Yellow Wife(33)

“The water went ice cold in a blink of the eye. Felt like bein’ struck wit’ heavy sticks in all directions. Was a game to her. How long ’fore I cried out from the sting. Then how long ’fore I fell silent from the shock.”

Charlott told me after her last time under the pump, she was fevered for over a week. No amount of blankets could make her warm. Once she got better, she tried to run but did not make it out the neighbor’s woods before the bloodhounds caught her.

“Next day the wagon come for me. Then I’s here.”

I took her story in to digest later. Time ran short, so I finished by giving her my old shoes. “I am sorry for this. If there was anything that I could do for you I would. May God be with you through it all.” I squeezed her cold hands and then walked her up to the tavern. When she reached the door, she squared her shoulders but did not look back.

I could not rid my thoughts of Charlott’s story. The more I stuffed it down, the more it bubbled up. I needed to do something. Since I knew the Jailer would be at the tavern for a while, I left my post and went to the house. I called out but no one answered, so I made my way to the library. The Jailer’s writing desk was pushed against the wall. I stood in the middle of the room, listening to make sure no one followed me. When I felt certain I occupied the house alone, I pulled on the gold handles and slid the drawer open. Inside there was a calendar, writing paper, and two dip pens. Farther back in the drawer sat a small bottle of ink. I took the pen and ink, shuffled down to my room, and retrieved the diary from my hiding space.

When I opened my diary, the pages smelled like Mama. I flipped past her recipes until I found a blank page. Right there on the floor, I dipped the pen and jotted down everything that Charlott had told me along with a description of her and approximate age. Something about preparing her for sale had touched a vulnerable place deep inside of me. Perhaps I recognized that it could have been me, dressed and marched off. Our backgrounds were not the same but were similar enough, and I needed to do something that felt like help.

I slipped the diary back into its hiding place and walked down the hall. When I moved into the library, the Jailer was standing next to his writing desk. I tried backing away but he turned at the sound of my footsteps.

“Pheby. I did not know you were here.”

“Needed hairpins from my room, sir.”

He peered at me thoughtfully. “Where are your shoes?”

I looked sheepishly at my feet tied with wood and linen, which I had used as makeshift shoes once my ankles swelled up.

“Too small.”

“You should have told me.”

I kept my eyes on the floor.

“There is work waiting for you. Run along.”

I wobbled on. The ink and pen weighed heavily in my pocket.



* * *



Two nights later, the Jailer called me to the parlor. Once I sat down, Abbie brought me a paper bag tied with a silver bow.

“What is this?”

“Open it.” He leaned forward in his chair.

I unraveled the bag to find a pair of royal-blue silk slippers. They were stunning, covered on the outside with a finely woven straw.

“Thank you.”

“Try them on.”

Abbie knelt before me and slipped the slippers onto my feet. They fit beautifully.

“Better.” He smiled. “Dessert, Abbie.”

She got off the floor and limped off, returning with two plates of raspberry tart, then took her leave.

I held my plate in my lap. “May I ask a question, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Who bought Charlott?”

He looked at me like he did not comprehend.

“The girl you brought to me two days ago. Blue dress?”

“An associate from Louisiana. Has a thriving business that he thought she would be perfect for.”

“What was her sale?”

His lips crinkled like he tasted something sweet. “Eight hundred dollars.”

“More than a male field hand?”

“Ah, so you have been paying attention to our talks.” He pushed his spectacles up his nose. “She will pay back that money to him in dividends.”

“Why so much?”

“Mulatto girls like her are a fancy breed.” He eyed me up and down and then it hit me. Missus Delphina’s last words. Take her to the Lapier jail to be a fancy girl to live out her life as a whore.

Dear Lord, I had fixed Charlott, a girl younger than me to lie with strange men. The thought turned to acid in my stomach. I fanned my face with my hand so that he could not see my distress.

“Play something for me. Soft on my ears.”

Now that I knew the whole picture, I lost whatever guilt I had over stealing the ink and pen. Writing her story down, acknowledging that she had passed through, that she had a name and a history—it was all I could do.



* * *



There were more girls after Charlott. Sometimes up to four a day. It was the same routine: fit, feed, bathe, oil, and get them dressed. When the house grew quiet at night, I wrote down their names in my diary, where they were from, their ages, descriptions of what they looked like, things they said to me during our brief time together. As I prepared each girl, it did not escape me that it could be me for sale. The poor people housed in the derelict jail were never far from my thoughts either.