Good Fortune (9781416998631) (7 page)

CHAPTER
 
7 

O
UR DAYS BEGAN TO STRETCH ON LONGER AS THE WEEKS
marched past midsummer. Throughout the Big House, and in the fields, much of the tension lessened as the peak seasons for fieldwork died down. There was plenty of work to do, however, and Missus gave me ceaseless tasks to carry out for the children. I was their nanny, their sitter, and their transportation. Despite blaming me for their misconduct and sly games, Missus had softened a considerable amount since I had received the whipping, quite confident I was permanently put in my place. I saw my work as an opportunity; dividing my concentration between keeping order and educating myself, I raked their conversations clean for anything new I could learn.

Sometimes on Sunday mornings, or mornings when Missus took the children to the city, I stole away to places on or near the plantation that I had found when I was younger. When I went to church, it became habit to search for John, under lowered foolish eyelids. He made it a point, over the weeks, to slip by Daniel's side on some of those mornings, unannounced. He came and went like the tide; some weeks he wouldn't be there, some weeks he would,
and after a while, Daniel left us alone. When I talked with him on those days after church, it felt like I was digging inside of myself to find the places and the treasures that hid from me in the fields and in the Big House. He'd never stay long, however, and I settled it in my mind that he had only a small place in the back of his mind for me. When I could, I turned from what my heart whispered and set my mind onto letters, rules, and other school knowledge.

But there were other times—when I took the two little ones outside to play, or when I dumped waste from the House before heading out into the fields later in the day—that he'd just appear. With a passing word or a lazy smile, he'd fix a gaze on my face that I'd turn away from without a single change to my countenance, but with a pleasure under my skin.

That glimmer I had seen in his eye that first Sunday, however, had never returned, and I held myself back from expressing something that stirred deep down in my soul. I called it a good old friendship and turned my mind off to the notion of anything more. My heart was mine to keep.

Early one Sunday morning, I found my way up a hill a good distance away from the Big House. It was plantation property, but the land here wasn't being used. When I could on Sunday mornings, when fatigue didn't strap me to my pallet, I'd steal away here to watch the sunrise, to take in the peace. But most times, I'd escape here after church when I wasn't needed in the Big House, or when Daniel bid me to leave him be, sneaking past the watchful eyes of slave row. Mary was the only one who knew.

I climbed up to the top and stretched out on my belly, the grass tickling my ankles. Shutting my eyes, I felt all my concerns seep out of my body and disappear on the wind. A calm energy that felt like God spread through me.

“Thank you fo' this.” I spoke softly to the heavens.

That hill was my hill, or so I loved to believe. Here, I got away from all the struggles of a slave's life. The birds and animals felt it, as did the plants and trees. It was my turn to share in God's beauty. I squinted my eyes against the late-summer sun as I imagined distant mountains that stretched so far into the heavens, they had to be free from bondage and suffering, hate and sorrow, mental and physical pain.

I wish I was a bird or an angel so I could sprout feathers and wings and simply fly away, gliding, free as the wind!

“Wouldn't it be somethin' to stand atop them trees?” A deep voice shook me from my daydreams. I hadn't even heard his footsteps, yet John was seating himself by me, admiring the beautiful scene.

“You follow me up here? I know you did,” I said, turning to him.

“Nope! Got up real early, an' the wind jus' a carried me here, to this place.”

“You tellin' the truth?” I asked.

“Wouldn't tell
you
nothin' otha than the truth.” And I could see that glimmer in his eyes that I had let slip from my mind.

I turned and began scraping the dirt from beneath my fingernails. He bent his knees up with his legs out wide
and tossed his arms over his knees. I stole another long glance in his direction and studied his upturned face. His complexion was a rusty brown with a hint of red and a dab of honey—three colors that melted together in harmony. John had thick jaws and a large face that fit well on his long but broad neck and his tall body. His nose spread wide when he sat deep in thought, and his lips were like two pieces of clay perfectly molded together. His dark eyes curled at the corners.

“There ain't nothin' more beautiful than God's work. Us here, we God's work, jus' as them white folks, but they done gotten away from God an' doin' good an' took 'vantage of his work. Done made us slaves. Slaves the makin' of human folk, not God's makin'.” He nodded at his own words, adding, “but them folks ain' bad.” John's deep voice held a hint of wanting to escape from this white man's world—I recognized it as the need to run away, to be free!

“You always gotta preach?” I asked him without turning his way.

“I ain't no real preacher,” he said softly.

“Sure sound like it,” I responded, but he didn't hear, or perhaps he didn't wish to respond. I looked from the scenery to John then back again. There seemed to be a bond between the souls of the trees and animals and his own soul. Something in my head wanted him to go, to leave this hill of mine. But some other part of me fought it. It felt right.

“You bin up here befo'?”

He shook his head.

“Shoulda brought someone up here with ya,” I said matter-of-factly.

His lips split in a subtle, soft smile. “An' why's that, Miss Sarah?”

I shrugged. “Don't seem right, you'se up here an' its jus' me.”

“I like talkin' to ‘jus' you,'” he said, leaning back on his elbows and tracing the skyline as outlined by the trees with his finger. I let my resistance melt into the silence. We sat there for a long time, listening to heaven whistle in our ears.

“You eva sailed the wind befo'?” he asked me.

I laughed, then replied, “Sail the wind? You mean, fly?”

“Sho'.”

“Cain't no one fly, John. Only my ancestors could do that. They had big ole wings,” I said, sitting up and spreading my arms out. “They'd dark skin like mine, an' determination like them birds up there!”

He laughed, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “So you know 'bout flyin'.”

I settled back down, a heavy thought having just run through my mind. I chose to entertain it.

“Naw. If I knew 'bout flyin', I'd've flown on back when they took me away. They stole me away from my home where the sunsets filled up the skies like you neva seen, away from a family I was born to, and 'cross oceans a thousand times bigga than these cotton fields, all the way here.”

I didn't know where the words came from or why I
chose to speak them to the man by my side. I didn't talk of that faraway past to anyone but Mary, sometimes Daniel, and I pondered all these things as I felt John's eyes rest on me. I felt his serene gaze absorb my words, my expressions, even my unspoken thoughts. He remained silent for a few minutes, until he finished weaving together whatever he needed to in his mind.

“You bin here a long time?”

I nodded. “Bin here fo' most my years. But … but when I come up here these days, to this hill”—I gestured to the sight before us—“when I come up here an' see this, I get some kinda feelin' deep in my bones, like I'm rememberin' it all, John, like … like I could step back into that yestaday so easily.” I stared out into the sunlight, watching the wind pick up fallen, misplaced leaves and stray seeds and other pieces of nature that longed to find their way back home. They never made it far.

I dug my fingernails into the skin on my arms and turned back to John.

“But the fact is, it ain't that easy. So I leave all those thoughts 'bout where I come from alone most times. It was like anotha life.”

John nodded. “You rememba much?”

“Not much—I was real little. But some things—strange things—like names; I rememba names betta than I rememba faces! How you reckon that?”

John shook his head. “I dunno. What names you rememba?”

I looked at him with a small smile, feeling very much
at ease. “There was … I rememba a little boy—reckon he was kin to me, my brother. When I see him in my mind, the name Sentwaki jus' jumps into my head.”

John repeated the name. “Reckon I see why you rememba it. That ain't a name you fo'get.”

I nodded at him with a smile. “Ain't talked 'bout none of this in a long time, John. I listen to my talk, sound like some story out of a book or somethin', nothin' else. Nothin' else.”

My smile drifted away, and I could feel the faraway look return to my eyes. “I did fo'get so many things. Reckon that's fo' the best. Lot of things my mind tells me happened, I jus' cain't b'lieve, 'cause they seem so bad an' I was so little….”

“Then, fo'get 'em, Sarah. Ain't no need fillin' a mind like yours—”

I cut him off. “Naw, John, it ain't like … it ain't like I can jus' fo'get. I … I have some bad dreams sometimes. Don't come often, but when they come …” I let my voice trail off, not wanting to complete my thought.

“What about?”

“I dunno most times. Things my mind has fo'gotten, my heart remembas when I'm sleep. I don't rememba them much, but I know the heavy feelin' inside when they come. I … I …” I frowned at him, at the spell he seemed to have cast.

“Sound like nightmares, almost,” he said softly, filling in the silence that had fallen.

I averted my eyes, becoming aware that I was with someone I had just gotten to know.

“Don't know why I was sharin' all that. That's all jus' stuff that cross my mind sometimes. I didn't really have to share it.”

He chuckled softly. “Don't know why I was jus' sittin' here listenin' like that. Reckon I like listenin' to things that take me away from here. Didn't really hafta let them words touch me somewhere on the inside, but I did.”

A smile graced my lips, and I shook my head at his playfulness. “You need to leave me be up here an' go on 'bout your business.”

“We was talkin' 'bout flyin' an' sailin' the wind, don't you rememba?” he asked.

“Don't matta much. I cain't fly, John.”

“'Course you can. You see that bird?” He pointed a finger up toward a black bird circling the trees.

“Sho' I see it,” I replied.

“Close your eyes, an' see yourself up there floatin'.”

“Me instead of the bird? That's pretendin', John.”

“No, there's a difference,” he said calmly. “Pretendin' ain't real, but imagination's as real as you can get,” John explained.

“I imagine things, John, but you act like I'm s'pose to be a small gal actin' like I'm some bird!”

John replied, “Who tole you imagination is fo' little ones, Miss Sarah? It's a kinda freedom on its own, don't you know!”

I sighed, but John ignored my resistance.

“Well I ain't leavin' till you try it, so it's all up to you.”

I laughed. “All right, then.”

He pulled himself up to sitting, closed his eyes, and leaned against my shoulder.

“Don't look at the bird an' wish you could fly. Act like you up there an' do it yourself.” Amused, I shut my eyes too and did what he said. Slowly, I felt myself rising. Then I leaped up, floated, raced to the treetop, and flew into the sun's rays.

But our imaginings were interrupted by the sound of rough footsteps. We both turned to see Masta Jeffrey angrily making his way up the hill. He was the oldest of Masta and Missus's four children, somewhere near Daniel's age. He seemed like a young boy in my eyes, reckless but uncertain, and I kept out of his way as well as I could.