Yellow Wife(58)

“Abbie, did you need me for something?”

Abbie looked up at the ceiling and scratched her dry right foot with her left toe. Her apron was filthy around her waist.

“Forgot what I wanted again.”

“Did he send for me?”

“Yes. Marse said join him for dinner.”

I moved her short hair back from her forehead. “You feeling all right?”

“Yes, Miss Pheby. Just fine.” She smiled.

But Abbie was not fine. She had slipped away little by little since Basil ran off and the Jailer’s whipping. With Monroe gone and Essex’s impending arrival, I had little time to help her through her pain. I tipped a bit of perfume to my wrists while July fastened me into a plum-colored dress. When I walked into the dining room, he stood while I took a seat at his arm.

“How was your day?” And where is my son? I forced a sweet smile.

“If I say they are furniture, you say okay.”

“Okay.”

“You do not go behind my back embarrassing me with your mercy.”

How did he know that I’d administered medicine and water to the ones left outside?

“I do not like it when you disobey me.” He wiped his mouth.

My head tilted toward my lap in a way that I hoped looked submissive.

“There is no room for pity in this business. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I understand. It will not happen again.”

“I have been too lenient with you. That is my greatest mistake. You forgot I am your master.”

“I did not.”

“Say it.” He slammed his fist on the table. “Say it, goddamn it!”

“You are my master.”

“I have spoiled you.” He threw back his drink, and I sat stiff as a board.

“Upstairs,” he growled.

I stammered, “W-w-would you care for dessert? I could play you a song.”

“Now!”

I pushed back my chair, dropped my napkin on the table, and moved toward the stairs. His heavy footsteps echoed behind me but could not compete with the pace of my racing heart. In his bedroom, he slammed the door behind him. Then forced me onto my knees and pushed up my dress. I could barely breathe as he wrapped his meaty hand around my throat and entered me.

“You are mine, Pheby Delores Brown. I am your master. Say it.”

I choked for air and forced the words out.

He loosened his grasp but continued to drive into me. He had been crude before but never like this. I tried to disappear in my mind, but the searing pain of him ripping apart my insides kept me present. It did not matter that I lived in the big house, had his children, helped run his business: I was the same as those chained up in the courtyard awaiting sale. My status did not protect me from the grip he had on my hair, the bites he put on my neck, and the beating and hemorrhaging of my female parts. I bit my bottom lip and endured it all. When he finally passed out across his bed, I crawled to my room, closed the door behind me, and refused to cry.



* * *



I had just finished soaking in the tub and massaging ointment into my bruises when I spotted Monroe walking through the courtyard from my bedroom window. His back was bent and his head hung low. It took everything in me not to shout out my window for him to come to me. My son, a pawn in a game he had no business playing. If only I could bury him in my floorboard along with the money I pinched off from my trips to the market, the diary, Mama’s red dress, and Essex’s necklace—all the things dear to my heart. But I could not. I needed a plan.





CHAPTER 28




The Boston Lion

Most everything to do with the transportation of slaves happened in the dead of the night, while the more fortunate were tucked away in their beds. Essex was due to arrive on July 16, and the Jailer had spent every waking moment in preparation. Though I had seen horrors, I had not seen his desire for punishment reach such a fever pitch as it did now, and his heightened attention kept me in a constant frenzy. I could only imagine how much worse it would be if he were to discover that Essex was Monroe’s father. Only now was I grateful that the Jailer disregarded Monroe, because if he really looked him dead in the eyes he would see the resemblance to Essex. If that were to happen, I was certain my beloved would not make it out of here alive.

On the eve of Essex’s entrance into Richmond, the Jailer refused to retire even though it had grown late. Instead, he waited in the parlor, drinking whiskey and eating peanuts. I hoped his heavy consumption would not cause him to behave foolishly. To ease his tension, I offered to play for him, but he was not in the mood for music and sent me up to bed. It was just as well; I had a better view of the courtyard from my bedroom window anyway. There I perched on my chair and waited. I tried to read by candlelight, but my mind was so distracted with thoughts of Essex that the words blurred together. I wondered what he would be like. Would he remember me? Had he searched for me? Had he taken up with another?

Even though I had anticipated his arrival, I was ill prepared when the gates were thrown open and Essex shuffled in with his head down. My arms broke out in goose pimples. Flanking him on either side were four white men. Straightaway, I could see that the journey had taken a toll on him. His white shirt had been completely soiled, the hair on his head wildly overgrown, and his beard matted with dirt.