by Wendy Lawton
Minty washed up by the sheep trough. A rag hung on the fence near the trough. At least it’s far enough away that the water isn’t covered in lint.
“You don’t need to do for us ’cept to empty the slops bucket.” Mrs. Cook stood in the kitchen doorway.
The slops bucket. At the Brodas plantation at least they called it a chamber pot. Don’t be silly. Doesn’t matter what you call it, it’s still disgusting. If someone from Old Rit’s family had to relieve himself during the night, he got up and went out to the privy. No chamber pots for someone to have to deal with in the morning.
You stop, Araminta Ross. Being mean won’t help you none. Mama wouldn’t like it one bit. Minty went in and took the slops bucket and headed out to the privy to dump it. At least this was an outdoor job and she could inhale without fuzz tickling her nose. Of course, maybe it was better to wait and inhale when the task was done.
She went to the pump to rinse the bucket and wash up again before going inside. Mr. Cook was nowhere to be seen and Mrs. Cook was out with the sheep. One didn’t dare sit at the table without being told, so Minty stood next to it. She bowed her head to thank God, same as she did with her family every morning of her life. She tried to remember Old Rit’s words. “Lord Jesus.” She paused, just like her mother, savoring the sound of the name. “Thank You for bringin’ us through the dark of another night. We be grateful that the Almighty seen fit to allow us to wake up to a new day.” Minty came to the part that always gave her chills. “And that You did not allow the bed I lay on last night to become my cooling board, nor my blanket my winding sheet. Amen.”
Minty imagined the scene—her lifeless body, wrapped in the mildewed blanket, stretched out on that plank by the fireplace. She could picture her family and friends back in the Quarter, mourning when they heard the news. Master Brodas would be very sorry that he hired her out to the Cooks.
Minty ate her piece of bread and drank the buttermilk that sat next to it. She had never eaten alone before.
“Are you still filling your belly?” It was Mrs. Cook.
“I’m just finished, ma’am.”
“Well, it’s time you started earning your keep. If you’re going to be any help to me, I’ve got a lot to learn you, but the shearers are coming to cut the sheep in a day or two. I’ll need you outside to git them ready.”
Outside. Minty heard the word and felt relief wash over her. How she dreaded being closeted into the gloomy room off the parlor that held the spinning wheel and the loom.
Minty stood to stretch her legs. The outside work that sounded so good early this morning had turned her stomach sour in the first few minutes. The rest of the day was pure torture. Sitting on the three-legged stool made her legs go to sleep. She walked a few steps but the pinpricks of waking legs hurt. It felt like she was walking on sharp sand.
When Mrs. Cook showed her how to clean the sheep in preparation for shearing, Minty didn’t know how she could stomach it. She had to tie the sheep to the rail of the pen and, with a bucket of water and a bristly brush, she scrubbed the tail end of the sheep to remove all the dung. She’d knock off the flies as she worked, but very often the area was covered in maggots. Twice she had to knock ticks off her arm.
She never thought she’d make it through the day. When Mrs. Cook called her to break for lunch, Minty spent the whole time scrubbing herself with lye soap. The thought of food—any food—made her stomach lurch.
She wanted to run—run far and fast. It didn’t matter where. No. That’s not true. I want to go back to the Brodas Plantation. I want my mother and my father. I want to stay with old Annie. I want to curl up with my brothers and sisters at night.
Never had Minty hated slavery more than she did at that moment, but she knew she didn’t have the courage to do anything about it. She was scared and she was lonely. There wasn’t a brave bone in her body.
Back home she often heard brave whispers in the Quarter. “I’m goin’ to run, and if Master sets the patrollers onto me, I’ll stand and I’ll fight—I’ll fight to the death afore I let them bring me back in chains.”
Minty turned those defiant words over on her tongue. How she wanted to be brave, but words like those seemed foreign to her. Old Rit had called her stubborn, but Minty only saw weakness. Maybe God just made me to give in and do whatever folks tell me to do, she thought. What if someone wanted her to do something that was downright evil? How can I learn to be brave?
“Girl.” It was Mrs. Cook. “Did you finish the sheep?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, wash up and set the table for supper. You know anything ’bout waiting table?”
“No, ma’am.”
The woman snorted her displeasure. She stood with her arms folded across her ample chest. She was covered in lint. With the sun behind her, all her edges seemed fuzzy. For one moment, Mrs. Cook looked as lost and unhappy as Minty. As she turned to go scrub herself clean, Minty wondered if the setting sun was playing tricks with her eyesight.
She cleared the dishes from the table and stacked them in the scullery. Her bowl of mutton stew was cold and a layer of fat congealed on the top. Just as well, she thought. It will cover the stew and keep the lint out while I clean up. I’ll scoop the lard off just before I eat.
“Tomorrow I’ll learn you how to warp the loom.” Mrs. Cook came out dressed in her nightgown and cap. “After you wash up the supper things, just set the dishwater aside. It’s too dark to go out to the yard and dump it.”
Her mother would be happy to know that her daughter was to learn a valuable trade. If only Minty could be happy as well. She looked at the lint-shrouded room that held the loom. Would she be shut up in weavers’ rooms for the rest of her life? She could barely catch her breath just thinking about it. A wave of dizziness swept over her and she had to hold on to the edge of the table.
She remembered Mrs. Cook’s words when they first met. “She better be able to learn or you’ll take her right back to that old cheat, Brodas.”
That’s right, she reminded herself. If I don’t learn, they’ll send me back.
God’s Goin’
Trouble the Water
We’re weaving a twill for this lot.” Mrs. Cook stood in the door of the loom room with her hands on her hips. “I got the warp ends cut and bundled. You take care you don’t get them tangled up as we warp the loom. I already got a whole day into that bundle.” She paused and squinted at Minty. “You listening to me, girl?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Minty didn’t understand a single thing Mrs. Cook said. What’s a twill? What are warp ends?
“If you tangle this bundle, you’ll see the back of my hand.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, listen good. To make a twill, this here weft crosses over two warp yarns and under one. Each pick moves over one. Makes the cloth a diagonal weave.” The woman drew out the word diagonal to make it sound important. “Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Minty didn’t have any idea what Mrs. Cook was talking about, but the young girl already knew that if she could just bide her time till a person stopped talking, she could mostly pick it up by watching. Didn’t do any good to start asking questions. Most times white folks just got all worked up and kept repeating the same instructions, only louder. If you still didn’t get it, they got frustrated and started whupping.
“These here are harnesses and them are the heddles.”
Harnesses. That must be that whole frame full of wires. Those wires must be what she calls “heddles.”. Minty understood.
“First we wrap the warp ends around this here warp beam and roll ’em up.” The woman got down on her knees behind the loom. Minty did the same. Mrs. Cook handed the huge hank of threads to her. She held it while the woman began tying the threads, one at a time, to a wooden bar.
“Ah-choo.”
It took a long time, and their movement seemed to stir up the lint in the room. By the time they were done, Minty’s legs had gone to sleep.
“Here now, h
old the bundle.” Mrs. Cook began untying the hank and unwinding it. “Don’t you go tangling it now or I’ll learn you a thing or two. I’m fixing to wind the warp onto the beam. As I need more warp, you unwind it from the bundle.”
Minty could see that she needed to untie the threads holding the bundle together as she unwound the coils. How could she do all that with only two hands? It was heavy.
“Gimme more slack, girl.”
What’s slack? Minty continued to try to untie the knots with her teeth as she unwound the bundle.
Mrs. Cook never looked up. She used a handle to turn the beam as she spread the threads evenly across the bar and wound them up. “Don’t let it slump to the ground,” she yelled. “Too much slack, stupid girl, too much slack.”
Slack must mean how much yarn was waiting to be rolled up. Minty’s arms ached and her mouth was filled with fuzz from cutting the ties with her teeth, but she managed to keep up. They repeated this routine until what seemed like miles and miles of yarn was evenly wound onto the warp beam.
“I’m going to get up some lunch for Mr. Cook. You thread these ends through the heddles. Since we ’re making a twill, we only need three harnesses.” She wet the end of one warp thread in her mouth and used her fingers to draw it out to a point. “The first end goes through this here heddle in the first harness. That’s the one closest to you. Poke the second through the second harness and the third through the third harness.” She demonstrated wetting, pointing, and threading. “There. You just keep repeating it. Next thread goes through number one again and so on. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Minty did this time.
Mrs. Cook left the room and Minty got back to work. What a tedious job. She could see that you had to watch to make sure that you didn’t cross any warp threads over—each one must be taken in turn. When she was finally done, she went to find Mrs. Cook.
“Them red beans is for you,” the woman said. “Take them outside to eat. Just don’t go losing the bowl or the spoon.”
Minty sat on a stump in the yard to eat the soupy beans. She was hungry and the food tasted good. Even better than food was the fresh air. Flies buzzed around her, abandoning the sheep for a chance to settle on red beans. Minty didn’t mind. I’d rather face pesky flies outdoors than flying lint inside the house.
“You fixing to spend the whole afternoon lolling around, girl?” Mrs. Cook’s voice drowned out the buzzing flies.
“No, ma’am.”
Minty finished her last spoonful and moved toward the house, her toes dragging the dust with each measured step as if to linger a moment longer.
By late afternoon the loom was fully warped. Mrs. Cook pulled the ends through the reed and tied them to the bar below the loom. “This here’s the cloth beam,” she said as she pulled the warp threads to begin the first wind.
It didn’t pull evenly. The second and third threads were stretched to near breaking. “Stop, ma’am.”
“What do you mean, stop?” Mrs. Cook said, jarred out of her routine.
“Those two yarns—I mean, ends—seem like they’re fixin’ to break, ma’am.”
Mrs. Cook came around to look. “You stupid girl!” she screamed. “You crossed the threads.” The woman jerked her arm over the opposite shoulder and hit Minty full force with the back of her hand. The smack caught Minty on the cheek and sent her flying against the wall.
“I worked and worked the day long and all you done is eat my food and mess up things for me. I knew you was a mistake from the very beginning.”
Minty didn’t move. Her whole head hurt—the back, where it slammed the wall, and her cheek from Mrs. Cook’s blow. Even her teeth hurt. The violent impact caused a snowstorm of lint in the room.
“Ah-choo.” It hurt to sneeze. Tears pricked her eyes. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Think of something good. Anything. She searched her imagination to come up with something good. Maybe she’ll decide I’m not worth my hire and take me back to Ben and Old Rit—Father and Mother. At the thought of home, she couldn’t stem the tears welling in her eyes.
“Don’t you go bawling, you stupid, stubborn thing. You deserve that much and more. For causing me so much trouble, you’ll get no supper tonight and that’s for sure.” Mrs. Cook cursed as she went on talking to herself and unwinding the two crossed ends.
As Minty slumped on the floor, stunned by the blow, she felt her face swelling until she could see her own cheek without looking down. The skin felt tight and hot. She looked up and saw the woman, shoulders hunched and teeth clenched. Minty knew it would only make Mrs. Cook angrier to point out that the two crossed ends were the ones the woman had done herself before lunch.
“You git outside and tend the sheep until bedtime.”
Minty gladly escaped.
Each day was much like the day before. Minty hated being cooped up inside. Mostly her days were spent winding yarn on the shuttle for Mrs. Cook. Minty worked quickly, making sure one was ready to replace the one emptied by weaving. She learned that the yarn had to be wound with just the right amount of tension so as not to stretch the fibers. She figured she must have been doing a good job since Mrs. Cook’s insults had tapered off some.
Today, for the first time, she was to do the weaving herself. The shearers drove in at daybreak. Since Mrs. Cook planned to be out in the pasture with them for most of the day, she had hired another girl to cook and serve food to the workers. Though nobody thought to introduce them, Minty smiled and the girl winked back.
“You leave Sally be, y’hear, girl? She has work to do and don’t need to be lolling around with the likes of you.” Mrs. Cook grabbed Minty’s arm and pulled her toward the loom.
Minty’s head hurt. The swelling in her face had gone down nearly a week ago, but her cheek was still tender. Maybe her sleepless nights were catching up to her. By the time she cleaned the kitchen each night, the Cooks were already long asleep. Though every bone in her body ached and she longed for rest, as soon as she lay down, homesickness would wash over her. Sleep was long in coming.
“Will you stop wool-gathering and pay attention?” Mrs. Cook said. “You may have to sit at the edge of this here bench since you’re so short. Sit down.”
Minty perched on the very edge of the bench. She could reach the treadles with her feet, but it was a stretch to keep the treadle pressed, throw a shot, and then reach forward to grab the reed and beat in the weft. If she strained every muscle, she could stretch her body from treadle to reed to perform the operation.
“I guess you’ll do, though I don’t know why Mr. Cook couldn’t have gotten me a bigger girl.” The woman sighed. “Don’t forget we are weaving a twill. That means the weave is two-one-two-one-two-one all the way across. The next row is one-two-one-two-one-two. Each row takes turns—that’s what makes the pattern.” Mrs. Cook seemed impatient to get outside. “You understand, girl?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Minty had watched the weaving for several days and saw how the raising of the harnesses opened a different combination of warp threads that made the pattern. Pressing the treadles raised the harnesses.
“See, we got these harnesses tied to the treadles. Harness one and three are tied to treadle one and…oh, it don’t matter. Just press treadle three, then treadle two, then treadle one. Then go back and do three, two, and one again. Keep on just like that.” The woman scrunched her eyes, looking hard at Minty. “Pay attention and don’t you go making no mistakes.”
Mrs. Cook went outside to join the shearers. Minty started to weave. She stretched her foot to press treadle three, threw the shot through the shed and reached up to beat the reed against the weaving Mrs. Cook did yesterday. From the kitchen she could hear Sally singing:
Wade in the water, wade in the water, children,
Wade in the water, God’s goin’ trouble the water.
She pressed treadle two and threw the shot again. As she beat the shot, she stopped to listen. It sounded so good to hear spiritual singing. Her voice was lower than Sally’s, so Minty add
ed her harmony to the chorus. As she glanced toward the kitchen, she could see the smile on Sally’s face. Minty’s headache eased with the singing. Where was I? She remembered that she wove two rows, so she pressed treadle three, threw the shot, and beat.
She continued the weaving—two, one, three, two, one, three, two, one—singing along with Sally and alternating each pick. She beat the reed in time with the music. The weaving grew on the loom.
When Mrs. Cook came inside and told Minty to help set dinner out for the men, she was stiff from sitting for so long and straining to reach treadle and reed. Her head throbbed and her eyes burned, but she managed to carry out big bowls of greens, fried marsh rabbit, baking-powder biscuits, gravy, and corn pudding. A makeshift table had been set up using an old door and sawhorses. The men and Mr. and Mrs. Cook sat on benches around the table.
When she came back into the house, Sally set a plate on the kitchen table for her. It was the best food Minty had seen in weeks but she was so achy and tired, she could barely raise the food to her mouth.
“Are you feelin’ poorly, sister?” Sally’s hand on her shoulder startled Minty.
“I never fell asleep middle of the day before.”
“You need to eat, hard as that ol’ woman be workin’ you.” Sally made a clucking noise. “And you just a little thing.”
Hearing a kind word and feeling Sally’s sympathetic touch was more than Minty could stand. Tears rolled down her face. She used the shoulder of her shift to swipe them off her face.
“You Old Rit’s girl, from over the Brodas’s place, ain’t you?”
Minty nodded.
“I can git word to Old Rit that you doin’ a fine job here. My man tell me that your mama been prayin’ powerful for the Lord to bring you back home.”
“She is?”
“Uh-huh. Ain’t a body around don’t know how much Old Rit trust in the Lord.”
Minty knew that was true. Maybe—just maybe—she would see her family again. She stood up to help Sally clear the lunch, but Mrs. Cook came in.