A Light to My Path (7 page)

“You know how to build a fire?”

Grady jumped at the sound of William’s voice. William gestured to the fireplace where the coals smoldered.

“Well? Do you?” he asked when Grady didn’t reply.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, his voice squeaky with fear. He used to keep the kitchen fire going while Esther cooked, and he’d tended the fire in the scrub house whenever Luella did the wash.

“Then do it,” William said.

Grady pulled two pieces of firewood from the box, then knelt by the hearth and carefully stoked the coals, blowing on them and rebuilding the fire the way Eli had taught him. By the time Massa Coop arrived, the flames blazed nicely, warming the room. William hurried to Massa’s side as soon as he walked through the door, helping him with his coat and hat. Grady watched, scarcely able to breathe as Coop sank down in the red plush armchair by the fire, his long legs outstretched.

Grady dropped his gaze as Coop stared at him with his cold, penetrating eyes. “Come over here, boy,” he finally said.

Grady edged closer on trembling legs. Coop pointed to his boots. “Pull them off for me.”

Grady bent and lifted his master’s foot. He tugged as hard as he dared, stumbling backward and nearly landing in the fire when the boot finally flew off.

“Anyone ever teach you how to polish boots?” Coop asked.

“Yes, sir,” he said, recovering his balance again. Every night before he went to bed it had been his job to clean the mud and manure off Massa Fletcher’s boots, then polish them until they shone.

“You a hard worker?” Coop asked as Grady pulled off the second boot. “Know how to do what you’re told?”

“Yes, sir.”

Coop snapped his fingers and William rushed over, holding open a cigar box. Coop fished out a cigar and waited for William to light it, his hard gaze never wavering from Grady’s face. “I have it in mind to train you to help William in the slave pens,” he finally said, blowing out smoke. “You can clean out the straw, empty the slops … help keep an eye on my property for me. If you prove to be trustworthy, things will go well for you. If not … don’t expect me to give you a second chance.”

It took Grady a moment to realize what Massa was saying. He wasn’t going to be sold into a hard life on a cotton or rice plantation as he’d feared—at least for now. Instead, he would labor alongside William in slave pens and cargo holds like the ones he’d already experienced, coping as best he could with the stench and the seasickness and the despair. Grady wasn’t sure which fate would be worse.

“Y-yes, sir,” he remembered to say. “I mean, no, sir. I-I won’t.”

Coop took another pull on the cigar, then exhaled. “Good. Now get started on my boots.”

William took Grady into the tiny servants’ room and gave him boot blacking and a scrap of pigskin from Coop’s trunk. “When you’re done,” William said, “take Massa’s boots and set them alongside his bed.” He leaned close to Grady and spoke so only he could hear. “And you better shine them boots like your life depends on it, boy—’cause it does.”

William returned to their master. Grady could hear them talking softly in the next room while he polished. “Pour me a drink of whiskey, William.”

“Yes, Massa.”

Grady heard the clink of glass, the glugging sound of liquid being poured.

“Any more buyers coming tonight, Massa Coop?”

“No, we’re all through for today. Two more are coming tomorrow, though. We’ll leave for Jacksonville on Friday.” The two men talked for a while longer while Grady worked. He had just finished the second boot, buffing it until his arm ached, when he heard William say, “I’ll take your shirts and things down to the laundry now, Massa. That way they be nice and clean when you’re ready to leave on Friday.”

“You do that.”

The door to the hallway opened, then closed behind William. Grady was alone with Coop. His heart pounded as he tiptoed into the room to put the boots beside the bed. He shot a quick, sideways glance at Massa Coop and saw him slumped in the armchair, whiskey glass in hand. His face was pink from the warmth of the fire, but his stern features were cold and unsmiling.

“Joe!” he called out suddenly. “Get over here and pour me another drink.” His words sounded slurred.

Grady hesitated, looking around to see who else Coop could be talking to. They were alone in the room.

“Joe!” he shouted again. “What the devil’s the matter with you? Why don’t you come when I call you?”

Grady inched closer to the fire. “Y-you mean me, sir? My name is Grady.”

Massa Coop rose up out of his chair and smacked Grady across the face. The blow was so sudden, so forceful it sent him stumbling backward.

“Don’t you tell me what your name is!” Coop bellowed. “I’ll call you anything I want to, you hear?”

White-hot anger blazed through Grady, not only because he’d been struck but because Coop was going to take away the only thing Grady had left—the name his mama had given him. “Yes, sir. I hear,” he mumbled as he slowly backed away. “But my name is Grady.”

He thought he had spoken too softly to be heard, but Coop shot out of his chair again and knocked him to the floor. Then Coop bent over him with the fireplace poker, beating him mercilessly with it. His wasn’t a blind fury but a skillfully executed flogging, each blow planned so it wouldn’t cause permanent injury, only agonizing pain and bruising. Whenever Grady raised his arms to shield his head, Coop would hit him in the gut. When he tried to shield his body, Coop struck his head. When he rolled over onto his stomach, Coop beat him across the back. All the while, Coop wore a twisted smile on his face, the first Grady had ever seen on him.

“What did you say your name was?” Coop asked as he hit him again.

“Joe …” he moaned. He wanted the beating to stop.

Coop grinned in triumph. “What did you say?”

“My name … is … Joe.”

“That’s right. And don’t you forget it.” Coop dealt a final blow to Grady’s ribs and returned to his chair.

Grady didn’t want to weep but the pain and humiliation were more than he could bear. He didn’t know which was greater: his fear of this man or his hatred. He lay in a heap on the floor, too badly injured to move. Blood poured from his nose and from a split on his forehead. His left eye was rapidly swelling shut. Grady imagined plunging a knife into Coop’s chest while he slept. He would do it someday. He would kill Coop and as many other white men as he could, just like Amos planned to do.

He was still curled on the floor, moaning, when William returned. “What happened, Massa?” he asked.

“The boy made a mistake,” Coop said. “He misspoke. But he’s never going to do it again, are you, Joe?”

Grady could barely speak. “No, sir.”

“Want me to doctor him, Massa?” William asked. “Clean him up for you?”

“No. Pour me another drink, then take him back down to the pen. Let him lie in his own blood for a night.”

Chapter Five

Great Oak Plantation
South Carolina 1854

Kitty knelt on the floor of Missy Claire’s room, gripping a pencil. She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the outline and length of a horse’s muzzle, the size and shape of its ears, then sketched what she remembered onto the paper spread out in front of her. Little Kate sat watching from her sister Claire’s bed, her fat white legs dangling over the edge, kicking the feather mattress. “I know! It’s a pony!” Kate said.

“Yep, that’s right.”

“Now draw a cat.”

“But I ain’t finished with the horse yet,” Kitty said. “Don’t you want me to give him a body and legs and a tail?”

“No, draw a cat,” Kate insisted.

Kitty obeyed, even though she longed to finish the horse and then fill the page with flowers and trees and everything else she wanted to make. She loved to draw. Missy Claire had seen her sketching a picture in the dirt with a stick and had let her try using a real pencil and paper. Kitty had been entertaining Claire and her sister with drawings ever since.

Instead of finishing the horse, Kitty reluctantly chose a clean corner of the page to sketch the round head and pointed ears of a cat. She gave it eyes and a nose and whiskers, and was about to start drawing its body when Kate said, “Draw a bird.”

“What kind of bird, Missy Kate?” While she waited for the answer, Kitty quickly gave the cat four legs and a skinny, pointed tail.

“Um … those skinny white birds with long legs that live down by the river.”

Kitty smiled. She loved to draw herons with their slender bodies and graceful necks. But before she had a chance to begin, Missy Claire interrupted.

“No more pictures. Kitty is
my
slave and she’s going to play dolls with
me
now.” She snatched up the paper and shoved it into her sister’s hands. Like all of Kitty’s other drawings, this one wouldn’t be hers to keep, either. Missy Claire needed to be entertained every minute, it seemed, and would quickly become bored with whatever game they were playing long before Kitty did. She had been living in the Big House with Missy for four seasons now, but trying to keep up with her made Kitty all tuckered out sometimes.

“Here’s your picture, Katie,” Claire said. “Now go away and play in your own room.” She pointed to the door.

Missy Kate let out a loud wail. Kitty imagined an entire flock of white herons taking flight at the sound. Mammy Bertha scooped Kate off the bed and hustled her out of the room.

“We’re going to play house,” Missy Claire decided. “My dolls are coming for tea. You’ll serve us, Kitty.” Claire had two beautiful dolls with delicate porcelain faces and real hair. Kitty would watch her dress them in their lacy nightgowns or ruffled dresses, fastening rows of tiny buttons, and she longed to hold them and dress them—just once.

“Don’t touch my doll!” Claire had shrieked the first—and only—time Kitty had ever dared to reach for one. “You’ll break it!”

“Oh, please, Missy Claire,” she’d begged. “I promise I’ll be real careful. I ain’t never gonna break your things.”

“No. I don’t want your filthy hands touching her.”

Kitty had looked down at her hands. Her skin was dark, but it wasn’t from dirt. Her hands were just as clean as Missy’s were. But Kitty had learned that day that she would have to be content with keeping Missy company while she played with her dolls. Kitty could watch Missy move the tiny furniture in her beautiful dollhouse, but she could never touch it. She could laugh with Claire as she rode on her rocking horse, but she could never ride on it herself. Kitty had learned to accept the fact that Claire’s white skin gave her these privileges; her own black skin denied them.

“Set the table for tea,” Claire now commanded as her sister’s cries faded in the distance. Kitty hurried to obey. The porcelain tea set was the only toy she was allowed to touch, and she loved the way the smooth, cool glass felt beneath her fingers. It was her job to set the table and serve tea to Claire and her two dolls; Kitty would never dare take a pretend sip from the little cups herself.

“Go tell Cook I want some cookies,” Claire said. “I’ll get my dollies dressed for the party.”

“Yes, Missy Claire.” Kitty had learned to always answer that way—and to hurry as quickly as she could whenever she went on an errand. Missy hated it when she dawdled. Kitty ran down the stairs, through the servants’ door to the warming kitchen, then outside to the big kitchen to tell Cook what Missy wanted. The kitchen smelled like smoked pork roasting with onions, and like apples and cinnamon. Kitty drew a deep breath, inhaling the fragrant air. Her stomach rumbled with hunger.

“That Missy sure is a spoilt one,” Cook said, shaking her head at Kitty’s request. “She’s thinking I ain’t got nothing better to do than wait on her all day? Don’t she know Massa’s got company coming and I need to be fixing dinner?” But Cook wiped the sweat off her brow with a bandana and waddled over to retrieve the cookie tin. “Missy ever sharing any of these cookies with you?” she asked.

Kitty shrugged. “Sometimes … when she ain’t wanting no more.”

Cook placed three fat sugar cookies on a plate, then handed a fourth one to Kitty. “Eat it quick, and don’t tell her I give it to you,” she whispered.

Kitty grinned. “Yes, ma’am! Thank you, ma’am!” She skipped out of the kitchen, balancing the plate. As she followed the walkway to the house again, she was torn between eating her treasure slowly, savoring every bite, or gulping it down in one or two bites in order to hurry back, as she’d been told to do. She decided to eat one bite slowly, making it last all the way to the house and up the stairs, then hide the rest of the cookie in her pocket for later.

When Kitty returned to the bedroom, swallowing her allotted bite, Claire was nowhere to be seen. It took Kitty a moment to realize that she had ducked behind the folding screen to use the “necessary.” Claire would make her run back downstairs to empty it, next thing. White ladies were very lucky, Kitty thought. They never had to go all the way outside to use the privy the way menfolk and slaves did.

Kitty carried the plate over to the tea table while she waited. Missy had finished dressing her dolls and had seated them on two little chairs. But one of the dolls had slumped sideways and looked as though it was about to fall. Kitty reached to straighten it. The doll felt much lighter than Kitty had expected—and her hair looked so soft that she couldn’t resist stroking it, just once.

“What are you doing!” Claire shrieked. “Don’t touch her!”

Kitty whirled around in surprise. “But she was falling over, Missy Claire. I just sat her up again, and—” Missy raced across the room and slapped Kitty’s hand for daring to touch her doll, then she slapped Kitty’s face—hard. Tears sprang to her eyes. Kitty had often seen Missy’s mother strike the chambermaids that way, but Kitty had never been slapped herself.

“Get out! Get out! Get out!” Claire yelled, pointing to the door.

“I’m sorry, Missy Claire, but I thought—”

“You’re very bad, and you can’t play with me anymore!”

Tears rolled down Kitty’s face as she hurried from the room, her cheek stinging. She didn’t dare cry out loud, nor did she dare go off by herself to lick her wounds. Whenever Missy sent her away she was supposed to go find Mammy Bertha and help her tend Missy Kate or Missus Goodman’s new girl-baby, Mary.