May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel (53 page)

That was when Mary decided that she’d been blessed after all, to love someone the way she did … the way she always
would
love Micah. And not expectin’ grew into something else entirely then. It grew into anticipatin’. And that was something altogether different, like a healthy dose of knowin’ the ways of the world, soberly, practically, but wrapped up in an equal dose of hope. That’s when she started makin’ the mournin’ veils, one a week for the last forty-two weeks. ’Cause maybe they’d come in handy for her someday.

The war kept gettin’ worse all through 1864. The Yankees had a new general, a man named U. S. Grant, and the name alone was enough to scare Mary something awful. Mista Kittredge hated this General Grant like he never hated a Yankee before. Said this General Grant was nothin’ but a cold-blooded murderer the way he kept pressin’ on Richmond, even after gettin’ whupped. General Lee beat’m at a battle called the Wilderness. But General Grant didn’t run back to Washington like the Yankees’d done all along after gettin’ whupped. General Grant kept headin’ south, closer to Richmond, and got whupped again, then came south again, only to get whupped even worse. Then kept on comin’, all the way past Richmond even, to Petersburg, twenty miles south, where he got whupped again, then set in for a long siege. That was end of June. And General Grant and the Yankees’d been here ever since, diggin’ in with trenches that matched General Lee’s trenches, stretchin’ thirty miles all around Petersburg and on up to Richmond like two great big slits in the land with men livin’ every day inside them, waitin’ for the next battle.

It’d been six months since then, and Mary’d got past General Grant’s unfortunate name and come to think of him and his men as something else altogether—like they were Crusaders, Liberators, comin’ to help her get outta Richmond and go find Micah if he was still alive. It’d been two years, and maybe he’d found another, she sometimes thought, when her thoughts got to racin’. Maybe she’d missed her chance after all. But still she made those veils, in her room late at night, with whatever slivers of light the moon would offer, waitin’, hopin’, anticipatin’ … which was a whole lot better than just not expectin’.

Every Saturday afternoon since before the siege even, Mary would carry out the scrap bucket to the lint bin, then leave it for Robert to pick up. Like so many things in Richmond, the dress shop wasn’t what
it used to be. There wasn’t a scrap of fresh silk anyone had seen in over a year, and not a woman lookin’ for a new gown or embroidered tablecloth in almost as long. The business they did now was mostly in black—black curtains, black dresses, black veils and gloves, for all the ladies in mournin’. It’d gotten so Mary had to dye all the other colors of thread and cloth they had black. And in all the confusion, she’d been slippin’ a spool or two into that scrap bucket just before fixin’ to empty it every Saturday afternoon. But since this particular afternoon also happened to be Christmas Eve, two years since everything changed, she decided to give herself something like a present and put six spools of black thread into the bin, knowin’ nobody’d notice since it was Christmas. Six spools would yield almost four mournin’ veils, getting her closer to one hundred, which she was sure would be more than enough to get her all the way to St. Catharines, and Micah, she hoped.

By about three in the afternoon what little business they’d had was gone. And Mary dropped in those six spools, then slipped out with the scrap bin, out behind the store same as always. There wasn’t any real scrap bin these days. Back when Micah was still here, Mary’d fill up that big wooden barrel out behind the store with pieces of material almost six inches square, like it wasn’t worth bein’ even a patch in a quilt. Now anything bigger than an inch in any direction wasn’t a scrap, and there wasn’t a big wooden barrel, just a tin bucket about the size of the one in the store to hold whatever didn’t make the grade. Robert came to pick it up every Saturday and carry it to the hospital, where they shredded those scraps back into cotton lint and made bandages from it.

Robert was new to the Kittredges’ store. He was supposed to be a slave, same as Mary, but he walked all over the place freer than any slave she’d ever seen, and Mary knew he was deep in Mista Kittredge’s new business of buyin’ barrels of flour outside of what the government said they could. Robert came three months before along with Mista Hughes, the first overseer Mista Kittredge ever had. And ever since then Robert’d been goin’ with Mista Hughes to the depot every week, to buy up everything the stationmaster could set aside. Government prices said that a barrel of flour should go for a hundred twenty dollars Confederate, but the stationmaster would set ten or twelve of them aside, and Mista Hughes would pay the man a hundred sixty or seventy for it every week.
It made perfect sense, since Mista Kittredge kept it tucked away in the old slave cabins and waited until all the flour in Richmond was gone in two or three days. Then he’d sell it to
special
customers for two hundred fifty, three hundred dollars a barrel, dependin’ on how desperate things were. Then he started demandin’ gold for it instead, or Yankee dollars even, since the war wasn’t goin’ too well for the Confederates.

With no sign of anyone on this Christmas Eve afternoon, Mary brought the scrap bin out back, then looked all around before reachin’ in for the spools of thread. She pulled her dress high as her knee, rolled up her left-leg bloomer, and stuffed three spools into it, tyin’ it off with a strip of cloth she’d set aside for just that purpose. Then she looked all around again and started in with the right leg, doin’ just the same. When she had all three of them up in that bloomer, she took the strip of cloth to tie it off, but the bottom spool slipped out and rolled a few feet away. She hobbled to it, bent over holdin’ that bloomer closed so the other spools didn’t drop out, walkin’ stiff legged over to that missin’ spool. When she got to it, she could see someone comin’ from around the corner by the alley, but didn’t look up, pickin’ up that spool and tyin’ off that bloomer, gettin’ just a single knot tied in it before he started talkin’.

Well, well, well, what has we here? he said gleefully, an Mary knew straight off that it was Robert come early to pick up the scrap bin. If it ain’t da lovely Miss Mary, so special the white folks treats her like she one of ’em, an’ here she is tyin’ up her bloomers jus’ like she a common ol’ streetwalkin’ gal. What’d Massa Kittredge an’ the Misses say if dey saw you showin ol’ Robert all ’at?

He walked slowly up to her, and she had to decide between doubleknottin’ that cloth and givin’ him more of a show, or riskin’ that it’d come loose. She stood up.

They’d ask what you were doing sneaking around corners and watching ladies fix themselves, she said, putting on that in-the-shop voice she knew irked him no end.

Well, Miss Mary, jus’ you an’ me now, he said, walkin’ up to her, just inches away.

She tried steppin’ past him to his right, but he put his arm up against the wall and stopped her. Now where you goin’, Miss Mary? You gonna git all uppity on Robert now? When you’s jus’ like all th’resta us?

He took his other hand and wrapped it around her waist, pullin’ her close to him, and kissin’ her hard on the mouth, pullin’ her in altogether now with his other arm wrapped around the back of her head. She got her two arms between them while he was pushin’ his tongue against her squeezed-tight lips, him pryin’ his way with his tongue while she was pryin’ her way with her arms, ’til she could push enough to get some space between them and get her mouth free. He laughed and looked to pull her in close again, but she’d had enough of that, spools of thread do what they might. She lifted her right leg hard into him, right between the legs, then did it again and a third time, as he was fallin’ down away from her, hard to the ground. And she felt the spools of thread slidin’ down her leg now, with the cloth all untied, but it didn’t matter, like she’d stuff them down his throat if he said another word.

But he was just rollin’ on the ground when she could hear a commotion from over on the porch at the Kittredge house. A man rode up on a horse, with a Confederate uniform and a sword danglin’ from his side, and when Justinia burst out onto the porch before he could dismount, Mary knew it was Lieutenant Farnsworth, and he’d got that Christmas leave after all. But still there was this matter to tend to, and Mary used her left leg to give Robert another kick, to his stomach this time, and he curled over, away from her, turnin’ his back and rollin’ himself up tight like he was tryin’ to protect himself from any more kicks. And she had plenty of time to tie everything in her bloomers just right, lookin’ at the porch as Lieutenant Farnsworth dropped to one knee, with entirely different intentions than the knee Robert was tryin’ to prop himself up on just then. And Mary knew that this would be a night, and a Christmas, when Justinia’d have plenty of smiles to go around. And maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad Christmas after all.

The next mornin’ the war practically walks right into
Les Roseraies
. Thomas sets off to work, but ten minutes later he’s back askin’ if
you heard the gunfire off in the distance. ’Course you did. And know exactly what it means. Sherman. Which means everything’s changed just overnight.

You see Thomas looking at you like he’s waiting for instructions. Scared a little, like a man his age shouldn’t be. But then you start to see a chance to do more than just take care of your own. You see the chance to be a little like Mrs. Tubman was those years before. The chance to lead a whole buncha folks to freedom. And that’d be somethin’ to make your Daddy proud, to be sure.

Time to go, Thomas, you say.

I’ll see ’bout gettin’ word to yo’ Momma an’ Bellie, Thomas says.

But you shake your head. Look him square in the eye, commanding this time, not asking like you did the night before.

We’re ALL goin’, Thomas, you say. You, me, Momma, Bellie, an’ ev’ry hand on the place.

Thomas looks at you getting that Spencer Repeater ready. Knowin’ you mean business. And with the determination in your voice and the shots he’d heard that morning, it’s almost like he’s too scared
not
to go with you now. But you don’t give him a chance to say no. Ask him about where the overseer is an’ where the Massa keeps his guns.

Massa gotta shotgun he ain’ use in a long time, he says. Overseer’s gone, they was sayin’. He lef’ las’ night t’join wit’ some militia up the river. That’s it far as I knows.

And the instructions follow. Commanding again. Telling Thomas to get word to all the slaves. Bring what food they can carry, and that’s all. Meet at the creek inside an hour. And then you goin’.

What about yo’ Momma an’ Bellie? Thomas asks.

I’ll take care of gettin’ them.

Thomas sees you grippin’ that Spencer tight and maybe thinks you still got revenge on your mind.

Massa’s a old man like me, an’ he ain’t fired that shotgun in years, he says. Nobody got to die today, son.

And you look close at Thomas just so you can be sure it ain’t your Daddy doin’ the talkin’. Much as it sounds just like him. Same tone, same kinda thing he’d say. Then you smile.

Don’t worry. I got nothin’ against this here Masta. He ain’t a Masta no more, so he got enough to worry ’bout. An’ maybe the Lawd wants
him t’have some more time gettin’ usedta that, you say. Smile at him before setting off.

Momma and Isabelle are on the front porch. The Massa’s standin’ there with his shotgun. Old, just like Thomas said. Done for this world of bein’ anything like a Massa. Don’t matter if Sherman’s coming or not. He sees
you
comin’, and he knows what it means. You point that Spencer Repeater at him. Tell him put down that shotgun, ’less he’s fixin’ to get dead. And he puts it down straight off. Turns to your Momma and starts pleadin’.

Don’t let’m do us any harm, Corrine. Don’t let’m kill us. Tell’m how good I was to my slaves … tell’m … please …

She looks at him like she’s disappointed. Like she give him the benefit of a doubt more than such a man ever deserved. ’Cause she’s been a slave for all her fifty years on this earth. And it’ll take time to get to know something like freedom. Like she’ll never be the woman she coulda been. And you feel sad at that moment. To see your Momma placin’ what hope she got in such a man. Then she goes and surprises you.

That’s my Son. And he’s no murderer. He’s a better man than you, for sure, she says. Picks the gun up from where he placed it down. We’ll be on our way now.

And she and Isabelle walk off that porch like it was their own place, and they’re just goin’ to the Harvest Ball. Momma carries that shotgun like it’s a rotted side of beef she can’t wait to get outta her hands. She gives it to you, and stands with her arm over Bellie’s shoulders. A half step behind you. Like you’re the man of the family.

It’s no surprise when the twenty-two of them, Thomas and Momma and Bellie alike, are jubilatin’ when you all gather down by the creek. Like they’re free already. Some of them got all their clothes and things strapped on their backs. Some of the women got blankets rolled up on their heads, carrying things inside the blankets. Making them look six seven feet tall. And you shake your head. Thinking of the foolishness. Knowing you got a ways to go yet.

One of the young boys brought a hammer and a chisel and an ax. Nothing more. And you smile at him, thinking he’s just like you was when you were his age. Twelve thirteen, maybe. You call him over while
everyone’s jubilatin’. Ask him what other tools he can get. Send him off for the saws and a couple more things. Send Thomas along with him.

They’re back with a good haul while you’re still getting the crowd all together. And then you tell them about where you come from. And how you gonna get them to freedom. They listen like you was Mrs. Tubman, and you figure it’s ’cause you the man with the Spencer Repeater. Then you realize Thomas still got it, from when you gave it to him to go back with the boy for the tools. And you think maybe there’s something more than havin’ the Spencer that makes them listen to you.