Yellow Wife(57)

“Pheby.” The Jailer stood in the door of the tavern, dressed for a day of business.

“Good morning.”

“What do you think?” He gestured to all the work going on, seemingly unaware of the dangerous odors.

“I am concerned about their health. The stench is no good for them to breathe. Especially the children.” I pointed to the crying babies. “We must find temporary housing until the cleanup is finished.”

“They are nothing more than something to sell. Like furniture.” He reached for his pocket watch, opened it, and then returned it. “An advertisement ran today in the classified section, inviting nearby men to come with their family members and property to watch the flogging.”

“Has anyone passed around water?”

“Enough with that.” His eyes held mine, then he patted my bottom and steered me toward the shed.



* * *



The baby’s cries carried on persistently through the night. I could not lie in bed while the infant suffered, so I slipped out of the house and went to the shed for my medicine bag. When I rounded the courtyard, the people were still bonded, woven in packs along the ground. Some slept, but most were wide-awake. I walked through the rows following the sound of the child. When I located the mother, I reached for her baby. She turned her back and shook her head no, frightened that I meant them harm.

My eyes were soft. “Let me help.”

She looked me over and then held up the baby.

The little girl’s skin flamed with fever. I rubbed a lemon balm on her palms and chest, behind her ears, and on the soles of her feet. To her mother, I extended my canteen of water. She drank deeply. Once I finished with them, I moved through the row, feeling foreheads and doling out medicine. Then I closed my eyes and prayed.

The next morning, I was exiting the tavern with a package of books that had been delivered for the girls, when the Jailer and Monroe strolled past me. Since he had never taken an interest in my child, the alarm of them together rang in both of my ears.

“Can Monroe carry these books for me up to the house?” I called out.

But he ignored me and shuffled on with Monroe at his heel. I could feel my son’s trepidation but he did not chance a glance at me for reassurance. What could he have done to be beaten at six? But then they walked past the whipping room, away from the jail, and out the front gates. I sighed a small relief, but then realized that I did not know which fate would prove worse—Monroe being stretched out, or Monroe leaving the property with the Jailer alone.

As many times as I had pictured Monroe’s first time off the grounds, he was always with me. I would show him the shops, point out the carriages, walk with him along the river, show him the city lights, buy him a pastry, and let him sit in the café to enjoy the smell of butter, vanilla, and sugar.

I wanted to chase after them but knew that doing so would make matters worse. Seeing my daughters would ease me some, so I went over to the house to get my thoughts together. July greeted me at the back door with Birdie on her hip. The baby cooed when she saw me and reached for my chin. I crossed into the drawing room, where the other three girls were playing on the floor.

“Mama.” Joan rushed into my arms, her fingers around my neck.

“Can you play with us?” Hester begged with two hands in front of her.

“What are you playing?”

“Auction,” chimed Isabel.

I looked at them, confused.

“Let us show you how it is done.” Hester led me to the chair. “Joan, you be the buyer. Isabel, get on the block.”

Hester held up her hand to Joan. “This here is a fine girl. Who has one hundred dollars for her? Do I hear one hundred dollars?”

“One hundred,” cheered Joan.

“Two hundred, anyone two hundred?”

“Two hundred.”

“Three hundred. Three hundred. Someone three hundred.”

“Three hundred. That is it,” Joan called out.

“Sold for three hundred.”

Isabel started fake crying. “But I do not want to leave. Mama.” She held her arms out to me. “Mama, help me.”

Joan started dragging Isabel away.

I sat stunned. “Stop it! Where did you learn this game?” My nostrils flared from one child to the other.

“We saw the niggers playing it in the courtyard while they were waiting to be sold,” Hester offered. “Now it is my turn to be sold.”

“You were sold last time! It is my turn.” Joan pushed past Hester and stood on the footstool. “Mama, do you want to get sold?”

I bared my teeth. “That is enough. No more of this. I never want to see this game again! And we do not call them niggers, they are people. Am I clear?”

The girls looked confused at my outrage, and I pushed up to my feet. “When folks are sold, they never see their families again. What if it were Monroe?” I let slip.

“Something happen to Monty?” Hester’s eyes widened.

“Nothing is promised. You hear me? This is people’s lives you are playing. Now go wash up for lunch,” I raised my voice.

July entered the room and ushered the girls off. I returned to my post.



* * *



The Jailer had rented a woman named Janice to help me with the sewing for the fancy girls. When we had finished up for the day, I returned to the house to help July settle the children for the night. I had just rocked Birdie to sleep when Abbie called to me. When I found her, she was staring out the back door at the garden.