Yellow Crocus: A Novel

by Laila Ibrahim

  “Her name Lisbeth,” replied Mattie, “and no, I don’ suppose she will. She fine when I left. I don’ imagine she be gettin’ sick two times in a row.”

  “Good. I don’ want to get all hot and bothered jus’ to have you disappear on me,” he teased.

  “Let’s see about gettin’ you all hot and bothered.”

  Pushing him onto his back, she climbed over him, straddling his belly. She kissed him deeply, bringing his tongue into her mouth. She pressed against him until he forgot all of his plans to leave Virginia.

  After making love, Emmanuel kissed Mattie, rolled over, and fell asleep. Mattie wrapped her arms around him and nestled in close, her body humming with joy. A good man was hard to come by and she knew she was lucky to have this one. She’d be fully satisfied if she knew she could keep him.

  In the sitting room, after Sunday supper, Lisbeth sat with Mother, a book of nursery rhymes open before them, while Father read by the fire. Muttering to himself at regular intervals, he clearly disagreed with the author of this particular text. Grandmother sat on a chair, attempting to look busy with crewel work.

  “Mat-tie come?” demanded the anxious two-year-old.

  “Elizabeth, you must not speak to me in that tone,” admonished Mother.

  “Lisbeth want Mat-tie,” declared Lisbeth plaintively.

  “Elizabeth wants Mattie,” Mother corrected. “Well, you must wait. You have no choice. She will be here when she will be here. Now listen to this poem, and be patient.”

  Lisbeth stared hard at the door, willing the knob to turn. Mother read the next rhyme:

  Hey Diddle Diddle the cat in the fiddle,

  The cow jumped over the……

  Father interrupted. “Listen to this outrage: As men, as Christians, as citizens, we have duties to the slave, as well as to every other member of the community. On this point we have no liberty. The eternal law binds us to take the side of the injured; and this law is peculiarly obligatory when we forbid him to lift an arm in his own defense. I cannot believe he has the audacity to speak for Christians when he has clearly announced he is a Unitarian.”

  “Whatever are you reading?” inquired Grandmother Wainwright.

  “Reverend William Ellery Channing’s pamphlet Slavery.”

  “I cannot understand why you bother yourself reading such nonsense. It only serves to confuse,” declared Grandmother.

  “Staying informed is my duty as the head of this household, Mother. I need not remind you of that.”

  “Some arguments are not worth bothering with.”

  “Abolitionists are using these very words as a weapon against our way of life. They are out to take away all that we have created.”

  “Ridiculous!” declared Grandmother Wainwright. “I have heard that my entire life. This country was founded with the understanding that we shall be allowed to hold slaves. It was a condition of the formation. That shall not change regardless of the rhetoric coming from the North.”

  Ignoring his mother, Father went on to quote from the pamphlet, “This is what Channing says about the government: It must regard every man, over whom it extends its authority, as a vital part of itself, as entitled to its care and to its provisions for liberty and happiness. He is implying that Jefferson intended the Constitution to bestow civil rights to Africans. Utterly ridiculous. Our forbearers were quite clear on the matter: slaves are only three-fifths of a man. They are not entitled to the same rights as Christians.”

  Father continued, “Only someone who has never actually lived with a negro could romanticize their capacities so. Without slavery they would all be starving heathens. We have no pauperism in the South, which is more than Channing can say about his beloved Massachusetts. He does not understand all that we provide for the negroes: basic security for life.”

  A knock at the door interrupted Father’s tirade.

  “You may enter,” Grandmother Wainwright spoke out.

  “Mat-tie!” screamed Lisbeth as she ran over to her nurse, arms out wide, a huge grin splitting her face. “Mat-tie back!”

  Mattie squatted down in the doorway, arms outstretched, ready to embrace her charge.

  “Elizabeth,” reprimanded Grandmother, “return here at once!”

  Lisbeth halted her rush toward the door. With stooped shoulders and her head down she swung around slowly and returned to sit on the couch.

  “Now ask your mother if you may be excused,” commanded Grandmother.

  Eyes cast down, her voice quiet, Lisbeth inquired, “I be ’scused?”

  Mother smiled. Patting Lisbeth’s chubby leg and kissing the top of her head, Mother reassured her, “Yes, dear, you may go. Goodnight.”

  Lisbeth scrambled down from the couch and hurried across the room into Mattie’s embrace. She wrapped her arms tight around Mattie’s neck, squeezing hard with her small arms. Then she petted Mattie’s cheeks with her pudgy hands, pushed her nose into Mattie’s face, and exclaimed, “Missed you! Lisbeth missed Mattie.”

  “I missed you too, Miss Elizabeth.” Turning to her owners, Mattie said, “Goodnight, Massa. Goodnight, Ma’ams.”

  Climbing the stairs was difficult with Lisbeth clutching Mattie’s leg. After nearly tripping over the girl, Mattie picked up Lisbeth and carried her to their rooms. The girl kissed Mattie’s cheek over and over as they walked down the hall, her head bobbing back and forth planting kisses in rhythm with their steps. Lisbeth burrowed her face into Mattie’s neck when she saw Emily, who was putting away clothes in Lisbeth’s room.

  “How she do?” inquired Mattie.

  “Nothin’ much happened. Mostly she stood by the window and watched. She squeaked like an animal the few times she saw you. She asked me to get you, but I told her she stuck with me. She gonna be tired soon ’cus she didn’ sleep long in the afternoon.”

  After getting ready for bed, Mattie led Lisbeth to the window. They watched until the sun set. Then Poppy brought Samuel out to wave goodnight. Mattie blew him an unseen kiss. Lisbeth blew a kiss of her own to the folks outside. Mattie laughed and kissed Lisbeth on the temple.

  “That’s a good girl. Now let’s go say our prayers.”

  The pair walked to the bed in the anteroom. “Stand here by me,” Mattie directed. “That right, good girl. Now what you happy about today? What you want to thank God for?”

  “Mattie back!” exclaimed Lisbeth.

  Mattie laughed, “Okay, so we say, ‘Thank you, God, for bringin’ Mattie back.’ Anyone special you thinkin’ about you want God to watch over?”

  “Mattie!”

  “All right, Mattie. But who else?”

  “Baby Jack.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Moter.”

  “Yeah,” encouraged Mattie.

  “Fater.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “Granmoter.”

  “Yeah, thas right. We say, ‘God, please watch over Baby Jack, Mother, Father, and Grandmother. And if’n we die before we wake, take us straight to heaven, dear Lord. Amen.’”

  “A-meh,” echoed Lisbeth.

  Before Mattie rose, she made her own prayer. “Lord thank you for my time with my family. Please keep a watch over Samuel and Emmanuel and Rebecca and Poppy and Miss Lisbeth here. Thank you. Amen.”

  “A-meh,” echoed Lisbeth once again.

  Chapter 6

  MARCH 1841

  Lisbeth tried to be good. She was a big girl, nearly four years old. She knew she needed to sit still and not talk too much. She tried to keep her pretty blue dress neat and tidy, and she pretended to eat the food on the big white china plate in front of her.

  Mattie did not come to “Saturday night supper.” The first time Lisbeth ate in the dining room with all the other people, she asked for Mattie, but Mother said, “You are a big girl now. You do not need Mattie all of the time. I will help you at supper.” Lisbeth was surprised because Mother did not help her very often. But Lisbeth was used to it now and did not miss Mattie too much.

  She could just
see over the top of the large, rectangular table. She liked looking at herself on the edge of the table best because when she tipped her head up and down and wiggled her mouth around her reflection changed in the dark, shiny wood. She had to be sneaky about it or Grandmother would command, “Elizabeth, sit” even though she was already sitting.

  Father filled the large chair at the head of the table, and Mother perched on a chair next to Lisbeth. Lisbeth knew some of the other grown-ups at the table, but not most of them. None of them spoke to her except to say “Hello” and “Good Evening” and “My, you are becoming quite the young lady.” Sometimes she tried to follow what the grown-ups were saying to one another, but mostly she did not understand them.

  When Lisbeth got tired of looking at herself on the edge of the shiny table, she scooched down low to look at the grown-ups’ shoes. She studied the stitching and buckles and buttons on feet of all sizes. From above, the adults looked as if they were not moving, but the view from under the table showed otherwise. The adults stretched their legs and wiggled their feet from side to side. Unfortunately Grandmother Wainwright noticed this game and commanded Lisbeth to “sit up straight.”

  So Lisbeth sat up but swung her legs back and forth. She swung them, making her legs go higher and higher. She held her body still so Grandmother Wainwright would not scold her for wiggling around. Suddenly she bumped the table with her leg. She stared straight ahead, hoping no one noticed. No one had. The water in her glass wiggled a bit, but nothing else happened. She tried it again. Swinging her leg forward she kicked the table just a tiny bit to make her water dance. It worked. She did it again. But this time she kicked the table too hard.

  Lisbeth watched in horror as the water glass tipped sideways into the bowl of potatoes, filling it with clear liquid before landing on the table and rolling around, dribbling the last bit of water in a circle on the tablecloth.

  Father yelled in his big voice, “Behave, Elizabeth,” his eyes boring into her.

  Grandmother glared at Lisbeth with her scrunchy, angry face.

  Scared, Lisbeth started crying and called out, “Mattie, Mattie.”

  Father insisted, “No, Elizabeth, you may not run to Mattie. You must stay at the table and eat.”

  Mother patted Lisbeth’s small white hand as she shushed her, “Be quiet now. Hush up. It is over. Stop your tears.”

  Mother was trying to be kind, but she was of little comfort. Lisbeth wanted Mattie, not Mother. Lisbeth sat in her chair, looked at her lap, and held back her tears. Her stomach was clenched tight so she did not eat anything, but Father did not care. He only wanted her to sit quietly until the grown-ups finished their meal and left the table.

  In bed that night, lying side by side under the covers after prayers, Lisbeth told Mattie about the evening. “I made the water fall over and Father got mad. I cried for you. I said, ‘Mattie, Mattie, Mattie’ over and over and over again. But Mother and Father made me stay. It was awful.”

  “Lisbeth, honey, when you miss me you jus’ sing our special song real quiet to yourself. You gonna feel like I with you even when I far away.”

  Mattie sang the familiar lullaby in her clear, strong voice; Lisbeth’s sweet, high voice joined in. Snuggling into the warmth of Mattie’s body, Lisbeth reached up to rub the shells on the string in the hollow of Mattie’s neck. Singing and rubbing, humming and touching, Lisbeth drifted off to sleep during the third verse:

  You’re a sweet little baby

  You’re a sweet little baby

  Honey in the rock and the sugar don’t stop

  Gonna bring a bottle to the baby

  Chapter 7

  The heavy, oppressive August heat drove Mattie and Lisbeth to take their afternoon rest in the shade of a large willow tree. The old tree, which grew between the Big House and the Quarters, was a favorite spot for both of them. Lisbeth loved the private world the enormous green canopy provided them. Mattie appreciated the opportunity to view her son. She always settled them on the side facing the Quarters so she might get a glimpse of the tall and lanky boy bringing drinks to the sweaty workers in the tobacco fields beyond the cabins. At five years old, Samuel had lost his toddler roundness and was full of energy, toting water up and down the lines of workers.

  Lying next to Mattie on an old quilt, Lisbeth traced the pattern of the fabric with her finger. She lifted her head off the blanket and asked, “Mattie, who do you suppose made this quilt?”

  “Don’ know. A bondswoman who lived here long ago. It older than you or me. I bet it even older than your grandmother.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “Who?”

  “The slave.”

  “Imagine so.” Mattie laughed, amused at the little girl’s question.

  Lisbeth looked puzzled until she finally asked, “Do you think slaves and people go to the same heaven?”

  “Slaves is people. Never heard ’bout more than one heaven, so I ’magine there only the one.”

  “Who does the work?” wondered Lisbeth.

  “There ain’t no work in heaven,” declared Mattie.

  Lisbeth looked like she was full of more questions. She pondered Mattie’s answer for a while before asking, “Do you miss your momma, Mattie?”

  “Everyday. But I know she watchin’ over me, from heaven.”

  “Is she watching over me too?” Lisbeth asked, yearning in her voice.

  Mattie thought for a minute, then nodded slowly. “Yes, Lisbeth, she watchin’ over you. She watchin’ on all the people I love.”

  Lisbeth replied confidently, “You will see her again when you get to heaven. And I can meet her. Did she take care of you everyday?”

  “Until she got sold away.”

  “Did you cry when she left? How big were you?” Lisbeth inquired.

  “Just past eight years. ’Course I cried. Every night I cried in bed. Poppy or Rebecca sat with me, but it ain’t the same.”

  “You will not ever let them sell you, will you?” implored Lisbeth as she clutched tight to Mattie’s skirt. “I will cry real hard if they sell you.”

  “I got no choice. Your father decide such things. I ain’t gonna make you no promise I don’ get to keep.”

  Tears formed in Lisbeth eyes. “I shall ask Mother to give you to me when I am grown and then you will be with me forever,” Lisbeth declared emphatically. “Then no one can sell you away.”

  Flattered and insulted, Mattie did not respond to Lisbeth but lay in silence waiting for the child to fall asleep. Lisbeth laid her head down on the quilt and closed her eyes while Mattie slowly and gently rubbed her back. Holding onto the folds of Mattie’s dress, rubbing the material between her thumb and her forefinger, it was obvious that ideas and questions floated in Lisbeth’s mind.

  “What was your mama like?”

  “She had a real pretty voice. She sang all the time. Her favorite lullaby same as you, ‘Nobody but the Baby.’ Yellow her favorite color. Every spring we go on a hunt for yellow crocuses.”

  “Crocuses?” wondered Lisbeth.

  Mattie replied, “It a flower that come out first in spring. It kinda little and don’ last for so long. But it tell you spring come.”

  “Oh, Mattie, can we do that?” Lisbeth sat up and exclaimed, “Hunt for crocuses? I love hunts.”

  “Yes, honey,” Mattie smiled, “next spring we can look for the crocuses.”

  “Mattie, did your momma have a name?” Lisbeth asked.

  “Of course she had a name!” Mattie scoffed. “Every body got a name! She called Naomi, from the Bible. Now that enough about my momma. You lay back down and you go to sleep. I gonna tell you more about her later.”

  Mattie sang as Lisbeth drifted off to sleep. While her young charge breathed in deep and long, Mattie sat up and scooted toward the low-hanging branches. She parted the branches slightly to get a better view. As she watched for her son she thought about the last time she saw her own mother.

  January first was accounting day on the plantation. Following a de
licious week of resting and visiting for the field slaves came the most dreaded day of the year. After the midday meal of black-eyed peas, thought to bring good luck in the coming year, Massa and the overseer gathered everyone to announce sales and rentals. Pleading or arguing did no good. If your name was on the list, you left the next day. A rental at a nearby plantation was the best of a bad situation. That meant visits most Sundays if it was close by or, if it was farther away, a visit once a year at the Big Times, the winter holidays. A sale to a slave trader heading into Georgia or Louisiana was devastating news. It meant never seeing your family again and likely an early death, though no one knew for certain. News of family sold south rarely made it back to Fair Oaks.

  On New Year’s Day 1822 all the anxious slaves gathered on the grounds in front of the Big House. Those good-luck peas sat hard in their churning stomachs as they listened to Massa Wainwright’s announcement. Mattie stood up tall, wrapped in her mother’s strong arms. Nearly eight, Mattie was old enough to be rented or sold. She felt the tension running through her mother’s body as the overseer read the list, his deep voice showing no hint of emotion.

  “Benjamin, Olivia, and Miriam to be rented to Berkeley. Young James, Daniel, and Frances to be rented to Willowbrook. Loisa, Sugar, and Wilametta rented to White Pines.”

  Mattie’s mother, Naomi, pulled her tighter as Massa moved on to the sold list.

  “Wilamena sold to Westover. Benny sold to Cumberland. Naomi sold to Hopewell.”

  Fingers clawed deep into Mattie’s shoulder. Though the names went on, Mattie did not hear them. Her mother’s name was on the list, and hers was not. She did not know how far Hopewell was, whether it meant weekly or yearly visits, but she knew her mother was leaving her.

  “No!” she cried out. Her mother’s fingers flew over her mouth hard and fast. Smothered by the rough hand, her protest did not make it to Massa’s ears.

  That afternoon and night sorrow hung as heavy as a burial. Early the next morning, before the sun fully rose, her mother packed up her few belongings. She untied the necklace from her own throat and bit off a single shell with her teeth. Then she placed the necklace on Mattie’s neck, keeping the single shell for herself.