There was a long pause, time enough for Silva to make it from the kitchen to that outside area when the Missus called again. She waited, then cleared her throat. When Silva finally showed, she brought with her a contemptuousness that showed on her face as well as within the bowl of cornbread she mixed so vigorously and persistently she seemed to pound it into nothing.
“Yes, Miss?” Silva sassed.
The Missus remained focused on the plush flowers all around them. She took in a deep breath then sighed.
“What do you make of this good weather we’ve been having?” the Missus asked.
“It’s fine, I guess,” Silva said.
“That’s all you got to say today?” the Missus chided.
“Ain’t nothing else worth saying now is there?” Silva swore.
Silva stood there stone-faced, her temper just as feisty as the Missus’s in that moment.
“I guess you hard of seeing nowadays, just as bad as you are of hearing,” Miss Lula fussed. “But I thought you might like this weather, especially with your boy out there. Guess we all makes mistakes though. Shame it won’t be here for long. Gonna change once fall gets here pretty soon, I bet.”
Silva waited impatiently for the purpose of this speech, the time ticking just as those drops from her spoon into the widemouthed bowl. Still the Missus did not hurry, watching the fields in contemplation of a thought that remained unspoken.
“Since Christmas I’ve wanted to make this house complete, get some good weather and get it done,” Miss Lula finally said. “Now that Jesse’s completed the inside beautifully, there’s just the outside. Weather’s good enough, so might as well go ahead and get it done. But it seems it’ll never be done—that is, unless I force it.”
Silva was truly a demonic force at that moment, a woman comprised of failures and shortcomings, and some would say a few successes if you counted her boys. And here was the Missus, trying to ruin them.
“What is it, Miss?” Silva said in a low voice with her eyes cocked toward the crown of the Missus’s head.
“Now, I’ve given you long enough,” Miss Lula said. “You pay attention good. That boy of yours won’t be going back to that school, that’s for sure, not to that school or any other. We need him around the farm out there with Floyd. Now, I’ve allowed him one year and said nothing about it but that’s enough. How many does he need? No, he should be here with us and not abandoning his home and way of life like those other negras. Besides, he’s family and should be with family, not running off getting ahead of himself like you lettin’ him do. Now, you bring him at the end of summer for the harvest when the new workers come, and we’ll keep him on from there.”
Miss Lula handed Silva one of Jesse’s letters, which Silva read silently.
“Not a day before or after,” Miss Lula said. “I means it, Silva. Don’t you find yourself having this conversation again.”
The Missus said nothing else, returning to her previous thoughts as Silva left the porch.
The sun seemed not to set on its own that evening, requiring several shoves from my willful thoughts to send it across the sky and past the horizon. How long that day seemed to saunter and sway toward some concrete finality that was not soon to come. How torturous it proved when a bird’s song or a cool breeze upon my cheek blew that flame away and it was finally tomorrow, yet still I lay awake in view of it all. And when that truth allowed not a civil thought or cause to enter my mind, and fatigue made me as restless as an infant who refuses his bottle or the breast, I abandoned these efforts at civility and instead chose contempt for the Missus and her departed child from that day forth.
CHAPTER 19
Fletcher wasn’t due to return for another week, yet the Missus still sat delighted as ever in view of the sunshine outdoors, a contentment built upon her face that I thought would surely reach its peak the moment Fletcher was delivered to her custody. Her color was deeper, and she now appeared a shade I’d never thought her feeble skin could muster. Sadly though, I had settled into the ways of that house, acquiring that bit of anger that touched everyone, and I feared it would stain young Fletcher as well. This restlessness had risen in us all, as no one knew exactly what to expect of the Missus and her plan or from each other anymore. With Jesse’s part of her schemes completed, he was released and returned with Floyd in the fields like some dog with its tail between its legs. I don’t think that boy was ever happier, surely, looking back on those days when he’d fought to be inside the house and wondering how he’d ever fallen for it.
There was a quiet period that followed Jesse’s absence, our routines falling back to that time before Jesse knew the insides of the house, and the Missus only that insolence she bore, as this silence somehow masked the trepidation that was to come when I think back on it now. When Fletcher arrived on that morning in preparation for the harvest, Silva held him close, delivering him directly to Floyd.
“You watch after my boy,” she said strongly.
Miss Lula had been asleep when the boy arrived but somehow sensed his presence as she now rushed into the kitchen where Silva prepared breakfast.
“I knows it’s not easy,” Miss Lula soothed to Silva whose back sat toward the young Missus, that proud servant unwilling to turn a single cheek in the Missus’s direction in good weather or bad.
Just then the light curved into the room, bathing the Missus in warmth while leaving Silva as cold as night.
“He’s better off here,” Miss Lula assured her. “You’ll see. It’s good for him.”
“My boy deserve to be at school,” Silva said with her back still turned.
“Your boy’s right where he belong,” Miss Lula admonished. “Poor Elizabeth never even had one year of schooling. Your boy had plenty. Now he can give something back and be of some use to his pappy. It’s all he deserves.”
Silva stood erect, her hand clutching the knife that Miss Lula did not see. The Missus turned decidedly toward the brightly painted doorframe which sat within the light.
“I swear this place sure looks nice,” she said. “Sometimes it even reminds me of home, negras and all.”
“Lord willing, you goin’ reap what you sow,” Silva said. “And I just pray that you live to see the day His judgment fall on you.”
“Darling, you don’t know what judgment is,” Miss Lula said bitterly. “But one day you will. It comes like a thief in the night and it’s gone before you even know it. But for just one glimpse at seeing that boy suffer, I’d die happy even if I had to face my sin in the afterlife.”
Miss Lula watched her meanly, then left the kitchen and made herself presentable upstairs. Mr. Kern knew nothing of the boy’s arrival as he entered the dining room. He had indeed been oblivious to the boy’s impending return from its onset, never hearing of the exit letter Fletcher wrote to school and the program’s remorseful response. The Missus kept it all quiet as she eased downstairs and delivered a kiss to Mr. Kern’s cheek. She then sat beside him and was as pleasant as the day he’d met her.
“What’s this mood?” Mr. Kern asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”
“Don’t say that,” she teased. “I’m always this good.”
“Not since Heck was a puppy, and now he’s grown with kids,” Mr. Kern laughed.
“Well, if you keep that up it won’t last for long,” she said.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “That harvest gonna take it outta me this year. I don’t know if I got the strength for it no more.”
“Why don’t you let Floyd handle it then,” she said. “He knows it left and right. That’s what you pay him for.”
“I just like to keep an eye out,” he said.
“Well, let me,” she offered. “I’ve seen ’em workin’ before. I’m sure I can do it just as good as anybody else.”
Mr. Kern grimaced not from her words but from some deep pain inside that had steadily wo
rsened and could be said to be brought about by those years in the fields or possibly that loneliness he felt in his heart. Either way, it pained him and was not soon to diminish no matter the length of time he battled. Miss Lula understood that tiresome expression for what it was as she now placed her hand upon his wrist and sighed.
“You make me so angry sometimes, George,” she said. “Stubborn as a mule and cunning as a fox. I hate seeing you in pain even if you won’t admit it. Now let me be your wife and take over while you rest in here. If not, I’m inclined to call the doctor and see what he says.”
“No, no,” Mr. Kern barked. “I’m not gonna be some tree stump.”
“You will be if you run yourself into the ground,” she sassed.
Mr. Kern thought about these words and smiled.
“I guess a little rest might not kill me as fast as none is killing me now,” he said, bringing a smile to Miss Lula’s face as she patted his hand, awkward thumps that showed no affection yet still seemed tender if you didn’t know her.
She then stood and quit the dining room, passing Silva as she left her food on the table uneaten and delivered a sly grin that conveyed the workings of her heart. Once outside, she found Floyd by the stables. He had heard nothing of her approach, only turned to see her standing there with quills for eyes.
“Where is he?” she said directly.
“Miss, I never even see ya there.”
“Fletcher,” she demanded. “Mister’s not feeling well, so I’m taking over for him today. Wanna welcome him back.”
“I already got ’im workin’, Miss,” Floyd said.
“Ain’t no need of playing coy,” she said. “I told you I need to see the boy, so go get him and send him to the stables.”
“Might take a minute,” Floyd said.
“Takes all you need,” she replied.
Floyd did as he was told, sending Fletcher inside the stables, although not without his company. Upon hearing them, Miss Lula looked up to see the boy, spotting immediately those eyes she could recognize, no matter how tall he grew, the familiarity overtaking her as she watched a younger Mr. Kern stare back at her.
“He’s fine, Floyd,” she said. “It’s just me. He knows me since he was little.”
“I’d like ta stay if it’s work related,” Floyd said. “Make sure he behave.”
“He don’t need a chaperone,” she insisted. “I’m sure he’s just fine. A young man can walk and talk on his own nowadays.”
“If ya insist,” Floyd said, bowing courteously as he left the stable.
He found me outside the door as he pushed it closed, though not fully latched.
“Lord knows what she wants,” Floyd said, taking his business elsewhere while I nudged the door just slightly to keep it open.
The Missus walked closer to Fletcher, who remained a figure of chaste beauty, and although he wore a simple shirt and tattered shorts and bore hands dirtier than that of an oiler, he still appeared as refined as any gentleman you’d meet on the streets in a suit and tie. His height likely surprised her, although nothing else seemingly did, for he was always this handsome and possessed of those most admirable traits of Mr. Kern, like that old man’s unbending eyes beneath his broad forehead. The sternness Mr. Kern held in his face was also present in Fletcher, yet so was the gentleness Mr. Kern revealed at the faintest moments, that gentleness which Fletcher removed on this day.
“It gets to everyone their first time back,” she said, looking around the stable at the work Floyd had done.
“I know why I’m here,” Fletcher said.
“And that is?” she asked.
“To be your slave,” he answered.
“Never, Fletcher,” she commanded. “I own no slaves. Everyone gets paid equally for the work they do here.”
“Then let me go,” he said.
“You can leave whenever you like. It’s not me who keeps you here. It’s your mother and her alone who makes you work in the fields.”
“She makes me because of you,” he said.
“That’s nonsense, Fletcher,” Miss Lula said gently. “You should be nowhere you don’t wants to be.”
“Then I shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“You talk as if we’ve wronged you. By giving your mother and brother and you work here, we’ve somehow done you wrong. It’s by our work here on this earth that we work toward the kingdom, young Fletcher. Never forget.”
“I didn’t ask for this work,” Fletcher said.
“But you received it and should be grateful to be so blessed. You should go to sleep every night with your lips to God’s ears speaking words of thanks and gratitude. You should pray it never fades because, trust me, many people would want what you got.”
“And what’s that?” Fletcher asked.
Miss Lula paused in recognition of some thought that had troubled her mind for a while now and bore saying or else it might trouble her always. Her eyes found Fletcher’s stare as she continued.
“Tell me, Fletcher, do you remember my daughter?” she asked.
Fletcher looked at her, confused.
“My daughter, Elizabeth,” she reiterated. “She was your age, or would be your age now.”
“No,” he replied sternly. “Should I?”
Miss Lula was an empty vessel, a starlit sky that showed all the possibilities beyond this world, so translucent and clear that I did know all of her at that very moment, and I could not help but pity what it was I did see. For surely it was at that moment that her heart broke, reforming into whatever misshapen monstrosity it remained as until she died, her eyes watery and her lips quivering like a babe.
“No, Fletcher, you’re not my slave,” she said. “But you are my employee and you work for me and will always work for me. All of you will until the day you die. And that’s how you will be remembered by those in this house, and no one outside these walls will remember you or ever know you existed, and you will hate it until you die, young Fletcher. A boy of such promise. No, no one will even know your name outside these walls, I swear to it.”
She grabbed hold of Fletcher’s arm and squeezed it. Fletcher watched her fearfully. He saw the conviction in her eyes, the savagery that such a small body could hold. She woke suddenly, confused to find his wrist inside her hand as she now eased it from her own.
“Never grow tired of home,” she said. “You had your first steps in this house, and I watched you take them. And you’ll have your last here. I swear to it.”
She turned and left Fletcher at the stall, his eyes a blank stare that for the first time became aware of the brutality that controlled this house and indeed the Missus’s role in it.
“Now hurry back to Floyd, or else he’ll be mad at us both,” she said. “Your place is with him now, not with me.”
And with that salutation their conversation ended, Fletcher returning to the fields and Miss Lula to that porch where she watched him, along with the other workers, for the remainder of the evening, her throat never parched as she frequently called for iced tea or lemonade, her stomach never lacking the heaviness of a sweet roll to curb her appetite until dinner. She later retired to her bedroom and would remain there, needing nothing until the next morning when she woke and requested eggs Benedict and a cup of coffee, if there was any creamer left, and that the English muffin be lightly toasted and buttered with an extra pad on the side. Needless to say, Silva refused this request, and the Missus ate oatmeal like the rest. Still, she didn’t complain, biding her time here, just like the rest of us.
CHAPTER 20
The pain grew in that certain part of Mr. Kern, deepening that summer, though the prideful man mentioned nothing of it until Silva discovered him half alive in his parlor one afternoon.
“Sir, we gots to get you to a hospital,” Silva insisted.
She tugged at his near-lifeless form, feeling his hand
slip from her fingers as her insistence was met only by a wave of his arm and she, no longer caring of any outcome inside that house good or bad, merely continued with her duties and paid no further attention to the man in the room.
My response, I must sadly admit, was of the same resignation, as I did not fetch the Missus or even call the doctor when I’d seen the old man in such dire straits. In fact, I did not concern myself with the Mister’s death until the plight posed by the Missus’s unmitigated power bestowed by that untimely occurrence finally hit me, and I knew his death would confer upon her the one thing she had always wanted: her freedom. And it was then that I acted.
The Missus displayed no visible sign of concern over the Mister’s absence during dinner, not that it was expected she would. In fact, upon hearing of his illness at the onset of her meal, she carefully finished her portion then sipped her coffee slowly between bites of sweet roll, before stealing off to his parlor room where she reproached Silva for not informing her sooner.
She found the old man on the floor when she entered, lifting him to her breasts like a newborn.
“Somebody get Floyd!” she yelled.
Floyd was the only one strong enough to carry Mr. Kern to his bedroom, where he ensured the old man was still of this world before he left for his own quarters, saying to him, “Ya gotta kick that demon,” and hearing Mr. Kern grunt back, “If it don’t kick me first.”
Mr. Kern appeared as feeble as a wayward ghost having returned to earth for a spot of unfinished business, his hair ivory and his skin gray-green, like the tint of an overcooked yolk, his eyes deep pockets that were dim as the shadows that hung around him.
“Promise me, sir, if ya don’t kick it first, ya better run like hell if ya see that white light comin’ for ya,” Floyd said.
Mr. Kern grinned, although even that small gesture seemed too exhaustive in his state as he soon lay back with his head on his pillow and closed his eyes. The doctor arrived by nightfall and brought with him an assistant who seemed more interested in the Missus’s delicate smile than actually caring for Mr. Kern. Lucky for us all, there would be no need for some lengthy hospital stay, the doctor assured, as the Mister’s condition had been brought on by a pesky bug and prolonged periods of dehydration. Still, he would need ample rest and would miss the remaining weeks of the harvest, a fact that ailed him more than the fever he bore.
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