Douglass’ Women (20 page)

“Ah, like the good shepherd.” Douglass laughed.

“‘Come live with me and—’”

“‘—be my love.’” I laughed with him. “You, too, admire the good shepherd’s wooing?”

“Indeed.” It was Douglass’ turn to stand:

“Come live with me and be my love And
we will all the pleasures prove… .”

“Exactly.” I giggled. He was flirting with me. I wanted
to shout, celebrate. Douglass was flirting with me.

He relaxed into his chair.

Jean Baptiste had taught me how passion could darken a man’s eyes, make his eyelids heavy, half-closed. Douglass seemed to uncover me, render me bare.

The ship’s bells sounded midnight.

“I should leave.” Douglass stood, bowed formally. “Good night, Miss Assing.”

Miss Assing
. I stretched out my hand. “Please. Ottilie. I call you Douglass. By all rights, you should call me Ottilie.”

“It’s not the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not the same, Miss Assing,” he said, fiercely. “You know that it is so.”

“No. I do not know it is so.”

His smile was a mockery. “I have no leave to forbid a white woman what she may or may not do.” He tilted his head. “Good night, Miss Assing.”

I felt shaken. Weren’t we friends? Companions? Tonight, I thought I saw that we
—I—
meant something more.

Did he think it wrong of me to call him Douglass rather than Mr. or Herr Douglass? Why didn’t he say so? Or was he complying with society’s notions that a white woman could call him what she liked? Yet he, a colored man, must stick to proprieties. Were we not beyond that? Was he patronizing me? Or was he trying to make me feel guilty?

True, for nearly a year, I’d called him Douglass and never once, until tonight, offered my common name. But it wasn’t quite the same. I didn’t call him Frederick. Always
Douglass. Like I called Garrison, Garrison. No difference. I treated both men the same.

I felt frustrated, restless. Nonetheless, I prepared for bed. I didn’t trust my expressions or actions to the common ship. Indeed, part of me wanted to climb to the crow’s nest and scream.

Enough people whispered about me already. Like a good girl, I lay in bed. It was small, uncomfortable, save for the rocking of the ship.

I heard Douglass in the next cabin. Many nights he stayed up late. Many nights I heard him pacing. Many nights I timed my breaths to his stride—back and forth, back and forth. His stride and the rocking sweep of the ship lulled me. But tonight I imagined him pacing and not thinking great thoughts, but pacing with annoyance.

I who had tried to do right was in the wrong. I had
not
thought matters through.

Had nothing he’d done or said been authentic to him and me? How sad. When all my thoughts and actions toward him were as natural as breathing.

I pressed my fist tight against my mouth and cried.

I must’ve fallen asleep. For I dreamed Oluwand and Anna were in my room. Both were standing by my bed, staring down at me.

“Go away, ghosts,” I murmured, fearful they would pounce. But neither woman moved.

Moonlight glinted through the porthole. I focused on the light, hopeful it was a beacon.

Douglass. Herr Douglass, I must speak with you.”

All morning, I’d lain in wait for him. Waited until I heard him open his cabin door, then I quickly opened mine, confronting him before he moved on deck.

“Please, I must speak with you.”

He stepped back into his cabin and bowed me inside.

His cabin was not as large as mine but the furnishings were similar. What was dissimilar was the smell of him—some sweet spice he used in his shaving lather or pomade. His desk was cluttered with papers. His script was sloping, elegant. Perfect penmanship. All the more amazing for a self-taught slave. I stopped, appalled by my thoughts. How patronizing. No wonder Herr Douglass didn’t trust me.

Trust—that was it. A white woman need only cry out to have a colored man hanged. Why should he have such trust? I hadn’t earned it.

He watched me. Not saying anything.

“Accept my apologies, Herr Douglass. I didn’t mean to condescend.”

“No apology needed, Miss Assing.”

“Please. Ottilie. In the truest sense, I wish to be your friend.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“In America, perhaps not. But we’re on a ship, between two continents, in a space that no country rules. No law abides other than Nature’s. Surely, here, we can be friends. Human to human. Man to woman.”

“Not colored? Or white?”

“What does it matter? We share human nature.”

“When you look at me, don’t you see my color?”

We were inches apart and I thought:
He has offered me a test
. Answer rightly, and we may be friends. Answer wrongly, and a wall will rise between us.

I turned his hand over and back. I cradled his palm. “I see color. As much as I see colors in the sky, the sea, in the plumage of birds. Your hand, light tan on one side and burnished copper on the other. As an artist, a painter, how could I fail to see beauty in these colors? I can’t lie and call myself blind.”

His eyes clouded. His hand closed in a fist about mine.

“I think,” he spoke slowly, “the world should be colorblind. Not see brown, black, tan, or white. Actions comprise character. Character is how each man should be judged.”

I’d failed the test. But I was furious. “Judge, yes. By actions, deeds. Judge as you wish. But thoughts and heart matter, too. You mustn’t be blind to these. In the world, there is the physical. Shape, color, and form. When you look, do you not
see
me?” My sharp tone had become a gentle pleading.

“Yes.”

“What do you see?”

“White skin, smooth as porcelain. Red lips. Brows of gold.”

“Then close your eyes. Touch me like a blind man.” I
pressed his fingertips to my lips. I felt his trembling. Felt the tips of his fingers caress my brow, my cheek. Touch my hair. “Do you really want to be blind to how I look?”

“You’re too smart for me, Miss Assing.”

“Now it is you who condescends to me.”

“I must ask you to leave.”

“Your color is what makes you beautiful to me. I
will
see. I’ll not give that up.”

He pulled away, bent, his palms flat on his desk. His chin resting on his chest.

Douglass desired me. I must make him admit it. I bent over him, my cheek against his back. My arms about his waist. “I am not nor will I ever be a Southern Mistress. I will not be an angel turned into a devil like your old Mistress. I will be, if you’ll allow it, someone more.” Whispering, my breath caressed his ear. “I’m a German woman—half Jew, half Christian. I, too, have been an outcast.”

He spun around; I stumbled back.

“Your parents chose. My mother was raped by my father. A father who owned me as he owned his horses, his house, and fields. Half black, half white, I am still the nigger. Had I but one drop of my mother’s blood, I would still be a slave.”

“My parents chose. But I didn’t.”

“You can hide.” He gripped my wrist. I cried out. He was standing over me, my arm bent awkwardly. His tone, low. “Behind that pretty white skin, you can hide. Behind nationality, you can hide. You can be German with no coloring to indicate your Jewishness. I’m not even entitled to be called an American. I’m a thing. A piece of property, Miss Assing.”

He could break my arm with no more care than he’d give a stick of wood. I was terrified. But if I screamed, everything would change.

I told myself: it is Douglass’ pain that gives him his persuasive power. It’s his rage that makes him the greatest abolitionist of all time.

“You’re a man.” I spoke softly. “A beautiful man. I’ll not allow myself to be blinded to your beauty both inside and out.”

He let me go. He stared beyond me at private demons.

I smoothed my dress. Swayed with the rocking ship. Without thinking, I stroked his hair, soft waves of indigo. He inhaled sharply.

“You should go, Miss Assing.”

“Ottilie.”

He gripped my hand, stopping my caress. “You should go.”

Midnight, another restless night. Another new day. Ocean and horizon stretching endlessly. All day, I possessed a secret joy. Though he was loath to admit it, Douglass desired me. Why shouldn’t he? Emotions can’t be chained. I remembered Mother saying, “Paint emotion, Ottilie. And the world will be at your feet.”

All day, in the cabin, I painted (my room was rank with fumes, but I didn’t care). I was painting my desire. My need of him. There were no shapes in my art, only color. A riot of warm blacks and browns. Dramatic. Engaged. Passionate.

Sweating, light-headed, I fell back across my bed. The swelling waves made the colors move. And in my mind, each brush stroke, each splash of paint shimmered and took
new form. But it was always Douglass. Douglass speaking. Reading. Thinking. Desiring me.

Amour
—love—was the essence of freedom.

He desired me
. I held on to this talisman. Imagined no one else was on board ship except for me and the lion in the cabin next door. I heard him pacing, quick strides in a confined room. I imagined his hair lifting ever so slightly, haloing his head like a mane. I smelled him—oak and cinnamon. I saw him. His shadow captured by unsteady candlelight; his white shirt unbuttoned against the musty heat. Brown fingers held a gray quill; he stopped, dipped it into ink and scratched marks across a thick, ivory page. Brown table, brown-paneled walls, brown man; behind him, a wood bed dressed in white linens. I waited and waited until I heard nothing more. No movement. Stillness. Quiet as a dormouse.

I hoped he hadn’t locked his door. If the door was unlocked, surely it meant something. Meant something had passed between us.

I unbraided my hair, threw on my robe with its silk ribbons and lace. I was amazed by myself. Yet like the moon pulling waves, this man pulled me toward him.

The wind on deck nearly knocked me over. In the darkness, I felt for his door’s handle. I turned; the cold metal gave way. I darted inside—a ghost blowing in from the sea. I closed the door and held my breath. Moonlight guided me to Douglass sleeping, his arms thrown back over his head. I looked down upon him, wondering what he dreamed.

I meant only to have a look at him. He wore no night
rail and though the white sheet covered his waist and below, I could tell by how the cotton molded against him, he was bare entirely. I needed him. Wanted my flesh to cover his. White skin for white cotton.

I untied my robe. Lifted my night rail above my head. He’d left his door open. How could I have not offered myself to him? Made him believe he could love me without fear.

I bent over him. My breasts hardened as they brushed against his chest. I pressed my lips against his. His eyes opened. He saw me—
Ottilie
. As real as I’d ever been.

I stroked his manhood and felt it rise within my hand. Heat filled me. I lay beside him, one leg across his thigh, my chest atop his, my face buried in his throat. My breath and body had their own rhythm. I wanted him to hold me, press himself close inside me.

His fingers combed my hair. “Spun gold. Like Rapunzel’s.”

I kissed him and this time, he kissed back.

He cupped my face. I pulled back. Just a little.

Even in dim moonlight, I knew my skin, my blue eyes were clear. Douglass knew well enough whom he was choosing.

His hands stroked my breasts. Then, his tongue reached up to flick my pink tip. I moaned. Douglass watched me. Just for a moment. Judging my passion. His mouth reached for my breast and I pushed my flesh inside his wet mouth. Still, he watched me. I couldn’t help squirming against him, feeling desire, feeling his body was a new reality for me. I straddled him. Guided his brown shaft into my whiteness. I whimpered. Frederick tried to lift me away. “Please.” I stroked where our bodies met, his black
hair, coarse against my blond curls. I rocked against him, feeling his manhood stiffen again inside me. “You are my first and only love.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. An invisible barrier fell away. His hands reached for my buttocks and I arched against him.

His darkness was intoxicating. My hair fell forward, curtaining us. I touched a nipple to his lips. He sucked and as he did, I rocked against him.

“Be blind,” I murmured. “Deaf, too, if need be. Be blind and love me.”

How hard it was to sneak back to my cabin. I wanted to stroll the deck, shouting my love to the stars. Douglass’ soul, flesh, and seed had entered me.

Giddy, I embraced myself. I didn’t wash. I wanted to keep his lingering scent, his fluid on my thighs.

I curled in bed, marveling that I understood a new language. Understood the heaven when two bodies became one. Intimate, engaging, and engaged. The Romantics hadn’t prepared me for this rough and marvelous passion.

My fingers pressed into the flesh between my thighs. A poor substitute for Douglass’ body riding mine. He kissed me everywhere. My tongue licked the scars on his back. I wept for every lash he’d ever received, every hardship he endured. Then, he rode me. Deep, hard, until I exulted with pleasure. “I’m not a slave, Ottilie. No one’s slave.” His shaft moved slowly, maddeningly, in and out of me. “I’m no one’s slave. Say it.” I could barely see or speak. My hands clasped his back, trying to press him deep inside. “Say it.” My stomach pressed his. Still, his body moved slowly in and out of me. “You’re no one’s slave,” I whispered, desperate. “I’m the equal of any man.” He plunged deep. “Beyond equal.”

Sweet memory. Muscles contracted about my fingers. I exhaled with pleasure, feeling new dampness releasing from
me. I knew I should sleep. But love had given me another gift—memories—and if I touched myself just so … if I imagined my dark lover stroking, caressing within me, my body would respond, shuddering, delighted. Yes, a poor substitute for Douglass. But greedy for loving, rocked and lulled by ocean waves, I touched myself again. Ah, just so.