Yellow Wife(55)

“I will finish up here, Sissy.” I dismissed her, then turned my attention to the girl to be sold, asking my usual string of questions to distract myself from the emotions that overcame me. I did not love him but we had a family. Sissy’s child would, I assumed, work his property, while mine were educated and presented to society as his daughters, but even that reasoning did not diminish my bitter feelings.

I learned from July that Monroe had been spending more and more time in the stables, working with Tommy to help with the horses of the men who traveled to the tavern. When I visited him, he showed me a few coins that had been given to him. Fitting he would be a stable hand just like his father.

Once I returned to work full-time, Sissy went back to her other jobs, leaving me alone in the shed. The Jailer took me moving about as a sign that I was well enough to visit at night. He returned with his usual lust for me, and it did not take long before that familiar fatigue hit. I knew soon enough that Sissy was not the only one with his child. Never had the chance to fix myself after my son’s death, so here I carried again.



* * *



Two weeks later, Sissy gave birth to a boy. Walnut-colored skin with her gray eyes. Abbie reported that the birth proved difficult but that Sissy was recovering fine. Although the Jailer had never asked me for a son, it was hard knowing that the one I had borne had died and hers thrived.

“Mama?” Monroe called to me from the door of the stables. Hearing his voice snapped me out of my head. My boy stared up at me with a piece of straw hanging from his mouth. Essex used to chew on straw. I made sure the Jailer was not around, then followed him inside to our secret hiding place behind the haystack.

“Hey, baby.” We embraced. The baby fat had gone from his face. I leaned down and whispered into his ear. “When is your birthday?”

“February 6, 1851.”

“Count to twenty.”

He cupped his hands around my ear and counted. I wished I had a treat for him.

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“Tommy said he gon’ teach me how to ride a horse.”

“That will be nice.”

“You know how to ride a horse, Mama?”

“A little, but I know you will be better at it than me.”

“How you know that?”

“?’Cause it is in your blood.” I nipped his nose with my finger and kissed his cheek.





CHAPTER 26




Fly Birdie

Basil was gone.

No one knew what had happened to him. The Jailer had sent him to Rockett’s Landing to pick up a coffle, something that he has done twice weekly since I had lived at the jail. This time he did not return. The Jailer had his britches in a bunch over his escape. Had every patroller in the state looking for Basil. I was surprised by the whole thing because Basil appeared so loyal. Never hesitated when the Jailer asked him to do anything. He had us all fooled, and I secretly prayed for his safe passage.

As I moved through my tasks, I could not help wondering how Basil must have planned and plotted his escape for months, years even. I pictured him making friends at the dock and consulting with the free blacks on the best way to travel north. If I had known his plan, I might have begged him to take Monroe to freedom. This jail was no place for a Negro boy, and Basil’s running reenergized the notion that I needed to get my boy free. In some ways, I had been lulled into passivity, but now I felt awake.

Every evening over dinner, I had to endure the Jailer’s bouts of anger over losing what he called his best nigger. Three weeks passed with no leads. Basil had vanished without a trace. After getting the report from the patroller, the Jailer decided to take matters into his own hands. He stormed down to the docks and picked up three men. I could hear them from the shed pleading their innocence, but the Jailer had them strapped down. The whip seemed to whistle through the air for hours. When he finished, none of the men could stand. But that did not stop him from having them thrown into the jail. His message rang clear: if anyone hid Basil they would pay with their lives. By the end of the month, the Jailer was at his wits’ end. He drank more and slept less. I coaxed him to take it easy but he disregarded me.

The thing that pushed me over the edge was his determination to show no mercy. I had not known how truly brutal he could be until the morning he sent for Abbie. This time he did not force me to watch, but I could nonetheless hear her call out in pain. The cries had an almost feral quality to them. When she was carried back to the house by Tommy, the metallic smell of blood clung to her skin long after he’d beaten her. Since she and Basil had been lovers, the Jailer now blamed her for his escape. I nursed her back to health best I could, but being under the whip had struck Abbie dumb. She became clumsy and her memory grew short once she returned to work. On top of everything that July already did for the children, she now had to pick up Abbie’s slack.



* * *



On May 30, 1857, Katherine, our fourth daughter, was born. Elsie had been ill with fever, Abbie still a useless wreck, and July busy keeping the children entertained. When the birth pains came, I pulled her from my womb myself. As soon as I saw her tiny face, I pet-named her Birdie. She would be my last little bird. There would be no more. When my blood stopped, I fixed myself to make the children stop. I had given him enough.

Sissy worked in the kitchen cooking until Elsie could get back on her feet. Her bigheaded son sure loved Monroe. He cooed and giggled whenever Monroe stopped to play peek-a-boo with him. I was standing in the garden watching Monroe carry slop buckets, amazed at how strong his little arms were, when the Jailer startled me with his presence.