Yellow Wife(51)

“Monty, I want the puppet.”

“You got to find it,” he teased.

“Mama, make him give it to me.”

“Find it. You are getting warmer.”

Hester stomped her foot and started wailing. Usually when she acted like that Monroe would stop the game and give her what she wanted. Today, he did not give in. It had reached the point where the noise rattled my nerves, her crying and him teasing. I had just resolved to put an end to the game when the Jailer walked through the door. His boots clunked heavily against the hardwood floor as he grabbed Monroe by the arm and dragged him across the room to the nearest chair.

“Dear,” I tried coaxing, “the children were just playing.”

He ignored me, flopped down in the wing chair, threw Monroe over his lap, and started pounding him on the backside with his large palm. Woop. Woop. Woop.

“Papa, stop!” Hester cried out.

But he kept hammering. Woop. Woop. Woop. Woop. As Monroe’s face turned from scared to horrified, I silently thanked God that I had not allowed the Jailer to keep whipping tools in the house. His hand came down on my son like a clap of thunder. Woop. Woop. Woop.

“Enough!” I called out, pushing myself from my seat.

Hester ran over to her father and forced her body under his arm. “Papa, stop hurting Monty. Stop it, please.” Tears spilled down her rosy cheeks, and her hair came undone. When he saw her distress he stopped, discarded Monroe to the floor, and swept her up in his arms.

Monroe crawled across the hardwood and found a hiding space on the other side of the table. He did not utter a sound of pain. I had taught him to be quiet when the Jailer came around. Mama always said, Less trouble finds a quiet soul, and I had instilled that in my boy.

The Jailer stood and headed for the door. As soon as it closed behind him, I reached for Monroe. Only then did he start crying.

“Told you he hated me.”

I held him tighter. “He does not hate you.”

“He does,” Monroe hiccupped.

Hester came and put her arms around him and we stayed like that until Monroe calmed down. When Hester asked him to play the game again, he declined.



* * *



The Jailer returned to the house for his supper, calling for Abbie.

“Yes, Marse.” She limped into the dining room. “Needin’ more bread?”

“Have the boy’s things moved over to the kitchen house.”

“Why?” My voice cracked.

“I will not have a nigger tormenting my child.”

“He is my son.”

“He will still be yours living in the cook’s house. ’Sides, it’s time for him to start working.”

“He is five years old.”

“If he were on a plantation he would be in the fields by now.”

“He is not on a plantation. I want him here.”

“It is final.” He slammed his fist on the table.

Abbie scooted from the room. I pushed my plate away, refusing to eat. July passed through the hall with Joan on her hip and clutching Isabel’s hand.

She paused at the door. “Afternoon, Marse. ’Scuse me, Miss Pheby, should I put the girls down for a nap?”

I nodded, then noticed his eyes take in her slim waist and rounded hips. July’s hair was so thick and long that I implored her to keep it wrapped, but she was young and busy, and often forgot. I feared for her, and tucked her away with the children as much as possible. Beauty was a curse for a slave girl.

“Go on,” I said, waving them away, “Mama will be there shortly to give you a kiss.”

He put down his fork. “I need you at the tavern. Important guests will be here within the hour. Go get ready to play.”



* * *



The Jailer was sitting at a round table with five men when I entered. The lights were low, so I concentrated on every step to the piano, careful not to misjudge my feet and fall. My mind was not on the chords or the melody that I played, but on my son. How could he move him out of the house like that? Monroe would never hurt his precious Hester. They had played that game countless times. What was Hester going to do without Monroe? What was I going to do without him?

The Jailer drank until inebriated. The entertainment girls pranced around the room in low-cut dresses and too-potent perfume. Sissy stood next to the Jailer, and though I had grown accustomed to seeing her at the tavern, my discomfort at the thought of them together had not lessened any. She had gained a little weight in the face, probably from spending her extra time around Elsie, eating the leftovers in the kitchen and sampling Elsie’s pies. Sissy did not come near the piano, and instead worked the opposite side of the room, as if there was an invisible line between us. Once I saw the men choose their girls, I slipped out.

I suspected he would not be home soon, so I walked over to the kitchen house to peep at Monroe. Elsie was bent slicing beets on the long table, and Monroe was mopping up the debris. The one thing I could rest on was that even though Elsie did not like me, she adored Monroe and acted something like a grandmother to him.

“Mama!” he called and rushed into me.

“Hey, baby.” I kissed his forehead as he tried to wrap his arms clear around my belly. I could sense Elsie watching me. Judging me.

“Get you anything, Missus?” She spit between her teeth.