Angels Watching Over Me (Shenandoah Sisters Book #1)

by Phillips, Michael

  ‘‘W’en de nashuns er de earf is a stan’in all aroun’,

  Who’s a gwineter be choosen fer ter w’ar de glory-crown?

  Who’s a gwine fer ter stan’ stiff-kneed en bol’.

  En answer to der name at de callin’ er de roll?

  You better come now ef you comin’—

  Ole Satun is loose en a bummin’—

  De wheels er distruckshun is a hummin’—

  Oh, come ’long, sinner, ef you comin’!’’

  By now Katie was gradually getting the feel of the song, though she still couldn’t say the words like an old black man would say them. Then we sang the last two verses, and she was clapping in time with the best of them.

  When we were finished, we fell down on the sofa, laughing like we’d never laughed before.

  ‘‘I don’t see how you can remember all that,’’ said Katie as we rested.

  ‘‘I’ve heard it fifty times,’’ I said. ‘‘Every word’s stuck in my brain. You did real good for your first time.’’

  ‘‘You did good with the dancing too.’’

  ‘‘It was fun, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘There sure are lots of different kinds of music. I’ve never danced like that before.’’

  ‘‘I haven’t danced the minuet since before the war,’’ she said slowly. ‘‘Mama and Daddy used to go dancing. Sometimes they’d take me with them. But after the war came, everything changed.’’

  ‘‘Well, we’ll dance again after your birthday supper. We’ll call it Miss Katie Clairborne’s birthday minuet.’’

  She laughed again, and it was good to see. I was glad she could be a little bit happy on her birthday.

  ‘‘I can smell the cake already,’’ she said, then paused and looked over at me. ‘‘Thank you, Mayme, for making this a special day for me.’’

  BOOKS, DOLLS, AND BEDTIME

  STORIES

  21

  AN EVENING OR TWO LATER I CAME UPON Katie sitting on her bed with a book in her lap.

  ‘‘What’s that about?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘A foolish little girl named Rosamond.’’

  ‘‘Why is she foolish?’’

  ‘‘Because she is very poor and needs new shoes, but she wants a purple jar instead. And her mother lets her have her choice between the shoes and the vase. Rosamond chooses the vase but soon sees what a foolish choice she has made. Then she has to wait a whole month for new shoes.’’

  ‘‘What’s it called?’’

  ‘‘The Purple Jar,’’ answered Katie.

  ‘‘Would you read it to me?’’

  ‘‘Here, you can borrow it and read it yourself.’’

  ‘‘I’m not that good a reader. I’ve never read a book like that before.’’

  ‘‘It’s so much better to read it to yourself.’’

  ‘‘My mama only taught me to read a little. We didn’t have any books.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘We were slaves, Miss Katie. We was poor as Job’s turkey. We didn’t have no money for things like books.’’

  The idea of not having money or books seemed new to her.

  ‘‘Where did you live?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘From here, I’m not sure exactly. Over yonder somewhere.’’ I waved toward the east.

  ‘‘All you have to do to learn to read better is to read more,’’ said Katie. ‘‘You can ask me about the words you don’t know. You’re smart, Mayme. You’re about the smartest person I know—except for my mama.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know anything about the kinds of things you know about,’’ I said. ‘‘You know about books and music and places like the town where that Mozart man lived.’’

  ‘‘But you can do things, Mayme. That makes you smart in a different way. And sometimes I get confused and afraid . . . and then I don’t know what to do.’’

  ‘‘Everybody gets afraid, Miss Katie.’’

  ‘‘I’ve never seen you afraid.’’

  ‘‘I get afraid all the time. I was terrified out of my wits when those men killed my family, probably the same men that came here, those marauders like that neighbor fella said. I was plenty scared. And I’m still scared sometimes, when I’m lying awake in your brother’s bed and hearing noises, and I remember that it’s just me and you here, and I think what they’ll do to me if anyone finds me like this. And I start worrying about rape or getting murdered myself, and then I get so afraid I can’t stand it.’’

  ‘‘What’s rape, Mayme?’’

  ‘‘Something you don’t need to know about, Miss Katie. Let’s just hope it don’t ever happen to you or me. But let’s don’t talk about that any more. I want you to read to me from that book.’’

  ‘‘If you just try, Mayme, I know you could read it yourself in no time.’’

  ‘‘All right, I’ll try,’’ I said. ‘‘But for now, why don’t you read me some from it . . . to help me get started.’’

  ‘‘All right. Here, come and sit on the bed with me.—Wait, let me get my dolls!’’ she exclaimed.

  She ran over to her dresser and grabbed two, then picked up two more from the foot of the bed. When she came back and sat down next to me, she had several dolls under each arm. She arranged them beside her on the bed.

  ‘‘This is Peg,’’ she said, ‘‘and Missie . . . and Sarah . . . and Rebecca . . . and Jane. Would you like to have one of them, Mayme?’’

  ‘‘I, uh . . . I don’t—no, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘They’re yours. I don’t—’’

  ‘‘But I want you to have one,’’ she said. ‘‘Here—I want you to have Rebecca. Her skin is white, but you like people with white skin, don’t you, Mayme?’’

  I smiled. ‘‘Yes, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘I like folks with white skin.’’

  ‘‘Good, then from now on, Rebecca is yours.’’

  ‘‘But, Miss Katie,’’ I said, ‘‘she looks like she’s the most costly one of them all.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know about that. Mama and Daddy got these dolls for me in Charleston. They were all birthday presents. So now since it was my birthday two days ago, I’m making a present to you.’’

  ‘‘I . . . I don’t . . . all right, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘That’s about the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me. I don’t know what to say.’’ I looked over at her. ‘‘Thank you, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘This is something I won’t ever forget.’’

  ‘‘Now let’s read,’’ said Katie.

  She picked up another book lying next to her, arranged it in her lap, then opened it to the first page. I looked at it over her shoulder. She pointed to the words, probably for my benefit.

  ‘‘ ‘Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do,’ ’’ Katie began. ‘‘ ‘Once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘‘and what is the use of a book,’’ thought Alice, ‘‘without pictures or conversations?’’ ’ ’’

  ‘‘Who’s Alice?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ replied Katie. ‘‘I’ve never read this book before. It’s new. My mother got it for me only last month.’’

  ‘‘What’s it called?’’

  ‘‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.’’

  ‘‘That sounds interesting,’’ I said. ‘‘Read some more.’’

  Katie picked up the book again and continued on. ‘‘ ‘So she was considering,’ ’’ she read, ‘‘ ‘in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her.’ ’’

  Katie continued the story, her fingers following along the page, and I listened until Alice had fallen down the rabbit hole and was beginning to have all kinds of strange adventures.

  After Katie had read several chapters, she put the
book down and lay back on her pillows.

  ‘‘I’m sleepy,’’ she sighed.

  ‘‘Would you like to hear a story,’’ I asked, ‘‘like I used to tell my brothers and sisters?’’

  ‘‘You had brothers and sisters?’’

  ‘‘A whole houseful.’’

  ‘‘What’s happened to them?’’

  ‘‘They all got killed.’’

  The thought seemed to sober Katie. It was quiet a minute.

  ‘‘I’m sorry, Mayme,’’ she said after a bit. ‘‘I forget sometimes that you lost your family too. But, please— yes, I would like to hear a story.’’

  ‘‘One that I made up or one that the old slave folks tell the young’uns everywhere?’’

  ‘‘Anything you like, Mayme. You choose.’’

  ‘‘All right—let me see . . . I think I’ll tell you about the fox and little rabbits.’’

  ‘‘Is it scary—he won’t eat them, will he?’’

  ‘‘You will have to wait and see. That’s just what I used to tell Samuel all the time—wait and see.—Do you want me to tell it like my grandpapa would say it to us?’’

  ‘‘You mean with the words sounding funny?’’

  ‘‘Just like my grandpapa talked.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I want to hear it like he told it.’’

  Katie leaned back and got comfortable.

  ‘‘Well dar wuz a certain rabbit who’ll we’ll jist call Mr. Rabbit,’’ I began. ‘‘En Mr. Rabbit’s chilluns, dey minded der daddy en mammy fum day’s een’ ter day’s een’.’’

  A little giggle came from Katie.

  ‘‘You sound funny, Mayme,’’ she said, giggling again.

  ‘‘You said you wanted me to make it sound like my grandpapa.’’

  ‘‘I do,’’ said Katie. ‘‘Keep going.’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ I went on, ‘‘as I was saying, Mr. Rabbit’s chilluns, dey was good chilluns. W’en ole man Rabbit say ‘scoot,’ dey scooted, en w’en ole Mrs. Rabbit say ‘scat,’ dey scatted. Dey did dat. En dey kep der cloze clean, en dey ain’t had no smut on der nose nudder. En ef dey hadn’t er bin good chilluns, der wuz one time w’en dey wouldn’t er bin no little rabbits—na’er one. Dat’s w’at. Do you want to know w’en dat time was?’’

  ‘‘Yes, when was it?’’ said Katie. So I went on to explain that it was the time when Mr. Fox dropped in at Mr. Rabbit’s house and didn’t find anyone except the little rabbits. Old Mr. Rabbit was off somewhere raiding a collard patch, and old Mrs. Rabbit was attending a quilting in the neighborhood. While the little rabbits were playing hide-and-switch, in drops Mr. Fox. The little rabbits were so fat they fairly make his mouth water, but he remembered Mr. Wolf, and he was afraid to gobble them up unless he got some real good reason.

  ‘‘What happened to Mr. Wolf?’’ asked Katie in a sleepy voice.

  ‘‘Mr. Wolf, he come roun’ to Mr. Rabbit’s too, en he weren’t too smart. En Mr. Rabbit tricked him, en locked him into his wood chist, en den poured boilin’ water in on him en killed him dead. En so Mr. Fox, he’s wary ob Mr. Rabbit. En de little rabbits, dey mighty skittish, en dey sorter huddle deyse’f up tergedder en watch Mr. Fox. En Mr. Fox, he sit der en study w’at sorter skuse he gwineter make up so’s he kin eat der little rabbits. Bimeby he see a great big stalk er sugarcane stan’in up in de corner, and he clear up his throat en say: ‘Yer! you young rabs dar, come roun’ yer en break me a piece er dat sweetnin’-tree en bring it to me,’ sezee.

  ‘‘De little rabbits, dey got out de sugarcane, dey did, en dey rastle wid it, en sweat over it, but twan’t no use. Dey couldn’t break it. Mr. Fox, he make like he ain’t watchin’, but he keep on holler’n: ‘Hurry up dar, rabs! I’m a waitin’ on you.’

  ‘‘En de little rabbits, dey hustle roun’ en rastle wid it some more, but dey couldn’t break it. Bimeby dey hear little bird singin’ on top er de house, en de song w’at de little bird sing wuz dish yer:

  ‘‘ ‘Take yo’ toofies en gnyaw it,

  Take yo’ toofies en saw it,

  Saw it en yoke it,

  En den you kin broke it.’ ’’

  And so it went as I told the story, thinking about my grandpapa and my family as the familiar story rolled off my tongue.

  I finally came to, ‘‘But Mr. Fox, he knows what happen to Mr. Wolf, so he button up his coat collar tight en des put out fer home.’’

  I stopped, took a deep breath, and looked over at Katie. She had snuggled down under her blanket and was almost asleep.

  ‘‘But why didn’t Mr. Fox just eat the little rabbits?’’ she asked in a soft voice. ‘‘Why did he want the sugarcane and the water?’’

  ‘‘He had to find an excuse to eat them. He had to find them being disobedient. If they were bad, then he could punish them. So he told them things to do that he didn’t think they could do.’’

  ‘‘But why would a fox be afraid of a rabbit?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ I laughed. ‘‘It’s just a story to keep young’uns quiet. Half the stories I told Samuel didn’t make any more sense than that.’’

  Katie closed her eyes and in a minute or two was breathing deeply. I slipped off her bed, turned the light down low, and went to my room.

  So that’s how we began reading and sharing stories with each other.

  On most evenings Katie would maybe play something on the piano—sometimes she’d even sing, or we’d sing together. I taught her more of my songs, and she taught me some of hers. Then we’d go upstairs and get into our bedclothes and then would read or tell stories till we got sleepy. One of our favorites was Pilgrim’s Progress. In between times she wanted me to tell her some of the slave stories I knew.

  WORKING AND LEARNING

  TOGETHER

  22

  IWOKE UP ONE MORNING FEELING CHILLY. IT had been a little stormy and I guess the weather had turned.

  Shivering, I got up and went to Katie’s room. She was gone.

  I went downstairs and found her in the kitchen kneeling at the stove.

  ‘‘The fire went out,’’ she said, glancing up from the open door. ‘‘But I can’t get it started.’’

  I went over to take a look.

  ‘‘Your chunks of wood are too big, Miss Katie. You can’t start a fire without using tiny little bits of dry wood to get them going first. And you gotta have paper first, then you lay little pieces of kindling crossways on top of it, making a little pile. Let’s go outside and get some kindling and I’ll show you how.’’

  Katie went out to the woodpile with me. We were about out of kindling, so I set a couple of chunks up on the chopping block to cut some more. Katie watched with I think as much awe to see me handle the ax as I had watching her play the piano. I reckon everybody’s got different kinds of skills, though I didn’t hardly think cutting wood or singing a revival song could compare with playing a minuet by somebody named Mozart.

  ‘‘Would you show me how to do that, Mayme?’’ said Katie after I’d sent a few little thin slices splintering off the chunk.

  ‘‘It can be dangerous, Miss Katie,’’ I warned. ‘‘You gotta watch out for your fingers.’’

  ‘‘But I’ve got to learn to do these things sometime,’’ she said. ‘‘I helped my mama some, but I was never very good at it. I didn’t like to work. But watching you makes me want to learn how. Look at my hands—they’re all soft and smooth. I need to get them toughened up like yours.’’

  ‘‘I think most white ladies like smooth hands, Miss Katie.’’

  ‘‘Not me. My mama’s hands were rough too after my daddy left for the war.’’

  ‘‘Okay, then, but you gotta promise you’ll keep your fingers out of the way of the blade.’’

  ‘‘I promise.’’

  I handed her the ax. ‘‘Take it in both your hands, and start that way. Just bring the blade down about an inch from the edge.’’

  She tried it but missed the chunk completely. The tip whacked into the chopping block with a t
hud and stuck. I yanked it out and handed it back to her.

  ‘‘Try it again. The most important thing is to get a chunk of wood without knots and with nice straight grain. Then you can just splinter the kindling right off the edge.’’

  She tried a few more times and got some pieces to slice off. Then we took what we’d cut into the house and I showed her about building the fire. Already Katie had the makings of a blister starting on her right palm.

  It was while we were making the fire that I noticed how few phosphorous matches we had left. Katie had to use three or four before she could get one to light. I hadn’t thought of it before. We’d be in a predicament once we started running out of things like that. I knew people had fire long before they invented matches. But I didn’t know how to start one from nothing and didn’t want to try.

  After that we started banking up the fire every night to make sure we still had hot coals in the morning. For now there was plenty of firewood out by the barn, though I had to chop up new kindling every couple of days.

  That night Katie read to me from a book named Rollo in London written by a man called Jacob Abbott. Rollo was traveling around the world with his uncle George. The next day she showed me a whole set of Rollo books in her room.

  ‘‘What country would you like to know about?’’ Katie asked me. ‘‘South America or Africa or Rome or Paris.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, Miss Katie, but I’ve never heard of any of them,’’ I said. ‘‘I’d never even heard of London before last night. But anything you want to read is fine by me.’’

  ‘‘I am tired of Rollo anyway,’’ said Katie. ‘‘So tonight I will read to you from Goody Two-Shoes. But it will not do for me to do all the reading. You should read too.’’

  ‘‘But I don’t read too great.’’

  ‘‘Then you can practice by reading the McGuffey Readers,’’ said Katie. ‘‘That’s how I learned to read.’’

  ‘‘Would you help me, Miss Katie?’’

  ‘‘I will go get the first one right now,’’ she said, jumping up. ‘‘I know where they are on the bookshelf. I remember putting them away myself.’’

  She returned in a minute holding a little brown book. She handed it to me.