Lilly

by Madelyn Bennett Edwards

  On this particular day, Mr. Van wasn't in the market for a new field worker but he started walking towards the auction block when he saw a boy about ten years old take his place on the stand. The owner jerked the boy's collar so hard it scraped the boy's neck raw.

  "What do I hear for this big, strapping boy?" the auctioneer barked. The boy wasn't big or strapping. He was just a little squirt of a thing and didn't look as if he'd ever done a day’s work in a field. Mr. Van said he blocked out the sounds of cheers, jeers, and screams from the men and women spectators but couldn't ignore the spit and clods of dirt flung at the boy. The boy was scared. It was obvious he had cried for hours, probably torn from his mother at a plantation far away by a ruthless owner who saw an opportunity for quick income and one less mouth to feed.

  The bidding started at ten dollars. "Do I hear fifteen, fifteen, anyone bid fifteen?" the auctioneer asked. Without a thought, Van raised his hand, "Fifteen," he shouted. Half the crowd turned to look towards him where he stood in back of the crowd.

  "Fifteen from Mr. Gordon Van, do I hear twenty? Twenty dollars for this strong young body?" No one responded. The auctioneer repeated the bid at twenty dollars. Still no response. Mr. Van say he was surprised because a boy like that should go for $100, for sure.

  "Sold to Mr. Gordon Van of Shadowland Plantation in Jean Ville!" Mr. Van pulled his billfold from the inside pocket of his jacket and peeled off fifteen dollars, walked to the block and handed the money to the man who sat behind a small table on the side. The owner, from Alexandria, approached to sign a bill of sale that transferred ownership of ten-year-old Samuel Harrison Massey to Mr. Gordon Van.

  "You got a deal, Van," the owner said. Mr. Van ignored him, signed his name to the two identical documents, watched the seller do the same, picked up his copy off the table, folded it and stuck it in the pocket with his billfold.

  "I said you stole that nigger, Van," the owner taunted. Van ignored him. The man jerked on the chain and the boy fell off the block on his side, his arm jammed between his body and the ground.

  "You can unlock the chains now," Mr. Van said to the owner.

  "I deliver him to your wagon, that's part of the deal."

  "Not necessary," Mr. Van said. "Just unlock the chains and I'll get him to the wagon."

  "You crazy, man," the owner said. "He a nigger slave. He'll run off as soon as the chains is off. Where's your wagon?"

  "Follow me." Mr. Van told William he wanted to help the boy off the ground but the crowd watched the exchange with great interest. He would have to make it up to the boy later. The owner practically dragged the boy through the dust, the youngster scrambled to keep up, tripped, fell, stood and fell again over and over until they reached Mr. Van's wagon in front of the feed store. William stood next to the wagon that was loaded with supplies. There was enough room near the rear edge of the wagon for the boy. Van heaved him onto the flatbed where the boy sat up straight, his neck bleeding and oozing, his wrists and ankles blistered from the restraints.

  "You have some chains to put on this boy when I take these off?" the owner asked.

  "Sure," Mr. Van said. "Just release him, take your chains and go. He's my responsibility now. Leave us be." The owner used a key to unlock the ankles, wrists and, finally, the neck ring. He gathered his chains and strolled off, shaking his head.

  "Get me a bucket of water and a ladle, William," Mr. Van didn't take his eyes off the boy, who kept his gaze downward towards his bare, bleeding feet. Gordon Van was in temporary shock. William said the boy's wounds, cuts, blisters, and infected mosquito bites were beyond Mr. Van's understanding. The child's only clothing was a pair of drawstring pants cut off at the knees; no shirt, no shoes, no hat to shield his nappy head from the blaring sun.

  "How can a human being treat another like this?" he asked William, who had no answer.

  William handed Mr. Van the bucket of water and Mr. Van dipped the ladle in the bucket then held it under the boy's mouth.

  "Drink," he said. The boy tried to sip politely but, after a couple of slurps, he gulped the water in one breath. Mr. Van continued to fill the ladle and the boy continued to gulp the contents. When he finally had his fill, Mr. Van placed the bucket next to the boy, removed his white pocket handkerchief from the outside pocket of his jacket, dipped it deep into the bucket and brought it up, dripping with water. He placed the wet rag on the boy's head and allowed the water to drip down his face. He dipped the handkerchief again, wrung it slightly and gently wiped the boy's face. He repeated the process on the boy's neck, then the scrapes on his knees and elbows, and finally, he held the bucket so the boy could place his feet, one at a time, in the water while Van reached in with the cloth—now stained red and brown—and washed the boy's feet.

  A crowd gathered and watched the process with combined interest and confusion. William tried to lure them away, but the crowd grew. When Mr. Van had completed his tasks, he handed the bucket to William and asked him to rinse and refill it with clean water. He removed his straw hat and placed it on the boy's head. The frizzy hair helped it to fit snugly. When William returned, Mr. Van placed the bucket beside the boy and handed the ladle to him. He reached in William's front pocket and removed a bandana, which he wet and loosely wrapped around the boy’s blistered neck.

  No words were exchanged during this ceremonial process. The boy's eyes were opened wide with fear and sadness, Mr. Van's with remorse and pity. The smell of horses, straw, and dampness filled the air while the auctioneer's barks could be heard above the snorts of horses, murmurs of the crowds, and wagon wheels that came and went on Main Street.

  Gordon Van ignored it all. He climbed on the wagon bench and motioned for William to join him. The boy sat on the back of the wagon; his feet dangled off the edge and he held the bucket close to him to keep it from falling out. He wouldn't try to escape. Where would he go? All those people knew he was a slave, bought and paid for. One of them would catch him, probably beat him, and return him to his owner. He was brought into this town blindfolded so he didn't know how to get back to his Mama, and it was a long, long way. It had taken them all day to get here.

  The trip to Mr. Van's plantation took about twenty minutes. He instructed William to lead the horses straight to the barn where Mr. Van jumped off the bench to find George. William went to the back of the wagon and lifted the boy to the ground.

  "Follow me," William said. The boy followed close behind the overseer. They went in the barn as Mr. Van and George were walking towards them.

  "Son," Mr. Van said to the boy. "This is George. He takes care of the livestock. He's going to get you cleaned up, bandaged and fed, then he'll show you where you will stay. For now your job will be to help George. He's your boss, you understand?"

  "This nigger my boss?" the boy blurted. The three men laughed. It was the first words the boy had spoken in his high-pitched, squeaky voice.

  "Yes, son, George is your boss. William here is George's boss. I'm everyone's boss. Now, what's your name?"

  "Samuel, sir," he said. "Samuel Harrison Massey."

  "Pleased to meet you, Samuel Harrison Massey. That's a big name. What do you like to be called?"

  "At Kent House they call me, 'Li'l Nigga' but I likes 'Samuel', sir."

  "Then 'Samuel', it is. George, take care of this one. He's going to grow up to be a fine young man. He has quite a future ahead of him here. You explain the rules." He turned to Samuel, "And if you have questions no one else can answer, you come see me up at the house, you hear?"

  "Yes, sir!" Samuel said. His confusion complicated the sadness and pain he carried, but somehow he felt safe, even safer than he had felt with his Mama. But he missed his Mama every day and hated the men who had taken him away from her.

  "That little squirt turned out to be my granddaddy," Catfish told me. "And he tole me so many stories I don't know I have time in my life to share them with you, Missy."

  He called me 'Missy' from the time I was seven, even thou
gh he knew my name. I put my pen down and thought about the gentle man who taught me what real love felt like. And it had all started when I gave him a turtle. That was a story I should write at another time.

  I looked at the pictures of Emalene and Joe Franklin's daughter. My daughter. Rodney's daughter.

  What would I have named her if I'd been able to keep her? I thought back to why I gave her up: I was eighteen, pregnant by a colored boy, 2000 miles from home, trying to get through college, no job, no way to care for a baby. If I'd gone home with a child, half-Negro, I'd be killed and maybe the child would be, too. I couldn't raise her alone in New York. I had no job, no income.

  My choices were abortion or adoption. I could never take the life of an unborn child, so I went to Catholic Charities and asked whether I could interview mixed-race couples who wanted a newborn. Emalene and Joe Franklin stood out among the couples I met. Joe, a white college professor, and Emma, a beautiful, brown attorney, couldn't have children of their own and wanted a baby more than anything.

  The nurses cut the baby’s cord and took her away. I knew that the Franklins were waiting for my baby in the hall. I’m not sure how long she remained in the nursery before they took her home but I never went to the window to see her. I never looked at my little girl. I never held her because I was afraid if I did, I would never be able to let her go.

  Now I was twenty-two years old, had a master’s degree, and a good job. Could I possibly get her back? Or would I be just as cruel as the people who took Samuel away from his mother and sold him to Mr. Gordon Van?

  *

  Marianne called me at work about a month after I'd talked to her about Rodney getting married. I rarely got phone calls at Shilling, so I was nervous when I picked up the phone.

  "Hi, it's me," she said.

  “I gave you my home phone number.” I whispered because we weren’t supposed to take personal calls at the office. “Why are you calling me at work?”

  “This can’t wait.” Marianne whispered, too. “It's about Rodney, and I know you don't want to know about him, but I think you need to know this."

  I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger then tried to spread out the wrinkles on my forehead. I felt a massive headache coming on.

  "He's been drafted." Marianne sounded upset.

  "What?"

  "In the army. I guess they waited until he finished college and law school. Something about a college deferment and a lottery. His name came up and they sent him a letter. He reported to the recruitment office and, sure enough, he's in the army."

  "Oh." That's all I could muster from my aching head and pounding heart. "When?"

  "He left yesterday."

  "Where is he?"

  "Basic training first, then probably Vietnam."

  "Oh, God! I thought the war was over."

  "The US still has troops there and an embassy staff," Marianne said.

  I was sitting at my desk. I put the phone down, dangled my head between my legs, and took deep breaths. I could hear Marianne through the receiver on my desk above me, "Susie, you still there? Susie?" She eventually hung up. I got through the day and called her back when I got home that evening. She was at work. I dialed the nurses’ station at the hospital and she answered on the first ring.

  "It's me," I said in a whisper. "What about his wedding?"

  "It's been postponed, indefinitely."

  "Oh."

  Marianne told me that Annette wanted to get married before Rodney left for the army but he refused. "He said he's not ready." Mari said she thought it was his way of saying that it was over with Annette. She told me that Rodney confided in her that he didn't think he loved Annette enough to spend the rest of his life with her. I didn't want to know those details but I couldn't talk, so I had to listen while she continued. "I think he gets to come home after his training, before they ship him overseas."

  "Is there a chance he'll go somewhere else? Not Vietnam?"

  "If he was white, maybe. With his degrees you'd think they'd cut him some slack, but I understand the army has a plan to protect the intelligent whiteys and put the dumbasses and coloreds on the front lines. I don't hold out much hope."

  "Maybe the war will end."

  "Maybe." Marianne also told me that my dad's campaign for re-election to his Senate seat didn't look good. She said the white people were backing his opponent, Mr. Jack Roy, and that the coloreds wouldn't vote for my dad because of what happened to Jeffrey. "They know your dad was behind it and after Rodney came back they believe your dad tricked everyone." I got some sort of sick pleasure knowing that my dad might lose. He hated to lose. "And Sheriff Guidry is up for reelection, too. He's got competition this time, a guy named Desiré."

  "Dolby Desiré?"

  "Yep. That's him. A progressive, they say. The coloreds are for him because he says he'll take down all the 'whites only' signs."

  "That's the kiss of death," I said, thinking about how the white people in Jean Ville wanted to keep the Negroes in their place. "Your people need to register to vote. There aren't enough Negro voters in Toussaint Parish to unseat Guidry."

  "We're working on that. Me and Lucy and a group of young people are spearheading a 'get out and register' campaign that seems to be working. And there's a group of Democrats—whites who believe in integration—who are behind Desiré. Things could really change around here if your dad and Guidry both lose. They've had the Klan busy all these years."

  When I hung up I was distraught. I felt so alone, deserted.

  Chapter Eight

  ***

  Lilly Franklin

  I hit a dead end at Catholic Charities. They said I'd signed a form that gave up all rights to know who the adopted couple was or where they lived. I had met them and knew their names, so I had a lot more to go on than most birth mothers looking for a child they gave away.

  I searched phone books, law firms, university staff lists but couldn't find anyone named Joseph or Emalene Franklin.

  I tried to reach Dr. Josh Ryan. I left messages at the hospital switchboard, which was the only place I knew to find him.

  I had met Josh Ryan when I was eighteen and arrived in the emergency room by ambulance after fainting in my dorm at Sarah Lawrence. He was assigned to be my doctor, a handsome young obstetrical resident who took an interest in me. When he told me I was pregnant I was shocked. Once I recovered from dehydration and was on medication to keep me from throwing up everything I put in my body, Josh discharged me, then drove me back to the college himself. After that day, he started calling me and taking me to lunch or dinner to make sure I was eating properly and taking care of myself.

  For the next seven and one half months, Josh Ryan stood by me and when I went into labor he was my friend, my coach, and my doctor. He delivered my baby girl and met Emalene and Joe when they came to take my baby home with them. That was the last time I had seen Josh. He walked out of my life and I figured it was because he realized that my child's father was a Negro when he saw that Emalene and Joe were a mixed-race couple. I had surmised that Josh Ryan couldn't stomach that fact.

  Since he'd delivered my baby I thought he might know where I could find her, but he didn't return my phone calls and I was at my wits' end.

  I sat on a bench in Utopia Park with Rodney's letter in my lap, contemplating how I would answer it.

  August 13, 1974

  Dear Susie,

  I guess you've heard that I was drafted. I'm at Fort Benning, Georgia, and expect to have a couple weeks leave before they ship me to Vietnam. I want to see you. Please say you want me to come to New York next month.

  I love you.

  Yours forever,

  Rod

  It was late spring and the first day in months it had been warm enough to venture outdoors on a Saturday. I took a book by Ernest Gaines, The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, that had been published a couple of years before. Gaines was one of my favorite authors. His stories were set in a
place called, Bayonne, which was actually New Roads, Louisiana, in Pointe Coupée Parish, just over the Atchafalaya River from Toussaint Parish. I'd driven along False River, the oxbow lake where children played and old men fished, every time I drove from Jean Ville to Baton Rouge on Highway 1. I could picture the slave cabins and the plantation homes that bordered the beautiful waters that had once been part of the Mississippi River that re-routed itself through the centuries.

  I felt someone sit on the other end of the bench, but didn't look up. I was trying to concentrate on the story of Jane Pittman who begins as a young slave girl and advances to one hundred years old by the end of the book. My mind wandered to Rodney's letter that I'd stuck in the back of the book.

  "Do you have the time?" a male voice asked.

  I looked from my book to see the profile of a handsome man, dressed in green scrubs and a white lab coat, at the end of the bench.

  "Uh, yes. It's almost three o'clock." I looked down at my book but something about the man made me look back up. He was watching a bird pecking at something on the ground. The man had a small bag of popcorn and was throwing pieces on the sidewalk in front of the bench. Several more birds began to gather.

  "Are those seagulls?" I asked without realizing the words came out of my mouth.

  "They’re called great black-backed gulls." He didn't look up. He kept scattering the popcorn and now about ten birds that looked a lot like the seagulls I used to chase on the Mississippi Gulf Coast as a child had gathered and were pecking at the white specks on the ground. I watched without thinking. It was mesmerizing.

  "They look like seagulls," I said.

  "They are smaller, fatter, and notice how the feathers on their backs are black. Seagulls are white and grey." I watched the birds and I watched the man. He looked sad. His shoulders were slumped and he hadn't shaved in a couple of days.