Miss Duncan-the-second studied the little girl then said, “She don’t look like no one I know. Who you talking ’bout?”
Miss Duncan-the-first said, “How old is you, girl?”
The little girl pulled Birdy’s arm away from Emma and hugged back up on her father. The man said, “Don’t be shy, Lucille. She ain’t but six, she little for her age. Who she favour?”
Miss Duncan-the-first said to the man, “What your woman name be?”
The man said, “Liza, Liza Taylor, ma’am.”
Miss Duncan-the-first said, “Y’all married?”
“Yes, ma’am. Seven years.”
“What her name afore she got married?”
“She was a Jones, ma’am.”
“Where ’bouts she from?”
“Fort Smith, Arkansas, ma’am.”
“She born there?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who her mama?”
“She never knowed her, ma’am.”
“Who raise her?”
“Her aunty.”
“Her aunty by birth?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Her aunty ain’t told her who her mama is?”
“No, ma’am.”
Miss Duncan-the-second said, “How come she ain’t told her?”
Mr. Taylor looked at the women and frowned. He looked like he was fixing to say something, but Miss Duncan-the-first jumped in and said, “What she know ’bout North Caroliney?”
“She don’t know nothing ’bout it, least she ain’t never said nothing.”
Miss Duncan-the-second looked back at the little girl and all the sudden slapped both her hands over her ears, her mouth jumped open and she ’peared to be dumbstruck.
Miss Duncan-the-first said, “Sir, judging by the look of your daughter, I knows your wife, I swear I do. But her name be Alice, not Liza.”
Miss Duncan-the-second looked stupid-fied. She pulled her hands off of her ears and whispered, “Naw, it caint be, that woman look too old. Alice ain’t no more than twenty-six by now.”
Mr. Taylor said, “Naw, ma’am, you’s mistaken. We ain’t ’xactly sure how old Liza be. She got five children elsewhere and the oldest one ’bout fourteen years old. Liza’s somewhere twixt thirty-five and forty near as we can figure. But she ain’t no young woman, she caint be no twenty-six.”
Miss Duncan-the-first said to Mr. Taylor, “She is that young! She done birth — Emma, how much do five and three come to?”
Emma said, “Five plus three equals eight, Miss Duncan-the-first.”
Miss Duncan-the-first said, “She done birth eight children since she waren’t nothing but a baby herself. That’s why she be looking that old.”
She said to Mr. Taylor, “She got a scar like a sliver of the moon on her left shoulder what run over and down on her chest.” It waren’t a question.
Mr. Taylor sucked in air and stared hard. He pulled his daughter to him and said, “What you know ’bout that?”
“She got burnt when she pull a frying pan down on herself when she waren’t but four years old. Her real name be Alice Duncan, she born in Ajax County, North Carolina. Her and our brother, Caleb, got sold away fifteen years pass. Your wife’s our baby sister. Do she know where Caleb at?”
“No, ma’am, far as we knowed, she ain’t got no kin but her aunty. This gunn come as a mighty shock to her.”
Then things got real, real confusing, ’cause ’stead of Miss Duncan-the-first screaming “Hallelujah!” or “Praise be!” or something else full of joyfulness that you’d think she’d scream, she said, “Please, sir, don’t say nothing ’bout this to her till we’s had some time to think on how we gunn let her know. She gone through enough without being burdened with this.”
He said, “Thank you, ma’am, I’s thinking the same thing. This just gunn be a disturbing that she don’t need right now.”
This was another one of those confusions that got me wondering if I’d ever have sense enough to be growned. ’Bout the only thing I could say for sure is that being growned don’t make a whole lot of sense. Maybe that’s why it takes so long for you to grow up, maybe enough time’s gotta go by for all the sense to get worned right out of you.
If it was me that just got freed out of America and ran all those miles and ended up finding one of my sisters, I’d’ve been so happy I’d have busted, but not the growned folks. Whilst Miss Duncan-the-first had been asking Mr. Taylor all those questions, it seemed like every growned-up that was listening had their face getting longer and longer and their foreheads getting more and more wrinkled.
I could understand part of the reason. Pa’s always telling me how being in America is unbelievable hard for slaves. He says it seems don’t no one get out of America without paying some terrible cost, without having something bad done permanent to ’em, without having something cut off of ’em or burnt into ’em or et up inside of ’em.
Maybe that’s why when growned folks see someone who’s long-lost, they don’t get riled ’bout it much as a young person would. Maybe it ain’t nothing but being afeared they’re gonna have to hear about all the bad things the person they loved had went through whilst knowing there waren’t nothing they could do ’bout it. Maybe all the sad things ’neath the scars and burns and the pieces that were missing off of their kin were stories best not looked at too hard.
This thinking like a growned person was starting to be sensical.
Doggone-it-all.
One of my favouritest chores is going to Chatham to check on the mail. It’s not something that happens regular ’cause we have our own post office here in Buxton, but every once in the while the mail won’t come for two or three weeks and someone’s got to go find out why. It’s one of my favouritest chores, but that’s only true if I’m allowed to take Old Flapjack ’stead of one of the saddle horses. Even when those horses are walking slow they’re still too fast for my taste.
On Wednesday, right after school, Pa told me to go straight to Chatham for the mail. He didn’t come right out and say to take a horse, so when I got to the stable I asked Mr. Segee for Old Flapjack. I knowed it waren’t right, but it didn’t seem like it was wrong neither, it was kind of middling twixt the two.
Me and Old Flapjack waren’t but two miles out of Buxton going slow and easy toward Chatham when I started wishing I shied away from the wrong and gone more to the right. Old Flap gave one n’em snorts that let me know he sensed something dangerous. He even kicked his front heels off the ground ’stead of his rear ones, something I didn’t know he could do!
I grabbed ahold of his mane and looked hard at the woods.
I couldn’t see nothing at first. Maybe Old Flap had smelt something wrong. Then, for the second time, he did the trick he’d just learnt. The first time was practice, now he was better at it. He throwed his front heels up so high that I slid right off his haunches. Me and my tote sack and the empty mailbag spilt out onto the road!
I didn’t hurt nothing, but soon’s I jumped back up, Flapjack did another trick I hadn’t never seen him do afore. He started running! It was real stiff-legged and clumsity-looking, but no other word but running would come to mind.
Ain’t nothing in the world more disturbing than watching your mule, who you thought was one of your best friends, try to gallop away after dumping you in the road so’s you could get et by whatever it was that got him so afeared.
I grabbed my tote sack and pulled three chunking stones out. I turned to the woods ready to throw. But waren’t nothing there. Whatever scared Old Flapjack must’ve took off soon’s I hit the dirt.
I looked a little farther down the road and saw Old Flapjack had decided he waren’t too fond of running. He’d quit and gone over in a field to chew on something. I ran to him, gentled him down some, then climbed back on top. We started back toward Chatham.
But this was a trip that waren’t meant to be. ’Twaren’t but five minutes later that Mr. Polite came out of the woods holding on to the necks of three pheasants and
a shotgun.
“Afternoon, Mr. Polite.”
“Afternoon, Elijah. Where ’bouts you heading?”
“I’m going to Chatham.”
“What for?”
“To check on the mail, sir.”
“Not on that worthless mule, you ain’t. You head right on back to that stable and tell Clarence Segee to give you Conqueror or Jingle Boy. I been ’specting a package from Toronto and I needs to have it afore the twentieth century gets here.”
“Yes, sir.”
I turned Old Flapjack back toward Buxton to trade him for one of those doggone horses.
When me and Jingle Boy got to Chatham we went right to their post office. I tied the horse out front, waited for my insides to quit shaking, then stepped onto the stoop. I pulled on the doorknob and near ’bout jerked my shoulder out. The door was locked, which was mighty peculiar ’cause it couldn’t’ve been much past four o’clock. It waren’t till then that I saw the sign someone stuck up in the window:
CLOSED UNTIL THE FIFTH. ANY ENQUIRERYS SEE
GEORGE AT THE DRY GOODS STORE.
I went next door to MacMahon’s Dry Goods.
The place had a great smell. It was fresh-cured leather and new material mixed up with fancy powder and soap. When you opened the screen door a bell runged to let people know you were there. It runged again when you left so’s folks knowed you were gone.
The white man that was folding up sheets of cloth for women’s dresses behind a counter looked up at me.
“Why, hello, Elijah. How’re you?”
“Fine, thank you, Mr. MacMahon.”
“And what can I do for you today, laddy?”
I’d learnt a long time ago that Mr. MacMahon didn’t mean nothing bad when he called you laddy. It sure sounded like he was mispronouncing lady but we’d got told to ignore it.
“I’m here ’bout our mail, sir. The sign said come talk to you.”
Leastways that’s what I hoped it said. Enquirerys was one n’em words that I ain’t got notion the first about.
“Oh. I was wondering when someone from Buxton would come. Then you haven’t heard what happened?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, laddy, we’ve had to find a new postman. Larry Butler had an absolutely terrible accident.”
When Mr. MacMahon said words like terrible he made it sound like they had seven or eight Rs in ’em ’stead of just one.
“What happened, sir?”
“As near as we can figure, his horse threw him and trampled him. Hoof caught him right in the head.”
This was more proof that a mule is way better than a horse. If Mr. Butler had been riding Old Flapjack, he’d still be delivering mail.
Mr. MacMahon said, “Give me one more minute, Elijah. I know there’s a package in the post office and perhaps a letter or two. Not much.”
“Yes, sir.”
He finished folding the cloth and picked up his crutches to take me back to the post office.
A long time ago Mr. MacMahon had a bad run-in with a horse hisself. That’s why his right leg ended at his knee ’stead of at his foot.
When he was on his crutches he moved real graceful and smooth. He’d been without that leg for so long that it looked like the crutches were a part of his body. It almost looked like he was dancing when he walked.
When we got inside the post office Mr. MacMahon hefted a box onto the shelf then looked in a mailbag that had BUXTON writ ’cross the front.
“Hmm, seems to be only one package and one letter, Elijah. I could have swore there was more.”
He handed me the letter.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Someone’s going to have to come pick up the mail until the fifth. The new man should be up and running by then.”
“Yes, sir. Tell Mr. Butler I’m sorry ’bout his accident.”
“Thanks for the kind words, laddy. Wouldn’t matter much what we told him, his mind isn’t amongst us anymore.”
Mr. MacMahon danced to the door then locked up behind us. He went over to Jingle Boy and patted him on the neck. “Most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen, Elijah. Hard to believe he’s so fast.”
“He is, sir.”
I lifted the box onto the saddle then jumped up myself.
What with seeing all the damage horses had done in Chatham and being natural nervous ’bout being up this high, I didn’t look to see who the letter was to until we were halfway back to Buxton.
My heart sunked when I saw what was writ ’cross the front in proper letters: MRS. EMELINE HOLTON, NEGRO SETTLEMENT AT RALEIGH, CANADA WEST.
On the back, above the red wax seal, it said: APPLEWOOD, FAIRFAX COUNTY, VIRGINIA, UNITED STATES.
This was trouble. Didn’t nothing good ever come out of one of these letters from America. If the words on the envelope were writ in regular old plain letters that looked like someone had fought hard and long to get the writing down, most times it meant that some person who was a slave had snucked it out and it was full of rotten news. It was gonna tell ’bout a father getting sick or a brother getting whupped bad or a mother’s children getting sold away. If the letter was writ fancy, like this one was, with swirlingness and curlycues and such nonsense it only meant one thing: A friendly white person was writing to let you know somebody was dead.
Since this letter was addressed to Mrs. Holton, it probably had some bad news ’bout her husband.
My ride back from Chatham waren’t a good one. It waren’t that the road had gone bad or the skeeters were heavier than they were afore or that Jingle Boy was bouncing more than regular, but the fancy writ envelope in the pouch made the ride home long and sad.
I left Mr. Polite’s package on his stoop then took Jingle Boy back to Mr. Segee. ’Stead of taking the letter di-rect to Mrs. Holton, I walked back home with it to see what Ma was gonna say.
I pulled my brogans off and went in through the front door.
“Ma?”
She waren’t in the parlour.
“Ma?”
Nor upstairs in her bedroom.
“Ma?”
Nor my bedroom.
“Ma?”
Nor the kitchen.
There was one of her peach pies on the kitchen table cooling and I thought for a second ’bout lifting a piece of the crust and digging a couple peaches out of it with my finger. Then I thought better of it.
I pulled my socks off and went out the back door. Ma was squatted down tending to her truck patch.
She saw me and smiled and was just ’bout to say hello.
Mas are some amazing and scary people. Seems like they got ways of seeing things that ain’t showing, and hearing things that ain’t being said. I didn’t even open my mouth but Ma knowed by some mystery way that something waren’t right. She quick stood up and said, “’Lijah? What’s wrong?”
The trowel she’d been using and a fistful of weeds fell out of her hand.
“What happened?”
She ran up to me and I showed her the letter from America.
She wiped her hands on her coveralls and said, “You see I ain’t got my spectacles on. Who it to, who it from?”
All the growned folks that hadn’t never learnt to read nor write whilst they were ’slaved in America had to take lessons at the schoolhouse at night. Between cooking and cleaning and gardening and sewing and knitting and working the fields at harvesttime and helping out at the chopping bees and the raising bees and tending to her sheep and shearing ’em and gathering wool and carding it and spinning it, Ma had been lazy and was slacking off on her school lessons and they waren’t sticking particular good.
I told her what was writ on the envelope and she said, “Awww, no. No, no, no. Don’t it never end?”
Ma didn’t waste no time, she said, “Go get your Sunday clothes on, ’Lijah. We gunn go together to tell her.”
I knowed I was gonna have to read the letter out loud to Mrs. Holton too. She was taking lessons with Ma, and I don’t mean no disrespect to Mr. Travi
s, but it ’peared he was having a powerful bad time in making his lessons stick with any of the growned folks.
I changed to my Sabbath school clothes and walked into the parlour. Ma had already put on her Sunday dress and was carrying that pie she’d baked.
She said, “Good thing I baked this here pie. I hate to go for something like this barehand.”
She set the pie down and opened her arms.
I walked in and she kissed the top of my head and mashed her cheek there.
Her voice and the warmness from her face both spread ’cross the top of my head. “Now, ’Lijah, you knows you most likely gunn be breaking some bad news to Mrs. Holton so don’t forget, I’m-a need you to be strong. I’m-a need you not to rile her and n’em girls up none by crying and carrying on, sweetie. And I’m-a ’specially need you not to go tearing out of Mrs. Holton’s home screaming if this here is bad news. Can you do it?”
I know it ain’t a child’s place to feel this way ’bout the person that raised you, but I was disappointed in Ma something awful. She hadn’t took no notice that I’d been doing a lot of growing in the pass couple of weeks.
’Twaren’t but the other day I was eavesdropping and heard her tell Pa that it’s a miracle I waren’t born in slavery ’cause I’m way too fra-gile to have survived even a minute of it. Maybe I use to be a little fra-gile, but I ain’t been afeared of nonsense nor run off screaming ’bout the littlest things for the longest time. And besides, it just ain’t right to be calling somebody fra-gile nohow.
“Can I count on you to be growned, ’Lijah?”
“Yes, ma’am.” It was gonna be hard, though. Don’t nothing seem to make you want to tear up and cry more than being told not to. I was even starting to feel something loosening up and slopping ’round in my nose.
Ma kissed the top of my head again and turned me a-loose.
We started out toward Mrs. Holton’s place.
Miss Duncan-the-first and Miss Duncan-the-second were tending their flower garden out front of their home.
Miss Duncan-the-first saw us and stood up and called, “Sarah? What’s wrong? What happened?”
Elijah of Buxton Page 13