Yellow Wife

by Sadeqa Johnson

  “You need to comb your hair,” I said, blushing Brenda’s cheeks with the rouge I had made from mixing hibiscus flowers, arrowroot powder, and lavender together. One of Mama’s recipes.

  “Don’t want to be made up for them men.”

  “It will be over soon.” I took a small dab to her lips, hoping to achieve a bee-stung affect.

  “How you know that?”

  “I am a praying woman.”

  “Way you fixin’ us, I say you need the prayer.” She pulled back and then spit in my face. I was so shocked that I dropped the jar of rouge and it splattered on the floor, spilling red all over her pretty yellow dress. The other three girls gasped in unison.

  “You know I can have you whipped for that.” My tone pierced harshly.

  “I don’t care what happen next. Can’t be worse’n what already done happen,” Brenda shrieked.

  I wiped my cheek. I had a mind to slap the girl across the face myself. What was I going to do about the ruined dress? And my rouge. My thoughts were knotted over how to make her pay for it when July poked her head in.

  “Marse ready for them,” she said. Monroe cooed at me from July’s hip. It had gotten to the point that it was hard for me to work and have him tied to my back.

  “Take these three; tell him I need more time with the last one. I will escort her as soon as I can.”

  July moved into the room, took in the scene. “You need help here?”

  I shook my head, motioning for her to go.

  “Brenda, where are you from?” I asked, regaining my composure.

  “Nowhere.”

  “Who is your mama?”

  “No one.”

  “Okay, then let me pray with you.” I grabbed her hands, but before I could open my mouth she started praying.

  “Lawd, I come ’fore you thankin’ you for the air I breathe. One of your sheep done deserted you oh Lawd. She is dressed like a sheep but pretendin’. She really a wolf. Change ’er heart Lawd and bring ’er back to your Kingdom. Invite ’er back to you, Lawd, so she can do good and not evil. In Jesus’s name.”

  I dropped her hands. She had a gap between her teeth and she smiled so I could see it.

  “I do it for my son.”

  “You do it for you. Been ’round your kind plenty.”

  I found another dress. Not as nice as the first one, but I wanted her gone.

  “I ain’t simple-minded either, if that’s what you think. But I can see thangs when I meet people and I sees you.” She stared until I dropped my eyes, looked down at my feet like she was a white woman.

  Later at dinner, I moved rice and trout around my plate, still thinking about my encounter with Brenda. The Jailer did not notice because he loved the sound of his own voice. I wondered how he cleared his plate with all his talking. When I joined him in the parlor for dessert, he asked me to play. It was a relief to sit at the piano after the day I’d had. I positioned my fingers and let out the anger and the shame. When I finished, I had soaked my dress all the way through.

  “Simply lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Shall we retire?” he asked, as if I had a choice. The thought of him pumping into me made me ill.

  “I am with child.”

  His eyes opened wide, and it only took a moment before the notion produced a smile, lighting up his whole face.

  “Are you serious?” He pulled me to my feet.

  “Your child,” I said to assure him.

  He wrapped me in his arms and brought his face close to mine. I could smell the whiskey on his breath before he kissed me. “You make me happy, Pheby Delores Brown.”

  His hand rested on my belly. When he looked at me, his eyes said it all. It was endearing to watch, and for a split second, I forgot the evil that lived inside of him. I could see in his eyes an emotion that could only be described as love.

  When we got to his room, he undressed me and tucked me under his covers. I closed my eyes, bracing myself for another long night, but he climbed in bed next to me, put one hand on my belly, and used the other to cradle me. Then he kissed my temple and fell asleep.

  He still had me in his arms when I awoke the next morning, and my neck was stiff because of it. Brenda was the first thought that came to mind. Was she right about me? Maybe I needed to seek God.

  “Good morning.” He kissed my cheek.

  “I want to go to church on Sunday. Take everyone with me. We used to have service on the plantation. I miss it.”

  “That can be arranged. That African church is a few blocks away. The others have never been, but I reckon they’ll be curious.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.” He rubbed my belly.

  * * *

  When Sunday came, I had Monroe dressed in a navy jacket buttoned to high-waisted trousers. He wore matching socks, and I combed his hair with a part in the middle. This would be his first trip outside of the jail and I could not wait to see his little face when he saw the horse and buggy, all the people moving through the streets, the stores and city lights.

  “Miss Pheby, you lookin’ good,” July commented on the mustard-colored dress that I wore. I had sewn together a pretty blouse for July out of the extra material from the shed, and she looked lovely in lavender. She was old enough now for a corset and hoopskirt but I did not want men getting ideas about her, especially now that she had received her first blood, so I dressed her down like she was still a child.

  I could see the others gathered in front of the house out my window when Abbie came for me. They seemed anxious to get to church, and I did not want to be the one to keep them waiting.

  “Miss Pheby? Marse said leave Monroe with Basil. Rest us gon’ on to church.”

  “I am taking him with me.”

  “Marse told the gatekeeper you ain’t ’pose to leave here with Monroe.”

  I picked up my brush and threw it across the room, angry that he would relay his dirty message through Abbie instead of telling me himself. That bastard. Always separating me from my son. I wanted Monroe to know God. Hear the choir. Catch the spirit.

  “Basil ain’t so bad. He a good man. Guard Monroe wit’ his life till you return.” Abbie took my arm and steered me away from throwing anything else. When we got downstairs, she reached for the baby. I kissed Monroe’s cheek and then handed him to her. He looked from me to Abbie and started kicking his feet in a fuss. Abbie moved out the back door with him, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth to calm him.

  Elsie tried looking away when I approached, but I already noticed her checking me out as I came down the steps. We did well staying out of each other’s ways most days.

  “Miss Pheby,” she said, and I did not correct her.

  “Morning, Elsie. Ready to hear the word of the Lord?”

  “Monroe ain’t comin’?” She tipped her chin.

  “Might not be ready to sit still for so long.” I walked ahead, and July fell into step next to me. We exited through the front entrance. I could hear them singing from the jail as we passed.

  The First African Baptist Church sat a few blocks away, at the corner of College and Broad. As we made our way, hundreds of Negroes filed into the street headed toward the church. The women’s bonnets framed their beautiful faces and the men dressed neatly. The church stretched in a rectangular shape with its long side facing Broad Street. The foyer was dimly lit, and I could smell the smoke of frankincense and myrrh. Inside the sanctuary there was a wide center aisle with royal-blue carpet. Straightaway I noticed the men moved to sit on the left side and the women to the right. All the children congregated together in side galleries. In the front pews, upper-class whites, dressed in the latest fashions, sat together, with additional white men stationed in the corners of the room and along the back wall, watching. Negroes could not gather, not even in broad daylight to hear the word of God, without being watched.

  The church filled fast. The choir walked to the front gallery and began to sing. A lovely pale woman led the
massive choir in a few hymns. I recognized one or two. Her voice reminded me of Lovie’s from back home, and I longed for our little church service in the clearing on the plantation. Missed Essex holding my hand and smiling at me.

  When the choir finished the last note, the white preacher wearing a yellow robe with a gold cross sewn into the fabric walked up to the pulpit. At the sight of him, everyone sat up straighter.

  “I want to welcome you to First African Baptist Church. I am Pastor Robert Ryland. Do we have anyone visiting for the first time? If so, please stand.”

  My group stood, as did a few others throughout the sanctuary.

  “Welcome to the house of the Lord. Please be seated. You are all in for an amazing treat from a Lamb of God. We have Reverend Nathaniel Colver, all the way from the Tremont Temple in Boston. He will deliver the sermon today.”

  Mr. Colver was a medium-sized white man with tight lips. He stood in front of the congregation wearing his white collar and spoke eloquently. It surprised me to hear him hint at the perils of slavery, and how all people should have the right to live with dignity. When he finished, the same woman led the choir in a final song.

  Let Jesus lead me

  Let Jesus lead me

  Let Jesus lead me

  All the way

  All the way, way to heaven

  Let Jesus lead me, all the way.

  They clapped their hands and stomped their feet to provide extra rhythm and I found myself swaying in my seat. The music reached down into my heart and pried it open. I felt appreciation for this encounter with the Holy Spirit. True, I was not free, but living at the jail had taught me that my circumstances could be much worse. Mama always said that a grateful heart served as a magnet for miracles, so I latched onto the worship and gave thanks. I closed my eyes, rocked forward and back, and let their voices engulf me, heal me, restore me, while I prayed, Jesus lead me. Jesus lead me.

  When the choir finished, I wiped the moistness from the corners of my eyes.

  “We better go,” I said to Abbie and July, loud enough for Elsie to hear me. July stood and motioned for the boy Tommy.

  I could feel the ease and joy between the five of us on our walk back to the jail. Elsie and Abbie chatted about the sermon, and July started singing a Bible song in a voice that sounded almost as good as that of the woman who led the choir.

  “I did not know you could sing.” I tapped her arm and she chuckled.

  The good feeling made me consider stopping at the bakery and purchasing pastries for them, but I decided not to press my luck on our first outing. Perhaps with the Jailer’s permission, we would build up to that. We were about two streets from the jail when a little boy ran up to me flashing a wide grin. He looked to be about ten.

  “Missus, know where the Lapier jail is?” He bounced on his toes. I saw that he had a note in his hand.

  “You all go on around the back way so you can stretch your legs a little. I will take care of him.”

  They obeyed. When they were out of sight, I read the note, then handed it back to the boy. Shuddering, I took his hand.

  “Who wrote this?”

  “My marse. Said I get what I deserve. Hoping it a sweet.”

  The poor boy thought that he would receive a treat. How cruel of his master to send him to the jail, and on a Sunday.

  Should be a day of peace.

  “I will show you, but let me feed you first.”

  I took him to the bakery and bought him a pastry. I learned everything about him on our walk to the jail, knowing that he would be added to my diary. When we got to the gate, I told him to hand the note to the guard. They seized him and dragged him toward the whipping room. His big eyes looked up at me, hurt. I turned away and walked toward the house. I could hear his cries as I nursed Monroe and put him to sleep for his afternoon nap. Whenever I started feeling as if I could endure this place, there was always a reminder that I could not.

  CHAPTER 19

  Keys of Delight

  The next day, Tommy found me coming out the house and said the Jailer wanted to see me. I had not spent much time in the tavern, and had to adjust my eyes to see because everything looked dark. The chairs were deep burgundy and the round tables were stained cherry. A long mirror hung behind the bar, and a man in a white shirt was wiping down the countertop. The room smelled like tobacco, musk, and peanuts. The Jailer sat at a corner table in front of his account ledger.

  “Pheby.” He reached for my hand and squeezed it. Then he rubbed my belly.

  He thought the baby to be a boy, but I knew it was a girl by the way my looks had deserted me. My cheeks had broken out in red dots, and my eyes looked too small for my nose. My hands resembled those of a man’s, and my ankles were thick like tree stumps.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “I need you to play tonight. Important clients coming from Kentucky.”

  “Here in the tavern?”

  We both knew that women were only there to serve drinks and entertain with their bodies. I had no practice with the former and no intention of doing the latter.

  “I will be here the whole time. No one will lay a finger on you. You are mine.” He smiled.

  Essex had said those same words to me, and now look at what I had become.

  “Put on a pretty dress and fix your hair. Play something happy. I want these men to spend money.”

  I nodded and exited the tavern. I had not played in front of an audience since Miss Sally hosted parties at the Bell plantation, but there was little time to practice or pull together a repertoire of music. I had no choice but to make it work.

  Monroe and July were out back behind the kitchen playing peek-a-boo. When I walked up, Monroe held onto the side of the table with one hand while bouncing on his little knees. Four teeth had come in, and he drooled all down his chin. He looked so much like Essex that the sensation of it caught me in the center of my chest. As soon as he saw me, he fell to his bottom and crawled along the small patch of grass. I picked him up and nuzzled my head in his neck. Elsie came out the kitchen rubbing her hands on her apron.

  “Spoilin’ him.”

  “What is it to you?” I asked.

  “Boy ain’t gon’ know he a slave you keep this up.”

  “He is not a slave.”

  She laughed. “You thinkin’ ’cause you up at the big house that boy ain’t no slave? Chile, you ain’t smart as you think.”

  “What is for dinner?”

  “Porridge and carrots. That pleasin’ you, Missus?” Elsie mocked me.

  “Mind your tongue.” I carried Monroe toward the house.

  “She gon’ learn,” Elsie mumbled under her breath, but I kept walking like I did not hear.

  I put her out of my head as Monroe and I played awhile. Then I sat him on the floor next to the piano so that I could practice. I made it through my favorite three songs before Monroe demanded to be on my lap. I pulled him up and let him bang on the piano until he giggled and his saliva dripped all over the keys.

  * * *

  That evening, I blended a new rouge, but it did not come out as well as the batch that Brenda had made me waste. I used some anyway to hide the breakout on my cheeks and stain my lips. My hair was styled in a low chignon. When I stepped into the tavern, the Jailer and I locked eyes and he gave his nod of approval. I crossed the room and sat at the piano. The men were already in conversation, and a girl stood serving drinks. Wanting the music to creep up on them, I played softly, almost as if there was no sound at all. Slow and steady, then hitting them with a rhythm that they could rock to. Platters of crab, oysters, and shrimp flowed across the table as I moved from one song to the next. The men grew louder and I played the melody to match their mood. I was having more fun than I had anticipated. Their voices carried over to me and with them brought snatches of conversation like news clippings.

  “Abolitionists up north need bullets in their heads. They do not understand our way.”

  “No room for a Nat Turner repeat.”
<
br />   “Would not be a movement if they did not have help.”

  “Messing up the biggest business in the state.”

  “Yankees are damn fools.”

  “They need to honor the Fugitive Slave Act. It says they must return our property. Against the law.”

  I played up and down the scales, adjusting the tempo to hear more clearly. When they were all drunk, full, and happy, the Jailer paraded in three girls. They were dressed in low-cut tops, with their bosoms spilling forward. I tried not to consider their faces. A stocky man wasted no time. He took the hands of one girl and headed to his room. Another man pulled a girl onto his lap. I played high up the scale as a girl sat down on the Jailer’s thighs. She had almond-colored skin with dark gray eyes. Her hair was smoothed back from her face and her cheeks sat up high, as if they were perched on pillows. Her breasts were large and her waist slender. She draped her arm around his shoulders.

  An unexpected discomfort crept into my gut. It was the first time I’d wondered if I were his only lover. I lived up at the house with him and carried his child, but that did not mean there was no one else. But when did he have the strength? Every night he came to me with fury, and he was not a young man. I played and played and the girl stayed by his side. When I glanced up to steal another peek, he mouthed, “Dismissed.”

  I got to my feet and exited quietly through the side door.

  Clearly, I had no cause to be jealous. I did not love him.

  I hurried past the jail, ignoring the bark of the dogs and sounds of the defeated. When I entered the downstairs bedroom, Monroe and July slept side by side. I longed to take him up to my room, but I would not chance it. Did not want to cause problems. I slipped into my dressing gown and wished I had a book to read. Since discovering me with Oliver Twist, he’d taken the copy. I laid awake until I heard the steps groan under his weight. I listened as he paused at his door and then continued down the hall. My door opened and then closed. The sound of his pants hit the hardwood floor with a thud. Dread passed through me as he lifted my cover, then fumbled for my flesh. Once he was inside of me, we both exhaled.