Wench

by Dolen Perkins-Valdez

  “Would you like to see your room, Billy?” Fran interrupted.

  The child nodded in response.

  “Lizzie, prepare the room across from mine. Dessie, have Philip take that trunk upstairs.” Fran walked to the door with the driver. “I do hope you’ll give my sister regards for me. Are you a friend of hers?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m just a driver. She hired me to bring him. She regrets that she is not able to come herself.”

  “Yes, that’s too bad.” Fran looked back at the child.

  As Lizzie took the child’s hand and ascended the stairs, Nate followed.

  When she got to the top of the stairs, Nate stood there looking curiously at Billy. It struck Lizzie that her son was dressed better than the white boy. Nate offered the wooden train car in his hand. The boy walked forward and accepted it.

  “What’s your name?” Nate asked softly.

  “Billy.”

  “Do you like trains?”

  Billy nodded. “I rode on one before. Have you?”

  “No,” Nate said, his eyes wide for a moment. “But I’ve got a whole train set. You want to see it?”

  Billy shrugged as if he had seen a million train sets.

  “Come on.” Nate took his hand and guided him to Fran’s bedroom, Rabbit following at a close distance behind them.

  Lizzie heard Drayle stamping his boots as he entered the front door.

  “We have visitors?” he asked.

  “Yessir,” Dessie answered.

  “I’m not properly dressed to receive anyone. Tell them I’ll wash up and be there in a few moments.”

  “It’s just the child, sir,” Dessie said.

  And that was all Lizzie heard. She helped to carry the train set into the bedroom where Billy would be staying. She took her two dresses out of the closet, folded them, and made a stack on the floor outside the door. She guessed she would be sent back to the storeroom, but she wasn’t sure. She turned back the bedcovers. The sheets had just been changed that day. It was late for a child. He would want to go to bed soon.

  “You’re probably tired from your trip,” she said to Billy.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The child had manners, she thought. And he hadn’t been around slaves much. Philip entered the room with the trunk.

  “Heavy?” she asked.

  “Not so much,” Philip answered.

  Both of them knew what this question meant. Slaves always had an interest in knowing how long a guest would be staying. Each extra body meant more work.

  “Where you want me to put it?” he asked.

  “Just put it over yonder.” After he had set the trunk down, Lizzie opened it and unpacked the boy’s clothing, counting each piece as she went. As Philip left, she saw him look briefly down at her pile of belongings outside the bedroom door.

  When she had finished putting away Billy’s things, she turned and saw Drayle’s figure in the doorway.

  “Hello, youngster,” he said. Both Nate and Billy looked up. Drayle looked confused for a moment.

  Lizzie left them to get a washbasin. She went to the kitchen where Dessie filled it with hot water from a kettle on the fire. When she returned, Drayle was no longer in the room. Nate and Billy were sitting on the floor playing with the train set. Rabbit perched on a chair watching them. Lizzie placed the washbasin on the bureau.

  “You’ve got to wash up,” she said.

  Nate smiled at Billy. “They always make you wash up in this house before you go to bed.”

  Drayle returned as she was cleaning behind Billy’s ears. He watched Lizzie lay out sleepwear for the child. Nate and Rabbit had been sent down to the kitchen. After Billy was tucked into the bed, the two of them stepped out into the hallway.

  “Lizzie, I’m afraid that you and the children will have to move out to the quarters. For now.”

  “The children? Why?” She understood that she would have to move. But the children?

  “Because my nephew will use this bedroom.”

  He had not answered her question. She understood that Drayle would move back into the bedroom with Fran. But Lizzie had hoped the children could all play together, even sleep together in the extra bedroom.

  She nodded and said “Yessir.”

  When she got to the kitchen, the children were sitting at the table. The kitchen was clean, and everything was put away. Dessie had already retired for the night.

  “Miss Fran says we’ve got to move out to the quarters,” Lizzie announced. She wanted them to believe their beloved Fran had decided upon this loss of status, not their father. It was better, she figured, for them to know sooner rather than later that the white people they loved would disappoint them.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Two days after she’d moved back in with Big Mama, the old woman died in her sleep. Although Lizzie believed in religion, she wasn’t big on signs. Big Mama had been, though. And Lizzie figured Big Mama would have said God sent her and the children down there to be with her so she wouldn’t die alone.

  Lizzie expected Drayle and Fran to do something special to honor Big Mama since she was the oldest slave on the plantation, but they simply told the slaves to bury the woman however they saw fit. On the day of the funeral, Lizzie kept looking up toward the big house to see if either of them would come down, but they didn’t.

  Someone quoted a scripture and Lizzie read a poem from a book in Drayle’s library by someone named William Wordsworth. The children cried the hardest. Lizzie returned to Big Mama’s cabin alone and lit a fire. She had never talked much to Big Mama about her relationship with Drayle, and now she wished she had.

  Philip had recently been over to the plantation where Polly lived and confirmed to Lizzie that her sister had been sold. When the fire finally died down after a couple of hours, she wrapped herself in Big Mama’s shawl. She cried for a little while. Rocked herself. Wondered if she would ever see Polly again. Polly had not had children. She had been alone before Lizzie. Now she was alone again, on another plantation somewhere. Lizzie had asked Drayle about finding her, but he reported that her former owner had been uncooperative. Without Big Mama and Polly, all Lizzie had were her children.

  The longer she stayed there, the more she realized that sleeping in the slave quarters was difficult for a house slave. Each morning, while the slaves tied cloths around their heads and layered whatever clothing they could find to protect themselves from the cold before hustling out to the fields, she put on a dress and walked toward the house.

  Her children still refused to play with the other slave children. Fran had filled their bellies and heads with false dreams, and they had a difficult time letting go of this. Rabbit became sullen and withdrawn, and Nate kicked when he was angry.

  At first, the slave women barely spoke to Lizzie. But as the months passed, they included her in their conversations. Lizzie’s speech fell back into the rhythm of her youth.

  One unusually warm spring night, Lizzie went to bed in just a shirt. When she rolled over, she felt a hand between her thighs. She pushed it away, thinking one of the children was using her as a pillow. Then she felt the sticky hand wedge itself again between her legs.

  She opened her eyes and a fat face loomed over her. He put a hand over her mouth. It was Baby. She hadn’t spoken to Baby in a long time, and she could instantly sense that he was different. Not the Baby she’d known. She felt him try to pry her legs apart. She yelled and he punched her in the face. Her jaw burned. She kicked and arched her back. Even though she couldn’t see around her, she guessed there was no one in Big Mama’s cabin with her. The children were gone. She could hear singing. They were all outside and they wouldn’t hear her even if she did manage to move his hand from her mouth. But he covered her mouth so tightly she could barely breathe. The look in his eyes scared her. He would do this to her. He would do this to her and the next day he wouldn’t even glance in her direction. For once, she was glad her children had sneaked off.

  He pinned one of her legs beneath his
knee. She kicked with the other leg. And she understood what he wanted from her: just one push. He wouldn’t even wait to satisfy himself. He just wanted to violate the master’s woman. He’d do it with a finger if he could, but she kept his hands busy holding her down.

  I’ll tell. If she could speak, she would threaten him. But she wasn’t sure if it would mean anything. Sleeping in the slave quarters meant she was subject to its rules. She could appeal to the elders. She could try to get somebody to beat him. But she had no family. Some women had brothers who provided this protection. Others had lovers who let it be known their women were not to be messed with. Lizzie had no one.

  Except Drayle.

  I’ll tell. The words died in her throat as his fat finger made its way inside of her. He groaned. His grip on her mouth loosened and she bit him. Then she heard a loud thud.

  He fell back and Lizzie rolled from beneath him and covered herself. She heard the skillet drop to the floor and then the sound of her son crying. She lifted herself up.

  “Nate, come here.”

  Philip kicked the pan away and knelt beside her. “You al-right?”

  She nodded.

  “Nate came here and found him on top of you. He came and got me. Why you in here sleeping when everybody else outside having a good time?”

  “Nate, come here,” Lizzie said. She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted her son next to her.

  A field hand stood in the doorway. “He dead?” he asked.

  “Naw,” said Philip. “He all right. Just help me get him out of here.”

  Lizzie scooted back into the corner, still holding on to Nate. “Where’s Rabbit?”

  “Outside,” he said. They dragged Baby’s big bulk out of the door.

  Lizzie touched her hand to her sore cheek and knew it would be swollen by morning.

  Lizzie and her children moved into Philip’s cabin, the only one on the plantation built with hewed logs. He kept a neat and tidy room despite being a single man. Lizzie found Drayle in the kitchen one day and told him she was now living with Philip.

  “Philip? That’s fine, I suppose. He’ll take good care of you and the children.”

  Drayle was right. Philip treated her and the children respectfully. He always left when she needed to undress.

  Each morning, he left to give little Billy riding lessons. This kept Philip busy, and Lizzie and the children were often asleep by the time he returned. Lizzie was grateful for Philip’s protection, so she kept the cabin as a wife would. She tended his laundry, brought back leftovers from the big house. He didn’t say much, just clucked his appreciation and went back on his way. He grew closer to Nate, sharing more animal stories with the boy once he learned he liked them.

  Lizzie wished Billy would leave. She did not feel any ill will toward him, but he was the sole reason she and her children were back in the slave quarters.

  Fran never once inquired about Nate and May. It was as if they had never existed. Sometimes Lizzie’s children came to the kitchen door to fetch something or run an errand. If they caught sight of Fran, she turned the other way. The children now looked as ragged as the other slave children. Despite their protests, Lizzie had finally taken away their fine clothes for good. There was no use for them in the quarters. The next time a slave with a pass visited the plantation, Lizzie gave them the clothes to sell in town.

  Eventually the hurt looks on Nate and May’s faces lessened as they realized Fran would not be their special mistress anymore. Lizzie dampened the hurt by bringing them treats from the house. She also took to hitting her children more, especially Nate. She didn’t want a white man to be the first to beat her son. When he received his first beating, he would take it with the knowledge that a beating couldn’t hurt him. He would have to learn how to be a slave now.

  One day while Lizzie was shelling peas in the kitchen, she heard Fran scream from somewhere inside the house. She had never heard Fran scream like that, so she wiped her hands and hurried out to the front. Fran was kneeling over a small body and when she lifted her hands, Lizzie saw they were covered in blood.

  Lizzie rushed forward, then stopped. It wasn’t Nate. It was Billy. His head was bleeding and his eyes were closed.

  “Lord!” Lizzie said.

  Philip was talking fast. “He was riding. He was all right. And Mr. Goodfellow just bucked.”

  “Why did you put him on that one-eyed bastard? he’s too big for a child!”

  Drayle slammed the front door behind him. “What happened?”

  “Your slave. He did this.” Fran pointed at Philip. “He did this to my boy.”

  “No, no, no,” moaned Philip. “I swear, Marsuh Drayle. I was right there. That one-eyed horse just bucked.”

  Dessie came out of the kitchen. “I sent for the doctor.”

  “Help me get him on the table,” Drayle said to Philip.

  “Don’t touch him!” Fran screamed.

  “We’ve got to get him off the floor, Fran.”

  Lizzie took Fran by the arms and pulled her up.

  Dessie cleared the table, and the men lifted the child onto it. Dessie brought out a wet cloth and wiped at the blood on the boy’s head. Lizzie sat Fran down and rubbed her arms.

  “He’ll be fine,” Lizzie said.

  Drayle stood in the corner, watching Dessie clean the child up. He was trembling and it took everything Lizzie had not to walk over to him.

  Because first, she had to tend to Fran.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sunday morning. Two male slaves jumped. The preacher hummed a tune and the elder women moaned. A young woman shook her hands in the air. Drums had been outlawed in the entire county so two young male slaves tapped out a blunt rat-a-tat on a tree stump. Others clapped a rhythm.

  Then the singing began. A woman with a strong, clear voice stepped forward and sang. When she stopped and sat down, a man stepped forward and picked up where she left off, lyrics choppy and improvised. When he paused, another one took it up. The preacher shook his leg in obvious delight.

  Lizzie sat back, slightly outside of the circle, each child perched on a leg. They stared curiously. Although several of the slave women danced with babies tied to their backs, Lizzie’s children had never been to a Sunday meeting. During the last decade of Big Mama’s life, she claimed she was too old to make it down the hill, and had made her own Sunday morning right there in her cabin where she quoted Bible verses from memory, holding the Bible right up to her nose as if she were actually reading it. Once Lizzie learned to read, she read the Bible to Big Mama on Sunday mornings while the children restlessly fidgeted before they were allowed to go outside and roam the empty quarters.

  Sunday morning meeting was held a slight ways off from the plantation in a hollow. Most of the slaves eagerly made their way down the hill to the grassy clearing where their own homegrown preacher took up his most respectable aspect and preached to them. He couldn’t read, but his memory was such that he could recite all of the books of the Bible in order, backwards and forwards. He had been raised by a Bible-loving woman who had a smattering of reading knowledge but had been too intimidated by her master to pass along that precious knowledge to her son. Instead, she taught him to memorize the passages. Pretty soon, the slaves learned the litany he recited at the beginning of each meeting: MatthewMarkLukeJohnActsRomans…. naming the books of the Bible was a prayer in itself.

  Lizzie knew her children were frightened by the dancing and shouting, but she also wanted them to know something about religion, especially now that Big Mama was dead. She put her arms around them. She closed her eyes and let the music seep into her.

  She began to pray. She could not remember the last time she’d prayed so hard. She prayed for Billy who was back with his mother and recovering from the gash in his scalp. She even prayed for Fran who was heartbroken now that her nephew was gone. She prayed the Lord would straighten out Dessie’s back. She prayed for Big Mama who was sleeping with the angels. She prayed that she would see her sister Polly again.
But most of all, she prayed Drayle would free her children.

  And then one of the women took her children from her and another lifted her to her feet. They pulled her into the dance, and Lizzie tried to imitate their movements. They swished their skirts around and Lizzie did the same. They shook and trembled and some even spoke in tongues. Lizzie did the same, the language coming from somewhere inside of her she had not found before. They surrounded her. The elders moaned while the men and women welcomed her into their circle.

  “Hallelujah!” the women shouted.

  Despite the clumsiness of her steps, they forgave her mistakes. She danced and the women embraced her.

  The drumbeats slowed and the women knelt to the ground. They clasped their hands together in supplication, and the preacher spoke above them all. He spoke of trials and tribulations, rivers and mountains, and paradises. Oh, if they could only make it to the other side. They just had to hold on.

  As she walked back from the meeting, her children skipping happily behind her, she felt lifted. A light filled her chest.

  The three of them entered Philip’s cabin, a noisy bunch. Lizzie swung the door open wide.

  Standing in the center of the one-room cabin was Drayle. He held his arms out.

  He had come for her, and she willingly went to him.

  PART III

  1853

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Once again, Drayle and his two slaves took the steamship up the Mississippi to the mouth of the Ohio River. All slaves traveling on the Madison slept on deck, chained to iron posts, surrounded by cargo that included bales of cotton, bundles of sugar, hemp, and tobacco. Although they had always worked in the sun, the slaves’ skin turned even darker on the river and they eagerly awaited the cool of sunset when the shadows would stretch long again. Most slaves were headed downriver, so by the time Lizzie and Philip reached Cairo, Illinois, and veered northeast on the Ohio, most of the other people sleeping on deck were roustabouts and deckhands. By her third summer of travel, Lizzie had become accustomed to the strange accents, mostly German and Irish, of the poor whites. Yet she was still confused by the sight of these whites working alongside the free blacks on the ship.