Mustard Seed

by Laila Ibrahim

  Julianne seemed not to notice their reactions though, blithely continuing. “They are overburdening the towns and depleting the agricultural regions of labor. They do not believe that they need to work and expect we will simply provide for all their needs. Jack ensures they have lawful employment.”

  Sadie leaned over to whisper in Lisbeth’s ear. “Aunt Julianne used a bad word.”

  “Sadie Ann!” Mother shouted.

  Sadie jumped. Lisbeth’s heart sped up. Lisbeth’s and Sadie’s heads turned to the foot of the table.

  Mother chastised, “We do not whisper in this home. Anything you have to say, you must say out loud.”

  All eyes turned to Lisbeth’s child. Sadie’s small head bobbed up and down, her eyes wide with fear and her chin quivering.

  Mother Wainwright continued to glare at Sadie, waiting for her to speak up. Lisbeth’s chest hammered hard; her daughter was trapped in an impossible dilemma. Sadie would be rude to share her observation out loud or keep it private. Either choice would further infuriate Mother.

  Lisbeth spoke up to protect her daughter. “Sadie noticed that we use different language in our home than you use in yours.”

  Lisbeth stared down her mother. Mother stared back, but finally looked away without further comment.

  “May I be excused?” Sadie asked in a quavering voice.

  “Yes, dear.” Lisbeth nodded, feeling bad for Sadie, but wanting to put this interaction behind them as soon as possible.

  Sadie stood up to leave.

  Mother asked sharply, “Sadie Ann, what are you doing?”

  Looking distressed, Sadie turned to Lisbeth. Lisbeth shared her daughter’s hurt. She smiled in empathy and nodded an encouragement to the girl to speak up.

  “Leaving the table after being excused?” Sadie said, more question than statement.

  “What is in your hand?” Mother rebuked, contempt in her voice.

  “My plate, ma’am,” Sadie replied, on the edge of tears.

  “Put it down. Now,” Mother ordered. “In this home you will not touch a dish. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sadie squeaked out. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “You will not make that mistake again,” Mother corrected.

  Sadie gave a slight, shaky nod. Lisbeth’s heart welled up into her throat. She was embarrassed at her mother’s reaction to her child’s manners and angry at herself for not better preparing Sadie for this world. She wanted to apologize to her daughter and give her a reassuring hug, but that would simply draw further attention to them both. Instead she patted Sadie’s arm and whispered, “Go on now. It’s over. You can play in our room. I’ll be up soon.”

  “It is no wonder they sound like servants,” Mother hissed to Lisbeth. “You speak like one as well.”

  Lisbeth was relieved for the peace that came when she and the children were alone in their bedroom. It felt like forever since they had left Oberlin, but it had not even been two days. This was going to be an exhausting visit, full of traps to be avoided.

  Sadie and Sammy were tucked into bed. Lisbeth shared the details of their day in her letter to Matthew, grateful to have an opportunity to unburden her heart in this nightly ritual. Thanks to the new innovation in the postal system, the Railway Mail Service, Matthew would get her letter just a few days after she posted it. It was worth the expense to experience a connection despite their physical distance and to hear one another’s news.

  “Momma?” Sadie asked from bed. Sammy lay next to her, reading Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  “Sadie?” Lisbeth replied in the same emphatic tone.

  “Was your mama nice when you were little?”

  Lisbeth inhaled and considered how to answer the question. Sadie stared at her mother intently, waiting for a reply.

  “My mother did not spend very much time with me when I was a child. As I have told you before, Mrs. Freedman took care of me.”

  “All of the time?” Sadie asked.

  Sammy put down his book and turned his attention to their conversation. Lisbeth nodded to both of them.

  “Who put you to bed?” Sadie wondered.

  “Mrs. Freedman,” Lisbeth replied.

  Sammy asked, “Who prepared your meals?”

  “Cook.”

  “Did your mother do anything for you?” Sammy asked.

  “As I grew older I joined them for meals, and in the parlor after supper. We went to church without Mattie.” Lisbeth dug in her mind for memories. “Mother taught me to cross-stitch,” she explained. “I’m sure she taught me other things as well, but I do not have many recollections of being with her.”

  “Did she hug you when you were sad?” Sadie wanted to know.

  Lisbeth shook her head slowly. “No. My mother was never affectionate like that.”

  “I’m sorry, Momma,” Sadie said. Concern filled her eyes.

  “Thank you, Sadie. I am very fortunate that I had Mrs. Freedman to care for me,” Lisbeth replied. She was ready for this conversation to end. She could not explain something to her children that she did not understand herself.

  In nearly all of Lisbeth’s memories, her mother was cold and distant. The only time Lisbeth felt that she pleased Mother was when Edward Cunningham had taken an interest in her. “It has been a long day. Time to sleep; no more questions.”

  Sadie closed her eyes, and Sammy returned to his reading. Lisbeth kissed her daughter’s forehead and hummed “Go to Sleepy Little Baby” until the soft sounds of slumber emanated from Sadie.

  In the morning, Lisbeth walked the children to the kitchen. Emily stirred a pot on a small black cast-iron cookstove. The nasty smell that filled the air told Lisbeth it was heated by coal. A platter with fried eggs and grits sat on the table where Johnny and another boy were seated kitty-corner to each other.

  Emily introduced the light-skinned child. “This is my son, Willie.” Willie was so fair that Lisbeth had first believed him to be White. His father, William, must be mixed like Emily.

  Lisbeth stared at the boy, struck by the fact that he could be her nephew or her cousin, but she would never know the answer to that lingering question. Looking for a family resemblance, she decided that Sammy and Willie had the same eyebrows. Though it could simply be a coincidence, a trick of her own mind.

  Sammy put out his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Sammy.”

  Johnny snorted. “You don’t shake hands with a niggra. Don’t you know anything?”

  Sammy looked at Johnny and then at his mother, confusion in his eyes, his hand still reaching out like a bare branch, vulnerable and brittle. Lisbeth hurt for her son. She took a deep breath.

  “Johnny, in our family we shake hands with all people, and Sammy knows it,” Lisbeth said firmly.

  Willie looked to his mother for guidance. Emily nodded at him. He shook Sammy’s hand once without saying a word.

  Johnny glared, and he muttered under his breath, “I thought you were in our family.”

  Lisbeth heard the comment but ignored it, deciding against arguing with a child.

  “I will leave you to breakfast in here,” she told her children. “After I eat I’ll be upstairs with my father. Emily will help you if you need anything.”

  Emily replied, “If you come looking for us and we aren’t here, we will have walked to the public square. It’s only a few blocks away and a nice place for the children to run. Anyone can direct you there.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Lisbeth said. “Thank you, Emily.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

  Lisbeth sat by her father’s bed. He spent most of the day sleeping, but she stayed by his side in case he needed assistance. She offered him sips of water when he stirred and wiped his brow. When he appeared to be in pain, she put drops under his tongue, which soothed him immediately. This was why she had come to Virginia, and she found herself incredibly grateful and touched to have this opportunity. She’d sat vigil with more than one person in Oberlin, but she�
�d never cared for a family member before.

  Even though she and her father had had an unreconcilable moral conflict and she felt hurt by his lack of effort over the years, she nevertheless believed there might be some true healing by her providing solace to her father in his last days. Sitting alone with him in this room, she felt at peace.

  A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens was open on her lap, and she was reading it out loud even though Father seemed to be unaware of the words coming from her mouth. Her mother had left the book by the bed for them, and Lisbeth was grateful that her mother’s literary choice was a story she enjoyed as well. She doubted that Mother would approve of Dickens’s message, though it was most likely that her mother had never read this novel.

  Lisbeth was intrigued by the sentences her father had chosen to underline. She felt they gave her some clues about this man she knew so little about. She had grown up with him, but she had no memories of being alone with him as a child and could not even say how he occupied himself during the days when she lived with him. Unlike some fathers, he was not frightening or harsh; rather he seemed almost invisible.

  She was interrupted by the click of the door latch. She turned to see Emily carrying a fresh tray. Lisbeth lifted the old tray littered with damp cloths and half-empty glasses from the bedside table. She moved out of the way to make room for Emily to set down the dented and worn silver-plated tray.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Emily said.

  Lisbeth set the used tray on the bureau and walked back to her father’s bedside.

  “Emily, I’d prefer that you didn’t call me ma’am. I realize you must when Mother is around, but please know that I find it unnecessary.”

  Before Emily could reply, Father stirred in the mahogany bed. His lids slowly blinked open. His cloudy blue eyes focused on Emily and suddenly opened wide, a huge smile springing to his face. Lisbeth did not know what to make of his peculiar attitude.

  “Lydia! You came. I prayed that you would change your mind.” He grabbed Emily’s hand and kissed it. Emily pulled her hand away, looking disgusted.

  He struggled to sit up. Excitement lighting up his face, he exclaimed, “We can depart right now. Do you have everything you need?” He looked around like he was searching for an escape route.

  Emily looked like Lisbeth felt—confused and uncomfortable.

  Lisbeth interrupted, “Father, this is Emily. Who is Lydia?”

  Father looked first at Lisbeth, then at Emily, bewilderment rolling over his face.

  He looked back at Lisbeth and asked in a hoarse voice, “Am I dreaming?” Without waiting for an answer, the dying man shook his head and mumbled as if he were explaining to himself, “But I see her, right here, before me.”

  Father blinked slowly in thought. He grabbed Emily’s fingers again. “I feel her hand in mine; she must be alive,” he declared, longing filling his voice.

  “This is Emily, Father. She is alive,” Lisbeth explained slowly and patiently, as if she were talking to a child. “I do not know Lydia, so I cannot tell you if she is alive or dead.”

  Lisbeth took her father’s hand and pried Emily’s fingers from his desperate grip. The sick man sighed and lay down. He rolled to his side and curled into a C shape. Lisbeth watched, her heart twisting as a tear seeped from his eye, slowly traveled across the bridge of his nose, and then fell onto the bed.

  He mumbled to himself, “She can still come. There is more time.”

  Father closed his eyes, and in a matter of moments, Lisbeth was relieved to hear quiet snores coming from his mouth.

  “I apologize for his outburst,” Lisbeth said to Emily. “It is close to the end; he is agitated and confused.”

  “Lydia was my mother,” Emily stated plainly, her face expressionless.

  Lisbeth didn’t understand what Emily was telling her; then a hot wave of emotion passed through her as she grasped the implications of Emily’s statement. “Lydia?” Lisbeth asked.

  Emily nodded. Lisbeth’s mind was clouded. She searched for the right words.

  “So my father is also your . . .” Lisbeth stopped speaking, not comfortable saying the word out loud.

  “I believe so,” Emily confirmed.

  Lisbeth let out her breath, a chill traveling down her spine. She’d suspected Emily was her sister or cousin when she’d discovered an ambiguously marked family tree: Emily’s name was followed by a question mark—with lines to both Lisbeth’s father and deceased uncle. Having it confirmed was a mixed blessing. To speak of it outright made her extremely uncomfortable. She had never spoken of her shameful discovery, not even with Matthew. But it was a measure of relief to know the ugly truth.

  “Is my mother aware of the situation?” Lisbeth asked.

  “She has never been kind to me, so I imagine yes.”

  “Was he . . . affectionate to you?”

  “Extra food, and clothes,” Emily stated without emotion. “A pat on the hand now and then. I worked in the house instead of the fields. He insisted I not be sold with Fair Oaks. Your mother was extremely angered. It is the only time I heard them quarrel.”

  Mother’s seething fury took on a whole new meaning. When Lisbeth had revealed that she’d seen her fiancé with a field hand, Mother had dismissed it outright, expecting Lisbeth to accept such behavior, just as she had.

  Lisbeth looked at her father. How did he live with such a heavy contradiction in his life? She didn’t know what to make of the information. She supposed this made Emily a sister of sorts, but she did not believe that what she felt for Emily were sisterly feelings. She imagined sisters felt trust and affection, but she felt only reserved and uncertain around Emily.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Lisbeth was flustered. “This is a peculiar situation.”

  Emily’s lips tugged into a small, tight smile. “There is nothing to say. It’s no stranger than many folks deal with.”

  “Do you think they loved each other?” Lisbeth wondered aloud.

  Emily’s eyebrows furrowed, considering her reply carefully. Lisbeth’s mind flashed to the scene under the willow that had caused her to flee her childhood home. She’d learned all too graphically how common it was for masters of houses to force themselves upon unwilling field hands. She recalled the horrible sight of Edward’s violent thrusting, and the young girl’s caramel-brown eyes filled with pain and shame. Her mother could not even consider the hurt to the child, insisting it was welcome attention.

  Lisbeth took back her question. “Never mind, Emily. We cannot possibly uncover the truth, can we?”

  Emily nodded. “Please do not speak of this with your mother. She will only become more cruel if you do. As it is, I fear we’ll be turned out when your father dies.”

  “Wouldn’t that be preferable?” Lisbeth asked. “To work somewhere else?”

  “We don’t have other options,” Emily explained. “We have looked. There are so many freedmen that housing and work are scarce. William’s family home is overcrowded. They cannot fit us in as well. William’s employment at the Tredegar Iron Works pays for clothes, school for Willie, and church. My work gives us a room to sleep in and food to eat. Our life has its complications, but we are doing better than many.”

  “My parents don’t pay you?” Lisbeth asked, shocked that such a thing was even possible.

  Emily snorted and stared at Lisbeth, looking incredulous. After a moment, she asked, “You imagine they would pay me for housework? In money?” She shook her head. “Is it really so different in Ohio?”

  “We pay for labor . . . with money. On occasion with livestock or other goods,” Lisbeth explained, “but mostly with money.”

  “Ohio sounds nice,” Emily replied, longing in her voice.

  “We are happy there,” Lisbeth agreed. She considered telling Emily that White and colored children attended a publicly funded school together in Oberlin, but realized that would only be cruel. There was no point in adding to Emily’s pain.

  A few days later Sammy came into their
room and told Lisbeth, “I wish I had brought two gloves as gifts.”

  “Does Johnny need one for each hand?” Lisbeth teased.

  “No.” Sammy’s hazel eyes rolled up at her. He explained, “Willie wants to use the glove and Johnny refuses.”

  “I hope you gave him a turn with yours,” Lisbeth told her son.

  “Yep, but it ain’t the same as having your own.”

  “No, it’s not the same.” Lisbeth nodded in agreement, subtly correcting her child’s grammar.

  “Willie does whatever Johnny says. You say slavery is over, but I don’t think Grandmother Wainwright or Uncle Jack or Johnny knows that.” Frustration filled her son’s voice. “Yesterday, Grandmother Wainwright told Willie he couldn’t go to the park with us because he had to clean the kitchen stove. Like he’s her servant. So he stayed and cleaned while Emily took me and Sadie and Johnny to the fairgrounds without him.”

  Lisbeth sighed.

  “Today he went with us, but Johnny wouldn’t talk to him or give him a turn with his glove.” Samuel was on a roll. He went on, venting his outrage. “When we were at the park a White lady told Miss Emily she wasn’t allowed to be there. But when Miss Emily told the lady she was watching us, the White lady said it was okay. You hoped they figured out by now that slavery is bad, right?”

  Lisbeth nodded. “Yes.”

  “They haven’t,” he said, looking dejected.

  Lisbeth hurt for her son. He was losing his faith in humanity and her family. As she feared, this trip was costing him much of his innocence.

  Sammy continued. “And I don’t think your family has forgiven you for marrying Poppa. They all hate us.”

  “Hate is a strong word,” Lisbeth reminded her child.

  “Then they don’t like us very much,” Sammy said.

  Her throat swollen, Lisbeth nodded in agreement. “Sammy, I fear you are right.”

  “Except Sadie,” Sammy clarified.

  Lisbeth furrowed her brow and tilted her head in an unspoken question.

  He shrugged. “Uncle Jack and Aunt Julianne like Sadie.”