The Healing (13 page)

The woman pulled her gaze from the heavens and looked the master straight in the eye, causing Granada to wonder if Polly Shine was putting another fix on him.

“Master, do like I advise and most be back in the fields after two weeks,” she said, calm but firm. “But if you don’t, the ones back there in your grass tepee hut are going to start dying off tomorrow. The first one to die will be that giant fellow you call Big Dante.” She grinned showing off her tobacco-stained teeth. “Master, I reckon I won’t be the last head of stock you’ll have to buy at market, bad habits and all.”

Nobody breathed. Granada saw that Bridger had a nasty smile on his face and a tight grasp on the stock of his cowhide whip, as if waiting to be summoned. There was no way a slave could get away with this.

Sure enough, the master called a very smug Bridger over to his side and then grumbled something into his ear. The smile dropped off Bridger’s face and his eyes bugged out like he had swallowed a flopping catfish. That’s when everybody knew it was true.

Somebody close to Granada whispered low, “Lord to God. Slaves eating like white folks.”

Another mumbled, “Looks like what heals the slave might kill the master.” There followed sounds of suppressed laughter rippling through the crowd.

When Bridger didn’t hop to it, instead remaining where he stood with a white-knuckled grip on his whip, the bluster returned to the master’s voice. “Load all the sick ones and bring them to the hospital.
My
hospital,” he emphasized. “I sure paid for it. I might as well get my money’s worth.”

He held up a finger in Polly’s face. “If a single one dies, I’ll give you thirty lashes and then turn you over to the speculators.” He stiffened. “That all?”

The crowd leaned in close. Granada strained to hear if this bought slave was crazy enough to ask for anything else. Even among these illiterate field hands, everybody could count up to two and that was how many licks she had already gotten off the master and it was still morning.

“Yes sir, that’s all,” she said in that exaggerated tone the white folks took as obedience but Granada knew to be sass. “You been generous. You a wise and good master. I couldn’t think of asking no more.”

“It’s a damn good thing,” he said, jerking his shoulders straight before mounting his horse.

But the girl doubted Polly Shine was telling the truth. Granada had the strong feeling that this woman had more licks saved up.

T
he mansion at last began to appear on the rise and Granada’s insides settled with relief.

Polly drove the buggy up to the stable lot, but before she could bring the team to a full halt, Granada leaped over the wheel and took off in a dead run. She was more than ready to be done with this peculiar creature and get back to the kitchen.

There was so much to tell! Wait until Aunt Sylvie heard how brazen the woman had been to Master Ben. Tonight it would be Granada instead of Chester who would have the best story to tell at the kitchen table!

Granada had barely made it around the gate when, from behind her, she heard the old woman’s voice. The girl thought she had understood the words, but prayed she had been mistaken. Yet in the pit of her stomach, she knew the old woman was talking about her. She could feel those sharp eyes digging into her back.

Granada quit her flight and turned to cast a worried look at the woman, who was still in the buggy. The master turned out his horse into the lot and was now walking in Polly’s direction. The old woman’s snapping eyes were set on Granada. The look made the girl’s scalp creep.

Polly repeated the words Granada thought she had heard earlier. “She the one.”

The one who did what? Granada wondered. She blurted, “What she saying I done?”

But it was clear Master Ben knew what Polly was talking about. He stood there in the yard shaking his head at the woman. “Can’t have her,” he said. “She’s the mistress’s pet.”

Polly was undeterred. “She the one,” she said a third time, stern as a preacher. Then she smiled. “I’ll take her off your hands for nothing,” she said, cackling crazily.

Granada sucked in her breath.

The master seemed to waver. Granada emboldened herself. She stuck out her tongue at the old woman, and then ran up to her master begging, “Please, Master! Tell her I belong in the great house with you and the mistress and Little Lord.”

Master Ben cast an eye toward the house and when Granada followed his gaze, she saw the mistress looking down upon them from the upstairs gallery. She gripped the iron grillwork with both hands like she was about to vault over the railing.

The master winced and turned his eyes to Granada again. This time he stared at her longer than any time she could remember. He neither smiled nor frowned, and those weak water-blue eyes gave nothing away. She could tell he was thinking things through carefully, giving it the same cold-blooded deliberation he gave every decision he encountered, whether it was to sell off a slave or to have a second glass of Madeira.

He let go a deep breath and then his face brightened a bit. “You’re Polly’s problem now,” he said evenly. “Do what she tells you or I’ll have your hide.”

Granada saw Polly Shine smirk like she had won, so the girl put her hands on her hips as she had seen the old woman do. “I ain’t going with you!” she screamed at Polly with a solid stomp of her foot.

Granada felt the knuckle side of Master Ben’s hand crashing across her jaw. Her ears roared. She staggered backward several feet before catching herself.

“Benjamin!”

It was the mistress’s piercing voice. This was the first time he had ever raised a hand to Granada and the mistress had been there to see it. Now he was going to get it!

When Granada saw the master grimacing at his wife’s shocked outburst, the girl regained her confidence. She pointed to Polly and stomped her foot again. “You only hitting me ’cause you too scared to hit her!”

He took a step toward her with his hand raised, aiming to strike her again, but before he could get into range, she took off running. She scurried across the dirt yard, under the live oak, and up the steps to the gallery where she dived behind the mistress and wrapped herself in the woman’s skirts.

“Mistress!” she cried. “Don’t let him give me to that old witch. Tell him I belong with you.”

Granada didn’t hear Mistress Amanda answer. She stood silent as the master tromped up the stairs cursing Granada’s name.

Out of breath, he commanded, “Come with me, girl. We got business.”

Finally the mistress reacted. “That old woman can have another, can’t she?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “And Benjamin, you shouldn’t treat Granada so roughly.”

Granada grinned.

“She sassed me,” he said. “That’s another reason she’s going.”

Still holding tightly to Mistress Amanda’s skirts, Granada could feel the woman’s erratic sway. She hoped the mistress could keep on her feet long enough to win the argument. This was no time for one of her sinking spells. Granada peeked up at her.

The mistress had lifted her handkerchief to her face and was dabbing her lips, as if trying to locate precisely the right words. “Sometimes it seems you show more compassion to your Negroes than to your own family, Benjamin.”

“Granada is not family,” he said firmly.

She let out a startled laugh, as brief as a hiccup. “No, of course not!” she exclaimed, as if she were surprised at herself for inferring such a thing.

Once more she put the handkerchief to her mouth, as if to blot away her words. “That’s not what I meant, of course,” she said. The mistress ran a hand down her skirts like she was going after a stubborn wrinkle. “After all, you don’t need to tell me who is and who isn’t a member of this family, do you? I at least know that much. You do believe that I am aware of that, don’t you? That I can tell one daughter from another.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but she continued. “That’s not what I meant, either,” she said sadly. “I only had one daughter. Now I have no daughters. I know that as well. No daughters at all.” She twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “What happened to our children, Benjamin? Where did they get off to?”

Granada hid her head behind the mistress’s skirt again. The girl could tell Mistress Amanda was on the brink. She might do anything now.

The master must have known it as well, for when he spoke, his words were calm and measured. “Amanda,” he said, “it’s not my intention to upset you.”

“I’m not upset. Why should I be? Granada is mine,” she said. “She is not family, but she is mine. You gave her to me. See, I understand it all very well.”

Granada trembled behind the mistress’s skirts. “Please, Mistress, please!” she cried out, her voice muffled by satin and crinoline. To the girl, Polly was as fierce-looking as the witch in Little Lord’s fairytale books. “Don’t let him send me to that witch woman,” Granada shouted. “She’ll eat me up for supper like Hansel and Gretel. I know she will!”

“Amanda, she’s nothing to you,” Master Ben said loud enough to be heard over the rumpus the girl was making. “A dress-up doll to send for when you’re bored. Or when you need to take a slap at me. Admit it now, please. You don’t care for her, not really. Do you?”

“You
told
that old woman to pick Granada, didn’t you?” she blurted, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “You did, didn’t you? You’re using Granada to hurt me!”

“Like you use her to get at me? Listen to me, Amanda,” he said, his voice strained. “To keep the peace, I’ve let you have your way with Granada. But all that’s over with now. Granada is needed elsewhere. This is not personal. It’s business.”

The shrieks of Daniel Webster broke through the open windows. From the gallery Granada could see into the parlor and watched as Little Lord chased the monkey, trying to lasso him with a length of curtain rope. The animal jumped from the piano bench and onto the keyboard with a sudden explosion of discordant notes. All the time Lizzie stood by the window looking out upon her owners’ dilemma and smiling, while her charge wreaked havoc behind her.

Through it all, the master kept his gaze fixed on his wife. He reached out and took her hand. She flinched at his touch.

“Amanda, I know you blame me for Becky,” he said.

The mistress jerked her arm trying to free her hand, but he wouldn’t let go.

“You blame me for … for many things. And God knows I’ve deserved your wrath, but I think I’ve paid my penance, don’t you? After all,” he continued, “I’ve spent twelve years with the blackest slave on the plantation grinning at my guests.”

Again Granada felt the tug of the mistress’s arm, but the master held fast to his wife’s hand.

“The blackest Negro on the plantation standing at my table, Amanda. Looking up at me from Becky’s leftovers. It’s nearly killed me. People laugh at us behind our backs. I know that. But I’ve not said a word, have I?”

When she didn’t answer, he pulled her toward him and repeated,
“Have I?”

The mistress looked like she was pushing back on her heels, but she couldn’t get away.

“Because I don’t blame you, Amanda,” he said, his voice quivering
with an emotion like anger, but frailer. “I deserved it every bit. I admit it. You were upset that I wasn’t there when you needed me. And I’m sorry for it.”

“Sorry for it,” she repeated evenly. “That’s what you have to say? You’re
sorry
for it?”

“Yes, Amanda.”

Granada could sense the intensity returning to the mistress’s voice. To urge her on, the girl stuck her head out from behind the skirts again. “Please, Mistress Amanda, don’t let him send me away to that old hoodoo woman. Save me, Mistress. I’ll surely die.”

With a sudden show of strength Mistress Amanda jerked her hand free from the master’s grip. She said in a dry voice, crackling with rage, “It was
you
who said nothing bad could happen to her. It was
you
who said she couldn’t get sick. Because
you
couldn’t admit that the daughter of the great Benjamin Lord Satterfield could come down with a ‘Negro disease.’ Isn’t that what you called it? We could have left in time. I pleaded with you to let us go back to civilization. Now you spend five thousand dollars
of my daddy’s money
to doctor your slaves? When your own daughter went—”

“That’s enough now, Amanda. Please, calm down,” Master Ben said.

Granada was getting hopeful again. The mistress had him scrambling like somebody trying to plug a levee that had breached in three places.

“It’s all in the past,” he stammered. “Just let it go.” He reached for her hand again, but she was too quick. Granada saw that it was a fist now.

“No!” Mistress Amanda spat. “Becky knows the truth and she wants me to say it.”

“That’s insane talk, Amanda. This has nothing to do with Becky. We’re talking about Granada. She’s my property and, like I said, any decision I make about her is business. Let’s not make it personal.”

“Not personal,” she repeated bitterly. “I want to ask you, Benjamin,
is it business or personal when you go skulking down to the quarters at night? It’s Lizzie’s girl, Rubina, isn’t it?”