Wench

by Dolen Perkins-Valdez

  “That would be something else,” Lizzie said. Lizzie followed Fran into the bedroom. She powdered the woman from the neck down. The rain beat against the closed window as if asking to be let in.

  “My sister sure does live an exciting life. Sometimes I wish I could trade places with her. Sure, her husband left her. But she’s got that blessed child. And she travels all over the place. I wonder if Drayle would mind if I traveled with her sometime. I’d probably be gone at least a year, but oh what a year it would be! I could probably see the world in a year’s time! I wonder what one of those big ocean steamships look like. They probably look entirely different than a Mississippi rowboat.”

  “Yes, I reckon they do,” Lizzie said and reached for Fran’s dress.

  Lizzie could not believe it. A letter from Reenie? how could this be? Reenie could not read or write. Surely this was something that would endanger Reenie. Clarissa had gotten the letter from the butler who had gotten it from the porter who had picked it up in Xenia. It was addressed to “Lizzie Drayle.” The letters on the envelope were smudged, but she could clearly read the postmark: “new York.”

  New York! even Miss Fran had never been to new York. Lizzie tried to picture what this new York must look like. She had read about it in newspapers, but she found she could not come up with convincing images. So she just thought of cincinnati—the biggest city she had ever seen—and imagined it was new York.

  The letter brought to mind Reenie’s story of how she lost the edge of her finger. On the night Lizzie had visited Reenie’s cottage and discovered the runaway slave girl, the two women had sat up talking after the child went to sleep. Sir had issued a rule on their plantation that no slaves were to learn to read. Reenie had always wanted to read. Her mother had been taught by Sir’s daddy when he was alive, but the woman had never passed it on to her daughter. Reenie kept the primer with her mother’s letters in it, and it was this book that Sir found in her cabin. He burned it right in front of her, knowing that he was also burning her mother’s memory. She’d hated him for it.

  But what he hadn’t destroyed, she said, was her desire. She’d gotten another book, stolen from the house that she believed no one would miss. It was more difficult than her last one and didn’t have any pictures. She kept it in her skirt so that she could pull it out whenever she had a spare moment. When Sir felt the book’s hardness while grabbing her from behind one day, he’d taken it from her. She’d fought him to get the book back, and when he slapped her, she picked up a flower vase and hit him in the head with it. It broke, and the man was astonished to find he was bleeding. Furious, he ordered her down to the stables where a slave was made to slice the tip of her finger right off.

  Lizzie sat on the porch of Drayle’s cottage, cupping the open letter in her palm, remembering Reenie’s story. She read the name at the end first.

  “With love I remain, Reenie.”

  “I remain, Reenie.”

  “Reenie.”

  The first thing Lizzie noticed was the penmanship. It was perfect, with looping gs and tall hs. She wondered if she would be able to write like that if she studied long enough.

  She took a moment to thank God for her ability to read. She didn’t want to have to share this bit of heaven with anybody:

  May 8, 1854

  My dearest Lizzie:

  I hope this letter finds you. I have asked my friend—to write and mail this letter in my stead because I am still learning to read and write properly! But I so desired to get a letter to you and let you know that I am doing fine. I am a free woman, Miss Lizzie, and I have a job as a maid in a rich family’s residence. They treat me fine, and gave me my very own room. I cannot go into detail how I escaped, but just know that I met many kind people along the way. There were many times that I thought I would not make it, but someone always appeared ready to give me a helping hand. My faith in the Lord is stronger than ever. I do hope that you will lean on him in your darkest hour. How are your children? have you heard anything about Mawoo? I know that I will never receive an answer from you as I cannot give you my address, but I thought I’d ask so that you know that I am thinking of you, my dear friend. Whenever I think of you and Mawoo and Sweet, it makes me happy and is about the only thing that I can remember from my past days, other than my darling girl, that brings me Joy.

  Miss Lizzie, you will always remain in my thoughts. I do hope to see you again one day, in this life or the next.

  With love

  I remain,

  Reenie

  Lizzie wanted to hold on to the letter, wanted to take it back with her to the plantation, and tuck it into her things. But she knew she had to get rid of it. Keeping it could only bring harm to everyone involved. She would have to burn it.

  Before she did, however, she wanted to read it again.

  FORTY-ONE

  Lizzie started drinking the tea the next morning. First, she prepared herself as much as she could. She said her goodbyes and prayers. One moment she was thinking of it as a baby—a boy or a girl, a younger brother or sister to Nate and Rabbit. The next minute she was thinking of it like a seed—a large seed, perhaps—but a seed no different than what one found in the middle of a plum or peach. Whenever she felt doubt, she brought up the image of this seed in her mind.

  There really had been no decision to be made. If she kept this baby, she would not be able to escape very far. Everyone knew the journey north could take weeks or even months. She would also have to figure out a way, once she was settled, to make enough money to buy Nate and Rabbit’s freedom. If she kept the baby and returned to Tennessee, she would be adding another slave to Drayle’s plantation. And she had no intention of doing that. No intention whatsoever.

  So she followed the instructions given to her by Mawu, used the herbs gathered by the red-headed woman before she left her cabin that day. Drink the tea every four hours for several days. The only thing she knew the tea contained were squaw root and pennyroyal. And it was bitter. She brewed it in the hotel kitchen, holding the bag of herbs close to her chest in case anyone noticed. At first, she felt the same. Would this really work? But on the second day, she began to feel nauseous and the bleeding started. It was a heavy bleeding that threatened to travel down her leg if she didn’t wrap up tightly enough. It soaked her rags so thoroughly she could smell the dark, rich scent of the blood once it dried.

  Each day, when Glory delivered the goods, she met Lizzie on the back steps of the hotel kitchen and asked how she was doing. Lizzie tried not to look at the white woman’s pregnant belly when she answered.

  “Fine,” was her answer each day. Then she would take the food off Glory’s cart and place it inside the kitchen.

  On the third day, the cook sniffed the jar with the steeping herbs while Lizzie was tidying up the pots.

  “Bless you child,” was all Clarissa said.

  On the fourth night, Lizzie cramped so badly that she had to take to the bed. The young girl on the bed next to hers placed a pile of rags beneath her so her blood would not soak through to the mattress. Lizzie felt hot and feverish, and her entire body tingled. Every few minutes, her stomach cramped up into a knot and she had difficulty breathing. Then it would pass.

  Clarissa sent Glory up to check on her the next morning.

  Glory knelt beside Lizzie.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Lizzie shook her head. “Not so good. I can’t stand to drink this tea anymore.”

  Glory spread Lizzie’s legs and pulled back the rags. The blood was thick and clotted and lay curled in bulbous lumps like tiny dead mice.

  “How much have you bled?”

  Lizzie started to cry. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  Glory dried Lizzie’s forehead. “You’ll be fine.”

  Lizzie reached for Glory’s hand. Glory patted it. “Shhh. Hush now. You’ll be fine. Just don’t drink any more of that tea. Let the Lord take away your pain.”

  Lizzie nodded.

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll te
ll Clarissa in the kitchen to send you up something to eat. You’ve got to keep your strength up.”

  Lizzie nodded and let go of Glory’s hand. A few minutes later, Clarissa sent up a bowl of soup. Lizzie tried to sit up in bed and drink it.

  The same girl who had shown her to the attic on that first day now cleaned and changed Lizzie.

  “I don’t even know your name,” Lizzie said to her.

  The girl smiled, but did not respond. It was her turn to reject the intimacy.

  Lizzie stayed in bed all day, mostly sleeping and resting, sometimes staring at the wall. What if she wasn’t pregnant after all? What if she had panicked for nothing? Mawu had said it was better to drink the tea than worry, that she had to drink the tea before she started feeling the quickening movements in her belly.

  When she felt low, she pulled Reenie’s letter from beneath her mattress and read it again. It gave her hope, if only for a second. Reenie had been able to escape because she had no children to mess with her mind. She made a clean break because the only daughter she had ever known had been sold off from her. Lizzie wondered if Reenie was trying to find that daughter now. Surely, she was. Surely any free slave would work to find their family. But where would she start? how did you find someone who may not even have the name you gave them when they were born?

  Lizzie could tell the time of day by the color of the light in the room. Even though she had just awakened, she knew it was an hour after supper when Drayle appeared in her doorway. He was freshly shaven and wore the trousers she had washed and pressed for him the week before. His blond hair lay neatly combed to the side, its thinness camouflaged.

  He sat on the bed beside her and took her hand.

  “I hear that my little Lizzie has been sick,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. Just a bellyache is all.”

  He stood up and closed the door. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. What if one of the women returned? And how could she tell him she had just gotten rid of the child he never knew he had?

  He unbuttoned his shirt.

  The girl had just cleaned her bedclothes, so they were fresh. But Lizzie was still bleeding, and although the cramps had subsided for the moment, she was nauseous. She felt that she would vomit at any moment, as if the vomit sat right at the back of her throat.

  He had to lift her to move her because she was nestled in the center groove of the bed. He lay beside her naked and stroked her chin as if she wore a light beard.

  “I’ve missed you. I wish I hadn’t brought Fran this summer. This is our place,” he said.

  She had wanted to hear those words from him, but now that she got them, she did not know what to do with them. She did not feel the satisfaction she had thought she would.

  He lifted her gown and fumbled with the rags tied around her. He was naked and she was fully clothed.

  “You’re bleeding?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “That’s okay,” he answered. “I don’t mind.”

  She had always hated that Drayle was foul enough to occasionally take her when she was bleeding. Men were not supposed to do such things. And she did not know how to tell him she was not bleeding in the way he assumed. Her stomach rolled, and she fought at the bitter taste in her throat as he pushed his way into her.

  She screamed out, and he put a hand over her mouth.

  “Quiet!”

  He did not move his hand from her mouth, and she felt she could not breathe. She wanted to stop breathing, so she would not have to deal with this anymore. She would lose Rabbit and Nate, but she would join her unborn baby. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath.

  When he was finished, she could smell the stink of her own body.

  He used the end of her gown to clean himself, leaving streaks of red.

  “My Lizzie,” he said, not looking at her. He left the door open.

  The next day, Lizzie felt worse.

  Clarissa was climbing the stairs to her room. Lizzie could tell by the way the steps creaked. Every other step, the woman stopped to get her breath. When Lizzie heard her coming, she knew it was important.

  “Your mistress want us to move you. She want you to come to the cabin.”

  Lizzie shook her head, remembering Drayle’s visit. “Tell her I can’t work just yet.”

  “She know that, Miss Lizzie. She want you to come over there so she can get you better. At least that’s what they tell me.”

  The only thing that was going to get her well, Lizzie thought, was the proper expulsion of this baby. Once the baby and all its remnants were gone, she would be better.

  If Drayle would just leave her alone, it would be a matter of time before she got better. In that cottage, she was more vulnerable to his desires. Fran would make her a pallet on the floor and fuss over her for a while before using her as a giant ear. The real problem, Lizzie knew, would be the night. Drayle would have no problem taking her on the floor of the living room while Fran slept on the other side of the wall.

  “I ain’t going,” Lizzie said.

  Clarissa shook her head. “Oh no. You not gone get me in trouble. You going. That’s why I came up here to tell you myself.”

  Lizzie tried to sit up, and Clarissa helped her. “Miss Lizzie, this just the life you got. Until you do something about it, you got to deal with what the Lord bring you.”

  Lizzie she was surprised to hear these words from the woman. Until you do something about it. Was that a message?

  “Miss Clarissa, you can’t help me down those stairs. You better send that young girl up here.”

  “You best believe I ain’t gone help you nowhere. I just came up here to deliver the news and let you know I’m here for you if you need me. And I’m gone send over food for you each day now. You hear?”

  Lizzie nodded weakly.

  You know we were only supposed to stay here two weeks. We’re lengthening our trip on account of you,” Fran said.

  Lizzie sat in the bundle of sheets on the floor and leaned back on the sofa. Fran had done a good job of securing the rags around her private area. But neither wanted to risk her getting blood on the couch, so she sat on the floor for the time being.

  “I appreciate that, Miss Fran.”

  Fran sat at the table staring at Lizzie. She sipped from a glass of water. Every now and then, she looked as if she wanted to ask a question.

  “Where’s Mr. Drayle?” Lizzie asked. She was still nervous that he would return that night and try to have his way with her.

  “He’s with the men.”

  “Oh.”

  Lizzie looked down again. She wanted to be alone.

  “You know, I was always jealous of you.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Of course. You never knew?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m just a slave, Miss Fran, and an ugly one at that.”

  Fran looked down into her water. “So many things. I was jealous because you gave him children when I couldn’t. Jealous he brought you to this summer resort without me. It was downright disrespectful!”

  Lizzie had thought about this, but she had never questioned the unwavering rule of white men. They did what they wanted. That was the way of the world.

  “Lizzie, envy and hate are two different things. I envied you. But I did not, and I do not hate you.”

  Lizzie nodded. She understood the difference between the two words. What she did not understand was the difference in how Miss Fran would treat her based on the distinction. If Miss Fran did not hate her, why was she trying to make her children go work in the fields?

  FORTY-TWO

  That night, Fran slept on the sofa in the living room while Lizzie slept on the floor. In the other room, Drayle slept alone in the bed. Lizzie woke to the strange arrangement, startled. She could hear Drayle snoring. As soon as Lizzie moved to rearrange her gown, Fran woke up.

  “Lizzie?”

  “Yes, Miss Fran?”

  Fran opened her eyes and pushed up onto her elbows. Her eyes wer
e swollen, as if she had not slept well.

  “Everything fine?”

  Lizzie realized that Fran was keeping watch over her, making sure that Drayle did not try anything. Fran had never done such a thing before, so Lizzie was confused.

  “Well, I am a bit thirsty. But I’ll get it.”

  “No.” Fran swung her legs off the sofa. “I’ll get it.”

  Lizzie listened to the pump outside. It made a swishing noise. When Fran returned, she had a glass for both of them. She sat on the sofa beside Lizzie and they drank quietly.

  The water refreshed her. Lizzie remembered what Fran had told her earlier, and she felt an urge to reassure her in some way.

  “Miss Fran?”

  “Yes?”

  It was dark, but the moon shone through the window and before long, the shadows in the room had brightened. Fran’s curly hair had become unpinned, and there were a few tendrils framing her face. Lizzie looked at her and thought to herself that it was she who had envied Fran, not the other way around. It was she—Lizzie—who would have given anything at one point to be in Fran’s place, to have Fran’s lustrous hair and skin and position.

  In this unfamiliar setting, Lizzie could clearly make out Fran’s vulnerability. The white woman stared at Lizzie as if she needed to know what the younger slave woman wanted to say to her, as if she didn’t have a closer friend in the world who understood the problems of her intimate domestic life better than Lizzie did.

  “The reason I’ve been sick is because I drank a tea.”

  Fran nodded. But Lizzie could see that she did not understand. She had never been pregnant, and she did not make the connection.

  “A tea that gets rid of a baby.”

  “Oh!” Fran’s hand flew to her mouth and the sound that escaped was enough to stop Drayle’s snoring. Lizzie heard him grunt, shift, and settle again.