Soon Be Free (16 page)

“Ma'am?” James asked, and Sabetha explained, “Homer went twenty, thirty feet down into this cave, where the water pooled.”

“Hunh-uh, hunh-uh, no cave.” Homer fidgeted like he was kneeling on an anthill.

“Homer's daddy—”

“My Sully,” Miz Pru interrupted, “he was
some
storyteller. Back when Homer was still wetting his britches, Sully used to tell about the devils and monster-beasts that lived in the caves, just a-waiting for poor little colored boys. Law, they was a lot of them, and they all had horns and eyes that burned in the dark, and teeth like needles and skin they slimed right outta.”

Homer twitched and moaned, and his mother's bones cracked as she knelt behind him on the ground to rub his neck. His head lolled on his shoulders.

“You tell the rest, Sabetha.”

“Homer had to go down into that cave, so scared
he was about frozen like a pillar of salt. On a good, sunny day, the light would shine from behind, and he'd see his way, mostly. But on a cloudy day like this one, he'd go down, down, down in that damp, skittery darkness. Imagine it.”

The skin on James's back crawled, and he drew himself into a tighter package.

“My poor boy Homer, he never could tell me just what he saw down there, 'least not in words, not after seven years when master gave up on him and sent him home to me. Didn't even reconize my own boy grown into a man.”

After a long, hushed time, James said, “I'll speak to Solomon, Homer. I expect he'll have thee stand guard all night while the rest of us sleep in the cave, if that's to thy liking.”

Homer sat up straight and still, as if he'd heard a distant bell. “I can do that,” he said. “I ain't afraid of nothin' 'cept that cave.”

• • •

On the fifth day out they reached the home of the Reverend Thomas Snowbird. Mrs. Snowbird had a girlish voice and two chattery daughters who flanked her, all of them in bell-shaped dresses that swayed as they walked. A shelf along the south wall was loaded with rough-hewn pottery and daguerreotypes of sternw ancestors, and the big family Bible. Mrs. Snowbird pressed a button behind the Bible, and suddenly the wall swung back to reveal a secret room.

“There's another just like it beyond that wall she said, nodding to each of her daughters, “isn't that right, girls?”

James was thrilled by what he saw: four cots with fluffy pillows and blankets, chamber pots, a blue-and-white ceramic washbasin and pitcher, and a small crate shelf stacked with books.

Will said, “Why, it's a regular pitcher and catcher place!”

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Snowbird said.

“A pitcher to wash with, and a chamber pot to catch—well, I reckon you know what.”

Mrs. Snowbird's hands fluttered around her red face. “I declare.”

And what was this beautiful thing that James spotted over in the corner? A huge galvanized tub. A bath!

While the ladies settled in the back room and the men in the first room, Mrs. Snowbird and her daughters boiled kettles of water, which the Reverend Mr. Snowbird carried and poured into the tubs. James heard giggles beyond the wall as Callie sloshed around in her tub. As for the men, they drew straws for the first bath, and Will won. Eagerly he ripped off his filthy clothes and dropped them into a miserable heap. Something with at least six legs crawled out from under the heap.

James caught sight of Will's bare stump for the first time. The leg was ghost white and stopped
about halfway to the knee. It had healed in jagged lumps of florid flesh.

All at once Will grew self-conscious and flung himself over the side of the tub, making a whale's splash.

“Sorry,” James murmured.

“No need.” Will soaped himself with a grim look on his face until his whole chest was covered with lather and clouds of lather floated on the gray wash water.

After Will's and James's baths, the tub was refilled for Solomon and Homer. Solomon was used to hot baths from living with Dr. Olney's family, but this bath was Homer's first soaker. Modestly he kept his shirt tied around his middle until he'd lowered himself into the water still foamy from Solomon's bath. Once he hit bottom, the shirt came flying out of the tub. Homer slid under until his knees were up against the wall of the tub and water bobbled around his chin.

“Ahhh,” he said, “ahhh,” as Solomon poured another kettle of hot water into the tub before the bath got too cold to be pure heaven. “Ahhhhh . . .”

On the way back to Lawrence, Howie sang along with some of the worst classic country-western music still permitted on the airwaves—Willie Nelson and Tammy Wynette and Hank Williams. He had a nasal twang to beat all of them. The rest of us speculated on the possibilities that Faith Cloud had opened up.

Mike said, “Let's say Faith was this Straightfeather guy's great-great-great-granddaughter.”

“Had to be back six generations,” Jeep said. “Do the math.”

“Right, so let's say Straightfeather was about forty-eight when Miz Lizbet died in 1857.”

“That would put him taking his first breath in 1809.”

It was too fast for me. I was still counting back six generations on my fingers. I do people, not numbers; numbers make me break out in a cold sweat. I said, “And let's say dear old neighbor Mattie steals Faith Cloud's prized family possession, that book that just happens to be in Mattie's suitcase at my house.”

“Doesn't compute,” Jeep said. “What about the TV and VCR?”

Mike was turned around, hanging over the front seat like a drunken sailor. “They're for cover so she wouldn't notice the book gone too soon. Say more, Dana.”

“Mattie reads in the book about a promise the government made to the Delaware tribe but never kept. It's all spelled out in a document or something. Mattie wants to find that sucker for—what for, guys?”

“Maybe she's a Delaware,” Jeep mused.

“I doubt it. Faith would have said so. Yeow!” Mike's head hit the roof of the car as Howie flew over a bump.

Then Howie finally said something worth listening to besides his thumping country-western beat on the dashboard. “Can't you find some old Indian lying around Lawrence?”

It wasn't a bad idea, but you can't let Howie have too much credit. “Just how do you find such a guy, Howie?”

Mike said, “Easy. You put an ad in the paper. ‘Wanted: Indian. Must be over 120 years old.' ”

I laughed. “Great, but what if a Cherokee or Kiowa turns up? We've got to be more specific. Besides, some people are offended by the term
Indian.”

“Yeah, like the term
Negro
insults black people
now,” Jeep said, “even though it's cooler than anything else they called us back in Miz Lizbet's day.”

“Hmmn, this is tough,” Mike said. “Okay, how's this: ‘Wanted: old Delaware—' ”

“Can't say ‘old.' Say ‘senior citizen.' ”

“ ‘Wanted: Senior-citizen Delaware man—' ”

“That's sexist. Say ‘person.' ”

“ ‘Wanted: Senior-citizen Delaware person of Native-American ancestry.' ”

“ ‘Ancestry' suggests racism. Say ‘persuasion.' ”

“I give up.” Mike turned around and propped his heels on the dashboard.

• • •

My parents were both out when we got back to Firebird House. This was my big chance! I raced upstairs to the Berks' room to have a good look at Faith Cloud's stolen book.

The room was still a mess of rumpled sheets and towels and candy wrappers, but all of the Berks' things were gone. Dad later told me that the police had packed everything up and had taken it all as evidence.

Now, more than ever, I needed an actual Indian. I told my dad what I knew he'd love to hear, that I'd suddenly gotten deeply interested in Plains Indian history, and I asked if anyone in his department at the university studied local tribes, like, oh, I don't know, maybe . . . the Delaware?

Even better. He had a graduate student who was
doing a combined dissertation in history and anthropology on Native American folk customs, and she was interviewing several people to get their stories. Her name was Tracy. When I phoned her, she had great news:

“I've got just the man for you, Dana. His name is Bo Prairie Fire. He's an old Delaware Indian, and he's very willing to talk. Talks nonstop, in fact.”

“Great!”

“There's a catch,” the girl said playfully. “Mr. Bo Prairie Fire just doesn't make a whole lot of sense.”

James thought little of the insistent rap on the door until one of the Snowbird girls said, “Hush!” and slid the secret panel shut. Now the little room felt like a cage and James an animal not fit to roam free. He listened closely.

“Good day, Reverend Snowbird. I regret the intrusion, Mrs. Snowbird, this being the Sabbath Day, but I've got reason to believe you're, shall we say, exceeding the capacity of your household.”

James motioned for the men to come listen at the wall, and Callie tiptoed over as well. Ears pressed to the movable wall, they heard an astonishing conversation that said nothing and everything at the same time.

First Mrs. Snowbird said, “Have a seat, Mayor Blanchard. Lettie, bring the mayor a piece of your blueberry cobbler.”

“I don't want to put you out, Mrs. Snowbird.”

“Nonsense. Lettie Lou puts up the finest blueberries. I tell you, a treat is about to delight your tongue.”

The girls scurried across the kitchen after the cobbler, a plate, a fork, maybe a cup of tea, then the
mayor's voice came through clearly. “I'm no doughface, mind you, no advocate, I say no
advocate,
of slavery. I'd never let that peculiar institution flourish in my town or anywhere else in the state of Indiana if I had a say.”

“I'm sure you wouldn't, Mayor Blanchard.”

The mayor cleared his throat. “But there are laws, Pastor Snowbird, and the one I can quote you chapter and verse—if you'll forgive my using church terminology in vain—has to do with how it's against the law to shelter runaway Negroes who are legally, I say
legally,
the property of some of our brethren dwelling in the South.”

Reverend Snowbird said, “There's law and there's
law.”

A plate clattered down on the table, followed by the bustling of skirts and crinolines as the Snowbird girls apparently settled into chairs.

“Indeed. Yet, I remind you, Pastor, there are fine gentlemen not unlike yourself with bounties on their heads. Perhaps you've heard about the Reverend Mr. John Rankin over in Ohio?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“Ah,” the mayor said, his mouth full of cobbler. The next few words were garbled. “. . . slave owners are offering a reward of two thousand five hundred dollars for the Reverend Rankin's head. Not his head, per se, although his assassination has been mentioned in some circles.”

Mrs. Snowbird said, “Oh mercy on men who would do such a dastardly thing.”

“Quite right.” Mayor Blanchard apparently took a sip of tea, for James heard the cup clang in the saucer. “Let me be straightforward. I come, shall we say, as an ambassador representing your parishioners. They believe, I say they
truly
believe, that this house they provide for you and yours, free of any cost whatsoever, is modest, to their eternal shame. One would say it's just about big enough for a man and his wife and two or three robust children. Any more occupants than that, why, your church family begins to wonder if they're providing for you, shall we say, inadequately. Do I make myself clear?”

“I understand you perfectly, Mayor Blanchard,” the pastor said. “Of course, you're welcome to lift that tablecloth or look under the beds or in my daughters' trousseau trunks just in case we might be hiding Negroes. I recommend you tap each wall, sir, to be sure no one's lurking behind them.”

James heard Callie suck in her breath as the mayor said, “Why, Reverend Snowbird, I'd never doubt the word of a man of God. I only speak for the good people of this town and the members of Countryside Christian Church, to whom you are, shall we say, beholden.”

“Thank you for your concern,” the pastor said.

Just then Homer dropped his red rubber ball.
Thud!
It scuttled under a bed. James held his breath until he heard Lettie Lou yell, “Rats! Papa, you promised you'd set a trap.”

“Yes, Papa,” echoed her sister. The rockers thumped as she leaped from her chair. “Lettie and I will just die if we have to come face-to-face with a ring-tailed rat. Die, Papa, we'll just swoon and die right here on the floor.” She stamped her foot a few solid times while Homer slid under the bed to recapture his prized ball.

The mayor said, “It might not be a rat at all, little ladies. We had a raccoon in our attic just this past winter that gave Mrs. Blanchard apoplexy. Just the same,” the mayor said, his voice turning hard once again, “I believe I'd set a trap.” Then there was the scraping of chairs and the mayor speaking again. “Well, Mrs. Blanchard is waiting for me to escort her over to Sutton's mill. I shall take leave of you fine people. Lettie Lou, your cobbler was ambrosia, pure
ambrosia,
I must say.”

After the door closed, there came a light
tappitytap
on the sliding wall: all clear. Only then did James breathe in and out, steady and regular.

Mr. Bo Prairie Fire lived in a homeless shelter. He could have been ninety, or maybe only sixty, and he was about one notch short of totally crazy. They say being homeless does that to a person.

On Tuesday the grad student, Tracy, and I went to visit Mr. Prairie Fire on the second-floor screened porch of the shelter. A dozen people stood around us, blowing cigarette smoke out through the screens. They wore every odd piece of clothing you can imagine: paint-crusted overalls, ski masks that left only their noses and mouths exposed, skin-tight Lycra. One lady had four skinny fur bodies draped over her shoulders with black stub noses, and sad eyes that had seen it all. She said they were her fox martens, a wedding present from her husband about sixty years before. Besides that, nobody had much to say except Mr. Prairie Fire, who couldn't be stopped. I scribbled notes while he spoke like a tape at dub speed.