Classified

by Fern Michaels

  Chester ran through the doggie door, scaring her. “Darn, boy, you scared the bejeezers out of me.” She hadn’t even heard him go out.

  “Hey, I thought you’d have the table all set with the fine china and cloth napkins. What’s this?” Chris asked. He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

  “You smell good. And you’re lucky I’m making your breakfast. Don’t get used to it, either, because I promise not to make this a habit. If my memory serves me correctly, you used to exist on mint chocolate-chip ice cream.”

  Chris kissed her head, then poured a cup of coffee for himself. “You’re not having your coffee?”

  “It smells weird to me. I’m having tea.” She removed her mug from the microwave and dropped the tea bag in the hot water. “Does it taste okay?”

  Chris took a sip. “Excellent.”

  “You can’t smell that chemical smell? Like iron or something?” Abby asked as she stirred the eggs, then removed the bacon and placed it on a paper towel to drain.

  “You’re imagining things, Abs. This is perfectly fine. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t drink it.”

  She just nodded and set about finishing breakfast. She took two slices of wheat bread, put them in the toaster, then removed the eggs from the pan. She dabbed at the bacon with another paper towel, put four slices on Chris’s plate, together with most of the eggs, just as the toast popped up. “Good timing, if I say so myself.”

  Abby put Chris’s plate in front of him. “Remember, do not get used to this.”

  She took her mug of tea to the table and sat across from him. Chris dug into the food like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. She smiled. She loved this man.

  “How come you’re not having anything?” he asked between bites. “You think the food smells weird, too?”

  “No, I’m not hungry. Must be coming down with the flu or something. I can’t seem to shake this.”

  “You need to rest.”

  “Yeah, well, tell that to . . .” She wanted to say “that poor girl in my dream,” but she didn’t. Still, she couldn’t shake the dream. There was something about the man in the dream. The girl kept calling him something.... Mr. Clayton! She’d called him Mr. Clayton in the dream.

  “Chris, are you sure this place didn’t go by another name?” she asked again.

  “Not that I can remember. When you live in one of these old places as a kid, it’s almost an embarrassment. I remember thinking, when I was a kid, why couldn’t I live in one of those McMansions that all my friends lived in? Of course, I was too stupid to realize the history, and too young to appreciate it. Why don’t you ask your mother? She lived here, too. She might know.”

  Abby brightened. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “You’re a genius. Thanks.” She took her tea into the living room. Her mother was an early riser. She glanced at the big grandfather clock. It was ten to six. Her mother was up. She grabbed the portable phone and took it back into the kitchen. They were going to get a phone installed in the kitchen, if it was the last thing she did. The house was old, but there had been many updates throughout the years. Unfortunately, a phone jack was not one of them.

  She sat back down at the table. Chris took his plate, rinsed it, then put it in the dishwasher. He refilled his cup and came back to the table. “You going to call Tootsie?”

  “Yes.” She punched in her mother’s number.

  “Abby Simpson-Clay, what are you doing up so early?” her mother asked. No “hello.”

  Caller ID is killing the pranksters, Abby thought.

  “Well, I just finished making breakfast for my adoring husband. I couldn’t sleep, so I got up early, and Chris was up, so here we are. Mom, listen, I know this is going to sound odd, but do you recall the Clay Plantation being called something else? I’m talking way back in the day, when those slave quarters were in use.”

  “Let me think a minute. Hmm, I don’t really know. I have some of Garland’s papers stored away in a box somewhere. Seems like there were several documents that were connected to the plantation. Why do you want to know? You’re not thinking of changing the name, are you?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Abby wasn’t sure if she wanted to tell her mother about the dream just yet. It kept clinging to her; it was as though she were supposed to remember something from the dream for a reason. She just didn’t know what it was.

  “I can look for that box, if it will help.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Would you mind if Chester and I came over and looked through it with you? He’s needing a doggie love fix anyway. And I’m sure Coco and Frankie could use a Chester fix.”

  “Come on over. We’re on our third pot of coffee. I’ll make a fresh pot for you.”

  “No, Mom, really, I’m drinking tea today. I think I have a bug, and coffee isn’t agreeing with me right now. I’ll be over in half an hour.”

  “Okay, dear.”

  “So, what did Tootsie have to say?”

  “She didn’t know, but she has a box of your dad’s things at her house. She said she thought there might be some papers in there connected to the plantation. I’m going to take a look and see if there is anything in there. Chester, do you want to take an early-morning walk to see Coco?” Hearing the magic word Coco, the shepherd rushed out through the doggie door.

  “I take it that means yes,” Abby said. “You want to come with us?”

  “No, I better pass. I’m expecting an early phone call. You go on, tell everyone ‘hi’ for me. I’ll see you when you return.”

  Abby wrapped her arms around him, then stood on her tiptoes in order to reach his mouth. She planted a sloppy kiss on his lips. “I’ve got to dress now, Mr. Clay. I told Mother I’d be there in thirty minutes. She probably started a stopwatch the second I hung up the phone.”

  “Go on, woman, I’ll be here waiting with bated breath.”

  Abby raced upstairs and grabbed a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. She crammed her feet into her sneakers. In the master bath, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. She looked at the mass of curls and balled her hair into a knot, securing it with a couple of bobby pins.

  She raced down the stairs and out the back door. Chester was waiting at the gate. If she hurried, her mother’s house was a ten-minute walk. She needed the exercise. Her clothes were starting to feel a bit too tight. It’s all this Southern cooking, she thought.

  Chester raced ahead, then stopped, waiting for her to catch up with him. “Smartest dog in the world, aren’t you?”

  Ten minutes later, she was at her mother’s house. She tapped on the back door so as not to startle her or whoever was in the kitchen at this hour.

  “Abby, Chester, I’m glad you came over. I needed a daughter fix.”

  Chester saw Coco and Frankie in their corner and took off. “He’s happy, that’s for sure. He needed a Coco fix, too. Did you find the box?”

  “Right there.” Toots pointed to a large plastic carton. “Some of those documents are very old. You should probably take them and have them preserved. The historical society will help you with it.”

  Abby dragged the box over to the table. Sitting in the chair, she removed the lid on the box. A musty odor assaulted her, and it was all she could do to keep from throwing up. Damn, she really hated feeling bad. She started removing papers, careful not to tear them. The documents were old and yellowed, stiff with age. Abby dug through the box and stopped when she pulled out a thick volume labeled THE CLAYTON PLANTATION.

  “Oh, my God, Mom, now I know what’s been bothering me about the dream I had this morning! Yes, that’s what woke me up. There was this girl—she was young, in her early teens. In my dream, she was a slave, and there was something so familiar about the dream. You know, sort of like déjà vu? It’s really been bothering me ever since. It was like there was something I was supposed to know, and now I think I remember. In the dream, there was a small brick house. It’s where the girl lived before she was moved to the big house. It was one of the buildings at the planta
tion—I know it was. And in the dream, the girl kept saying something about a Mr. Clayton. She was pregnant, and the baby was his. Oh, my God, Mother, the dream was a nightmare.”

  Amazed at the significance of her dream, she said, “I know that what I dreamed really happened. I don’t know how I know this, but I just do. Maybe I’m psychic, too!”

  Octavia pulled her hand away, frightened when she felt another gush of somethin’ warm comin’ from her woman parts. She clenched her teeth and felt a crampin’ sensation in her belly. Then, as fast as the pain came, it stopped an’ was just a dull ache, like she got when she ate too many peaches. Fearin’ Mr. Clayton an’ the Missus had heard her hollerin’, she knew she had to act fast. Not wantin’ to, but knowin’ she had no other choice, she pushed herself up into a sittin’ position. The thing was still attached to her, an’ she remembered Momma sayin’ somethin’ ’bout this. She couldn’t remember what her momma called it, but she knew she had to cut the thing loose from her. The kitchen was dark, but Octavia didn’t mind; she was glad for the darkness. She didn’t wanna see that thing in the light. Workin’ in the kitchen, she knew her way around with her eyes shut. She remembered usin’ the butcher knife just this mornin’ when she’d shown Telly how to cut up a chicken. Next to the pump on the choppin’ block. All she had to do was slide across the pine floor with the thing stuck to her; then she could reach the knife.

  Not knowin’ how she was gonna get across the floor with that devil thing from Mr. Clayton’s crawlin’ atop her, Octavia gathered the warm bundle in her skirt an’ wrapped the thing up. It was whimperin’, an’ she felt sad, but she had to cut it away an’ get to Momma’s. With one hand holdin’ the thing, she used the other to push across the floor. She felt another gush of hot liquid spill from her insides an’ knew somethin’ was wrong.

  When she reached the choppin’ block, she used her free hand to feel for the butcher knife. Careful, she ran her slim honey-colored hand along the edge of the choppin’ block, then felt the heavy wooden handle of the knife. With her fingers, she grabbed the knife an’ held it tight in her shakin’ hand. In the darkness, she could see the heavy steel blade as moonlight glistened through the big kitchen window. The thing made a sound again, an’ Octavia thought it sounded like a wounded polecat.

  Her hands were shakin’ as she unfolded her bloodied dress. The Missus would lash her, for sure, when she saw it. As her belly grew, her housedresses had squeezed her so tight, she was sure they’d strangle her. That’s when the Missus gave her that bolt of cloth, told her to sew a new dress. An’ she had, an’ now it was ruined. Octavia smelled the coppery smell of her own blood, felt the stickiness thickenin’ on her skin. The thing cried out again, only this time it wasn’t a meow like a kitten or a strange sound, like the ones she made when Mr. Clayton clamped his hand over her mouth when he crawled on top o’ her. This was a real cry, like a baby, like her little brother, Abraham. She remembered her momma birthin’ him. She been scared for her momma when she heard her moanin’ an’ screamin’. Like her, she stopped, an’ then the cryin’ started. Now Octavia felt tired an’ weak, like all she wanted to do was rest, jus’ for a minute. She closed her eyes, driftin’ off, rememberin’ when she was jus’ a girl....

  She jerked up, the knife still in her hand, the thing still nestled between her legs on her bloody dress. Before she blacked out again, she touched the thing, found the slimy snakelike part that grew out of its tiny belly. Without another thought, she took hold of the sliminess, an’ quickly she hacked through the piece of snake. Frightened, she dropped the knife on the floor, the noise soundin’ like glass shatterin’. Scared Mr. Clayton or the Missus would come down into the kitchen an’ find her like this, she wrapped the baby in her bloody dress. With blood seepin’ outta her an’ drippin’ down her legs, she raced out the back door.

  The night air smacked her in the face. It was hot an’ humid; flies swarmed around the bucket of chicken guts she’d set out for the hogs. Shoeless, her feet hit the dried grass, sounding like snapping peas as each foot bore down on the hard grass. Octavia ran as fast as she’d ever run before, both arms gripping the thing as tight as she could. She ran so fast that she could hardly breathe. Beads of sweat dripped in her eyes, burning. She blinked, not caring that she couldn’t see, not caring that her side hurt so badly she wanted to scream like a wounded animal. All she could think of was Momma. When she got to Momma’s, she would know what to do with this thing. Then maybe the Missus would see how bad she was, how she hated workin’ in the big house, and then she would send her back to the cabin to work with Momma an’ help her take care of the others. Then she wouldn’t have to let Mr. Clayton crawl on her. She had a quick thought about poor little Telly, but she couldn’t help her now. She’d have to get out like she was, but Octavia hoped Telly didn’t have to have a baby with Mr. Clayton.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been runnin’, when she saw her home, her momma’s cabin, ahead. Dawn was just beginnin’ to break; the men would be in the fields anytime now. She couldn’t let them see her, or else the overseer would force the men to have her. She’d seen this once before, an’ her momma said never let the overseer see you alone. He was meaner than Mr. Clayton; he never said nothin’ nice to the men slaves, just to the Missus. She stopped to catch her breath and saw she still held the thing in her arms. Drawin’ in as much air as she could, she ran faster now, spurred by the sight of the cabin, knowin’ that hope lay behind those walls.

  Holdin’ the thing with one hand, she banged on the door. “Momma,” she called out in a loud whisper. “It’s me, Momma, please open the door.”

  Before Octavia could raise her one free hand to pound on the door again, it opened. “Octavia? What you be doin’ here? The Mister find you here, he whip you!” Her momma was scared, she knew, but she didn’t have no place else to go.

  “Momma, this . . . I have this.” She unwrapped the infant from her bloodied dress an’ shoved it toward her momma. “I got this, an’ it ain’t right!”

  Her momma took the baby an’ wrapped it in a kitchen rag. “Octavia! My Lord, you has a baby! This yourn?”

  She nodded. She didn’t have to explain it to her momma ’cause she knew about Mr. Clayton. She be the one to tell her what might happen if’n she get sent to the big house to work. No, Momma knew.

  “This baby ain’t breathin’! Lord, chile, what you do to him?” her momma asked.

  Octavia felt a fear like nothin’ she’d ever known in her life. “Momma! I jus’ bring him to you. You see he ain’t right? He only gots one arm. He be the devil. ”

  “Shhh, chile, you hush now. You go wash yourself. Get a clean dress. You needs to rest, but go now. . . . I’ll take care of this.” Her momma looked at Octavia, an’ she knew what they were doin’ would never be talked about ever again. Nodding, she took the bucket of water her momma always kept by the stove, to keep it warm, an’ a rag. She stripped her dress off, hopin’ no one would be up an’ about to see her. Her little brother was still sleepin’ on the straw bed in the corner; her daddy was out in the fields already. She felt weak an’ sore. Her feets was blistering up, but she had to do what Momma said, an’ fast. Momma always knew what to do.

  She dipped the rag into the pail of warm well water, then wrung the rag out, lettin’ the water trickle down her body. The blood had crusted. Octavia found Momma’s lye soap an’ ran the sweet-smellin’ soap over her tender body. Momma had the sweetest lye soap. After she collected the dried ashes, she always crushed her dried magnolias in before she added the fat an’ put the soaps into the wooden molds. The Missus liked Momma’s soaps, too. Octavia was glad she didn’t have to think about anything more ’cept for cleanin’ herself. She used the rag to scrub away the dried blood, then rinsed with a clean rag. She scrubbed again, jus’ ’cause she had never felt so dirty in her life. She rinsed again; then with a fresh kitchen towel, she dried herself. When she saw blood on the towel, she screamed, “Momma!”

  Her momma came back inside. “Shhh,
I tell you to be quiet, chile!”

  “Look, Momma, they’s more blood!” She shoved the kitchen towel in her mother’s hand.

  “This be your woman time comin’ back. Women bleeds after birthin’. Ain’t no need to be scared. Grab a clean towel an’ hold it between your legs. ”

  Octavia did as her momma said; then she slipped the clean housedress over her. It was loose but clean. “Now, girl, I want you to listen up, an’ what we says here cain’t never be says again. You understan’, chile?”

  Octavia nodded.

  “That poor little chile ain’t right. He cain’t breathe when he’s born. Right, chile?”

  “Yes, Momma.”

  “He’s better off, you got that? He’d be kilt when they see him missin’ an arm. Now we gonna put this in the book. It’ll make it right.”

  “What book, Momma?”

  Her Momma went to the corner of their cabin an’ pulled up a piece of the wooden floor. Reachin’ down below, she pulled out something covered in leather.

  “Momma?”

  “Shhh, you ain’t ever seen this girl, you hear?”

  Octavia nodded.

  Her momma took a large leather volume an’ opened it carefully. They was letters on the front of the book, but she didn’t know what they say. Her momma took a piece of a bird feather an’ a glass bottle of ink an’ dipped the feather into the ink. “This is the book of life an’ death, Octavia. I been writin’ in it all my life. I’s learned to read an’ write when the old Mr. Clayton’s Missus was here. She teached me to read an’ write. She tell me to always write down what’s most sacred. ”

  She watched her momma as she made her letters in the book.