“Well, how is he supposed to fit her when she’s in Massachusetts?”
“He can estimate the size. I thought we’d surprise Abby.”
Shad looked back and forth between them, and while he was trying to make sense of this little joke, a white woman appeared in the foyer. Rachel spun toward the woman, pointed at Shad, and cried, “Look what the cat left behind!”
“Watch your manners,” snapped the colored woman who had answered the door.
Shad looked at the white lady, and she wrinkled her nose at him. Her ginger eyebrows rose up into curls of light reddish-brown hair. Then they came down again. Way down. She stared at Shad like he was a dead mouse. He held out the burned stick, paper, and measuring tape as if they were enough to explain everything, because sure as his feet were bare, he didn’t want to open his mouth. He squirmed in the awkward silence, biting his tongue, wishing someone else would speak first.
Finally, Rachel cleared her throat. “Miss Elizabeth, this is the tailor I commissioned to sew a dress for Abigail.”
Miss Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. “I see. Well, then. Your name, young man?”
“Weaver, ma’am. Shadrach Alfriend Weaver.”
“Ah, yes. Weaver’s Fine Tailoring. Very good. Caroline, please take this boy to the pump. When he’s washed, he’s welcome inside. Rachel, would you fix us sweet tea, please?”
Then Caroline put her hand on Shad’s arm and led him down the front steps and around to the well at the side of the house. She had a grip as strong as any man’s, and her demeanor was pure business. She motioned for him to set aside his things and pointed to a tin pan of gray lye soap.
“You wash up there and I’ll be right back. I mean to get you a shirt from Marsa Parks. The missus won’t allow you in the house with . . . that one.” She sneered at the FEED AND SEED shirt. Then she looked at his Willy Johnson britches and said, “But I suppose you’ll have to keep those on.”
Shad watched her walk away. Then he let out all his air. He liked his FEED AND SEED shirt—he’d sewn it himself. But he took it off, rolled it into a ball, and set it by the front steps.
He worked the pump, filled a large tin bucket, and stuck his head into the cold water. He scrubbed his hair and under his arms, a few little chest hairs, and what he could reach on his back. He got good and clean. It was the first washing he’d had that week. The water wasn’t simply cold—it was ice-cold and brought out the goose bumps, so he jumped up and down in the sun to dry off and warm up.
When Shad had finished, his head itched like the dickens. Lye soap always killed some of the lice but never got them all. He scratched for a spell, then balled his fists to keep from scratching. If he left them alone, they’d calm down. He didn’t want lice getting loose in a house as fine as the Perkinsons’.
When Caroline came back, she carried a clean white shirt with buttons. A silk shirt—silk! With double stitching along the collar and cuffs—not from Weaver’s Fine Tailoring. Shad marveled at the touch of it—the sheen, the drape.
“Uh, no, ma’am. I can’t accept this.”
But Caroline jerked her hands away, refusing to take it back. “A tailor will appreciate it, and the missus will be happy for you to have it.”
“Have it? You mean, keep it? Uh, no, I—I couldn’t.”
“Wear it for now,” she snapped.
Shad swallowed as he slipped it on. Silk was such a magical fabric—cool on hot days and warm in the cold. As much as Granddaddy would have liked shipments of silk, they were hard to come by. He’d turned to cotton because it was inexpensive and readily available, and times were times. Weaver’s Fine Tailoring took what it could get.
Inside the house again, the white lady said, “My, what a difference a bath makes.” She smiled, and he guessed she was maybe the age of his mama, but it was hard to tell. Mama had lost three teeth and her skin had wrinkled, so she appeared older than she was. But this lady hadn’t wrinkled yet. One of her lovely teeth sat crooked, but the rest sat just plain perfect.
She had pulled her hair into a bun, low at the back of her neck, with all manner of wisps curling free so that when she stood near the window and the sunlight caught her head, a halo appeared. Her skin was white with freckles, and she wore a blue dress with buttons all the way up the front. He found her right pretty.
“Caroline, you made a good choice with that shirt. Thank you. Young man, you may retain it. It’s a little large on you, but you have some growth coming yet. I imagine it will look fine in a few years.”
“Uh, thank you, ma’am.”
The colored woman cleared her throat and Shad glanced her way. Her face said, Told you so, and he smiled.
“I’d like your grandfather to notice this stitching,” said the white woman, pointing to the collar. “Let me know what he thinks.” Shad nodded and something in her manner told him the shirt itself—not the stitches—was the thing that mattered. She wanted his grandfather to know that she still had silk in her possession. She was doing fine despite the war.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said again.
“The name is Perkinson. Mrs. Parks Randolph Perkinson. Miss Elizabeth to you.”
“Miz Elizabeth, yes, ma’am. Thank you, Miz Elizabeth.”
“You’re quite welcome. And this is Caroline,” she said, nodding toward the colored woman. Then she nodded toward Rachel, who was setting out glasses of sweet tea. “And Rachel. You and Rachel have met, of course.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Shad saw Rachel straighten and fold her arms across her chest. Her eyes caught his, and she tilted her head to one side. She mumbled, “S is for sugar.”
12
The Tortoise and the Hare
“WHAT WAS THAT, Rachel?” Miss Elizabeth asked.
“Nothing, ma’am.”
Shad furrowed his brow, but something about this Rachel girl made a grin come up, and he had to look away. He took in the fine furniture, the European rug with tassels on the edges, lush upholstery fabric on the settee, heavy draperies—everything in shades of crimson and royal blue. He settled his eyes on the sweet tea, waiting for an invitation to drink it.
“Well, let’s get on with it,” Miss Elizabeth said. “Rachel and Abigail are close enough in size. If you tailor the dress for Rachel, it will fit Abigail fine. Go ahead and take the measurements.”
Shad took a deep breath and nodded. He went down on one knee, set the paper and writing stick on the rug, and tucked one end of the measuring strip under his bare foot. Then he stood, stretching the strip to the top of Rachel’s shoulder. He heard her make the tiniest huff of impatience as she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and set her gaze toward the front window.
Shad made a note on his paper. Without even needing to be asked, Rachel lifted her arms straight out, turning her body into the letter T. Shad felt beads of sweat burst upon his head. He gritted his teeth, leaned forward with the measuring strip, and ran it around Rachel’s waist as fast as he could, trying not to touch her. His thumb noted the measurement, and he dropped to the floor to check the strip and jot the number on his paper.
“You’re better with numbers than letters, aren’t you?” Rachel’s words surprised him, and he jerked the stick, turning a six into a squiggle. She giggled. “Maybe not.”
There was a knock at the door. A funny knock. Rat-a-tat-tat. Then tat-tat-tat, ta-ta-ta-ta-TAT!
“Goodness,” Miss Elizabeth said, and Shad saw her nod in Caroline’s direction. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Weaver. Just a moment and let us see who our visitor is.”
Shad waited while Caroline hurried to the foyer. He glanced at Rachel, then away, thinking it best not to engage her right now. He didn’t know what to make of her—how to read her, how to converse with her. Caroline reappeared, announcing, “Mr. George Nelson, ma’am.”
Miss Elizabeth looked surprised. She stood abruptly, smoothi
ng the front of her dress, brushing hair from her face. She said, “Oh, well then, let him in.” When the man came through the front hall, Shad saw Miss Elizabeth’s eyes nearly burst from her head. Then she clenched her jaw tightly as if to hold back a laugh.
He turned to see George Nelson bow with a flourish. He was a funny-looking little man with a big nose. Shad thought he was probably the littlest man he’d ever seen, but his nose was the biggest ever. It was even larger than his glasses. Mama used to tell a story about a leprechaun, and of course, Shad hadn’t seen one, but today the word leprechaun popped right into his head.
George Nelson wore a green three-corner hat and dusty gray-green waistcoat. He set down a bulging leather suitcase tied shut with lengths of twine. Knots in the twine stuck out like burrs on wool socks, and threads peeked from two seams in the suitcase. Right away Shad thought to pocket the loose threads, and he fingered the silk shirt around the seams, looking for a pocket. But the shirt didn’t seem to have any pockets at all.
Miss Elizabeth’s hand went to her mouth and she coughed. Shad didn’t know if George Nelson saw her pretty green eyes flash, but Shad saw them clear as day. Sure as his measuring strip was long, that lady was laughing on the inside, but she was doing a fine job of not showing it. She said, “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“Madam, what a charming door knocker.” George Nelson’s voice was high like wind whistling through the reeds.
“Yes, well,” she said, and glanced at Shad. He thought she was going to introduce him, but before she did, George Nelson hopped on one foot.
“May I have another go at it?” Then he was gone and Shad heard the door open and rat-a-tat-tat, tat-a-tat, tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat.
“Goodness,” said Miss Elizabeth again.
The door banged in its frame and George Nelson hopped back into the room. He made circles in the air with his arms and bowed again. “At your service, ma’am.”
Miss Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Yes, well, lovely, thank you.” She raised her arm toward the coloreds. “I’d like you to meet Caroline. And this is Rachel.”
Shad’s hands went into fists around the measuring strip and paper. She’d introduced the coloreds first. Before him. Why, it was downright ugly to introduce coloreds first, or even to introduce them at all. He didn’t know what to make of such a lapse. If she could defy conventional manners, so could he! He snatched up a crystal glass of sweet tea.
Miss Elizabeth smiled. “Ah, yes—the tea. I was so caught up in the dress measurements that I forgot—oh, Mr. Nelson, this is Shadrach Weaver of Weaver’s Fine Tailoring. And Shadrach, Mr. Nelson has come to Richmond to teach—”
“Wonderful!” George Nelson darted to Shad’s side, reaching out a hand. The top of his head came to Shad’s shoulder.
Shad fumbled with everything he was carrying—the sweet tea in one hand, the measuring strip, paper, and stick in the other. He didn’t have a hand free to shake, and for a split second he froze. Then he set down the tea, but the wetness on the side of the glass had made his hand cold and damp, so he dried it by wiping it on the front of the silk shirt, and along the way, Shad felt everyone’s eyes upon him. His throat grew thick.
“We hear he’s quite the tailor,” said Rachel with a flip of her head.
Shad felt his cheeks flush. He shook George Nelson’s hand and noted how soft it was—how it belonged to a man who’d never plowed a field.
“That’s enough, Rachel,” said Miss Elizabeth. “Caroline, would you please put Mr. Nelson’s things in the spare room? And the cot—have you set up the cot for him?”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
Rachel said, “I’ll get more tea.” Then she followed Caroline, and Shad heard the two of them chatter all the way down the back hall.
Miss Elizabeth settled into the wooden armchair, nodded at George Nelson, and gestured toward the settee covered in beautiful fabric—a thick crimson brocade.
George Nelson plopped down, crossing one thigh over the other, then placed both hands on his top knee. He nodded in Shad’s direction. “Is Shadrach one of your own pupils, Mrs. Perkinson?” But before she could answer, his eyes caught the bookcase that sat beside an upright maple piano with chipped ivory keys. He jumped up, dashed to the dark-bound books, and ran his fingers along the spines.
“Uh, no, he’s not. He’s with a tailoring shop.”
While Shad watched George Nelson slide one book out and back, then another and another, he adjusted his weight from his right leg to the left. He didn’t know what was appropriate here. Should he sit or remain standing? Comment or keep quiet? He decided on the second of both choices and stood, feeling awkward, but not minding the fact that they paid no attention to him.
They talked and talked, and after a while Shad grew tired of standing. He inched his way to the settee where he sipped the delicious tea and felt his tongue tingle. His eyes went back and forth from George Nelson’s enormous nose to the case of books. Lord, what his daddy would have given for a collection like that!
Daddy loved books. He used to read stories to Jeremiah and Shad, and his favorite was one about the emperor’s new clothes. Well, of course that would be the Weaver family’s favorite because in that one, the sly tailor tricks the emperor. But there were other wonderful stories, too. Shad’s thoughts drifted back to one particular night when Daddy had read them a story, then said, “Here, Shad. It’s your turn. You read to me now.”
How old was he then? Nine, maybe? He’d taken Daddy’s book and held it like Miss Jenny had taught them to hold the Bible—held it with respect and awe and thankfulness. He’d opened it to “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” and read the whole story out loud. But truth to tell, Shad hadn’t read one lick. He’d heard the story so many times, he’d memorized every word. He’d recited that story. Daddy had beamed and slapped him on the back, and Shad had felt proud that Daddy was proud of him.
Then Daddy had flipped to another page, and said, “Now read me this one, Shad. ‘The Tortoise and the Hare.’”
Shad’s eyes found the first line, but the letters blurred into a fog right there on the page. He squinted and, sure enough, some of the letters straightened out. But he didn’t have the story memorized. It was hard. He began, “Once upon a time,” and it was downhill after that. Some of the words made sense, and some didn’t. Shad’s tongue tripped and fumbled over the lines. He put a finger under each word to slow down the letters and get them to make sense.
After a spell, Jeremiah said, “Ignoramus.”
Then Daddy said, “Now, now. That’s okay, Shad. It’s bedtime. You boys need some shut-eye.” Daddy took the book and the candle and patted Jeremiah and Shad on their heads and headed out of the bedroom.
Jeremiah said, “You are so stupid.”
And Shad said, “Shut up,” but he knew Jeremiah was right. And Daddy knew it, too. And after that day, Shad had never let Daddy put that book into his lap again. He got Daddy to read “The Tortoise and the Hare” to him, and he knew he was even slower than a tortoise because he couldn’t ever keep up with so many letters.
“Schooling,” George Nelson said as he wagged a finger at Shad, and his voice and his finger jolted Shad out of the memory. “No one should cross the threshold from youth to manhood without reading Shakespeare!” His words seemed to come through little black hairs that protruded from each nostril.
“Shakespeare might be a tad too advanced for Mr. Weaver,” said Miss Elizabeth.
“Why, Mrs. Perkinson, I’ve got the alphabet and every level from there to Hegel. I’ve got primers and I’ve got philosophy. There are methods to teaching. What methods do you use?”
But before Miss Elizabeth could open her mouth, George Nelson spun clear around on one foot, making a funny little circle and throwing his hands into the air for balance. He dashed away, crying, “Caroline! Where is my bag? Caroline!”
Shad watched him
go, and it seemed like all the air blew right out of the room with him, leaving behind only the word methods. Shad had never before heard such a thing—methods to teaching.
Miss Elizabeth giggled, mumbling, “Goodness.” Then a twitch went through her—top to bottom—and she collected herself, straightening her back and lifting her head. “Well, Shadrach, I have to tell you that on paper, Mr. Nelson’s credentials are quite stunning. Impeccable, really. But in person?” She closed her eyes for a moment and settled her hands in her lap.
“Of course, that’s neither here nor there.” Abruptly, she changed the subject, thrusting both wrists toward him and showing off the cuffs. “Your grandfather tailored this dress perfectly, don’t you think?”
Shad nodded. “He does good work, ma’am. Yes, he does.”
“And, of course, you’re apprenticing under him.”
Shad squirmed on the settee. “Uh, well, no ma’am, not exactly.”
“And why ever not?”
“Well, Granddaddy done taught me a lot, but I ain’t no firstborn, ma’am. My brother—he has rights to the shop.”
Miss Elizabeth cringed. Her arms tightened against her body, shoulders rose up, jaw stiffened. Shad tightened, too. He’d long tried to convince Mama and Granddaddy that he was worthy of the shop, that he was putting his heart and soul into learning the trade. Jeremiah clearly didn’t want it, and Shad had argued for his own position.
But papers were papers. Before enlisting, Daddy had written his last will and testament, giving Jeremiah his half of the shop. Granddaddy and Jeremiah owned it now. Or, more accurately put, they shared the debt. And every time anyone reminded Jeremiah of his financial obligation, he cursed the inheritance laws with two fists. Could no one in the South start afresh?
Miss Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I am not the firstborn. Can you say that correctly for me? I am not.”
Shad frowned. “Uh, yes, ma’am. I am not no firstborn.”
“Oh, my.” She jerked her head in a funny way and leaned toward Shad, forehead creased like a field before planting. “Shad, the double negative—well, son, there are rules of grammar.”
Brotherhood Page 6