Roots (60 page)

“An’ chile, speck we couldn’t never let you go, neither!”

L
ate one afternoon, the driver for Massa Waller’s parents at Enfield brought him their invitation to attend a dinner party in honor of an important Richmond businessman who had stopped for a night’s lodging on his way to Fredericksburg. About a dozen buggies were already parked outside the Enfield big house when Kunta arrived with the massa soon after dark.

Though he had been there many times in the eight years since he and Bell were married, it had been only during the past few months that the fat black cook Hattie, who had been so smitten with Kunta, decided to begin speaking with him again—ever since he had brought Kizzy along with Missy Anne one day on a visit to her grandparents. Tonight, when he went to the kitchen door to say hello—and for something to eat—she invited him in to visit while she, her helper, and four serving women completed their preparations for dinner; Kunta thought that he had never seen so much food bubbling in so many pots and pans.

“How dat l’il puddin’-pie young’un o’ your’n?” Hattie asked between sips and sniffs.

“She fine,” said Kunta. “Bell got her learnin’ how to cook now. S’prise me other night wid a apple betty she done made.”

“Dat l’il dickens. Nex’ thing you know, I be eatin’
her
cookies’stead o’ her eatin’ mine. She musta put away half a jar o’ my ginger snaps las’ time she here.”

With a last look at the mouth-watering three or four kinds of breads that were baking in the oven, Hattie turned to the oldest of the serving women, in their starched yellow smocks, and said, “We’se ready. Go tell missis.” As the woman disappeared through the swinging door, she told the other three, “I come after y’all wid a ladle if’n yo’ slops one drop o’ soup on my bes’ linen when you settin’ down de bowls. Git to work now, Pearl,” she said to her teen-age helper. “Git dem turnip greens, de sweet cawn, squash, an’ okra in de good china tureens whilst I wrestles dis here saddle o’ mutton onto de carvin’ bo’d.”

A few minutes later, one of the serving women came back in, whispered intently to Hattie at some length, and then hurried back out again. Hattie turned to Kunta.

“You ’members few months back when one dem tradin’ boats got raided somewheres on de big water by dat France?”

Kunta nodded. “Fiddler say he heared dat Pres’dent Adams so mad he sent de whole Newnited States Navy to whup ’em.”

“Well, dey sho’ did. Louvina jes’ now tol’ me dat man in dere from Richmon’ say dey done took away
eighty
boats b’longin’ to dat France. She say de white folks in dere act like dey nigh ’bout ready to start singin’ an’ dancin’ ’bout teachin’ dat France a lesson.”

As she spoke, Kunta had begun digging into the heaping plateful of food she had set before him, while he marveled at the very sight of the roast beef, baked ham, turkey, chicken, and duck she was now busily arranging on big platters waiting to be served. He had just swallowed a mouthful of buttered sweet potato when the four serving women came bustling back into the kitchen—all loaded down with empty bowls and spoons. “De soup’s et!” Hattie announced to Kunta. A moment later the serving women were trooping out again with heaped trays, and Hattie mopped her face and said, “Got ’bout fo’ty minutes befo’ dey ready fo’ dessert. You was gon’ say sump’n befo’?”

“Jes’ gon’ say eighty boats don’ make me no difference,” said Kunta, “long’s white folks messin’ wid one ’nother ’stead o’ us. Seem like dey ain’t happy less’n dey’s messin’ wid somebody.”

“’Pend who dey messin’ wid, way I sees it,” said Hattie. “Las’ year was a
mulatto
led a re-volt ’gainst dat Toussaint, an’ he mighta won if’n de Pres’dent hadn’t of sent his boats down dere to he’p Toussaint.”

“Heared Massa Waller say Toussaint ain’t got sense ’nough to be no gen’l, let alone run no country on his own,” said Kunta. “He say jes’ watch, all dem slaves dat done got free in dat Haiti gwine wind up whole lot wuss off dan dey was under dey ol’ massas. ’Cose, dat’s what white folks
hopin’.
But I specks dey’s awready
better
off workin’ de plantations deyselves.”

One of the serving women, who had returned to the kitchen and was listening to the conversation, spoke up: “Dat what dey’s talkin’’bout in dere right now—free niggers. Say it’s way too many, thirteen thousan’ jes’ here in Virginia. De jedge say he all fo’ freein’ niggers dat do sump’n outstandin’, like dem what fit in dat Revolution’longside dey massas, or dem what tol’ white folks ’bout any nigger uprisin’ plan, or dat nigger dat come up wid dat herb medicine dat even white folks claim cure near ’bout everythin’. De jedge say he feel massas got de right in de wills to free ol’ faithful niggers. But him an’ ev’ybody in dere say dey’s dead set ’gainst dem Quakers and some other white folks settin’ dey niggers free fo’ nothin.” The serving woman headed for the door, adding, “Jedge say mark his words, some new laws gwine be made to put a crimp in dat right soon.”

Hattie asked Kunta, “What yo’ think o’ dat Massa Alexander Hamilton up Nawth sayin’ all free niggers oughta be sent to Africa’cause niggers an’ white folks too different an’ ain’t gwine never git’long?”

“He right, dat’s what I thinks,” said Kunta. “But white folks talks dat an’ keeps bringin’ mo’
from
Africa!”

“You know why well’s I do,” said Hattie. “Puts ’em down in Georgia an’ de Carolinas to keep up wid de cotton crop every since dat cotton gin come in few years back. Same reason plenty massas’roun’ here sellin’ dey niggers off down South for much as two, three times what dey paid fo’ dem.”

“Fiddler say de big massas down South got mean po’ cracker oberseers drivin’ niggers like mules clearin’ lan’ for new cottonfiel’s,” said Kunta.

“Yeah, it’s how come de papers lately so full o’ notices ’bout runaways,” said Hattie.

Just then the serving women began returning to the kitchen with dirty plates and platters. Hattie beamed proudly. “Look like dey’s done et all dey can hol’. ’Bout now, massa pourin’ de champagne whilst de table git cleared fo’ dessert,” she told Kunta. “See how you like dese plum puddin’ tarts.” She set one on a saucer in front of him. “’Sides dat dey’s gittin’ brandied peaches in dere, but I recollecks you don’t touch no liquor.”

Enjoying the succulent tart, Kunta found himself recalling a runaway slave advertisement that Bell had read to him recently from the
Gazette
. “Tall mulatto wench,” it said, “very large breasts of which the right one has a deep scar. A sly liar and thief, who may be showing a large forged pass, since previous owner let her learn to write some, or who may be claiming herself a free nigger.”

Hattie sat down heavily, fingered a brandied peach from a jar and popped it into her mouth. Glancing across the kitchen at two high tubs filled with glasses, dishes, cutlery, and utensils yet to be washed and put away, she let out a loud sigh and said wearily, “Know one thing, sho’ be glad to see my bed dis night, ’cause Lawd, I jes’ plum wo’ out.”

F
or many years now, Kunta had gotten up every morning before dawn, earlier than anyone else on slave row—so early that some of the others were convinced that “dat African” could see in the dark like a cat. Whatever they wanted to think was fine with him as long as he was left alone to slip away to the barn, where he would face the first faint streaking of the day prostrated between two large bundles of hay, offering up his daily suba prayer to Allah. Afterward, by the time he had pitched some hay into the horses’ feed trough, he knew that Bell and Kizzy would be washed, dressed, and ready to get things under way in the big house, and the boss field hand Cato would be up and out with Ada’s son Noah, who would soon be ringing the bell to wake the other slaves.

Almost every morning, Noah would nod and say “Mornin’” with such solemn reserve that he reminded Kunta of the Jaloff people in Africa, of whom it was said that if one greeted you in the morning, he had uttered his last good word for the day. But although they had said little to each other, he liked Noah, perhaps because he reminded Kunta of himself at about the same age—the serious manner, the way he went about his work and minded his own business, the way he spoke little but watched everything. He had often noticed Noah doing a thing that he also did—standing somewhere with his eyes quietly following the rompings of Kizzy
and Missy Anne around the plantation. Once when Kunta had been watching from the barn door as they rolled a hoop across the backyard, giggling and screaming, he had been about to go back inside when he saw Noah standing over by Cato’s cabin, also watching. Their eyes met, and they looked at each other for a long moment before both turned away. Kunta wondered what had Noah been thinking—and had the feeling that, likewise, Noah was wondering what
he
was thinking. Kunta knew somehow that they were both thinking the same things.

At ten, Noah was two years older than Kizzy, but that difference wasn’t great enough to explain why the two hadn’t even become friends, let alone playmates, since they were the only slave children on the plantation. Kunta had noticed that whenever they passed near each other, each of them always acted as if they had not even seen the other, and he couldn’t figure out why—unless it was because even at their age they had begun to sense the custom that house slaves and field slaves didn’t mix with one another.

Whatever the reason, Noah spent his days out with others in the fields while Kizzy swept, dusted, polished the brass, and tidied up the massa’s bedroom every day—for Bell to inspect later with a hickory switch in her hand. On Saturdays, when Missy Anne usually came to call, Kizzy would somehow miraculously manage to finish her chores in half the time it took her every other day, and the two of them would spend the rest of the day playing—excepting at midday if the massa happened to be home for lunch. Then he and Missy Anne would eat in the dining room with Kizzy standing behind them gently fanning a leafy branch to keep away flies, as Bell shuttled in and out serving the food and keeping a sharp eye on both girls, having warned them beforehand, “Y’all lemme catch you even thinkin’ ’bout gigglin’ in dere wid massa, I’ll tan both yo’ hides!”

Kunta by now was pretty much resigned to sharing his Kizzy with Massa Waller, Bell, and Missy Anne. He tried not to think about what they must have her doing up there in the big house, and he spent as much time as possible in the barn when Missy Anne was around. But it was all he could do to wait until each Sunday afternoon, when church would be over and Missy Anne would go back home with her parents. Later on these afternoons, usually Massa Waller would be either resting or passing the time with company in the parlor, Bell would be off with Aunt Sukey and Sister Mandy at their weekly “Jesus meetin’s”—and Kunta would be free to spend another couple of treasured hours alone with his daughter.

When the weather was good, they’d go walking—usually along the vine-covered fencerow where he had gone almost nine years before to think of the name “Kizzy” for his new girlchild. Out beyond where anyone would be likely to see them, Kunta would clasp Kizzy’s soft little hand in his own as, feeling no need to speak, they would stroll down to a little stream, and sitting closer together beneath a shade tree they would eat whatever Kizzy had brought along from the kitchen—usually cold buttered biscuits filled with his favorite blackberry preserves. Then they would begin talking.

Mostly he’d talk and she’d interrupt him constantly with questions, most of which would begin, “How come...” But one day Kunta didn’t get to open his mouth before she piped up eagerly, “You wanna hear what Missy Anne learned me yestiddy?”

He didn’t care to hear of anything having to do with that giggling white creature, but not wishing to hurt his Kizzy’s feelings, he said, “I’m listenin’.”

“Peter, Peter, punkin eater,” she recited, “had a wife an’ couldn’ keep ’er, put ’er in a punkin shell, dere he kep’ ’er very well....”

“Dat it?” he asked.

She nodded. “You like it?”

He thought it was just what he would have expected from Missy Anne: completely asinine. “You says it real good,” he hedged.

“Bet you can’t say it good as me,” she said with a twinkle.

“Ain’t tryin’ to!”

“Come on, Pappy, say it fo’ me jes’ once.”

“Git ’way from me wid dat mess!” He sounded more exasperated than he really was. But she kept insisting and finally, feeling a bit foolish that his Kizzy was able to twine him around her finger so easily, he made a stumbling effort to repeat the ridiculous lines—just to make her leave him alone, he told himself.

Before she could urge him to try the rhyme again, the thought flashed to Kunta of reciting something else to her—perhaps a few verses from the Koran, so that she might know how beautiful they could sound—then he realized such verses would make no more sense to her than “Peter, Peter” had to him. So he decided to tell her a story. She had already heard about the crocodile and the little boy, so he tried the one about the lazy turtle who talked the stupid leopard into giving him a ride by pleading that he was too sick to walk.

“Where you hears all dem stories you tells?” Kizzy asked when he was through.

“Heared ’em when I was yo’ age—from a wise ol’ gran’mammy name Nyo Boto.” Suddenly Kunta laughed with delight, remembering. “She was bald-headed as a egg! Didn’t have no teeth, neither, but dat sharp tongue o’ her’n sho’ made up fer it! Loved us young’uns like her own, though.”

“She ain’t had none of ’er own?”

“Had two when she was real young, long time fo’ she come to Juffure. But they got took away in a fight ’tween her village an’’nother tribe. Reckon she never got over it.”

Kunta fell silent, stunned with a thought that had never occurred to him before: The same thing had happened to Bell when she was young. He wished he could tell Kizzy about her two half sisters, but he knew it would only upset her—not to mention Bell, who hadn’t spoken of it since she told him of her lost daughters on the night of Kizzy’s birth. But hadn’t he—hadn’t all of those who had been chained beside him on the slave ship been torn away from their own mothers? Hadn’t all the countless other thousands who had come before—and since?