Good Fortune (9781416998631) (9 page)

“Naw, it wa'an't nothin'. Jus' a lotta talk comin' from him.” I paused, then frowned into his eyes.

“But you already know what he wants…. You already know….” I frowned deeper. What right did John have to stand here and question me like he was? Was he blaming me for Masta's intentions? It was my turn to show anger, and it leaked from my thoughts, misdirected, and seeped into my words.

“He didn't do nothin', John. That's the truth—ain't nothin' else I can say! But I don't understand. What you gonna do anyhow if Masta come to me askin' fo' what we both know he wanted? You gonna lash him with his own whip?” I was waiting for him to walk away—I wanted him to—to leave me to my solitude with my own fears and my own doubts.

But he stood there battling with the frowns in his cheeks, figuring how to reckon with his own pride, a stripped, bare pride that was being tested, scorned, and drained away, drop by drop, like blood from a slaughtered pig. My heart softened. He was as much a victim as I was, and he seemed wise enough to know that. “John, you really hearin' me? I'm telling you the truth. Don't you believe me?”

He nodded slowly, sadly. “'Course I do.”

“Well, you ain't tell Daniel 'bout Masta Jeffrey, have you?” I asked softly, the anger dipping out of sight as quickly as it had come. He shook his head slowly, his eyes distant, staring through me.

“Don't want you to tell Daniel 'bout Masta even talkin' to me on the hill that day. You won't tell 'im?” His gaze was returning back to focus.

“Sarah, there's some things—”

“John, I know Daniel. Don't want him gettin' beat an' killed ova somethin' that ain't even happen. He's different from you. He ain't gonna …” But seeing the look that passed over John's face, I hesitated, having second thoughts on whether or not my brother and John were as unalike as I thought. He seemed to be struggling, as if his mask
of passiveness wasn't fitting quite well. I dragged my eyes away once again and drew circles in the dirt with my foot.

“I'm scared, John. Think Masta might change his mind an' leave me be? Think he might change an' be like his father, who don't mess with none of us like that?” I searched his eyes for an answer, for security, for a place to hide from reality. But nothing of the like lay there. Instead, I saw the truth that he would never bring himself to say.

Sarah, there's nothing I can do.

But instead of expressing what we both knew was true, John lifted his hand to my face. He paused for a moment and then soon began running his fingers across my cheek, wiping away a water droplet that had escaped from my hair. I let his fingers linger there and brush against my skin until they settled under my chin, lifting it slightly. Then he let go.

“A mind cain't rest on those things too long, Sarah. It's dangerous fo' a man. But I think you oughta know, I bin tryin' to figure somethin' out.” His face was changing, masking the pain and replacing it with a sort of lighthearted look.

“Bin thinkin' an' thinkin', then finally figured there ain't nothin' really to figure out,” he continued. “I found that I feel different, like I'm gone from the world when you're—”

“John,”—I looked up abruptly—“Masta say stay away. He was serious; you know that. So please, jus' please, there are otha slave gals here….”

“Sarah, not even a fool could scare me outta feelin' what I'm sure I feel.” I had nothing to say. His words traveled through the chambers of my heart. I let them roam.

“How you find me out here, John?” I asked him, feeling deeply relieved that he hadn't walked away from me long before, leaving me fearful and alone. “Don't no one know I come down here! I know you wasn't lookin' fo' me!”

“Followed dis right here!” he said, patting his chest.

“What's there?” I asked.

“Somethin' that's been a beatin' an' a listenin' to you fo' a while,” he proudly replied. I put my ear close to his chest, then drew back.

“Cain't nothin' be there fo' me,” I said with my arms crossed. “You a slave.”

“I ain't no slave, Sarah.” John's face had fallen as he said this, his voice painted with resentment. I looked at him with fear.

“Don't say that John, you know you's—”

“I said, I ain't no slave!” he bellowed, his voice now stern. “That's all up here, in yo' mind! Them folk call demselves Masta call us slaves, but only those who think they slaves is slaves. I ain't no slave. My mind don't belong to nobody.”

I had never heard that before. Those words sparked something within me I had never felt. I found myself swimming in a world of thought, a world of imagination, a world of freedom I longed for, a longing that usually kept itself hidden out of fear. Now, with John standing right here, saying these words to me, I felt this longing of mine dancing on my face, clear as day.

“Well, I think maybe … maybe I ain't gotta be no slave either,” I said, looking at him mischievously.

John laughed, trying to drown out the carriage wheels in the distance. Masta was back, and with that realization, many other facts came to me like a slap in the face. We were slaves. Our lives were worthless, built only to serve our white masters. Our days were rationed for them and them alone. There was no us.

The laughter ceased, and I silently left his side. He stood there for a moment longer, as if he held a treasure in his hand that kept falling through his fingers. Then he departed, and we slipped away from each other like one soul split in two.

CHAPTER
 
9 

T
HE DAY WAS A HOT ONE, AND THE SWEAT TRICKLED DOWN MY
forehead even before I could walk a half a mile from the Big House. Usually I had both of Missus's children for this routine stroll, but this morning, only young Missus Jane walked by my side. I was a bit glad; with her brother near her, the two would commence to racing down the road with me in hot pursuit, and they'd be proclaiming, “We gonna be late, Sarah, if you don't hurry up!”

The first few weeks after the incident with Masta Jeffrey, I lived in fear when I neared the Big House. But the days trickled into weeks, and I had no confrontations with Masta's son, not even a sign that Masta Jeffrey had ill intentions. So, soon enough, the storm passed. I finally grew to believe that for whatever reason, he had left me alone for good.

On this day, as we neared the road, I saw a figure pass, his round face lowered and his shoulders slightly drooped. He drifted past me without a word. It was the first time I had seen Daniel since he and Tucker had left to accompany Masta and his son on a long-distance trip. They had been gone for nearly a week and a half, and I had counted the days until their return.

I looked back at him, my eyebrows raised in question.

What was wrong with my brother?

“Daniel,” I said softly, keeping the corner of my eye on young Missus Jane, who continued on without me, “you all right?” He turned his head, eyes piercing me like two arrows. His glance was quick, and his nod was cordial, but the expression in his eyes turned my skin cold. There was an anger there that he immediately erased, then a lingering sadness. He turned away before I could say anything more, slyly stealing my heart as he went and setting it in his pocket.

I walked on, talking to young Missus Jane as she wished, but my thoughts swirled around my brother. We walked a few miles to a small, white wooden house. It was here that I was ordered to take young Missus Jane and young Masta Bernard. About eight children met five days a week in this tiny schoolroom.

Missus had decided to start them out this school year with a private instructor. She wanted to ensure the “best education possible.” I'd caught pieces of conversation between Masta and Missus about having young Missus Jane attend lessons with her brother. Females only went so far in schooling, and Masta didn't want to invest money unnecessarily on her behalf. Missus seemed to have different plans for her daughter, however, and even though she wouldn't make them plain, she convinced her husband to keep young Missus Jane with her brother for the time being.

When we reached the door, young Missus Jane knocked
and slipped inside before anyone had come to open it. Without another word to me, she shut me out, leaving me standing on the step.

Heading a mile or so farther up the road, I neared a small gathering of slave children who were sitting around an older man. Seeing me approach, the old man nodded and fell straight into telling a story to the gathered crowd.

“I done knowed Liza was gone. Knew it befo' I felt de hushed silence hangin' 'mong slave row. Knew it befo' word was raised 'bout it. It was de way blurry images done formed in my mind's eyes, in my dreams dat night befo'. It was de feelin' my dream done gaved me. It was de way de wind rush thru my door, washin' my sleepy face. It was de way de mornin' birds sang with dat partic'lar melody. Dey knewed ha fate like I did. We alls knewed dat Liza was gone.”

“Whatchya mean, ‘Gone,' Uncle Bobby?” a small boy asked.

“Well, you wait, now. You ain't even heard 'bout da woman an' ha life yet.”

“Tell us, then, Uncle Bobby!”

I stood leaning against the side of the man's quarters. Wrinkles covered the face and hands of this old man, Uncle Bobby. He was too old to work the land his master owned and was therefore left by his Master to do nothing more than waste away with time. The ten or so children who'd gathered about him were, on the other hand, too young to work. Most of them grasped small clay balls in their hands, signifying the play that had been suspended so they could hear Uncle Bobby's short story of the day. I had stumbled
upon them one day while waiting for the Missus's children to finish their learning, and I'd been coming back ever since to listen to the old man's tales.

“Well, she was a tattle, she was. House hand that liked da fancy dings her Mizzuz done give ha fo' tellin' on folks an' makin' up bad stories to get dem slaves in trouble. Den on Christmas day the year she was all growed up, done walked outside wit all dem fancy stuff, even had fancy shoes! An … an …”

“An' what?” the children squealed. Uncle Bobby put his hands on his small hips, pausing for dramatic effect.

“Well,” he said, throwing his seated legs out farther, “big ole clap a' lightnin' came an' strike ha!” His eyes bulged and his arms imitated heaven unleashing its wrath. The children, who had yelped with the scare, started giggling.

“Ain't no such thing happen!”

“Sho' did!” Uncle Bobby said with such a serious nod that the children quickly grew quiet.

“Lightnin' really strike her dead, Uncle Bobby?” He nodded.

“Well, I ain't neva gonna be like dat!”

I turned to head back up the road, chuckling at Uncle Bobby's story. As I walked along, searching for wild flowers for Mary, I heard someone calling my name. I turned to see Tucker.

“Hey, Tucker. Didn't notice you comin' up.” I walked over to where he had stopped, just off of the road. I eyed him closely, searching for anything in his face that imitated the distress I saw in Daniel's eyes. There was nothing there that compared.

“How was the trip, Tucker?” I asked him, my anxious eyes still searching.

“Masta had us travelin' all day an' all night!” he said, wiping his brow.

“An' y'all ain't run into no trouble?”

“Well, naw,” he said, gazing up at the sky as if remembering, “wa'an't nothin' unusual. Masta wa'an't in good spirits. Havin' some trouble wit his money. An', well …”

“What?” I asked.

“Well, we done seed a lotta sellin', me an' yo' brotha.” He frowned. “Wa'an't no pretty sight.” I sighed, seeing that Tucker didn't know what had come over my brother.

“Watchya this fa' from Masta's place fo'?” he asked, smiling at me.

“I was jus' gonna ask you the same thing, Tucker.”