Yellow Wife

by Sadeqa Johnson

  I let go. Abbie gasped for air and dropped to the floor, her lame leg stretched out in front of her like a piece of wood.

  “Come sit. Let me get you both some tea,” July offered.

  I backed down into the stuffed chair, aware of the ache in my feet. Small pebbles had cut into my skin, and I drew them out one by one. The Jailer had never taken the children anywhere without me. Who would care for them and tend to their needs? Then it dawned on me.

  “Did Sissy go with him?”

  “Yes, Miss Pheby.” July sat a hot cup in front of me. “She won’t let nothin’ happen. Try not to worry much.”

  I pushed the cup away and stood up. Abbie was still crouching on the floor in the corner rocking and murmuring Jesus.

  “Where are my shoes?”

  “Miss Pheby, you are soiled. Let me dress you, please.”

  “Just a pair of shoes will do.”

  July sighed and then placed a pair at my feet.

  Perhaps I should have changed and dressed for the day, but I was in no mood to play mistress of the jail. What did that title get me anyway? Had not protected me or my children from his evil reach. My babies were all I had, and I would rather die than to let something happen to them. Hilda, the seamstress, was a snake for betraying me.

  And what of Monroe? I could not stop picturing my boy on an auction block with his sisters watching. Only then would they understand the full picture of this life we lived. I willed those thoughts away, knowing that if my brain kept traveling down that path, I would lose my mind as Abbie had.

  When I entered the shed, my helper, Janice, sat on the metal stool rolling out burlap and humming to herself.

  “Morning, Missus. Marse said for we to make shirts, pants, and plain dresses.”

  “Any girls today?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  Janice looked me up and down. “You okay?”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  She shook her head and picked up the shears. I decided that Janice could handle the simple task of mending basic clothing without me. I needed to find someone with answers. As I walked out the door, I saw Clarence, the Jailer’s right-hand man, unlocking the tavern. He wore a waistcoat and a shirt whose sleeves seemed too short for his long arms. When the Jailer left the premises, Clarence had the responsibility of running the property.

  “Pheby.”

  “Clarence.” I stared at him.

  “Anything I can do for you?” He brushed crumbs from his red beard. He stood tall like a tree, and I was forced to look up.

  “Did Mr. Lapier say when he would return?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “Usually gives some indication of when to expect him back.”

  “Not this time.” His eyes took in my hair curled over my shoulder. That was when I remembered that I had not pinned it back up.

  Beauty is a curse for a slave girl.

  “I will be inside if you need anything. Anything at all.” His cheeks blushed crimson and his eyes lingered a beat too long.

  I wrung my hands until they throbbed. I felt like I was being strangled by my own saliva. As I passed through the courtyard, the people to be sold for the day were standing at the water trough, bathing and grooming for auction. There were women with small, sparsely clothed children at their knees, an old woman who could barely stand without leaning heavily on her walking stick, a group of men with thick irons around their necks, wearing nothing but the look of malnourishment. Many of their lives would be changed for the worst today, and the sorrow of separation stretched beyond the Lapier jail in Richmond. Rumors had swirled for years that some free blacks from Philadelphia had even been kidnapped to be sold farther down South.

  From the tobacco South to the cotton South, families would be torn apart and roots shredded. Mothers would hold their young for the last time and cry out for God’s mercy as they were stripped away. For the first time in a long while, I felt united in experiencing their pain. Living in the big house and bearing the Jailer’s daughters had given me a false sense of protection. Now that he had taken my family, I saw that we were all the same. Elsie had been right from the beginning. My children and I belonged to Rubin Lapier. We were his property. He could do with us as he pleased. Including our daughters, and especially my son.

  I had wandered behind the stables—a habit I had of always checking for Monroe. Tommy did not hear me approach because he was chopping wood.

  “Give me the axe.”

  He turned, startled. “Miss Pheby.”

  “I said give it to me.”

  He handed it over to me by the wooden handle. I walked over to the wood he had been chopping and thrashed the axe in the air. It flew down hard onto the wood. There was something satisfying about seeing the wood split down to the fleshy middle. Like I was killing it at the heart. I swung the axe again and again. Chopped until my shoulder blades burned, and my palms were raw with blisters. My hair held onto the wood chips and was matted in sweat on my neck and cheeks. When I could chop no more, I sat on a stump with my knees pulled up to my chest. The midday sun was hot on my skin, but that did not give me the power to move. I had no place to go.

  “Missus?”

  Elsie tramped with a heavy foot. I could hear her long before she stood in front of me. Her green scarf was knotted at the front, where a patch of gray sprouted from her widow’s peak. She cupped a bowl covered with a cloth napkin and stopped in front of me, blocking the sun.

  “Marse love him chil’ren.”

  “You warned that he was the devil. I should have listened better.”

  “No sense rakin’ ol’ bones. I could have been kinder.”

  I regarded Elsie. It was the first time that I noticed the stoop in her back and the wrinkles set on her face.

  She extended the bowl to me. “Brought you some mutton stew.”

  I bit my lip. Aunt Hope used to make mutton stew.

  “Try a little. Good for your nerves.”

  I took the bowl and spooned up a small bite. Then another. The stew started coating my belly. It tasted delicious, and took restraint for me not to lick the inside of the dish.

  “July done made you a bath. Go on ’fore the water get cold.”

  “Did Sissy say anything to you about where they were going?”

  “ ’Fraid not. But Marse sweet on those girls, and Monty know how to be a good boy. Go on now,” she urged me.

  I stood and did as I was told.

  CHAPTER 32

  Back Talk

  When I entered my bedroom, the window was open to the breeze and the floor had been scrubbed of my waste, the awful odor replaced by the scent of the lavender flowers in the vase beside my bed. July must have heard my footsteps, because she knocked on the door the second I closed it behind me.

  “Miss Pheby, ready for a bath?”

  “No.”

  I could see through her eyes my disheveled appearance. “It is hot and ready.”

  “Tell Abbie I said for her to get in.”

  She tilted her head. “Your bath, ma’am?”

  I nodded.

  “What if Marse returns?”

  “Keep watch. Hurry on before the water becomes tepid.”

  July closed the door behind her. The stew had given me a sounder head. From the window, I stared out at the courtyard. I could not see the garret room from my view, but I thought about Essex. His back needed a fresh layer of salve. Clarence would be watching the jail, but at this point what else did I have to lose? I decided to wait until the cover of night before making my move to see him.

  To pass the time, I pulled up the floorboard and removed my diary. The pages swelled with my note keeping. So many names collected, so many lives affected. Many stories I remembered without reading. There was Susan, who had come with a broken toe. Her master had smashed it with a hammer when she had refused his affection. I boiled comfrey leaves, mixed them with vegetable oil to make a poultice for her, then wrappe
d it in a clean cloth. I found a big pair of shoes for her to walk in to give her foot room to heal.

  Little Hally arrived too young to receive a man, but her beauty astounded. She fetched the price of a full woman. I remembered hugging sweet Hally to my breast before letting her go, and did not sleep for many nights fretting over her fate. Chubby-cheeked Ginny giggled after every word she said. She was childlike in a curvy body. My little Joan took to Ginny right away, and Ginny turned out to be one of the few people who could hold Joan without her making a fuss. Nancy had a twin brother named Cudjoe who was locked up with the men in the jail. Nancy could not bear being separated from him and was the only girl who ever tried to run. She did not make it as far as the middle of the courtyard before she was clubbed over the head and dragged back to me. I iced her bruises down and let her sip from the brown jar. She recovered in the kitchen house for four days before being sold to the highest bidder. Cudjoe went to someone else.

  When I flipped to the front of the diary I could hear Mama’s voice whispering in my ear. Her recipes read like a love letter to me. I uttered her prescriptions for lockjaw, dropsy, and cow sickness until I felt her presence in the room. My eyes closed to the wisdom she conveyed. I could not decipher the words exactly, but I sensed them taking root, meant for later. I inhaled the faint scent of hemp from her hair and peace descended over me.

  When my eyes fluttered back open, the half acre was asleep. I shook the cobwebs from my bones and then stood at my bedroom door listening. There was no movement. I slipped out the house, hiding in the silhouettes of darkness until I made it to the jail. When I unlocked the garret room my hand flew to my nose. The smell of waste assaulted my stomach, and I swallowed down the need to throw up.

  I hacked. “Hello?”

  I did not want to close the door behind me, but I knew it was best to secure our secret meeting.

  “Essex?” I lit the candle.

  “Pheby.” Essex moved along the back wall.

  Once my eyes adjusted, I noticed a pail of dingy water in the right corner. It was meant for him to drink and bathe in, but there was no pot. He used the left corner for his waste, and the funk reminded me of when I’d been in the jail with sticky defecation up to my ankles. My throat clenched and I willed myself not to be sick.

  Essex’s clothing hung from his frame and his hair was matted on one side. I wished I had the key to free him from the shackles at his hands and feet. He stopped halfway to me.

  “I’s sorry you have to endure this. I am a proud man.”

  “It is not your fault. I will bring things to get you cleaned.” I sat on the bench.

  “You look like you had a hard day.”

  “The Jailer intercepted the letter that I tried to post for you. He has taken my children away, including Monroe. I do not know where they are.” My voice cracked.

  “Monster.” Essex waddled to where I sat, bringing his stench, but I kept my face pleasant.

  “Thank you for letting me see my son.”

  “He is so much like you.”

  “My life changed in that moment. Pheby, you must get off another letter. It is our only opportunity at freedom.”

  My temple pulsed. “Did you hear me? The man took my children. There is no telling what he is capable of doing.”

  “While he is not around, you have a good chance.”

  “He has eyes everywhere. You do not know him.”

  “You sleep in the big house with him. I am sure you can get around it.”

  I whipped my head and slapped him across the face.

  “What was that for?”

  “You come back here with your big city ideas. Because of you, my children have been compromised.”

  “I did not mean to upset you. I am sorry.”

  But his words fell on deaf ears. My forehead blazed hot and my hands made fists at my side. “Being with you is what got me in this mess. I should have minded my business where you were concerned.”

  “Do not say that. Everything I have endured was to bring me to you.”

  “You are dangerous, Essex Henry.”

  I removed the bread and water flask from my pocket and thrust them onto the bench.

  “If anything happens to my children I will never forgive you.”

  “Pheby, wait.” He shuffled toward me, but I moved faster. When I locked the door, I heard a quick movement below me.

  I paused, and then out of the shadows jumped a black cat.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Vigil

  For the next few mornings, July appealed to me to change out of my soiled dress but I refused. The dress marked my vigil, and I would wear it until my children returned unharmed. Three excruciating days had passed, with me worrying until my mind played hoaxes on me. From the shed, I thought I heard Joan’s sweet voice calling, Mama! I leaped up twice, only to realize that it was the wind. Elsie forced more stew on me, and Janice kept setting water within arm’s reach. But I did not require their watching. I wanted Monroe, Hester, Isabel, Joan, and Birdie to come home.

  To escape the depression, I sewed and mended every pair of socks; knitted hats and scarves; repaired sheets, curtains, towels, and tablecloths, and did not stop until my hands stiffened. When Janice noticed my discomfort, she took my palms and massaged them with lard until my muscles relaxed. Janice had soothing eyes. Not bothered by my poor hygiene, she stayed by my side until I went up to the house each night. Her silent companionship reminded me of when I used to work side by side with Mama in the loom house. Words were never necessary, and for that I was grateful.

  Around suppertime, Elsie came to the shed holding a bowl. The bite between us had lost its teeth. She had cared for my son in ways that I could not with him living in the kitchen house. Nursed his fevers in the middle of the night, gave him extra helpings of food, support, and love. I accepted that Monroe was her boy too.

  “Missus, I don’t think the prisoner bein’ fed ’nough. Permission to take him somethin’?”

  I had let my grudge against Essex get the best of me.

  Suddenly, I felt ashamed that it had gone on for this long. The poor man was suffering, and now at my hands.

  “Yes, please.”

  She hurried off with the food. When she returned, she had her hand over her mouth.

  “What is it?”

  “Poor man smell worse than hog slop. Terrible how he bein’ treated. Shame ’fore God I tell you.” She clucked her tongue and walked heavily toward the kitchen house.

  Had I forgotten about Essex? I made up my mind that I would shake my grief and anger and go to him. Before leaving the shed for the night, I wrapped up a burlap shirt and some pieces of fabric I had cut out to make trousers. July had been working in the kitchen helping Elsie since the children had been taken away, and Abbie served me dinner alone. When I’d had my fill, I told her to leave the leftovers for me to clean up and take an early rest.

  “You sure, Missus? Don’t mind hangin’ ’round.”

  “No, get some sleep. You have been working hard.”

  Her fingers clawed at her scalp.

  “Abbie, I apologize for grabbing you the other day. My mind has not been right. Please forgive me.”

  “I’s okay, Missus. You got your own troubles.”

  “Go now.” I pushed her.

  Once she hobbled down the hall to her room, I wrapped up the remaining carrots and sweetbreads in a cloth and stuffed it along with the water canteen in my hidden pocket. In a clean rag, I placed lye soap, shears, a needle, thread, and a candle. I tied the bundle like a satchel around my waist and then covered the bulk under my skirt. By the back door, I had left a pail of clean water with a small jar of the Jailer’s whiskey inside of it. I grabbed it and then made my way through the shadows of the buildings.

  The bucket was heavy and I dampened my brow before unlocking the door to the garret room. The stench hit me all at once.

  When I lit the candle, Essex was lying on the floor, clinging to the hymnal that I’d given him on my first
visit. Essex had not been taught to read on the plantation, but I imagined the hymnal offered him comfort nonetheless.

  “Sorry for your trouble,” he called.

  I rested the bucket at my feet, turned my back, then reached under my skirt to remove the bundle.

  “Let me help you up.” I reached for his elbow until he was steady on his feet; then I took the scissors and started cutting him out of his clothing. The shackles prevented me from removing them any other way.

  “Don’t have to do this.”

  “Be still.” I breathed through my mouth.

  Flies hummed in my ears, and I had to stop cutting to swat the mosquitoes nipping at my wrists. I could only hope that his smell had not attracted any larger vermin. When I peeled back the soiled shirt, I was relieved to discover that the material had not set into his wounds. Scabs had formed. There was no sign of new infection. I traced his scars, then turned to examine his chest. His shoulders were a solid mass of muscle, his stomach drum tight, a firm slab of elastic. The shears trembled in my hands as I cut off his trousers. My resolve weakened, and I peeped down.

  Waste was clumped in the seam, and I gagged as I removed the breeches from around his thick legs. Essex hunched his shoulders until we were nearly at eye level. Besides his shackled hands covering his manhood, he stood there naked. The soiled items I balled together and carried outside the door.

  “Why are you doing this?” he whispered.

  “Sorry it has taken me so long.”

  “I made you upset.”

  “No excuse.” I dipped the rag in the water and then lathered it with lye soap. When I took the cloth across his shoulders, he winced.

  “I know it is cold. I could not risk heating it.”

  I washed his neck and chest, then moved with care across his tender back. Essex relaxed into my touch. Every place I wiped sent an unexpected yearning through me. Never had I seen a man completely naked. The Jailer never even removed his shirt. I gave Essex the rag and motioned for him to wash his male parts.

  I could feel the rhythm of his breath pulse inside my chest when he shook his head no and handed it back to me. I lowered the rag over his thickness, and as I massaged him clean, he released a deep-throated sigh that tugged at my inhibitions. He had grown under my touch, and I tried to deny the swell of my breasts straining against my blouse. I soaped down his thighs, then poured clean water from the canteen to rinse his feet. The fetters around his ankles had cut off his circulation, causing them to be heavy and swollen.