Yellow Wife(43)

I put her out of my head as Monroe and I played awhile. Then I sat him on the floor next to the piano so that I could practice. I made it through my favorite three songs before Monroe demanded to be on my lap. I pulled him up and let him bang on the piano until he giggled and his saliva dripped all over the keys.



* * *



That evening, I blended a new rouge, but it did not come out as well as the batch that Brenda had made me waste. I used some anyway to hide the breakout on my cheeks and stain my lips. My hair was styled in a low chignon. When I stepped into the tavern, the Jailer and I locked eyes and he gave his nod of approval. I crossed the room and sat at the piano. The men were already in conversation, and a girl stood serving drinks. Wanting the music to creep up on them, I played softly, almost as if there was no sound at all. Slow and steady, then hitting them with a rhythm that they could rock to. Platters of crab, oysters, and shrimp flowed across the table as I moved from one song to the next. The men grew louder and I played the melody to match their mood. I was having more fun than I had anticipated. Their voices carried over to me and with them brought snatches of conversation like news clippings.

“Abolitionists up north need bullets in their heads. They do not understand our way.”

“No room for a Nat Turner repeat.”

“Would not be a movement if they did not have help.”

“Messing up the biggest business in the state.”

“Yankees are damn fools.”

“They need to honor the Fugitive Slave Act. It says they must return our property. Against the law.”

I played up and down the scales, adjusting the tempo to hear more clearly. When they were all drunk, full, and happy, the Jailer paraded in three girls. They were dressed in low-cut tops, with their bosoms spilling forward. I tried not to consider their faces. A stocky man wasted no time. He took the hands of one girl and headed to his room. Another man pulled a girl onto his lap. I played high up the scale as a girl sat down on the Jailer’s thighs. She had almond-colored skin with dark gray eyes. Her hair was smoothed back from her face and her cheeks sat up high, as if they were perched on pillows. Her breasts were large and her waist slender. She draped her arm around his shoulders.

An unexpected discomfort crept into my gut. It was the first time I’d wondered if I were his only lover. I lived up at the house with him and carried his child, but that did not mean there was no one else. But when did he have the strength? Every night he came to me with fury, and he was not a young man. I played and played and the girl stayed by his side. When I glanced up to steal another peek, he mouthed, “Dismissed.”

I got to my feet and exited quietly through the side door.

Clearly, I had no cause to be jealous. I did not love him.

I hurried past the jail, ignoring the bark of the dogs and sounds of the defeated. When I entered the downstairs bedroom, Monroe and July slept side by side. I longed to take him up to my room, but I would not chance it. Did not want to cause problems. I slipped into my dressing gown and wished I had a book to read. Since discovering me with Oliver Twist, he’d taken the copy. I laid awake until I heard the steps groan under his weight. I listened as he paused at his door and then continued down the hall. My door opened and then closed. The sound of his pants hit the hardwood floor with a thud. Dread passed through me as he lifted my cover, then fumbled for my flesh. Once he was inside of me, we both exhaled.





CHAPTER 20




Second Coming

When the sun came up on the first Friday of April, I knew that his child would be born before nightfall. The sky had been crying over Richmond for what felt like all of March, and the damp air kept my body aching. For a week now, it had hurt to move, to lie down, to relax, to sew, to even hold Monroe. My manner had been so irritable that the Jailer had taken a respite from coming to me at night. With my protruding belly, there was no room for him anyway.

Abbie came to check on me before she served him breakfast, bringing me a snack while I readied myself for the day.

“Feeling okay, Miss Pheby?” She poured me a glass of water.

I was on my right side, rubbing my belly.

“Time is here.”

She gazed at me. “Wantin’ me to get Elsie?”

I nodded.

“I’s alert Marse too.”

The birth pains escalated quickly. Felt like climbing through the woods and up a mountain, then having to slide all the way down on my hands and knees. I rolled into a ball and bit down on my pillow so that I would not cry out every time my stomach cramped. Elsie arrived with a wad of towels. Her hair stood up wildly, like she had been in the middle of fixing it when sent for. She lowered herself down and felt between my legs.

“Head right there. Won’t be long.”

I grunted.

“Give me a push.”

I bore down.

“Breathe now. Push again.”

We went back and forth like that, with me breathing and pushing until I felt the baby slip out.

“A girl,” Elsie called out.

“I’s fetch Marse.” Abbie hobbled away.

Tears welled in my eyes as I brought my daughter to my face. “Hello, sugar.”

She was white as a sheet. Not a drop of Mama’s skin tone in her. She had his emerald-colored eyes and slender nose. Her cry roared from her lungs and her face turned pink. Already angry with me. I squeezed my breast into her tiny mouth. She gummed hungrily until she got the milk to flow.