Yellow Wife(31)
When I finished, the Jailer rose from his seat and offered me his hand. I got to my feet, and he caught me off-kilter by kissing me on the neck. I stood still as plywood.
“I have chosen well.” He took a rose from the vase on the table and handed it to me. I did not look at him when I wrapped my fingers around the stem.
“May I go?”
“I am not trying to frighten you. You are special, Pheby Delores Brown.”
I could not move, because he stood in my way.
“I am not feeling well, sir. May I go?”
He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. The kiss was wetter than the first, and my skin burned with repulsion. No other man had touched me except for Essex. I clutched the rose stem tighter.
“Please, sir.” I felt sweat gathering under my armpits.
“Yes, you may.”
I hurried to my bedroom and closed the door behind me. When I opened my hand, my palm bled from where the thorn had pierced my flesh. I dipped a cloth into my water pitcher and scrubbed at each of the spots on my body that he’d touched, until my skin felt raw and bruised.
CHAPTER 14
Christmas 1850
When I lived on the Bell plantation, Christmastime was the season of the year we all looked forward to. Rules were relaxed, and Master Jacob permitted the field hands a whole week of rest and leisure between Christmas and New Year’s Day. Aunt Hope would have Parrott slaughter the fattest hog and sometimes, if the season turned a good profit, a few chickens and a lamb, with the meat to be distributed evenly amongst the field hands. Most of Lowtown spent the free time repairing their cabins, tending to their gardens, hunting for game, and fishing. If they had family on a nearby plantation, Master Jacob wrote passes for them to visit.
Every night there was a party in Lowtown, and even those of us who lived in Hightown were permitted to attend once we were finished with our evening chores. Down in the clearing, the fire pit blazed, food was plentiful, men drank whiskey, women plum wine, and the children apple cider. After the feast, fiddlers and banjo players would start playing together, keeping the rhythm so that everyone could dance.
When we danced, we cast our worries to the wind. All our troubles and ailments forgotten. We seized life with both hands, crushing our tribulations with the sway of our hips and the stomp of our bare feet. On the eve of Christmas, a yearly allotment of goods and clothing was distributed. Men were given one new shirt and a pair of pants, women a burlap dress, and the kids new socks. Last year Missus Delphina had surprised everyone when she gave out ribbons to all the women and girls in the fields. Master took pleasure in lining up the children and handing out new balls, wooden instruments, and small dolls, but the kids mostly looked forward to the candy.
The next morning was my birthday. Most slaves did not know the date they were born. But Mama made sure I did. December 25, 1832. And for as long as I could remember, 1850 was to be the happiest celebration of my life. I would finally turn eighteen and receive my freedom papers.
Instead I opened my eyes on that agreed-upon morning, with child, confined to the back bedroom of the Jailer’s house, and a rage opened up inside of me so hot I grabbed the glass water pitcher from the side of my bed and slammed it to the ground. I picked up the chair and flung it against the wall, and then tore the bed linen from the mattress until it fell into a tangled heap. I wanted my free papers like Master had pledged. How come he had not come for me yet? I had lived my life on that promise.
July knocked.
“Go away.”
“Elsie prepared a Christmas breakfast.”
“Not hungry.”
I felt July hesitate at the door, but I urged her to go and enjoy the day without me. Not a soul at the jail knew that it was my eighteenth birthday, and I aimed to keep it that way. After hours of staring at the walls, I restored my room and then ate the cold biscuit that I found on the dining room table. I did not know where the Jailer had gone, but when July returned that evening, she told me that Elsie was mad with me for not coming to eat.
“Said you uppity.” She folded her legs underneath her on the floor; her thick braid sat on her shoulder, tied with the pink ribbon I’d made for her. I bunched my covers over my lap.
Things had been like icicles between Elsie and me over the past month, since I’d moved into the big house. She took to saying only what was necessary, and mostly relied on messages sent through July. I had no problem keeping my distance. I passed my time in the supply room mending clothes, bundled in layers since it had gotten cold. I had moved a few things around, and Tommy carried old rubbish out so that it felt like my cozy little nook.
That is where July found me a week later, on New Year’s Eve, when she burst through the door like her tail had caught fire.
“Girl, what is the matter?”
“Marse is back.”
“That is no cause to near break your neck.”
“I heard ’em talking while I served drinks in the tavern. Ya old marse? He dead.”
“What?” I dropped down on my stool, gripping my belly.
“I heard ’em say so. Marse Jacob Bell died few weeks ago.” The air left my body. Master Jacob, gone? It could not be. I opened my mouth and out came a bloodcurdling scream. July leaned over me, rubbing my back, but I could not stop shaking. I growled, shouted, pounded the table, pulled things from the shelves, and hollered over my bad luck until my throat was raw.