by Lynn Austin
“Yes, he told me about Miss Welch.”
“He keeps saying that he wants to die, and I’m so afraid he will do something . . . that I’ll find him . . .”
The doctor rested his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know of any cure for despair. I’m so sorry. But I promise to stop in to visit him more often, if you’d like. And I’ll see about getting some government rations for both of you. They are distributing them in the village at the Freedmen’s Bureau. Maybe a change of diet will help.”
“I would appreciate that very much. Thank you for coming, Doctor.”
Eugenia walked with him to the front door. He paused on the doorstep and said, “It was wonderful to see you again, Eugenia. You look as lovely as always.”
“Thank you, David.” His admiration lifted her spirits, even if he wasn’t a member of her social class. She had been relieved to see that his house in town had survived the war, but she didn’t want to imagine what it must look like on the inside with no wife to attend to it. Dr. Hunter and his wife had never owned slaves.
When he was gone, Eugenia went back inside and found Josephine downstairs in the kitchen, which now looked clean and tidy. Her feet were bare, the ill-fitting shoes cast aside. Eugenia shook her head, holding back a rebuke. “We’re leaving in a few minutes, Josephine. Go out and wait in the carriage with your sister.”
“Won’t you stay and visit a little longer?” Priscilla begged as Eugenia prepared to leave. “You can’t imagine how lonely it is here all day. At least you have your daughters for company.”
“We’ll come again soon, I promise.” But as Eugenia hugged her friend good-bye, an idea began to take shape in her mind. She released Priscilla, taking her hands in her own. “Listen, dear. How would it be if Josephine moved in with you for a while? She could help you with Harrison, and she would be good company for you, too. What do you say?”
“Oh, but I couldn’t—”
“Nonsense. Of course you can. We’ll let Jo come home with me today and pack a few things, and then we’ll drive her back here on Sunday after church. No, don’t argue with me, dear. My mind is made up. We’ll see you Sunday.” She strode out to the waiting carriage before Priscilla could protest.
Eugenia waited until the horse was plodding down the long lane to their house before telling her daughter about her decision. “Listen, Josephine. Priscilla confessed to me today, in strictest confidence, that if she doesn’t get help soon, she will have to sell her plantation and move away. Coping with Harrison’s illness has been extremely difficult for her, and I’ve come to realize that she isn’t as strong as we are. She needs our help, so I have offered her your assistance.”
“What! My assistance? Why me?”
Eugenia gazed into the woods on the edge of their property, not meeting her daughter’s gaze. “Because you are a very kind, capable young woman.”
“But I don’t want to take care of Harrison! He’s so bitter and hateful! Mary can tell you if you don’t believe me, but every minute in that room with him is horrible! I don’t mind helping Mrs. Blake, but please don’t make me take care of him. Please, Mother.”
“I’ve already promised Priscilla that you would. It’ll only be for a short time, until their situation improves. I told her you’ll move there on Sunday, right after church.”
Josephine sagged forward in despair. Eugenia resisted the urge to remind her about her posture and instead laid her hand over her daughter’s. “Harrison and his mother have no one else, Josephine. I know they would gladly help us if the tables were turned and our Daniel was the one who’d lost his leg.”
Josephine didn’t reply, but a tear rolled off her chin and dropped onto Eugenia’s hand. “No tears, darling,” she said. “Be strong now. We must be strong.”
9
As soon as the white folks left to go calling, Lizzie untied her apron and went outside to sit in the sun on the back stoop. She wasn’t nobody’s slave, and she didn’t have to work like one. Besides, she couldn’t do the work of five house slaves all by herself, no matter what Miz Eugenia thought.
The moment she sat her weary body down, the raggedy clump of backyard chickens came running to see if she was tossing them some crumbs, poking and jostling each other like naughty boys. The hens were so scraggly-looking that Lizzie wouldn’t have much plucking to do when it came time to cook one of them. But as long as they gave up an egg or two every day, they were safe from the stewpot. They must have known the truth because they kept on scratching and laying, bartering eggs for their lives.
Miz Eugenia was always whining for more eggs. Lizzie couldn’t make her understand that she needed to let the hens roost a while. Once the baby chicks hatched out and grew up, there’d be plenty more eggs to eat. “You gotta do without for now,” she’d told Miz Eugenia, “so it’ll be better later on.” But the missus wasn’t listening.
Lizzie flapped her apron to shoo the little flock away. “Go on. Quit pestering me. I ain’t got nothing for you.” They fluttered off, ruffled and clucking, then went back to pecking for insects in the dirt. Lizzie closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her face. The chickens’ mindless murmuring sounded just like Miz Eugenia and her friends when they used to sit in the front parlor talking about the weather and whatnot. Every now and then one of them ladies would let out a cackle or a squawk and get all the others doing it, too, just like them chickens. The thought made her smile.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw Otis striding toward her from the stables. He waved at her and broke into a grin. “Look at you—sitting in the sun like a free woman.”
Lizzie couldn’t help smiling back. “That’s because I am a free woman.”
He came to a halt in front of her, standing so tall and strong-shouldered that he blocked out the sun. “Them women gone for now?”
“Yes, but you better watch out because Massa Daniel ain’t with them. He’s sure to come looking for you before long.”
“I know exactly where he is,” Otis said, laughing. “He sent me up here to fetch him a drink of water.”
“Now why’s that so funny? How can being his errand boy make you laugh?”
“Because the joke’s on him. He thinks I’m his errand boy, toting his water, but he’s still down there working in the stables, and I’m taking a break.” Otis sat down on the stoop beside her. “And I’m stealing a kiss from the prettiest gal in the county, too.” He tipped her face toward his and kissed her. Lizzie loved his familiar scent of earth and sweat. She would like nothing better than to sit here and kiss him all day, but she pulled away.
“You better stop that now,” she said, swatting him with her apron strings. “Massa Daniel might be watching, you know. I’ll go get you something to carry that water.” She stood and went into the kitchen to look for two jugs. Massa Daniel would no sooner share a jug of water with a Negro than he would drink from the pig trough. Otis followed her inside and watched as she looked around the disheveled kitchen.
“See this mess I gotta clean up?” she said. “I thought being free was supposed to be better, but it ain’t. Now I’m the cook and the scrub maid and the chambermaid and the housekeeper all rolled into one. Miz Eugenia acts like there’s still five of us—telling me to do one thing, then before I get a chance to do it, she’s hollering for me to do something else. I can’t do it all.”
“I know, Lizzie-girl. I know. You’d think all the troubles those white folks had would’ve made their hearts softer, not harder.”
Lizzie turned to look at her Otis, standing there so patiently, not a line of worry on his face. She moved into his arms, resting her head on his shoulder. His shirt was damp with sweat. “Listen to me, complaining all the time. I’m as bad as the missus. How come you ain’t never complaining, Otis? They’re trying to make you do the work of fifty slaves.”
“It won’t be for much longer. Massa Daniel’s gonna choke on that pride of his one of these days, and he’ll have to start hiring more help.”
“Some days I’d like to walk on out of her
e and never come back. There must be a better place for us than here.”
“Now, you know we can’t quit. As long as our kids have a chance to go to school, we gotta stay here. We’ll get our own place someday, I promise you, Lizzie-girl. Then nobody’s gonna tell us what to do.”
Lizzie gave him a squeeze, then released him. She carried the two jugs she’d found out to the pump, primed it using water from the bucket, then pumped the handle until both containers and the bucket were full. “Sometimes, working here for Missy and her girls, it’s like the war never happened and nothing’s changed. I feel like I’m still a slave and always will be one.”
“It’s in here,” Otis said, pointing to his heart. “Here’s where we know we’re free. Don’t matter what nobody says. When the white folks start nagging at you, remember they’re just words, Lizzie. Don’t hang on to them. Throw them out the back door like a bucket of slops.”
“Is that what you do when Massa Daniel starts treating you bad?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what I do.” He bent to pick up the jugs and kissed her neck. “See you tonight, Lizzie-girl.”
She watched him walk away, wondering why such a gentle, easygoing man would pick a fearful, worrying gal like her for his wife. He turned around just before he reached the stables and smiled at her as if he knew she would be watching him. She lifted her hand and waved, her love for him swelling inside her until she thought she just might burst from it. She hated to see him treated like a slave every day, overworked and looked down on by Massa Daniel. Otis was just as good as any white man—better, even. But he was right. If they stayed a little while longer and kept their kids in school, and if they worked hard and saved their money, they could have their own place someday, just like the Yankee man in town said.
Lizzie thought of the chickens again and how Miz Eugenia would be better off if she didn’t gobble down all the eggs every morning. That’s what Otis was trying to tell Lizzie: You gotta do without for now so it’ll be better later on. She sighed and went back into the house to work.
It was nice to have the house all to herself while Miz Eugenia went calling. But the missus wasn’t home half an hour before she started ringing her little bell to call for Lizzie. Why couldn’t that woman walk on down the hall and see for herself how busy she was instead of interrupting her all the time? Lizzie dried her hands on her apron and followed the jangling noise to the front hall.
“Yes, Miz Eugenia?”
“Look here,” she said, pointing to the hall table. “My daughters and I went calling today, and our hats and gloves still haven’t been carried upstairs and put away.”
“I ain’t had time, ma’am.” If she were a little braver, she would ask why Miz Eugenia and those two girls couldn’t carry them upstairs themselves.
“As I’ve explained before, you need to wrap the hats in tissue paper and put them in their proper hatboxes—and be careful not to crush any of the flowers or feathers. Then check the gloves to see if they need to be washed and dried and mended.”
And if there was one tiny little spot on one of the gloves or a single loose feather on her ridiculous hat, Lizzie would hear about it. She waited, wondering if there was more.
“A friend of mine seems to be without a servant at the moment,” the missus finally said. “Surely you must know of someone who could work for her, don’t you?”
Lizzie bit her lip pretending she was thinking things over, but she was really stomping down on an angry reply. Did Miz Eugenia think slaves had a whole flock of friends they ran around visiting all the time? Did she think colored folks had time to waste making social calls the way white folks did? Lizzie fought to keep her face expressionless, to answer quietly.
“No, ma’am. I don’t know of nobody.”
“Would you ask around for me, please? When you see the others?”
“What others?” The words spurted out before Lizzie could stop them. “I never see anybody, Miz Eugenia, because I’m working here for you all day.” She was sorry the moment she’d spoken, but the missus knew exactly how to yank her handle, just like the pump outside, until all of Lizzie’s anger came gushing to the surface.
Miz Eugenia remained calm, as if it was beneath her to argue back. She would probably make Lizzie pay for her outburst some other way. “Well, kindly keep my friend in mind if you do hear of someone who’s looking for work. My daughter Josephine will be moving there at the end of the week to help out.”
Lizzie didn’t reply. Instead, she turned to leave without waiting to be excused. She knew better. And she also knew it would make Miz Eugenia real mad—maybe even as mad as Lizzie felt right now.
“Lizzie.”
She halted, then slowly turned to face her without speaking. They were like two riled dogs, circling each other, hackles raised, neither one daring to pounce first or back down.
“Did you make our beds and tidy the bedrooms?” Miz Eugenia asked.
“I ain’t had a chance, ma’am.” If she was going to ask what Lizzie had been doing all morning, she was ready with a list—and everything on it was more important than making beds for two spoiled young gals who could do it themselves, for once.
“Well, did you at least empty the upstairs chamber pots? Don’t let them wait too late in the day, please. The weather is getting warm, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.” It didn’t matter how hot the weather got, emptying those pots was a job Lizzie hated. A slave’s job.
“You need to develop a routine, Lizzie, and do the most important tasks first.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She backed out of the room, ready to explode. The most important tasks first? Would Missus rather have the beds made or food on the table?
Lizzie returned to the kitchen to mix up a batch of bread, knowing she was only punishing herself if she didn’t put the hats away or if she allowed the chamber pots to fester. But punching and kneading the dough helped use up her anger. After putting it near the fire to rise, she finally went upstairs to do her chores.
Later that afternoon, Lizzie went outside to hoe weeds in the kitchen garden, using it as an excuse to keep an eye out for her kids who would be walking home from school soon. She worried half to death over them, knowing what a long walk it was into the village and how dangerous it was for them to be coming down that long road all alone. There were plenty of white folks who didn’t like to see little Negro boys anywhere but on Slave Row. And it was even more dangerous for her daughter, Roselle, who was fifteen and as pretty as a peach tree in bloom.
Lizzie halted in surprise when she reached the garden. There was Missy Josephine already at work with a big straw hat on her head to keep her white skin from turning pink. They both knew how mad it would make Miz Eugenia when she caught her doing slaves’ work, but Missy Jo didn’t seem to care. “Can I ask you something, Missy Josephine?” Lizzie asked.
“Of course.”
“Why do you want to work out here in the garden like a slave? You know it’s only gonna upset Miz Eugenia.”
“Because I like working in the garden. I feel like I’m accomplishing something useful. Besides, Mother is taking a nap.”
Lizzie set to work alongside her, glancing up every minute or two, watching for her children—and the missus. She attacked the weeds with the same fury she’d used on the bread dough that morning, using up all her worry and fear, until she finally saw Jack and Rufus plodding up the lane, pitching stones into the weeds and stirring up the dust with their bare feet.
The boys were alone.
Lizzie felt the wind rush out of her as if someone had kicked her in the stomach when she saw that Roselle wasn’t with them. She dropped the hoe and hurried out to the road to meet them, leaving the garden gate swinging and Missy Jo looking puzzled.
“Where’s your sister?”
Young Rufus looked up at her with the same calm expression his daddy always wore. “Roselle left school at lunchtime, Mama, and never did come back.” The boot landed in Lizzie’s stomach a second time.
“What? Where’d she go? She with anyone?”
“I don’t know where she went, but Lula and Corabelle never did come back, neither.”
There was nothing Lizzie could do but wait. And worry. She’d been counting on Roselle to help her fix supper, and now she’d have to cook and serve it all by herself. Where could Roselle be? What if something terrible happened to her? Should Otis go look for her?
By the time Roselle finally wandered home, supper was boiling and so was Lizzie’s temper. “Where you been? Why ain’t you in school this afternoon like you’re supposed to be?”
Roselle glanced at her brothers, who were busy filling the woodbox. “Me and my friends just started walking around Fairmont for a while, and it felt so nice to be free, with no one telling us what to do . . . I guess we just forgot to go back to school.”
“It ain’t safe to walk all around on your own!” Lizzie shouted. “Don’t you know what could happen?” She wasn’t anywhere near finished with her scolding, but the bell jingled in the white folks’ dining room, interrupting her. Lizzie closed her eyes and exhaled to get ahold of herself, then faced her daughter. “I got to go see what the missus wants. You finish putting their food on serving plates, then start washing them frying pans. We’ll talk about this when your papa gets here.” For once, Roselle had the good sense to do what she was told.
Lizzie hurried into the dining room, and there they all sat with their pretty dishes and their white tablecloth and fancy napkins, just like the old days. There wasn’t anything to eat but slave food and hardly enough of that, but Miz Eugenia still wanted it served up on a silver platter like it was Christmas dinner.
“Bring us a pitcher of water, please,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lizzie returned to the kitchen and told Roselle to find a pitcher, then sent Rufus and Jack out to pump water. Otis arrived while Lizzie was running back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room, and she saw him washing up outside. When the white folks were all fed, Lizzie was finally able to sit down at the kitchen table with her own family, even though she’d have to jump right back up again if that bell started ringing.