Promise Bridge (7 page)

“Much better,” I said as I snuffed the flame of my lamp and set it aside. “No sense wasting wick and oil. I shall leave the lamp for you to use at another time.”

Thankfully, the storm was less magnified in the firelit cave. Livie struggled to uncurl and sit upright. I offered her a hand, but her eyes sharpened with determination and disregard of my gesture. Holding her stiff right leg, she groaned each time she changed her position.

“This is silly,” I said, hoisting her under the arm so she could shift her weight with less pain. “Just let me help you.”

After we moved together to the evergreen bed, Livie collapsed onto the blanket. The night had taken its toll on her, so she lay there, watching me through drained eyes. The thunder that barreled over the mountain was now held at bay. We were no longer spooked, as the lightning flashes blended into the licks of flame that danced in front of us. I unbundled the quilts and spread one over Livie, then arranged the dampened blanket and clothes near the fire. My eyes hung heavy with exhaustion as I settled back into the pines near Livie. Her dozing face breathed out anxious release. I pulled my quilt up under my chin and began a slow surrender into sleep. Beneath the drooping lid of my eye, I saw Livie stir awake and peek sideways at me. With the rumble of the storm receding into the distance, Livie and I drifted off in the comfort of each other’s presence.

Chapter 8

I
was coaxed awake by the tap of an early rising woodpecker deep in the hollow beyond the cave walls. My damp clothes invited the morning chill to cling to me. Wrapping a quilt around my shoulders, I went to the fire and rolled another log into the pit, as I had done twice during the night. Within minutes, the flames grew up around it and warmed me considerably. Livie shifted to one side, and I realized she had been watching me.

“The fire is quite soothing, don’t you think?” I waited for an answer, but she lay there with her arm folded up under her head. “With all the sticks and logs your brother gathered, we can keep this flame burning for a week or more.”

Still, no answer.

“I never knew anyone named Livetta. It’s a pretty name. Do you mind if I call you Livie? It just seems natural to me.”

The silence had me feeling a bit foolish, so I sorted through the small bag of provisions Marcus left for Livie. There was a crumbled piece of corn bread wrapped in parchment that looked the most edible of the lot. I took it to Livie and sat down beside her.

“Are you hungry?”

She took it without hesitation and shoved it in her mouth, using her cupped hand to catch the crumbs. Her silence was purposeful; I was well aware that she could talk. She simply refused to talk to
me
. Thinking back, I realized the few words I had heard her speak were all directed to Marcus.

“My uncle has a slave named James who does not speak. He mostly grunts. Maybe he never learned to talk.”

“Jes’ because someone don’t wanna talk to
you
don’t make ’em stupid.”

“That is not what I meant,” I snapped at her. “I think it’s very rude of you to be so outspoken with me.”

She looked at me, unfazed. “First I’m stupid; now I’m sassy. Make up yo’ mind, if it ain’t too much of a strain.”

“Don’t you speak to me that way,” I said, growing frustrated. My annoyance appeared to amuse her.

“You white missies ain’t never satisfied. You is mad when I’m not talkin’. Now you is mad ’cuz I got somethin’ to say.”

“I don’t know where you came from, but around here if someone speaks to you, it’s polite to answer respectfully. Now, I am aware you are not pleased with the circumstances, but I believe a degree of cooperation is in order.” She winced, but it was her painful hip quieting her, not my words. She remained still, and then looked up at me.

“No . . .” Her hoarse whisper could barely be heard, yet it took me aback.

“Are you defying my wishes?”

She nudged up on her elbow and stared at me. “No . . . I don’t mind if you call me Livie.”

“Oh.” I nodded, then smiled at her. Now, I was not completely sure, but I believe I saw the hint of a smile, although it quickly changed to a grimace as she shifted to a sitting position. Livie’s toughness humbled and impressed me. If I had been through the ordeal she had endured under Colt’s knife, I would most likely be found helpless in my misery, without the spit and vinegar to utter words, much less move a muscle. But Livie’s face was now full of its natural color, and her eyes were clear and alert instead of drained by fever.

“What’s them fancifuls for?” Livie asked, motioning over to the wool blanket that lay open and strewn with undergarments and the dress I brought with me.

I went over and held up the blue-and-white calico dress. “I thought you might like some fresh clothes, since yours are torn and stained beyond repair.”

The splendor of the dress twinkled in Livie’s eyes, but a skeptical grin crinkled her cheeks. “You must be fixin’ to bury me, ’cuz I’ll be strung up higher than a bird’s nest if I is caught with somethin’ so fine. I’ll be ’cused of thieving from the big house fo’ sure.”

Livie got quite a belly laugh from poking fun at my gesture, until the bite in her side forced her to harness her chuckles. But as I brought the dress near enough for her to touch, she reached out and ran her hand across it. “It surely is a beautiful sight.”

“It was the blandest one in my wardrobe closet.”

Livie’s expression sank, and I realized my choice of words stung her. “I don’t mean to sound callous. My intent was to select one that would not bring harm and suspicion on you.” Livie’s wounded expression lifted with her girlish smile. “Besides,” I said as I held the dress up against her, “you’ll look pretty in it.”

The lighthearted moment was short-lived when reality shifted in a direction for which I was unprepared. “Where should I make?” Livie asked bluntly.

“Where should you make what?”

“Water,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Where should I make water?”

A wave of embarrassment flushed me from ear to ear. “Oh, I hadn’t considered that. Leaving the cave would be both risky and challenging in your condition. What did you do yesterday?”

“Raizy gave me the bucket yo’ man used to carry water here. Then she dumped it in the woods.”

“Well, then, that is what we will do,” I said, fetching the bucket. “And for the sake of clarity, Colt is not
my man
. He is just a dear friend.”

“Is that right?” she mused as she squatted over the bucket. In this moment of awkwardness, Colt’s words came back to me: “This is not a little girls’ game, Hannah.” And for the first time in my life, I was in the humble position of emptying someone’s chamber pot.

Livie and I both seemed to look at things differently when I returned from my indelicate task. I helped her wash and change into her new clothes. I replaced the bloodied blanket covering the evergreens with the soft quilt I had brought from the house. When we finally got her settled back down in a comfortable position, it was clear the activity had tired her. I decided to sit with Livie until she dozed off before going back down to Hillcrest to make an appearance and gather some fresh food. As I pulled the second quilt over her, she blinked at me through heavy eyes.

“Up to now, the only white hands that ever touched me was either tryin’ to lay me down or whip my hide.”

Although Livie’s words were spoken matter-of-factly as she drifted off, they made me blush with shame. Not because of their indecorous rawness, but because of their undeniable truth. Once again, I found myself admiring her strength.

Over the next two weeks, I spent most of my time running back and forth to the peak. Other than food, water, and a warm fire, Livie wanted nothing from me. And she offered nothing in return. Getting to know her was harder than cracking a shelled walnut with a downy feather. She remained guarded and distrustful of my attention, but I continued to draw her out while being respectful of the secrets she chose not to reveal. Midway through our second week together, Livie noticed I was unusually quiet. My lack of effort in conversation proved disconcerting to her, because suddenly she was the one asking questions.

“What’s wrong with you, girl? You sick or something? Why ain’t you chirpin’ like a sparrow, same as any other day? Are you gonna ditch me?”

“Of course not, Livie. After nearly two weeks together, does my word mean nothing to you?” I threw my arms up because there was no point in trying to touch someone who is determined to hang out of reach. I sat down by the fire and poked it with a stick. Livie inched her way over and sat across from me.

“Is you mad at me?”

“No, Liv. I am not angry. I am simply melancholy today. My birthday is approaching, which makes me yearn for my parents. I miss them so.”

“Is they dead?”

“They were killed in a wagon accident. I barely remember what they look like.”

Livie patted me on the hand. “I never knowed my daddy much neither. He lived on another plantation, then was sold away.”

“What I remember most clearly is my father’s wonderful laugh.” I smiled as Livie’s protective shell softened to absorb my confession. “Mother and I would sit on his lap in front of the hearth while he made up funny stories and jokes until he had my mother in tears from giggling.”

The memory pinched a sensitive nerve in me. “The home of my birth was so warm and vibrant compared to the disengaged household of Aunt Augusta. Even after all these years, the gentleness of my mother’s unreachable embrace haunts me in the dark of night.”

“Ain’t nothin’ worse on a child than losin’ a mama or daddy. Especially if they go at the same time.”

“Yes, but I was not told the details.” I shrugged. “The night it happened is a hazy blur of hysteria in my mind. A friend of Mother’s was staying with me while Mother accompanied Father on one of his short trips to do missionary work for the church. People rushed in and out at all hours of the night, whispering and weeping. Early the next day, they packed two trunks with some of my belongings and dropped me in Lexington, where I was put in a carriage for the long ride to Aunt Augusta. She told me my parents had been killed and that I would be living with her at Hillcrest.” I paused for a moment to collect my emotions. “I was swept away without even having a chance to place a flower on my mother’s grave.”

“It’s a powerful heartache when loved ones is torn away suddenlike,” Livie sighed. I did not speak, for fear of disrupting this long-awaited breakthrough of thoughts and feelings. “My mama was taken away from me too, and I don’t think that’s a blow a child ever gets over. Even if they live to be a hundred years old, some hurts never mend.”

Until now, Colt was my confidant. But there was something special in sharing confidences with a girl of my own age, different as we were. I felt great privilege when Livie squeezed my hand and opened her heart.

Livie was born on a large tobacco plantation in North Carolina that by her description boasted a slave force three times the size of West Gate and Hillcrest. Marcus was the oldest of her four siblings and the only one that remained with her on the plantation of their birth.

For most of Livie’s young life, her mother was the personal servant of their master’s second wife, a harsh and spiteful woman who was as mean as she was barren. The master, who Livie was careful not to call by name, had a son born of his first wife. When his first wife died, he took a second bride; however, their union proved fruitless. Because of the burden of her childless condition, the mistress forbade any of the slave offspring to be seen or heard in the immediate area of the main house. Therefore, Livie rarely saw her mother until late in the evening when she was dismissed from her duties and allowed to return to the slave quarters.

“But, girl, I swear to you,” Livie said with disgust. “Massa was friskier than a jackrabbit in spring, and as soon as the sun disappeared over the hill, Massa followed my mama’s tracks through the moonlight until he reached our door.

“He never said much,” she continued. “But he usually brought a hickory switch to shoo us chilluns outside onto the porch while he grunted on top of Mama.”

Seeing my eyes grow wide, Livie raised a coy eyebrow in my direction. “Don’t be lookin’ at me like you don’t know what a massa is doin’ during his long walks after evenin’ supper. White folk can’t do nothin’ fo’ themselves. Bad enough they expects us coloreds to smile when we be carrying their chamber pots to the outhouse, or soaping their backsides in the wash tub. But we can’t even rest our weary bones without ’em sneakin’ through the shadows fo’ us to do the layin’ down for ’em too.”

I knew Livie well enough to presume her bluntness was designed to make me blush, and without hesitation my cheeks obliged. It was her way of spoon-feeding me bits of reality that were difficult to swallow but necessary to digest. To understand the pain she carried inside, I must know the truth about life in the quarters.

“Livie, what happened to the quiet girl that hid behind her hands and refused to talk to me?” I teased to offset my embarrassment. “You certainly have no trouble speaking your mind now.”

She paused to reflect on what I said, then released a devilish grin. “Guess till now I didn’t know I had a mind to speak.”

As the days passed, I grew more and more attached to my retreats with Livie, in part because I enjoyed the female companionship. The girls of my age around the county were a bit of a bore and did very little to welcome me. They were a close-knit group when I was transplanted here from northern Kentucky, and I was not as delicate and conforming as the others. However, Aunt Augusta insisted I periodically join them in their sewing circle, although there were no close bonds between us. But with Livie, there was no pretense. Her thoughts were real, her words unorchestrated, and her feelings without motive. I warmed in our secret connection, but the stories of her life haunted me. One afternoon as she braided my hair, I reached deeper.

“Livie, did he ever do it to you?”

“Who?”

“The man from North Carolina. Did he do to you as he did to your mother?”

Livie’s hands fell limp as my untied braid unraveled in her fingertips. “He tried once.”

I reached up and took her hand in mine. “Is it why you ran away?”

Livie sat down on the smooth boulder next to me and pulled her dress tight around her folded legs. Without pressing further, I waited and hoped she trusted me with her confidence. Finally, she looked up at me.

“When I was near about ten years old, Massa’s wife took to havin’ nervous fits. One night she came chargin’ down from the big house in her nightclothes, lookin’ for her man, who sure enough was doin’ his business in the cabin with Mama. Well, the missus screamed and cried like a tomcat. She waved a carving knife at me, Marcus, my little brother, Rufus, and my older sister, Daisy, as we waited on the porch. Massa come out and grabbed her just as she was about to slice off Marcus’s ear. Massa dragged the missus back to the big house, where we could hear her wailin’ most of the night.

“Next morning, two of the overseers come and took Rufus and Daisy away as a peace offerin’ from Massa to his crazy wife. Mama begged on her hands and knees for Massa not to sell off her chilluns, but by sundown Daisy was sold south and Rufus was traded off to a dairy farmer for a milk cow. I ain’t never seen neither of ’em again, though Marcus says he seen Rufus from time to time when movin’ harvested crops to town.”

“That’s a heartbreaking story,” I said, as Livie’s eyes glistened but did not shed tears.