Promise Bridge (11 page)

Livie eased into life at Hillcrest like a stray goose blending into the shifting pattern of the greater flock. After some initial coolness and resentment by some of the field Runians, Livie was slowly taken in as one of their own, and she was at home among them. This was largely the result of Esther Mae and Granny Morgan taking Livie under their wings. They carved a place for her in the long-standing and well-defined hierarchy of Mud Run. Generally, new purchases added to the lot struggled to find their place, but the respect and honor commanded by Granny Morgan, as well as by Winston and Esther Mae, signaled approval of Livie’s presence even though her instant station in the main house could have left her ostracized by the more burdened Runians.

The Virginia sun drained of its warmth, as the final weeks of Indian summer slipped away, beginning what Livie called “shoe-wearin’ time.” The sun of early winter was no more than an obligatory glare, and in its shortened presence, the earth was left waning, void of its mild caress. Once the harvest feast had passed, the plantation settled into a new routine. Contrary to the shortened days, Hillcrest was burgeoning with activity. Soon, the eve of the annual corn shucking was upon us, marking the day when Aunt Augusta and I would depart on a pre-Christmas journey to visit a distant cousin in Roanoke. There we would join in the social events and festive atmosphere offered by a city alive with holiday activities. The adorned streets would welcome us with carolers huddled under lampposts. Shopkeepers with windows laden in ribbon would dip hot cider into porcelain cups meant to warm the chilled hands of shoppers, who ducked from one establishment to the next. On most of the trips made by Aunt Augusta, Winston would drive our coach, but this time he would stay behind in Mud Run. Colt occasionally took the reins in Winston’s absence, which made my time in Roanoke fun and exciting, as he accompanied me to formal balls or escorted me around town. However, more often than not, Aunt Augusta requested that Twitch make the journey, much to Colt’s chagrin. One year as Colt pleaded his presence, I overheard her tell him that taking Twitch to another county during the shucking celebration was her gesture of goodwill, rewarding the Runians for another fruitful year. Colt shook with laughter, which made Aunt Augusta’s hardened face soften momentarily into an unguarded smile. However, the good humor it stirred in me was fleeting, because with Colt on an extended stay in Richmond for the purpose of education and medical study, my time away would be spent within the restraints of Aunt Augusta’s shadow, while Twitch disappeared into the gin halls that peppered the back alleys in the lower part of town. He would eventually resurface, bathed in the scent of stale liquor and bordello perfume.

So now, gazing down from my window at the combined gathering of West Gate slaves with our own Runians hauling harvested corn up onto mountainous piles near the cribs in the far field, I knew it was time for me to stop dillydallying. Aunt Augusta wanted my bags packed by sundown. At first light, we would be on our way.

I sighed and turned from the window when a surprising sight caught my eye and made me pull my drapes wider. It was Livie skipping up the hill from her cabin below. I never saw her filled with such lightness, and though I could not hear her, I could see by the lilt of her mouth that she was singing. She waved happily at three Runians carrying a barrel filled with cider meant for the festivity below. Livie had been out since midday, helping Esther Mae with some chores, so I could not imagine what had her feeling so gay. When she reached the front yard, she hesitated to smooth her dress and temper the smile on her face before heading into the house. In a few short moments, she was tapping on my bedroom door and letting herself in.

“Sorry I was gone such a spell. I was helpin’ ’em make applesauce and hominy fo’ the shuckin’ feast.”

I saw my perplexed gaze reflected in Livie’s eyes. “How come you is so down-spirited, girl? Shuckin’ day is grand times, Hannah, even ol’ Massa left shuckin’ day to his coloreds.”

“I guess I fail to understand what is so special about another day of work. I see those mounds of corn growing out there. By the time I leave tomorrow, those piles will be nearly as high as the window of my room. I cannot imagine getting excited over all those ears waiting to be shucked and cribbed.”

“Girl, I never knowed a soul who didn’t think shuckin’ day was fo’ feelin’ fine,” Livie said, with a girlish clap of her hands. Then as if the whole of what I said penetrated her giddiness, Livie looked at the open trunk in the corner, then back at me. Her bright face drained gray.

“Did you say you is leavin’ tomorr’y? Where is you goin’, Hannah?”

When I heard the panic in her voice, I realized how much I dreaded going away. Livie and I had yet to spend a day apart since she came to Hillcrest, and for the first time in my life, I would miss and worry over something I left behind.
Someone
I left behind. Livie’s wide eyes reflected the same anxiety.

I reached for Livie’s hand. “I travel with Aunt Augusta to Roanoke this time of year. We shall be gone for only a week . . . two at the most.” My forced enthusiasm and reassurance were unconvincing, even to me.

Livie squeezed my hands tight in hers and struggled to speak. Finally, she said hoarsely, “But I don’t want you to go.”

“Everything will be fine, Livie. I saw how happy you were skipping up the hill earlier. You and the Runians will celebrate your joyous occasion.”

“Joy ain’t never come knockin’ on my door,” she said, wilted. “It ain’t joy that makes us laugh and sing round the shuckin’ fires. It’s jes’ a time when Massa pays no mind to us fo’ a spell. Can’t help but smile because shuckin’ day brings thoughts of Marcus, Mama, and t’others ticklin’ over me, but it sorrows me a mite too, missin’ them like I do. I wish you was gonna be around, is all.”

Livie was inviting me into a part of her life that until now had remained out of reach in the shadowed corners of Mud Run. I sensed it would lead me into the pained cracks and crevasses of her heart as well. I was honored and terrified at the same time. Livie was offering me another thread to sew between us, and I was not about to let it unravel by letting go.

“I will feign illness,” I said, to her delight. “As it is, Aunt Augusta believes me fragile as a flower, so fooling her shan’t be difficult.”

We buried our faces in the feathered pillows to contain our squeals. Then we rolled over on our backs and breathed a sigh of relief. Livie took my hand with ease. The gesture reminded me how far we had come.

“Guess
crazy
don’t know no difference ’tween colored and white,” Livie said with half a grin.

“I never knew the same could be said of friendship,” I said proudly. “But look at us.”

Livie propped on her elbows and creased her brow with serious intent. “We gots’ta be careful all the way round. Marcus always says a hateful heart can beat in colored and white alike. Skin don’t make nobody all right or all wrong. We is goin’ against the grain, and trouble can come at us from any which way.”

The distant rhythm of warmhearted spirituals rose through the trees of Mud Run, but the caution of Livie’s words shivered within me. I was naive in many things, but of this, I was not.

Chapter 12

“C
ome on, we gots’ta go!” Livie threw back my quilts and dragged me across the darkened room. She tossed a pillow against the baseboard of the far wall, then planted her hand on top of my night bonnet and pushed my head down between my knees.

“Livie, what has gotten into you?” I sputtered in disbelief.

She pushed my head lower and whispered, “Hush up, Hannah. Jes’ put yo’ head on the pillow and kick yo’ feet up befo’ it’s too late!”

In a tangle of arms and legs, and before I could let loose another word, there I was, upside down like a child, using my long, exposed legs to steady me in a headstand against the wall. Livie quickly gathered the hem of my nightgown, which was heaped around my head on the floor, and tied it together up around my ankles. Then off she ran to the bedroom door. She pressed her hand and an ear against its smoothness, and waited for the sound of footsteps. The pressure of blood flowing to my overturned head made my eyes throb heavily in their sockets. Finally, when dizziness and impatience made evident our actions were downright foolery, I allowed myself a grumble.

“I hope this is a bizarre nightmare, Liv, because if this is really happening, you are completely out of your mind.”

A chuckle tumbled through the darkness. “I ain’t the one standin’ on my head,” she hushed wryly. We both giggled until I noticed from my upside-down view the glow of lamplight approaching my bedroom door. The illuminated outline of Livie’s silhouette scampered toward me.

“Hurry, Hannah! She’s comin’!” Livie toppled me over and pulled me to my feet. With my head spinning and my nightgown still tied around my ankles, I hopped across the room and onto the bed. Livie yanked the blankets up under my chin, then darted to the washbasin. Then, as smooth as a night crawler slipping into the earth, she twirled a moist cloth through the water in my basin and folded it across my forehead just as Aunt Augusta creaked opened the door and entered the room. She moved toward me in expressionless silence. At my bedside, she touched the wick of her lamp to the candle on my bed table, and a fiery glow rose around us.

“Livetta says you have taken ill.”

“Yas’sum, Miz ’Gusta,” Livie cajoled as she straightened the cloth on my brow. “She been tossin’ and turnin’ all night.”

“I am speaking to Hannalore,” Aunt Augusta said with a bite of reprimand. “Go downstairs and assist Esther Mae with my belongings.”

Offering a dutiful nod, Livie walked away, glancing over her shoulder long enough to give me a sideways smile and encouraging shake of her head. Her display of confidence bolstered my courage as Aunt Augusta leaned close to my face.

“You do appear flushed and a bit glassy-eyed. Perhaps I should postpone our trip and send word to Lows Hollow for Dr. Waverly to come at once.”

“Such a fuss is not necessary. It’s just one of my silly spells. I am sure it will pass with a day or two of bed rest.”

“Well, I suppose there is no point in dragging you all the way to Roanoke just to lie in a sickbed. But I detest being here during the mindless commotion that will be in full fashion by nightfall.” Aunt Augusta shook her head. “I have always contended that this festivity centered on the shucking of corn is nothing more than a frivolous allowance with no respectable purpose. Still, the tradition brings focus and enthusiasm to the completion of a major chore. However, I prefer not to bear witness to it.”

“There is no need for you to stay, Aunt Augusta. Livie will see to it I have what I need.”

Aunt Augusta mulled over my suggestion. “If I go, you must be firm with Livetta, or she’ll be carrying on with the Runians. Her duties are here with you. In fact, I shall instruct Esther Mae to keep watch over you as well.”

“As you say, Aunt Augusta.”

It was daybreak when I finally heard her coach rumble up to the house. Twitch grunted for Winston to load Aunt Augusta’s trunks onto the back. With the snap of the reins and a harsh
“Gad’dup,”
they were on their way. I slipped from my bed and peeked through my window dressings to enjoy the sight of the coach rolling over the crest of the far hill. No sooner was it gone from view when Livie burst through the door.

“You ready fo’ your first shuckin’ day?” She grinned.

I was touched by the excitement shining in her eyes. She came to me and wrapped me in a grateful embrace. “I know this don’t seem proper, but I sure is glad you is here. Now, you best crawl back into bed for a spell while I help Esther Mae and t’others. It’s gonna be a late night!” With that, she planted a kiss on each of my cheeks and waved good-bye.

I dozed beneath the warmth of my covers until calls of laughter through a brilliant morning pulled me from my bed. The strange, offbeat nature of the day was apparent the moment I looked down across the lawn and saw the Runians milling about the grounds. Most carried bundles or buckets. However, their steps were relaxed and casual, not frenzied or fetching in the way I generally observed them. They dotted the landscape in every direction from Mud Run to the distant hillside of West Gate. All were seemingly drawn to the stretch of lowland between the two plantations where the three towering mounds of harvested ears of corn lay in wait for shucking. Threads of smoke twirled from several cook fires tended by a group of Runians under the watchful eye of Granny Morgan. Enthralled, I did not notice the tap against my bedroom door until Livie appeared behind me. She rushed over, pitcher in hand, to fill my washbasin with warm water.

“Shake a leg, girl. You better let Esther Mae feed you befo’ she gets called away to the fires. There’s lots o’ cookin’ to be done down there. My mouth is a-waterin’ at the scent of ham hocks and greens warm in the pot.”

“My goodness, Livie, you are more excited for a day focused on a monumental task than I am for the holiday ball Aunt Augusta hosts every Christmas Eve.”

In practiced motion, Livie gathered my hair in one hand and dipped a washcloth into the basin. The warm cloth soothed me as she ran it down the back of my neck and across my shoulders as she spoke. “Well, scrap meat and castoff pickin’s might not please a belly used to roasted turkey with fancy dressing, but they is indeed a blessed feast compared to the corn pones and hominy we usually scrape from our pots night after night, never no different.”

Feeling a bit prickly, I shot back, “I always make certain you have a good meal, either by leftover or smuggling extra from the table. I cannot understand why you are so stubborn about refusing my care. I think you are ashamed of my affection for you. As if you are somehow better off with scraps from a slave table instead of enjoying what I share from mine. Have I not tried to ease your burdens?”

“Of course you have, Hannah, ’cuz you favor me,” Livie said, her eyes wide with unguarded honesty. “And I appreciates it mighty. But it don’t make it easy fo’ me to walk among the others, them knowin’ I have more than I should. You is extra careful so that what you give me doesn’t cause yo’ people to rise up against you. I gots’ta do the same about the gettin’. I remember what it feels like to be a field slave. Massa worked us from when we can’t see in the mornin’ to when we can’t see at night. I respects my people too much to strut about like the shade of the big house makes me worth more than them.”

“Is that why you settled in Mud Run rather than sleep here on the trundle bed, as you did when you first came to Hillcrest?”

“It’s best fo’ me to live in the quarters ’cuz it’s where I belong. There is mighty fine things up here on the hill, especially the soft heart beatin’ right here in front o’ me, but
my
life ain’t in the big house. No matter how much affection you heap on me when nobody is lookin’, I’s still jes’ an outsider.”

“After all this time, how can you feel like an outsider with me? I declare, Livie, when you say such things, it makes me think I don’t know you at all.”

“Now, don’t get a sulk on, Hannah.” She nudged playfully. “After today, I expect you’ll know me a whole lot better.”

I finally made it down to the kitchen after Livie suggested I change from my rose flounced dress into something less standoffish. So I redressed in my favorite garibaldi skirt and cotton blouse given to me by Colt the previous Christmas. Aunt Augusta forbade me to wear it, citing poor taste. On the handful of occasions her absence allowed me to pull it from the back of my wardrobe closet, I relished seeing a modestly attractive woman, shed of inhibitions, reflected back at me from my looking glass.

In the kitchen, Esther Mae had a cup of hot tea and a dish of bread pudding for me on the table. I seldom instructed my meals to be served in the dining room when Aunt August was away, unless, of course, Colt or Uncle Mooney joined me. She greeted me in a detached tone as she gazed out the window. “Granny’s gone down over de hill. I can fry you up some ham and griddle cakes, if it suits you.”

“The bread pudding will do, Esther Mae,” I said, settling across the table from Livie. “You can go join the others if you like.”

Esther Mae’s forlorn expression turned to me. “Chile, Miz ’Gusta gave me strict orders to stay here and watch over you mornin’, noon, and night. Ain’t gonna be no shuckin’ time fo’ me.”

Disappointment and sorrow dripped in Esther Mae’s words and gave me my first enlightened glimpse at the separateness Livie mentioned with regard to the house slaves. Winston and Elijah were down with the Runians, while Esther Mae could only watch from afar.

I lifted the kettle to warm my tea. “Go be with your family, Esther Mae. I am fine here on my own.”

“Don’t talk crazy, Miz Hannah. You is sick and need lookin’ after. Now, let me fill yo’ cup proper.” I gently intercepted Esther Mae’s hand as it reached for the kettle and I held it in mine. She flinched at my touch and stepped back in embarrassment.

“I am not sick, Esther Mae, and I see no need for you to guard over me like a mama bear.”

“What’chu mean you ain’t sick? Miz ’Gusta says . . .”

“Aunt Augusta believes I am not well, but she is mistaken. I feel splendid.”

“But Miz ’Gusta told me . . .”

“Don’t be concerned about Aunt Augusta. She is not here and will know nothing of it. Now abide by my wish for you to join in the activity below.”

Esther Mae’s lips parted, although nothing but befuddled silence came of it. She shifted slowly, like she was waiting for something to drop from the ceiling and knock some sense into me. Leaning wide, she looked to Livie in blank wonder. When Livie giggled and shook her head with assurance, Esther Mae let out a whoop and tossed her apron into the air.

“Miz Hannah, the two of you is crazier than a couple of headless guinea hens fresh off the choppin’ block. But a notion meant for the good of a colored only comes along about as often as a star fallin’ from the sky, so I’s not gonna let this one pass by without grabbin’ on.” Esther Mae hustled out the back door. “Livetta, come help me carry these molasses jars down yonder. We gonna have fine times after all!”

The congregation of slaves from the two plantations combined with slaves given passes from the Garrett and Fredrickson plantations to our south. Three wagons rolled in from Echo Ridge, bringing a small group of slaves owned or hired by townsmen. Voices rose from the wagons as they neared. The spirituals they sang joined with words chanted by those walking to greet them. I had never witnessed a gathering of coloreds without a white presence standing watch.

In spite of the December chill, the afternoon sunshine warmed me as I moved from the front porch and moseyed across the front yard. I paused nonchalantly by the fence to steal a closer look. As the last of the wagons pulled in, the dark faces came to life and shed the sallow hardness earned in the fields. Granny Morgan’s hearty laughter rose above all as Winston helped Mabelle, Granny’s beloved sister, off the buckboard. The reunited sisters walked arm in arm to the cook fires, where benches and bales of hay formed a makeshift sitting area. Women of all ages talked and sang while ears of corn were shucked clean, put in baskets, and dumped into ox carts to be cribbed. The group was divided into teams and began cheering a race to see whose baskets emptied first. Granny and Mabelle sat together amid the commotion, twisting discarded husks into brooms and horse collars. I don’t recall ever seeing Granny’s face so soft with pleasure.

As the day’s shadows grew long, a row of wooden planks were lined across the damp mud of the lowland, inviting scattered dancers into a closer circle. Rhythmic and entrancing, their movements acted out the words of songs I occasionally heard from the fields or chanted back and forth in town. The spirituals, which usually dripped with heart-wrenching despair, were now sung as a chorus of earnest confession and promise, as though they were speaking to God in a language all their own.

Livie waved to me from beneath a large basket balanced skillfully on her head. I waved back, and once the basket was emptied, she handed it off to one of Mr. Richardson’s mulatto girls and dashed up the hillside toward me.

“Didn’t ’spect to be gone so long,” she said, swatting away some of the corn dust speckled down the front of her wool frock. “Jes’ wanted to do my part before comin’ to fetch you.”

“Fetch me?”

She reached for my hand. “If you want to know me, right and complete, then you gots’ta see me outside the big house.” Her cool hand was cracked and smudged with blood. A torn blister swelled the inside pad of her thumb, but Livie paid it no mind. She clenched my hand and tugged me toward her.

“I can see fine from here, Livie. Go on and have your fun.”

“Fun? Does this look like fun?” she mused, holding up her other palm, which was tightly wrapped in a soiled rag to protect its raw, reddened paleness.

“But you all look so happy.”

“Shuckin’ day is a time fo’ doin’ Massa’s work our own way, without no overseer or headmen drivin’ and lashin’ at us with whips. What you see ain’t fun, it’s jes’ us folk makin’ best of the bad. We ain’t ever given no better than that. At the end o’ the day, it still be Massa’s work. The shuckin’ feast don’t change that none.”

“All the more reason for me not to . . .” I sputtered, my fumbling tongue exposing my nervousness. “Not to intrude.”