Grace (11 page)

14
/ FLASH

Conyers, Georgia, 1847

B
LACK NIGHT SURROUNDS
us—Johnny and I—as we sit near Cynthia's back door. It's open, a little, and the new gambling parlor is just on the other side. At dusk a triangle of light seeped out and soaked the porch floor where it got trapped and spread to the steps and out to the dirt where it colored our game. I can see better now.

I get down on my knees, balance myself on one hand, and shoot my marble across the dirt. Missed the one I was aiming at.

As much as I love our games, I know me and Johnny cain't do this forever. Cain't play forever. Johnny'll grow up soon and go the way that we have to—blacks and whites. I spoke to Albert last week about his South. About leaving here once and for all like Hazel woulda wanted me to.

He said we had two choices. The Railroad, north, or these Freedom Fighters, south.

“Both got problems,” he said. “The Railroad's made of good people with safe places to get negroes out of this country. Not to Boston. Negroes is slaves there, too.
North
means Canada.

“Problem is, the Underground Railroad, north, don't start 'til Virginia. Who gon' get us to Virginia from Georgia? There ain't no
secret maps to show us how. It ain't organized for us here. We're too far south.”

Albert had heard of a newer railroad to freedom that comes twice a year, fall and spring. And that's only maybe.

“It can take us up to Virginia,” he said. “More dangerous and a longer journey. Could leave us worser off, too.”

Our second choice was these Freedom Fighters going south.

“Law ain't looking for negroes heading to Mexico like they do for ones going north. But the way south has been weakened in the last two years. Slave owners are getting wise to the trick. Fighters used to go around asking owners to hire their slaves for the week. Paid top dollar for borrowed labor, but not enough to buy a slave outright, and when that slave never got returned, the Fighters and their property had a one-week head start.

“Didn't take long for word to spread that owners was getting duped, their slaves kidnapped, for the cost of a week's wage. So for a long while, couldn't nobody—a kidnapper or employer—hire out a slave. Not even for a day.

“The Freedom Fighters had to change their method 'cause nothing was gon' stop 'em from risking their lives for God's will—to set the captives free—so they started taking 'em. Outright stealing 'em. Took whole families. Made their own meshwork of willing men, and fed and watered steeds, lined the way from here to Texas, racing the devil. That became the fear of slave owners, the threat—having their property kidnapped.

“So Fighters started moving into communities, building relationships with owners, would hire a couple of their new neighbor's slaves for the day, return 'em back. Hire 'em for two more days, return 'em. A week, return 'em, kneading the leather soft so that the next time they hired slaves, they'd take 'em. Weren't no going back, neither. For nobody. To the life they built or the people they knew.

“The Fighters are more careful now. Don't go near places they been. They ain't been through Conyers before. Are set to do it in the next six
months. A pass through only,” he said. “An arrangement made by the Mexican girl, Soledad.”

“I know her,” I told Albert. “I mean, I met her.” She left here raging at Cynthia with a mask of grief and the devil in her eyes.

“Her father was a Freedom Fighter in Mexico and she said when these men come, we'll know who they are by the orange stripe on their satchels. Orange, like sunsets and sweet fruit—the taste of fought-for freedom.”

J
OHNNY HUNKERS DOWN
next to me and shoots his marble. It flies past mine skipping a trail over the soft dirt. It leaves a dotted line behind. Click.

I squat on the last step behind Cynthia's brothel. Inside, a handful of customers hoot and holler every time dice shake or get flung across the floor. Fists slam down and glass cups jump from broken tables. Crumpled dollars wave in the air to get in on the next game. A voice yells, “Seven!”

A young man is cheering 'cause he bet against the roller. The rest of the men inside moan 'cause they lost. An angry man throws his hands up and yells to the only winner, “You cheated! You and the roller in it together.”

The accusing starts a scuffle of flat shoes sliding back and forth on the wood floor. I bend over the last step and lay on my side, stretch further to see better, see who the winner was. The new house dealer, Mr. Shepard, say, “Jeremy, g'wan git yer money. You won it fair and square.” The low light hides his face but even through shadows his walk is confident. Jeremy steps into the light.

He takes my breath away.

He strolls out onto our porch in no particular hurry, lights a cigarette, and leans over the railing above us. His skin is buttery smooth like a pot of sweet cream. (Everybody else here is plucked chickens.) Everything on him is perfectly placed—his square jaw, his crinkled and
full lips. They look like they belong on a black man, soft as pillows. He licks 'em and I tingle inside.

“How do?” he say.

I turn back around. I don't want to see his pretty lips no more.

I point at Johnny so he would hand me a marble but Johnny don't know what I'm talking about 'cause I already got both mine.

Jeremy say, “I've never seen a pretty girl play marbles.”

My mouth drops open. I close it.

He comes down the steps, flicks his cigarette out his hand, and stoops down next to me. “Can I play?”

I cain't talk, cain't move my head to look at him. Johnny hands him his marbles.

“So what do I do?” he say to Johnny. “Just flick it?”

Johnny nods.

He say to me, “How about you, beautiful? What do you say I do? Is there a secret?”

“I don't know a secret, suh.”

“Everybody's got secrets. Even the boy here's got a secret.”

“Yes, suh.”

He sticks his hand out near mine for me to shake it. He say, “Not ‘sir.' Just Jeremy.”

I shake his hand and a giggle slips from my mouth. “Naomi, suh. I mean. My name is just Naomi.”

“You been out here the whole time, Naomi? I reckon you my lucky charm.”

My cheeks lift on their own.

“Pretty smile,” he say and stands up, lighting a new cigarette.

He reaches in his pocket and pulls something out. “Want to see 'em?”

Before I say yes, he kneels next to me again, shows me a set of dice in his hand. “Bought 'em in Louisiana,” he say. “Can you believe they're carved from knuckle bones? Made into perfect little cubes.”

One of the dice got four black eyes showing, the other got two eyes up. I touch one—without thinking.

“Would you like to roll?” he say.

“Yes, suh . . . I mean, yes.”

He puts his knuckle bones in my hand and I clutch 'em and get ready to throw 'em but before I do, he grabs my arm, tugs me up. “Come with me.”

I rein back on him straight away, almost make him fall down.

“I just want you to roll one for me,” he say.

“I cain't go in there!”

“Aw, come on. I won't let nothing bad happen.”

“You asking or telling me to go?”

He smiles the softest, most kindest smile I ever did see and say, “Asking.”

I look back at Johnny and he nods and smiles for me to go. Jeremy tugs me again and I let him take me. When we walk in the parlor, it goes from loud to quiet. “Fellas,” Jeremy announce, “this here's my lucky charm.”

A man yells something but Jeremy puts his hand up and speaks over 'im. “I know women ain't allowed in our game.”

“Or niggers,” another man shouts.

“But as my lucky charm, I'm including her.”

“I ain't playing wit no nigger,” the same man say.

Dealer acts like he cain't hear none of what's going on. “Put your bets down,” he say, starting the room into a frenzy of noise again. I step back into the corner, listen to all of 'em yelling numbers, waving money. Arguing starts about who's s'posed to be the next roller. Two of 'em get to shoving. Dealer say, “The girl's g'wan roll.”

I shake my head, tell Jeremy, “I ain't really the lucky charm.”

“All you have to do is throw, Naomi. Bubba,” he say to his chubby friend. “Give me a few more dollars so we can bet on my lucky charm.”

Bubba hesitates.

“You know I'm good for it,” Jeremy say. “And you only here one more night. Let's go for broke.”

Bubba throws his money down.

“Then, go!” somebody yell. “Roll the dice!”

I flinch.

Everybody's watching me.

My two bones is laying on the ground, waiting. Jeremy say, calmly, “Go ahead. Pick 'em up.”

But I'm scared to.

“You'll just shake 'em in your hand, then throw 'em out there and make sure they hit the back wall.”

I cup the dice in my hands, close one hand over the other, and shake.

“Can't use two hands!” a man yell.

I drop 'em both. They scatter.

Dealer say, “No roll.”

“Let somebody else do it,” another man say.

Dealer picks up the dice, gives 'em to me again. “Come on, darling. Your roll.”

Jeremy leans over me, touching me with his body, whispering in my ear. “Just relax,” he say. “Feel 'em in your hand. Shift 'em around in there. You feel 'em?”

“Uh huh,” I say.

“Now shake 'em. However you want. A little or a lot.” I move 'em a little. Rock 'em in my hand. “You shaking 'em?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, think seven or eleven. You thinking it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now cock your hand back.”

I do.

“Throw 'em!” He push my hand forward and I open it, let the dice fly out, blurring their dots in twirls. They crash into each other, hit the wall, roll back and finally on their sides.

Four eyes. Three.

“Seven!” the dealer shouts. Jeremy hollers, excited.

C
HEERS BOUNCE OFF
the walls. Johnny stands in the doorway jumping up and down. I do, too, 'cause almost everybody's cheering. Jeremy points at me, tells the crowd. “My lucky charm.”

“Let her roll her number,” say the man who didn't want me to roll in the first place.

I roll an eight—my point, my number. Now, I got to keep rolling my number to win for those who bet on it.

Jeremy puts everything on eight. He say, “Eight is good. Real good. There's three ways to roll an eight.”

Most everybody else in the room bet on eight, too. I roll eight four more times.

I get the dice again.

“Ain't no way she'll roll another eight,” a old man say. “I'm moving my bet.”

From the front part of the brothel house, I hear Cynthia's voice calling, “Naomi!”

“I gotta go,” I say to Jeremy.

“You cain't go.”

But I do.

He looks in my eyes, smiles that smile. “Well, you cain't go without this.” He unfolds his wad of money, separates out about half his winnings, gives it to me.

“I cain't take this,” I say.

“Could be your ticket outta here,” he whispers. “Besides, we're a good team. You and me. I can't cheat my teammate.” He yells to the men, “Y'all ain't gon' wear out my good fortune. Say bye to my lucky charm.”

“Naw, no,” the old man betting against me say. “She gotta keep rolling and crap out like the rest of us.”

The dealer picks up the dice. “She say she's done. Who's next?”

“Dealer, you ain't fair,” the old man say.

Jeremy pulls me up to a stand and goes with me to the door, pushes it open ahead of me. Johnny's waiting across the yard, playing marbles with hisself.

“Naomi!” Cynthia calls again.

Jeremy comes all the way out to the porch with me.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

“So . . . you think it's wrong?” he say.

“For a negro to gamble wit whites?” I say.

“For a man like me to fancy a beautiful woman like you.”

I hide my smile with a turn down the stairs. He catches my swinging hand, stops me, and say, “I won't tell.”

Everything inside me flutters.

The back door bursts open and Bubba comes out holding the note of a long burp. He bear hugs Jeremy, lifts him up, and carries him back through the door. Jeremy's eyes stay on mine 'til his door closes.

I teeter on the stairs. Filled.

15
/ OCTOBER 1862

Tallassee, Alabama

T
HE
“A
MERICAN
” C
IVIL
War started a year ago, April, and I don't know what it means to be American.

I'm not.

The war began when a Frenchman, Pierre Beauregard, a one-star general, ordered his troops to open fire on Americans with fifty cannons at Fort Sumter in Charleston, South Carolina.

Even though folks in town proudly call Pierre “Little Napolean” nobody calls him French but me, 'cause I'm fair. They don't call him French here 'cause he white and rich and born here . . . mostly. His family was of a French colony in Louisiana, and that French family line led him there from France. He didn't speak English 'til he was twelve.

So, I don't know how many generations on American soil you got to live before you're called “American,” or if English has to be your first language.

No matter, negroes may always be foreigners.

But I'm here.

And tonight, the fall of white light and gray shadow from the moon showers me as I pour myself through the slaves' quarters—one-room shacks built in a semi-circle around a patch of dirt. I coast along a path
of balding grass, trodden over and worn by cats and people. The wispy blades shift as my body brushes by.

I pass door after door. Ada Mae's is the third one on the right. Charles's and Josey's is the seventh or eighth—the last one on the end.

The path continues on without me, leading from Josey's to a hole in the woods where everybody dumps their leftover food for the critters to finish.

I pass through Josey's door and round the corners of the main room, blowing by a sheet that hangs from the ceiling. It divides Charles's part from Josey's. But right now, they're sitting together at the table eating hot stew.

Charles gets up and checks the shuttered window, makes sure it's shut, puts a blanket around Josey, then sits back down. She brings her legs up on her stool and crosses 'em there, pulls her blanket tighter.

The dull scraping of their wooden spoons catch most of the stew left at the bottom of their bowls. The chicken bones have been slid out of the way to get to the vegetables. Charles finishes his meal and waits for Josey so he can clear the table.

She say, “That boy, Everett, made Ada Mae fall again today. Can you believe she call him sweet? Sweet!”

“Nobody knows the ways of the heart,” Charles say.

“That ain't heart, that's just dumb.”

“Well, boys are good at that.”

“Be better if they was good at somethin else.”

Josey slides her spoon across the bowl, back and forth while Charles reaches under his chair and sets a soft, burlap-wrapped mound of cloth on the table. It's topped with a blue bow. Before Charles can speak, Josey swipes her gift off the table and got her fingers swishing around the bow.

The bag blossoms.

A button-down blouse, matching white stockings, and a pleated blue skirt tumbles out.

“It's the fashion up north, I heard,” Charles say. “If you don't like it I could . . .”

The hanging sheet that separates the room billows as Josey runs through it, behind it, already undressing. She rolls her new stockins up her bug-bitten legs, then buttons her skirt, her blouse, twirls on her way back through the sheet. She poses. Her blouse is hanging lopsided off her shoulder, her stockings are sagging at her knees, and her skirt is slid down on one side.

“There,” Charles say, satisfied. “A young lady.” She holds out the bottom of her skirt and spins. “Yes, ma'am,” Charles say, his voice quivering. “A young lady.”

She hugs his neck and his chair tilts back from the love of it. “Best birthday of my life,” Josey say, picking up the gift wrapping from the floor.

“The happiest day of mine,” Charles say.

“Two years old when you come. Could hardly talk. Only in pieces. Potty trained you myself that first day. You cried the whole first week.”

“Happy tears, I bet,” Josey say. “You think it was hard for whoever had to give me away?”

Charles starts stacking their mostly empty stew bowls. “Don't time just fly by?” he say. “Fourteen years ole . . .”

“I love you, Daddy,” she say, leaving her first question alone. She takes the bowls from his hand and nears the front door where she steps out of her stockings and into Charles's big shoes barefooted. She throws her blanket over her shoulders.

“Happy birthday,” Charles say.

By her third step outside, the cold air finds its way through Josey's skirt and the gaps between her heels and Charles's shoes. She lets her blanket slide further down her back and around her legs and waist. She catches it there, ties it around her hips.

She scrapes the tiny bones and smeared food from the bowls and into the hollow of the bushes where critters wait eager and hungry for their turn at it.

A snap of thistle turns her around sudden. She hooks her arm around the neck of a person—a boy—and pulls him to the ground, straddling him, pinning him, lifting her bowls above his head.

“Wait!” he yell.

It's the boy, Wayward.

“What you doing in my yard!” Josey say.

“I didn't mean to scare you.”

“You watching me!”

“I . . . I was just . . .”

“You want to hurt me?”

“I . . . I'm sorry!” His voice trembles and his body is limp in surrender but she don't get up.

“We done talking,” she say, pushing herself off him finally. “You go home and don't you come back ne're.” She dusts her knees and puts her blanket over herself, collects her bowls and starts back to her door. He brings hisself to his feet. Tall as she is now. His light-colored clothes against his black skin and the night sky makes his shirt look empty. It's been months since I last seen him.

“Josey?” he say.

She pause.

“I'm here to see you. To talk to you. To say happy birthday.”

“How do you know my name?”

He opens his mouth to speak but no more words come out.

“How you know anything about me?” She points at him with her bowls. “What plantation you from?”

“N . . . none.”

“So you don't live no place, ain't from nowhere, but you know it's my birthday? How long you been coming around here, liar?”

“Not a liar.”

“For sure a peeper.”

“We met before,” he say.

“Never.”

“Twice.”

“Liar.”

“I promise we did. My momma is Sissy.”

Josey laughs. “You the witch's son?”

“Ain't a witch!” he say.

“Evil,” Josey say.

“I shouldn't a come.”

“I'll be dog gone, if you ain't the witch's son. Wait 'til I tell Ada Mae.”

Before she finish laughing, he's gone back across the slaves' yard and path, nearing the woods.

“Good,” she yells from behind him. “You leave. You shouldn't be coming 'round here peeping on folks no way.” She yanks the blanket around her shoulders and watches him. But she don't go inside right off. She keeps watching. Watching the way the moon rests in the cleft of his neck beneath the round of his head. A perfect scoop, smooth and hand-shaped under the nap of his hair.

She studies his blue-black skin and her heartbeats slow. He's an impressive color, the kind of shade that Josey had already wished for in a husband, in the father of her dreamed-of children. And now he's disappearing deeper into the brush. Her own color leaves her face as she stares, confused now, at that empty space where he was.

“Wait!” Josey yells, breathless. “Wait!” she say to the shadows, coughing now, her breath lost.

When she breathes deeply and puts her hands on her knees, dropping her bowls, her blanket slides off her waist. “Come back here!” she say, coughing.

Nothing.

A wheeze. She pats her chest to clear the sound. She coughs and finds relief.

She reaches down to collect her bowls and picks up her blanket. Wayward say, “You all right?”

A fleeting smile graces Josey's face but she pretends not to notice him, sets her bowls on a stump of cut log, and takes her time tying the blanket over her shoulders. She coughs again.

“You all right?” he say.

“What do you care?” she say.

“Well, if you're all better, I'll go.”

“You haven't even told me happy birthday.”

“You ain't gave me a chance to. Not properly.”

“Go on. Here's your chance . . .”

“Happy birthday,” he say.

“'Bout time.”

“Awnry.”

“You like it,” she say.

“Maybe.”

“Josey!” Charles calls from the doorway.

“I have ta go,” she say in a hurry, bunching her bowls against her chest.

“Wait,” he say, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a braid of wound-together red string.

“Josey!” Charles calls.

“Coming, Daddy!”

“I made it myself . . . for your birthday. In case I . . . Can I put it on you?” he say.

“I don't even know your name.”

“Jackson. Jackson Hayes.”

He smiles and reaches for her hand and she lets him tie his strings around her wrist. He scoots the knot around and down her arm.

“This is silly,” she say.

“Can I see you again?” he say. “Tomorrow?”

She only smiles.

“Eight o'clock?”

“Good night,” she say, running toward Charles's call.

“Good night,” Jackson say to the closing door.