Good Fortune (9781416998631) (16 page)

Whispering in her ear, I said, “Neither of us s'pose to know that. I don't think they wanted us to know. I'm sorry for sayin' somethin' 'bout it, Aunt Mary, I shouldn't've done that.” Mary shook her head as if to say, “Don't be sorry, chile.”

Seeing her gaze return to me, I said, “But, Mary, cain't nothin' beat freedom. Even death is betta than this hell.” She nodded quickly, wiping away a single tear, but she couldn't hold back all the tears that had begun to drip down her face. I sat near her and placed her hand in mine. She grasped it as if holding on could save her life and keep her son close to her.

When the tears slowed and finally stopped, she sat staring at the candle that was still burning.

“Mary, can I empty that basin?” I asked softly. I didn't know what else to say. Without waiting for an answer, I got up and emptied it outside. As I did, I heard her whisper softly, “That's my son for ya, always seekin' out freedom, jus' like his … jus' like …”

Just like his daddy.

I came back and we remained silent, the thought of Daniel's father running and getting killed sitting heavily between us. Mary picked my hand up again. Fresh tears were running down her face, but she wouldn't acknowledge them. She took a long, deep breath, then another and another. Finally, she looked over at me. Her eyes were red and puffy.

“We ain't gonna talk 'bout y'all runnin' no more,” she said, softly. She continued, “I know Daniel had his reasons fo' not tellin' me, an' I sho' nuff respect that. An', baby, don't you get to thinkin' I'm gonna stop y'all. I … I …” She paused for a moment, then said, “Be safe, you hear? Y'all be safe.” Her words resonated throughout the slave cabin. She stood, moving as if she had aged ten years, and blew the candle out.

She was ready to sleep, it seemed, or to try to at least. I settled across my pallet as I heard her do the same. But as soon as I had enough space for my own thoughts and fears to rummage through my mind, they did just that. I shivered. Mary must have sensed it, for I heard her softly call out my name.

“Yes, Aunt Mary?” I asked.

“Come here, chile. Lay ova here wit me.” I hopped up
quickly and buried myself against Mary's warm body, like I used to when I was much smaller.

“Know you cain't sleep, so I got somethin' to ask you,” she said quietly. “You got otha secrets jus' a hidin', don't you?”

“Other secrets?” I asked.

“I knows you can read and write, my chile,” she said calmly.

“Mary, I ain' obvious, am I?” I said, afraid.

“Naw, don't worry yourself, chile. I'm the only one who know. I saw a piece of them newspapers stickin' out from under your pallet a while ago. I took an' saw some markin's on the pages. Figured right away it was yours. I was mighty stunned, but not fo' long.” She sniffled. “You an amazin' gal, smart young woman, guess I should say, so different from the little gal I remember came here some years back. I shouldn't be the least bit s'prised 'bout Masta Jeffrey's business. Should've known, should've tole you, but at least …” She broke down crying again on my shoulder. Mary's heart had always been large, and tonight it felt as if it were crumbling in my hands.

“It's all right, Aunt Mary.” She was sniffling again.

“I'ma miss you and Daniel plenty.”

Aunt Mary's words echoed in my ear and took a seat in my heart as I listened to her sobs.

CHAPTER
 
16 

C
HRISTMAS ARRIVED QUICKER THAN MY SOUL WAS READY FOR.
The fear that bit at every inch of my body when I awoke that morning was indescribable. Sweat dripped from my forehead to my eyelids and down to my chin. It was my dreams that had woken me, dreams of loud barks and blood smeared across severed limbs. Those dreams of death had stolen most of my sleep that night. Surely I was out of my mind.

Daniel's unusual behavior worried me. His attempts at kindness came out awkwardly, and he couldn't hold a complete conversation or keep his eyes focused on anything. I knew exactly why. Tonight was the night of their escape, and he was sharply aware that this day might be the last time he would ever see his mother or me. Along with that, he'd have to share the news with Mary, and then to me. What he and John didn't know was that I would be going too. I just had to be sure to keep my eye out for them all night long so I wouldn't miss my chance.

I had sewn a pillow each for John, Daniel, and Mary, during the little ones' school time. I used scraps of material I had been collecting from the Big House to add their
names onto each one. I found myself running back to the pillows—the only proof that I had made my decision to escape. I wouldn't change my mind, I kept telling myself. I had decided.

During church, my spirit settled a bit when I saw John speaking to the mass of slaves. At first, my anger with John for keeping silent about running surpassed my fear. I stared solemnly and blankly and blocked out his words. But gradually, I began to notice something in his voice; a fervor rose from his words, and even though he spoke the same message he spoke most Sundays, I could feel the certainty behind it, and the weight of it all suddenly hit me. His words spun around and around in my head as my attention was swiftly drawn to him and my mind clung hungrily to his words.

Freedom, freedom, freedom, freedom . . .

The word pounded in his chest like fierce drumbeats, and I believe he heard me listening that closely, because suddenly, as his mouth spoke on, his eyes snapped around to mine and, like the sound of a gunshot, the pounding ceased, to be replaced by a feeling of uncertainty.

“What is it to be truly free? On this Christmas day, we gotsta get free from our sins—our sins of thinkin' Masta treatin' us bad—sins of thinkin' we don't need to be workin' fo' him. You gotta sacrifice one thing fo' another. We trade our labor fo' food, fo' homes, fo' clothes, an' most impo'tant, fo' the freedom of bein' wit they Jesus in this Christian religion. Masta an' Missus good to us; they got a good nature too.
My Missus,
graced wit the
wings of an angel.
Jus' like my Masta too
, holdin' my eyes strong to the prize of what freedom really be. Freedom on Christmas day—it means escapin' into God's place, bein' grateful for all that done come our way, an' liftin' our voices in song. . . .” I looked away as those around me lifted their voices in song. His eyes had dug deep into my soul, trying to make me understand what he was saying, trying to explain his secret.

My missus, graced wit the wings of an angel . . .

He had spoken those words to me.

As his words died away, reality broke the daze I had drifted into. The fear of running burned fresh under my skin. John had made it perfectly clear: you had to sacrifice one thing for another. To him, that meant sacrificing what part of him said was freedom, running from me, for the physical freedom of being his own master. To me, that meant possibly even sacrificing life for the chance at freedom.

I slipped away and sat alone, waiting for the feast to begin. Christmas dinner was always much better than the dinner we were given on Masta's holiday. When the food came out, I barely ate any of it. I was starving, but I needed something more than food to fulfill me.

“You all right, Sarah?” It was Daniel. I didn't allow myself to look into his eyes, thinking he would see all the questions in mine. Eventually, I relented.

I looked down at my feet, then up into his anxious eyes.

“There a reason I wouldn't be all right?”

He stared back at me for a moment, considering my
question, then said, “Lots a good food, you know. You seen Mary? Gotta say somethin' to her.” It was just an excuse to get away. He disappeared into the background of chatter, music, and dancing before I could tell him she was stuck back at the cabin with less of an appetite than I had. He tried to hide his anxious glance from me as he hurried off.

After hanging around awhile, I went off by myself, sat down, and stargazed a ways away from the Big House, alone on a concealed piece of land.

So what now? John ain't even gonna say goodbye?

And then, as if he heard my thoughts, John's rough, calloused, and warm hand slipped into mine, awaking me from my reverie. I turned to see John's eyes galloping across my sad face. I felt the same questions arising that I had felt with Daniel.

Where have you been? Why do you have to keep all this from me—me, Sarah!

I turned back to the stars, which were just as silent as he was. All I wanted to do was shut my eyes and steal away from the world with him. We were drowning, working for Masta, and scrounging for freedom. Why couldn't we just be?

When I faced him once more, I ran my eyes across his broad nose, and those eyes of his that curled at the corners—always observing and understanding. Would he understand what was on my mind tonight? I didn't see a hint of indecision in them, only many thoughts trying to gather themselves. I stared at the sky again.

“What you thinkin' 'bout?” he finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Nothin', really,” I said softly as my emotions drifted between anger, fear, and the longing for freedom.

“You mighty quiet, you must be thinkin' 'bout somethin'!”

“Well, ya. Freedom. Freedom an' the stars,” I said, trying to ignore the feeling stirring in the pit of my stomach.

“You know, don't you?” he asked, matter-of-factly, leaning back on his elbows. I wondered why I didn't find the question so surprising. He knew me well, and that I couldn't deny. Maybe telling him I was running with them wouldn't be as hard as I thought.

“Had a feelin' you knew,” he said softly.

I looked away. “You should not've waited this long to tell me, John,” I said to him. He nodded, curling his lower lip underneath his teeth.

“I shoulda tole you, sho' I should've, Sarah. But how you think I was s'pose to look in yo' eyes an' tell you that I was runnin'? You think that woulda made it easia fo' me to go?” he asked.

I said nothing.

“We was comin' back fo' you an' Mary. We gonna come back, Sarah.”

Disappointment rose up from somewhere inside of me.
Why can't he ask me to run with them?

The silence intensified and then died away again.

“You ain't comin' back. Ain't no runaway who got good sense gonna leave an' come back,” I said plainly.

“Sarah, Sarah, that ain't true . . .”

“John,” I said without a question in my voice, “got somethin' to tell you.”

“Sarah, wish you wouldn't—”

I left him no room to continue. “John, I'ma run too, right wit you an' my brother.” The words slipped out easily, and with them went the strain of holding my ambitions inside. But John was shaking his head.

“No, Sarah, no!” he said, turning to face me completely.

“What you mean, no?” I began as my thoughts stilled.

“Sarah, you cain't run with us. It's . . . it's not a good time right now. I'm comin' back, Sarah, I'm comin' back to get you; that's a promise!” A deep frown creased my forehead.

“John, you hearin' what you sayin'? You thinkin' 'bout what you tellin' me, John?” I asked. I shook my head with frustration when his demeanor didn't change, then turned the other way.

“Sarah, look at me.” I obeyed him, not wanting to believe he was telling me not to run.

“I will come back for you, Sarah.” I sighed heavily into the night. Did he want me to think him coming back for me was a nice thought—him returning to slavery after reaching freedom without me. After months, maybe years, of me waiting with anxiety on my shoulders. After . . . after I'd had Masta's baby?

“Sarah, jus' . . . jus' wait fo' me.”

I stared out into the night as those words drifted from John's mouth, and set two fingers on my lips. Something was building up inside me that made it hard for me to simply accept his words, and I let it grow. I felt his tension.