Yellow Wife(38)

The last girl of the day I was responsible for dressing up had left for the tavern just as the sun bled pink across the sky. I reached for a small tin of lard and massaged the cramps from my palm as Monroe squirmed to be untied from my back. When we got to the house, I ate chicken and dumplings with July and nursed Monroe while agonizing over our first night apart.

“He be fine, Miss Pheby.” July pushed her thick braid over her shoulder as she got up off the floor. She had grown the habit of knowing what I thought without me saying it.

“If he wakes in the middle of the night?”

“I will rock him.”

“Usually means he needs a change. Dry him good.”

We both turned at the sound of the Jailer entering the house. He called to Abbie for his meal. I turned Monroe over to July and made my way up the backstairs.

I paced the floor anxiously, looked out the window, and then stopped at the dressing table. There were a bristle brush and comb set on a silver tray. I did not remember seeing it that morning. I dropped onto the stool and undid my hair. It soothed me to let my locks hang loose and brush my curls free.

Since Abbie had not sent for me, I assumed the Jailer did not need to be entertained, so I changed into my dressing gown. As I pulled back the covers resolved to sleep, I heard the Jailer fumbling on the other side of my door. My stomach burned bitterly at the sight of him. His cheeks were red, his shirt half untucked, and his belly protruded over his belt.

“I want to see you.”

He lifted me from the floor as if I weighed nothing, then placed me across the bed. He panted hard as he undressed me, and I shivered under his gaze. Whiskey-scented sweat oozed from his skin and permeated the air around us as he crawled over me.

“You are a sight to behold.”

I tried not to show displeasure as the bed made a thud under his hefty weight. He quickly began thrusting into me, pummeling so hard I choked and gasped, like he was forcing my head underwater for too long. When I maneuvered for air, I bit my lip so I would not cry out. Being underneath him was a duty, just like my job in the sewing shed preparing the girls. I closed my eyes and searched for a scenario into which I could escape.

He whispered in my ear, “Oh, Pheby. You are so special.…”

His moist hands seemed to be everywhere at once. His cracked lips ran over my neck, breasts, and face, then rested on my cheek. Finally, I heard a gurgle pass through his throat. He raised up on his forearms, stretched his neck back, and squeezed my wrists painfully as he released. When he let me go, I rolled away from him, begging God to make him leave. He snorted and then kissed me on the shoulder before gathering his things and leaving without another word.

I laid listening to the sounds of the house. When I felt sure that he had fallen asleep in his own room, I pulled the book off the nightstand. Under the candlelight, I flipped to the first page and slipped into the world of an orphan boy sold into an apprenticeship with an undertaker.

This became my nightly ritual. Once he entered my room, satisfied himself, and left, I would read, only allowing myself twenty pages so that I could make the book last. Oliver Twist, my friend deep into the night, helped me to cope.



* * *



“Mornin’ Miss Pheby,” the boy Tommy greeted me, carrying water to the kitchen for Elsie. It had been a full three weeks, and I still had not gotten used to being called Miss. All of the servants except for Elsie had been nice before, but now they were respectful. Since moving me to the upstairs bedroom, the Jailer had given me full autonomy over getting the things needed for the fancy girls he sold. I had shopped the market twice without Abbie, though Monroe always stayed behind. The dressing of fancy girls became my arm of the Jailer’s chattel business and was growing each day. To keep up with the number of girls being sold, I purchased ready-made dresses. Even though I did not sew them by hand, they always needed alterations, which slowed me down. How to sew faster was the thought I was chewing on when July walked in with another young girl, rail thin, with big, hollow eyes that said she had seen too much in a short amount of time.

“Marse said thirty minutes.”

I untied the girl’s hands. “What is your name?”

“Agnes.”

I gave her a pail of water to wash her face with, and then laced her into a corset.

“What you prittin’ me up for?” She turned those hollow eyes on me. I did not meet her scrutiny.

“It is my job.”

“Where they takin’ me?”

This was the worst part: when the girls asked questions. I knew they were frightened for their lives and I could do nothing but feed them, pray over them, and record their stories. I turned her around so that she could not see the worry on my face while I finished getting her ready.

“I am not sure. If there was something I could do for you I would. May God be with you.” I squeezed her hand as Basil, the Jailer’s manservant, appeared in the doorway of the shed.

“You come for her?”

“Yes, Miss Pheby.”

I handed the girl over to Basil. “I have told you that just Pheby is fine.”

He stammered, “M-m-miss Pheby, Marse likin’ to see you. He in the whippin’ room.”

I opened my mouth but then pressed it shut. Basil took hold of the girl and left. I had never been to the whipping room, only overheard tales of the horror that happened there. As I walked to the holding pen of the jail, the barks of the dogs grew louder, hungrier. The chains of the imprisoned clinked and clanged. I stepped down the five steps into the whipping room, a dark dungeon, cool and damp. A small sliver of light slipped through a miniature window. When my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I saw the Jailer standing tall, wielding a whip that made ole Snitch’s whip look like a toy. It stretched out long and hungry, with a split tip. On the floor, a chestnut-colored woman lay facedown in the muck of the ground, stark naked, with her arms fastened over her head in shackles. Her legs were also tied down behind her so that there was no room for her to move. She whimpered softly.