Douglass’ Women (5 page)

“He didn’t kill me. But part of me was dead anyway. I worked for him for four more hard years. Covey never tried to beat me again. My service with him ended Christmas Day, 1835. Master hired me out again. But, blessedly, a year gone, my Master sent me here to Baltimore to live with his sister and learn a trade.”

I heard his words, but they were about the past. I wanted to live my life forward. Live it entwined with his.

“Until today, shipbuilding was fine. But, today, those carpenters became afraid that slaves, coloreds, were going to undercut their profit and steal their jobs. There had always
ways been mumblings, stirrings of resentment that I was there.”

He stopped talking, exhausted. I felt strange. This man had so much learning. I’d none. I wanted to ask how he learned to speak like a gentleman. Did he miss his Mam? His people? Were they left on the plantation? I wanted to know everything about him.

Instead, I blurted, “I have money. Enough maybe to set you free.”

He looked at me. Strange, like I was something he didn’t expect to see. Like my words were something he didn’t expect to hear.

Even tore up, all I could think was he was beautiful. God forgive me, I wanted to lay down beside him and have him hold me. Just hold me.

“My Master won’t sell me.”

“Even after this beating?”

“It’s his point of pride—to keep me.”

“What you mean?”

“I’m the trained, educated monkey. If I can’t be a carpenter, then, perhaps a blacksmith or a cobbler. I’m teachable. Miss Sophia once started to teach me reading and writing. Her husband forbade her. But the damage was done. I played with white schoolboys and tricked them into teaching me their lessons. That learning has caused me the most pain.”

He closed his eyes and already I saw him dead. Not battered on the outside but battered inside.

“Then I’ll help you escape.”

“Run away?”

“You thought it?”

“Yes. I ran once but was betrayed. Me and—” He sat
up, stopping short. “Now I’m not sure it’s best. City slavery is far gentler than the plantation. I pay my room and board. Give Master the rest of my wages. In return, I have some freedom to come and go. A fair compromise.”

“That’s not good enough for you.”

“Who are you to say?”

I jerked back. I could see the same fury he’d had at the docks. Wild, his hands balled. Seemed like he wanted to destroy something.

“Have you ever been in the fields? Been whipped? Seen your aunt whipped naked—seen clothes, flesh, sliced from her body—all because she didn’t love the Overseer who’d raped her?”

“No. I—”

“Have you seen your grandmother sent off with nothing? Left to die, starving, after Master had no more use for her? Have you known what it was like to have your mother die and not weep because slavery had made her a stranger? Or known that any day someone else could decide your fate—where you live, work, even when you die?”

Great weariness settled upon him. He fell back onto the cot. This wasn’t the man I saw standing proudly on the unbuilt ship. This man was low. Of course, he’d every right. Him beaten bad. Him living things I’d never know about. Maybe education made his feeling finer? But seeing him on my cot reminded me of my own tossing and turning, my own desire not to give up on dreams.

“You once tried to run.”

“I was betrayed by a fellow slave. Locked in jail for days. I thought they’d lynch me for certain.”

“But you lived. There’s a reason. You lived to try the journey one more time.” He didn’t speak. Kept laying like
dead. “I won’t betray you. I’ll help.” Then, boldly, I added, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

I sat back on my heels.

I could feel him looking me over. Looking at me, counting all the things I had against me. Age. No beauty. But I had will. Some money set aside. I could help. I stared at him straight on.

“You would do this? Help me?”

“Yes.”

“I never—”

Never what? I wondered. Had a woman like me? Had someone who wanted to help him, who believed in him? Mister Bailey—Freddy—wasn’t meant for quitting. He felt like that now. But that wasn’t the best in him.

“I’ll help you be free.” This time I knew he’d heard me clear. He drew up, looked down into my eyes, my very soul. I tried to show him all my loving. Show him he needn’t fear.

“I will think on this.”

Air burst out of me. This felt worse than any other pain. Worse than the time I’d fallen out the tree. Worse than burning my hand in the fire. Worse than the time my Pa laid down and didn’t get up. All those times together, still didn’t equal my hurt. I’d been fooling myself. Living dreams when the real world had other plans.

I looked at my room. At myself. Me, on my knees, beside this man.

I saw my room clear. Without this man in it, there wasn’t much. Even though a small space, by myself, I couldn’t fill it.

Family. I couldn’t think of anything more worth having.

Gently, I touched my hands to his knees. Looked up, pleading. His arms stayed fast at his sides. But he saw me. He looked hard into my eyes.

I licked my lips, knowing this moment was important. The course of my life was being decided in this room.

“The Africans that never made it to slavery. Them that died or were tossed overboard be at the bottom of the sea. We’ve got to live the lives they lost. Otherwise no sense for living at all.” I sighed. “No sense at all.”

He looked bewildered, no, surprised, by what I said. For a moment, I could see him thinking if he really knew me. I think he thought he did, but my words had unsettled him. Then his eyes clouded, like somebody had dropped a veil over them and he wasn’t seeing me at all.

“I will think on it.”

I didn’t see him for months. Lena had a litter of kittens. Two, black. One, calico like her. One, almost entirely white.

Spring turned to summer turned to fall. Maybe all that time Freddy be thinking of a way to be free without me?

Maybe he, finally, decided he can’t be free without my help.

All I know, one day, he knocked loud at the Baldwins’ kitchen door. His wounds had healed. He looked fine. Dressed in his best pants and tan shirt. He looked glorious, like the young man once again standing on a ship’s prow headed north.

He stepped into my kitchen. Handed me marigolds.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening, Freddy.”

That night—him sitting across the table, we made plans to escape to New York.

That night I started to breathe again. Without journeying a step, I’d found my promised land.

I couldn’t wait to tell Mam and show Mister Bailey, my Freddy, to my family. Soon I’d be building my best home.

After a bit we were both quiet. Freddy stirred his tea and stared at the kitchen fire. Lena settled in my lap. I stared at the only flowers a man had ever given me. When they dried, I’d scatter them to the bones.

Bright orange petals would float, then sink into the sea.

Love unlocks a woman’s heart. I always felt the truth of that. But nothing prepared me for opening like a petal for Freddy.

After dreaming of love, after thinking my dreams would never be true, he filled me. Made me a new kind of whole. I made him whole, too. Baptized him with tears. Tears of love. Happiness.

We met every Thursday in Miz Baldwin’s kitchen. I fixed dinner. Fed him my lightest biscuits. My sweetest yams. Poured him lemonade I’d squeezed with my own hands. And though nobody was in the house except us, we whispered plans. Whispered about free papers, the best route, the money needed for trains, the ship to New York. Though we never spoke of it, it would be my money that would ease things. Freddy’s Master allowed him to hire his time. But come Saturday, Freddy paid his Master three dollars. He be lucky if he got ten cents back. I had dollars—nearly a hundred—sewed inside my pillow. Dollars from years of sweat, mending my dresses, not buying myself pretty things and from laundering other folks’ clothes.

Freddy say he going to be my new half. He say Mam will understand if I send her less. He say, “God helps those who help themselves.”

I knew Freddy was right. We had a family to prepare
for. Still, my heart was sore. I paid a penny to a man who sent Mam my money and spoke my words of love to her.

Freddy say, “Let me write her.”

I duck my head like a baby bird. “Mam can’t read. Me either.”

The tallow candles burned low, but I could still tell Freddy wasn’t pleased. Like some shadow crossed his face, making his features flat, his eyes, without spark. He pushed back the chair, stood, and came round to me. Lifting me from my chair, he caught my hand, pressed it to his chest, swearing, “I’ll teach you to read. When we’re free, I’ll teach you.”

It was his holy promise. His vow.

I felt his breath on my face. Sweet breezes. Felt the strength in his hand, the calluses on the palms. I swayed toward him. His arms circled me like silk twine.

It be the first time I felt Freddy’s arms about me. My breath came in shallow bursts. I nearly swooned thinking there’s no other place I’d rather be.
Love be true
.

Kitchen fell away. Everyday life, just gone. Didn’t matter flies buzzed over the leftovers. Didn’t matter this wasn’t our house. Didn’t matter I should be wiping dishes, cleaning, attending to the starter yeast, the stove’s fire.

Feeling the fabric of his clothes through mine, I felt new feelings. Special feelings. Things I’d never felt. I didn’t stop to think how Freddy felt inside. I only knew I wanted to touch his outside. I’d healed his body once and, God forgive me, I wanted to touch his flesh in a new way. Touch him like I’d never touched anyone before.

I reached up, stroked his cheek. Then, more boldly, caressed
his hair. I felt his arms tighten about me. All this time I’d kept my eyes and mind on his chest, on the skin I knew was beneath his shirt.

“Anna—this isn’t proper.”

His voice sounded far off. Like he wasn’t really there at all. I knew he was trying to speak caution. But I didn’t care. In this strong man, I could sense a weakness. Weakness for me.

Me? Whoever thought me a shameful Delilah?

I stepped closer, laid my cheek on his chest. I smiled, feeling him breathing with me. Heat burst through me. Standing still, we were breathless, running toward life.

I felt the swelling between his legs. And I thought, just as clear, this man be my husband. For the first time, I felt so much a woman. No man had ever touched me special.

Did Freddy ever touch someone? This upset me so. Imagining Freddy holding another woman made me cry out. I looked up. His eyes be fixed on me. Staring, piercing my soul. Then, slowly, sweetly, his head came down and we kissed the world away.

Didn’t take long to undress, to move to my twilight-lit room. To my small cot. We sealed our union as husband and wife. Without saying so, we agreed to mate. Just jumped over the broom like common slaves. I’d sworn I’d wait for a church wedding. But my body had its own language, its promises to keep.

I could feel his trembling. His desire. His need working from inside his body to inside mine.

Freddy may not have loved me then. But he loved what was happening between us. When he was through, he held still,
deep inside me, kissing my face, my throat. He stroked my breasts and suckled them.

My body arched toward his mouth. My babies would suckle here, too. I moaned, cresting a wave, feeling I’d drown, then feeling Freddy holding me tighter, tighter. Then I felt him pushing inside me again. Pushing, pulling out, pushing in, like we were riding the sea together. He cried out that time, and I felt a sweet swoon and thought, “My real life just beginning.”

“Soon. We’ll be free.”

I stroked his back, thinking how nice he link our fates. But I already free. Always been free. Why he not remember that? I shrugged, feeling his ragged breath brushing past my hair and ear.

My fingers smoothed the scars on his back. I kissed the sweat on his neck. He groaned. Shameless, I rejoiced. Rejoiced he wanted to keep touching deep inside me.

Fine, I thought. This loving be just fine.

Love be true
.

Helping a slave escape means death.

I made Freddy a seaman’s outfit with my own hands. Sewed it with neat stitches and pressed it fine. Cutting my pillow, I pulled out my money resting between goose down. At the harbor, I bought two tickets for colored passage to New York.

Every step I took, I nearly faltered.
I could be hanged. Hanged
. The words would sing through my mind, unsettling me, making me clumsy, awkward, unable to sleep.

Miz Baldwin lost patience with me. She shouted, “I need you to be responsible. Respectable and responsible.” And I hung my head ’cause I knew I wasn’t respectable—I allowed Freddy liberties. I enjoyed him touching me. Me touching him.

I was still responsible. Just not to her. What did it matter to keep dusting chairs, scrubbing windows, polishing silver? It was my own house I wanted to keep.

Once Miz Baldwin surprised me, entering my room.

“What’s in that bag?”

I’d been folding me and Freddy’s escape clothes. I answered, “Laundry. My day-off job.”