Never Too Late (14 page)

Rumors had begun to spread around the area, mostly thanks to a busybody named Mrs. Hammond at the general store in Greens Crossing, that made everyone at the McSimmons plantation realize that maybe they'd been wrong all this time about Emma being dead.

When young William McSimmons' new wife caught wind of what was being said, that a colored baby from a white father was being hid somewhere with a house full of urchins, she hit the roof.

She had known about Emma, though had tried to forget. She thought that her troubles from her husband's promiscuity were behind her. She went into a rage at the news.

She took her anger out on the nearest and most convenient person she could, whom she still suspected of knowing more about the affair than she let on. That person happened to be the McSimmons' cook, Josepha.

The tirade so caught Josepha off guard at first that she hardly knew its cause. She had heard the rumors about the half-black baby too, and of course
did
know more than she was telling. But why Mistress McSimmons would direct such venom toward her, she didn't understand.

“No need ter git riled at me,” Josepha said in an irritable voice. “I don' know nuthin'. Why wud I know what you's talkin' 'bout?”

“You fat old sow!” the lady shrieked. “I'll teach you to talk back to your betters! Maybe the sting of the whip will put some respect into you, and loosen that lying tongue of yours!”

Three quick strides took her to the wall where her husband's riding whip hung. She grabbed it and turned on Josepha.

Josepha had not felt the lash in years and certainly never expected to feel it again now that she was a free woman.

Three or four sharp blows to her arms, shoulders, and back were sufficient to rouse her indignation.

She put up her hand, trying to ward off the blows and grab at the whip.

“How dare you raise your hand against me!” cried Mrs. McSimmons, preparing to begin a new volley more violent than the first. But suddenly Josepha stepped toward her, fire in her eyes, and latched onto the lady's wrist with fingers as strong as a vise. Her hand stopped the whip in midair and shocked her mistress into a fuming silence.

“I don' hab ter take dis no mo!” said Josepha in a huff. “You may be white an' I may be black, you may be thin an' I may be fat like you say. But I's a person ob God's
makin jes' like you, an' you ain't got no right ter—”

“How
dare
you talk to me in such a tone!” cried Mrs. McSimmons in a white wrath, struggling with all her might to free her arm from Josepha's hold.

“An' how dare you whip me like I wuz one ob yer barn dogs!” retorted Josepha, continuing to hold the mistress's wrist fast, for Josepha was easily the stronger of the two by at least double. “I's a free woman, I ain't yo slave. I can come an' go when I like an' I ain't gotter put up wiff no whippin jes' cuz you married a low-down man what can't keep his trousers on. Lemuela's girl, she'll gib me work, so I think I'll jes' be movin' on. Effen she can't pay me, she ain't likely ter let me starve neither an' it'll be a sight better'n puttin' up wiff da evil mischief ob a lady like you. So I'll thank you ter gib me da week's pay I gots comin' ter me an'—”

“You swine!” seethed the woman through clenched teeth. “You'll get not a cent if you desert me without notice!”

“Well, den . . . no matter. I's leavin' anyway,” said Josepha.

Still holding the lady's wrist with one hand, she now reached up with her other and twisted the whip away from her, then released her and walked to the door and threw it out into the dirt. She then turned, went to her room trembling but with head high, and packed her few belongings and put them in a pillow slip. Three minutes later she was walking out the same door for good, leaving Mistress McSimmons in stunned and broken silence behind her. Feeling brave and strangely proud of herself, she walked away with her head held high. If she didn't exactly have a
smile on her face, she had one in her heart.

Josepha had no more idea where Lemuela's daughter lived than did Mrs. McSimmons. But she had not forgotten Henry Patterson, and knew from an occasional delivery he had made through the years to the McSimmons plantation that he had followed her advice and had been working at the livery at Greens Crossing ever since their first meeting. He was more likely than anyone she could think of to have caught wind of where a black girl calling herself
Mayme
might have gotten to.

Three hours after Josepha's unceremonious departure from the only home she had known for more than twenty years, Henry looked up from his work and saw the large black woman ambling wearily in his direction. He set down his pitchfork and waited.

“You be Henry, effen I'm not mistaken,” she said, puffing from her long walk.

“Dat I is,” said Henry.

“I'm Josepha,” said Josepha, “from da McSimmons place.”

“I knows who you is,” chuckled Henry. “You don't think I forgot our first meetin'. Why I owe you dis job er mine. But whatchu doin' so far from home, an' on what looks ter be sech tired feet?”

“Ain't my home no mo,” said Josepha. “I's a free woman, so I done lef'. I ain't gotter take dat kin' er treatment no mo from nobody. An' now I'm lookin' fer Miz Mayme, an' I'm hopin' you might be familiar 'nuff wiff her ter be able ter direc' me ter where I kin fin' her.”

Henry chuckled again. “I reckon I kin do dat, all right,” he said. “Why I might jes' take you dere myse'f,
effen you ain't in too much a hurry. Hit's a longer walk den I think you wants ter make, an' effen you kin wait till I'm dun here, I'll fetch you dere in dat nice buckboard ober dere dat I's repairin' fer Mr. Thurmond. I reckon hit's 'bout ready fer me ter take ter him, an' Rosewood's right on da way. I don' think he'll min' a passenger ridin' 'long wiff me.”

Just as the sun was going down that evening, the sound of a horse and wagon approached the Clairborne plantation known as Rosewood.

Henry reined in as Mayme ran out of the house toward the buckboard. It took a little while for Josepha to get down to the ground, even with Henry's help. One look at her face said that she was exhausted.

“Mayme, chil'!” she said, taking Lemuela's girl in her arms. When the two stepped back a minute later, Mayme saw that Josepha was crying.

“What is it, Josepha?” said Mayme.

“I lef', Mayme,” she said. “I dun lef' da McSimmons. Dat young mistress, she's a bad woman, an' I finally jes' lef'. I didn't know where ter go 'cept ter you.”

“Oh, Josepha . . . I'm sorry,” said Mayme, embracing her again.

“Does you think yer mistress'll hab room fer an' ol' black woman somewheres?”

Just then a white girl a year or two younger than Mayme ran out of the house.

“We've always got room,” said Mayme, “—especially for you! Don't we, Katie?”

“Of course!” exclaimed the white girl. “How wonderful.
I'll hurry back in and start preparing one of the rooms immediately.”

“What dat she say?” said Josepha in surprise as she watched the girl go. “She be da mistress? She can't be fixin' no room fer me!”

“Things are different here, Josepha,” Mayme laughed. “There's no black or white, no mistress or slaves. We're not even hired coloreds because there's no money either. I'm sorry, but Katie won't be able to pay you any more than she does me. But we're a family and we've got enough to eat. We've learned that being together and being a family is all we need, and is the most important thing of all. I reckon that's a sight better than money. We're happy to have you.”

“Den let's go an' help Miz Katie wiff dat gettin' ready. I still don' like the idea ob her white han's waitin' on me nohow.”

T
HE
N
EW
H
OUSE

21

I
'
LL HAVE ANOTHER CUP OF THAT COFFEE OF YOURS
, Josepha,” said Mayme's father, Templeton Daniels, where he and his brother, Mayme's and Katie's Uncle Ward, sat at Rosewood's kitchen table.

His voice brought Josepha out of her reminiscences.

“Shore, 'nuff, Mister Daniels,” she said in a soft voice.

Josepha smiled, wiped at her eyes, and walked to the stove where the pot of coffee stood steaming.

He looked over at her. “Are you all right, Josepha?” he asked. “From that look on your face, I'd think you were . . . well, I don't know what I'd think.”

“Dat's all I wuz doin', Mr. Templeton—jes' thinking',” said Josepha, “—thinkin' 'bout some times long ago an' how da good Lord brung me here.”

“Why don't you tell us about it?”

“Maybe I will . . . maybe I will at dat one day. But I don't reckon dat day's jes' yet.”

She poured him another cup of coffee and then went about with dinner preparations, while the two Daniels
brothers continued their conversation at the table.

“So what I was thinking, Ward,” said Templeton, “is that we need to be thinking of the future. Micah and Emma are gone, and it's not going to be long before Mayme and Jeremiah are going to figure they've waited long enough. We've got to get to work on a place for them, so it's ready when the time comes.”

“What did you have in mind,” asked Ward, “building a place?”

“We could. But it seems it would be simpler and quicker, not to mention cheaper, to add on to one of the places we've already got. There's that slave cabin that sits away from the others. It's run down and the roof leaks, but it's sound. With a new roof . . . maybe add on another room, put in a nice kitchen, running water, new windows, we could turn it into a right fine little house. There's room for a garden. We could build a small barn to go with it.”