Yellow Wife

by Sadeqa Johnson

  CHAPTER 25

  Undone

  I could feel myself dying, week by week. I could not eat, could not sew, did not want to be bothered with any of the children. I just stayed in my room, staring at the wall. When I did push myself up from my pillow, my hair stayed on the sheets. It dropped out by the clumps. The Jailer worried sick over me. He even had the doctor bring me opium drops, but I refused to swallow them. Mama had cautioned me against white people’s medicine all my life, so I knew better.

  My breasts had filled to the point of pain, puffing out like tightly packed water balloons. Abbie covered them with cabbage leaves to dry them out. Two weeks passed, and nothing revived me from my grief. Then Abbie appeared at the door with Monroe.

  “Marse went in to town. Be quick,” she said to Monroe and pushed him toward me. He seemed to have grown a full inch.

  “Mama, what is wrong?”

  My face opened into a smile as I made room for him next to me on the bed. I smothered him against my breasts and kissed both of his cheeks.

  “You okay, Mama?”

  “Yes, baby. Now that you are here.”

  He looked around, eyes bulging over my delicate things. That is when I remembered that he had never been to my room.

  “You sick?” He touched my forehead.

  “A little.”

  “Want Aunt Elsie to make you some tea?”

  I nodded.

  “I made you something.” He reached into his pocket and then held up a bracelet woven from straw.

  “Did you do it all by yourself?”

  “Tommy helped me.”

  “I love it, thank you.”

  Abbie entered. “Better get goin’. Hear the carriage.”

  Monroe kissed my temple, and I grabbed his face and whispered, “Remember the things I have told you.”

  He nodded his head and then followed Abbie out. I slipped the bracelet on my arm and then crossed it over my heart.

  * * *

  The following day, the Jailer appeared with a box.

  “For you, love.”

  I sat up. Inside there were several books. I pulled the heavy one off the top. It read EMMA. I opened it and started flipping through the pages. The Jailer kissed me on the forehead and then left me alone. I read Emma deep into the night, not stopping unless I had to relieve myself or when Abbie begged me to eat something. The story delivered me from my feelings and provided the escape I needed. By the time I finished the book, my appetite had returned. Then I read Jane Eyre. When the Jailer noticed my improvement, he called me to the parlor. I had taken my meals in my room until then, and my legs were a bit wobbly on the stairs. I appeared in my dressing gown.

  “My love.” He seemed startled. “You will catch a draft.”

  “I am fine.” I sat on the edge of the piano stool.

  “Would you play something for me?”

  I turned toward the piano, but my fingers would not gobble up the keys. I could not locate a single song inside of me.

  “Maybe another time.”

  “How about ‘Pretty Dreamer’? I would love to hear that,” he coaxed. “Just give it a try.”

  I turned my legs toward the piano again. Placed my fingers on the keys and pressed down. The first sounds rang out harshly. Then I pressed again. And again. Slow and steady, low and melodic, and then up the scale. More color, more light. The song picked up and I found myself playing notes in staccato. I moved my fingers back and forth across the keys until they were tender and I breathed freer than I had in weeks.

  “Brava.” He clapped.

  When I turned, wiping the sweat from my brow, I saw that the girls had joined us in the room.

  “Mother, lovely.” Hester clapped.

  “I want to play like that,” said Isabel. “But where is your pretty dress?”

  I chuckled lightly. Joan made her way to me and crawled into my lap. She stuck her pointer finger in her mouth and sighed. I fingered her damp curls from her forehead.

  “I have hired a tutor to start working with the girls,” the Jailer informed me. “She will be here day after tomorrow. Would you remember to dress for the visit?”

  “She will,” answered Hester. “Of course Mother will.”

  * * *

  On the morning that the tutor was meant to arrive, Abbie came in with a sweeping new dress.

  “Marse said for me to run you a bath and wash your hair.”

  I followed Abbie to the bathing chamber. A claw-foot porcelain tub sat in the middle of the room, with steam rising from the water. When I sank my body down in it, my first bath in three weeks’ time, I exhaled. I knew that I had to let my grief go. My son would be in my heart every day, but I had to move on. Abbie soaped my thinning hair. I had taught her to use egg yolk and warm water to give it a healthy glow.

  “It will grow back,” she whispered. “I rub your scalp good, then pin it. Nobody know what’s missin’.”

  After oiling my skin and dressing, I had to admit that the weight on my chest had lessened. Abbie encouraged me to brush my cheeks with rouge and stain my lips.

  “Now you look like the lady of the house.” She smiled, and I felt grateful for her friendship.

  July brought in the girls; they were all dressed, and their hair had been combed and tied with bows.

  “Mama, you look beautiful.” Hester put her arm around my waist. Isabel tugged on my hand.

  “Miss Pheby, Miss Grace here to teach the girls.” July bounced Joan on her hip.

  “Let us head into the drawing room so that we can meet your new tutor. When we are finished listening to Miss Grace, we will have cookies and tea.”

  Isabel’s face lit up. She had a sweet tooth like her mama. When we entered the room, Miss Grace appeared younger than I had imagined. I estimated her to be around twenty-five years old. Her skin was pale even for this late in the season, and her body looked rail thin. She had dressed her hair elaborately and pulled it tight away from her face.

  “Good day, children.” She removed her gloves. “Shall we get started?”

  “Yes,” said Hester.

  “I will be in the sewing shed.” I had taken Joan from July, and now balanced her on my hip. “Girls, remember to pay attention. July will stay here in case you need anything.”

  This became our weekly routine. The kids would be tutored by Miss Grace and July would stay in the room to supervise while I took Joan with me to the shed. I instructed July to listen to the lessons but to keep her face blank and feign disinterest. Any questions after the lesson, I would answer for her. She was a quick study and learned how to spell all the girls’ names and read a few simple sentences in only a few weeks.

  * * *

  Sissy had kept the fancy girls dressed and going in my absence. When I returned to the shed, she was kneeling near a girl, hemming the bottom of her skirt.

  “Morning, Missus,” she called out.

  “Morning.” I breezed by her, deciding to take inventory so that I could get ready for my next trip to the market. “How many are we expecting today?”

  “Three mo’ after this one.”

  “Any supplies running low?”

  “Bloomers.” Sissy heaved herself up by holding onto the sewing table. When she stood, her belly rounded in front of her. Surprise lodged in my throat. I had to swallow a few times for the news to settle right in my stomach. I did not have to inquire after the father. Obviously, the Jailer had done this.

  “I will finish up here, Sissy.” I dismissed her, then turned my attention to the girl to be sold, asking my usual string of questions to distract myself from the emotions that overcame me. I did not love him but we had a family. Sissy’s child would, I assumed, work his property, while mine were educated and presented to society as his daughters, but even that reasoning did not diminish my bitter feelings.

  I learned from July that Monroe had been spending more and more time in the stables, working with Tommy to help with the horses of the men who traveled to the tavern. When I visited him, he sh
owed me a few coins that had been given to him. Fitting he would be a stable hand just like his father.

  Once I returned to work full-time, Sissy went back to her other jobs, leaving me alone in the shed. The Jailer took me moving about as a sign that I was well enough to visit at night. He returned with his usual lust for me, and it did not take long before that familiar fatigue hit. I knew soon enough that Sissy was not the only one with his child. Never had the chance to fix myself after my son’s death, so here I carried again.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, Sissy gave birth to a boy. Walnut-colored skin with her gray eyes. Abbie reported that the birth proved difficult but that Sissy was recovering fine. Although the Jailer had never asked me for a son, it was hard knowing that the one I had borne had died and hers thrived.

  “Mama?” Monroe called to me from the door of the stables. Hearing his voice snapped me out of my head. My boy stared up at me with a piece of straw hanging from his mouth. Essex used to chew on straw. I made sure the Jailer was not around, then followed him inside to our secret hiding place behind the haystack.

  “Hey, baby.” We embraced. The baby fat had gone from his face. I leaned down and whispered into his ear. “When is your birthday?”

  “February 6, 1851.”

  “Count to twenty.”

  He cupped his hands around my ear and counted. I wished I had a treat for him.

  “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Tommy said he gon’ teach me how to ride a horse.”

  “That will be nice.”

  “You know how to ride a horse, Mama?”

  “A little, but I know you will be better at it than me.”

  “How you know that?”

  “ ’Cause it is in your blood.” I nipped his nose with my finger and kissed his cheek.

  CHAPTER 26

  Fly Birdie

  Basil was gone.

  No one knew what had happened to him. The Jailer had sent him to Rockett’s Landing to pick up a coffle, something that he has done twice weekly since I had lived at the jail. This time he did not return. The Jailer had his britches in a bunch over his escape. Had every patroller in the state looking for Basil. I was surprised by the whole thing because Basil appeared so loyal. Never hesitated when the Jailer asked him to do anything. He had us all fooled, and I secretly prayed for his safe passage.

  As I moved through my tasks, I could not help wondering how Basil must have planned and plotted his escape for months, years even. I pictured him making friends at the dock and consulting with the free blacks on the best way to travel north. If I had known his plan, I might have begged him to take Monroe to freedom. This jail was no place for a Negro boy, and Basil’s running reenergized the notion that I needed to get my boy free. In some ways, I had been lulled into passivity, but now I felt awake.

  Every evening over dinner, I had to endure the Jailer’s bouts of anger over losing what he called his best nigger. Three weeks passed with no leads. Basil had vanished without a trace. After getting the report from the patroller, the Jailer decided to take matters into his own hands. He stormed down to the docks and picked up three men. I could hear them from the shed pleading their innocence, but the Jailer had them strapped down. The whip seemed to whistle through the air for hours. When he finished, none of the men could stand. But that did not stop him from having them thrown into the jail. His message rang clear: if anyone hid Basil they would pay with their lives. By the end of the month, the Jailer was at his wits’ end. He drank more and slept less. I coaxed him to take it easy but he disregarded me.

  The thing that pushed me over the edge was his determination to show no mercy. I had not known how truly brutal he could be until the morning he sent for Abbie. This time he did not force me to watch, but I could nonetheless hear her call out in pain. The cries had an almost feral quality to them. When she was carried back to the house by Tommy, the metallic smell of blood clung to her skin long after he’d beaten her. Since she and Basil had been lovers, the Jailer now blamed her for his escape. I nursed her back to health best I could, but being under the whip had struck Abbie dumb. She became clumsy and her memory grew short once she returned to work. On top of everything that July already did for the children, she now had to pick up Abbie’s slack.

  * * *

  On May 30, 1857, Katherine, our fourth daughter, was born. Elsie had been ill with fever, Abbie still a useless wreck, and July busy keeping the children entertained. When the birth pains came, I pulled her from my womb myself. As soon as I saw her tiny face, I pet-named her Birdie. She would be my last little bird. There would be no more. When my blood stopped, I fixed myself to make the children stop. I had given him enough.

  Sissy worked in the kitchen cooking until Elsie could get back on her feet. Her bigheaded son sure loved Monroe. He cooed and giggled whenever Monroe stopped to play peek-a-boo with him. I was standing in the garden watching Monroe carry slop buckets, amazed at how strong his little arms were, when the Jailer startled me with his presence.

  “Pheby. Need you at the tavern, now.”

  “Would you like me to change?” I asked, knowing he would not want his clients to see me in my simple housedress.

  “There are but ten minutes to spare.”

  I untied Birdie and handed her over to July. Abbie was slow, but after fidgeting with my straps and pulls, she got me into my lavender calico dress. I twisted up my hair and made haste. I slipped in unnoticed and started playing a classical song that made me think of home. When I peeked over the top of the piano, I saw the Jailer sitting with four men at a table. One of the entertainment girls brought over a platter. I recognized two of the men as Silas and David, his jailer friends with the wives whom I adored. From eavesdropping on the conversation, I found out that the other two men were politicians. I had seen neither before. The Jailer’s cheeks were red, and I could ascertain from his tone that he was riled up.

  “How does my boy just walk away with no trace?” He was yapping on about Basil again.

  “I have never lost a nigger,” the Jailer fumed.

  “Some of them plan their escape for years. Sneaky.”

  “Yankee abolitionists are not making it easy for us. Do they not recognize the law? That we have got papers on them?”

  “They think differently.”

  “Foolishly.”

  “Did you get wind of the nigger in Massachusetts, causing a ruckus?” asked the politician on the right.

  Silas nodded. “What is his name? Essex Henry.”

  I missed a note on the piano but quickly recovered. Had I heard him right?

  “Yes, that boy Essex Henry is causing so much trouble, the federals had to get involved. He is in custody now, but they are planning to bring him back to Virginia, where he belongs,” answered the politician on the left.

  “He needs to be punished, and punished good.”

  David put down his glass. “We need to send a message that we will not stand for this.”

  “Bring him here,” the Jailer growled, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention.

  The politician on the left clapped the Jailer on the back.

  “That is what we came here for, Rubin. To get you on board.”

  “These niggers need a good showing of what happens when they fix it in their head to escape.”

  The politician smiled. “Thought you were the man to do it.”

  The Jailer smiled back. “I will get justice on this nigger for every slave who has run off, or even thinks about running off. Plan it big. Open up the courtyard for folks to come from miles away to see. I will scare them straight. You have my word.”

  One of the politicians stood up. His belly was as big as the Jailer’s. “I will inform the authorities and get back to you with a date. Now, can I indulge?” he said, pointing to one of the girls. The Jailer waved his hand for the man to go.

  I played and played and played. Essex has been captured. My Essex is coming here. Everything in me starte
d aching for him at once, but on the same notion, I was desperate over his fate. With Basil having run, the Jailer would be ruthless. He had been merciless in his punishment before. But now, there was no telling what he would do. God help us.

  PART THREE

  Bully Trader

  CHAPTER 27

  Auction

  After overhearing the men speak of Essex being sent to the jail for punishment, I found it impossible to rest that evening. After minimal sleep, I awakened to the sound of hammers pounding, objects falling, and loud shouts. July pushed open my bedroom door.

  “What is the meaning of so much noise?”

  “Marse having the pen cleaned out. Ain’t never smelled nothing so bad.” She pinched her nose and slid my window closed.

  My stomach knotted. The jail had not been cleaned in the six years that I had lived here. All of this for Essex’s arrival? I waved off breakfast and headed outside. The odor was so putrid that I ran back to the big house and told July to keep the girls locked up in the drawing room. I felt sure they would fall ill if they inhaled the fumes. On my way to the shed, I gave Monroe and Tommy lavender-scented cloths to tie over their mouths and noses.

  “Use this as a barrier to breathe until the odor subsides,” I instructed.

  Monroe stood still while I looped the cloth behind his neck. His head rose past my waist now and he was due for a haircut. Working with Tommy had broadened his shoulders and he had lost all traces of baby fat. It was hard to believe he was only six years old.

  While Tommy mucked the stall, he told me that in preparation for the fugitive’s flogging, all punishment and trading had been ceased on the property for forty-eight hours.

  “Marse said that was enough time to clean the pen and paint the tavern and big house. People coming from miles away to see.”

  I leaned into the boys. “This is no time for mistakes. Do not give him any reason to find fault with you.”