask about my growing belly. I figured he spent his time with me because he was lonely, and often wondered why he did not have a wife. My fear of him never subsided and I remained on guard. But after a few weeks, I came to look forward to those moments of human kindness. He always spoke to me as if I had what Miss Sally would call good gumption, which made life at the Lapier jail bearable. While I waited on Master Jacob to come for me, I could temporarily endure his company for a few small comforts. Besides, sitting in the parlor provided an escape from the droning, depressing music of my confined circumstance.

“You are always looking at the piano. Can you play?”

I wrung my hands. “Yes, sir.”

“I would be pleased.” He motioned.

I could barely calm the eagerness that surged through my toes as I stood and moved toward the instrument. Sitting at the piano, I arched my back to make room for my front. The baby started kicking as soon as I poised my fingers to play, and I hoped the music would settle it.

The first song that came to mind was the last one I’d played for Master Jacob, “Pretty Dreamer.” I felt a bit off-center and my fingernails scratched the keys. But by the third stanza, I did not have to think about where my fingers traveled. I just walked across the keys and let the sound flow through me. I was no longer in the parlor, the jail, or Richmond. I floated high above this place. Dancing, feeling, recalling Essex, my mama, and all my family on the Bell plantation as if no one controlled me. Like I was free.