“A little, I reckon, but not much,” he replied. “Micah tried ter teach me some during da war. But I wuz a mighty stubborn cuss back den. I kin write my name.”
“Dat Mister Duff, he’s a nice man, all right, ain’t he? Katie says he’s good-lookin’.”
The words stung Jeremiah’s ears. He was afraid Katie wasn’t the only one who might think so. “Yeah, I reckon dat’s so,” he said. “He’s good-lookin’, all right. But maybe he’s too nice.”
“Whatchu mean, Jeremiah?”
“Nuthin’.”
“You must er meant somethin’. Dat what you come out here thinkin’ ’bout, how he’s bein’ maybe a little too nice . . . ter Mayme?”
Jeremiah glanced over at Emma. How could she have known exactly what was on his mind? “I don’t know,” he said, “. . . I guess I’s jes’ wonderin’ ef he an’ Mayme . . . aw, never mind. I don’t want ter say nuthin’ more ’bout it.”
“Yeah, I noticed it too,” said Emma. “It ain’t dat hard ter see dat dey’s . . . well, you know what I mean, cuz you seen it too. But it’s gwine be all right, Jeremiah. I’s sure it ain’t nuthin’.”
“How can it be nuthin’ when dey’s lookin’ at each other dat way? An’ how’s I ever gwine . . .”
He stopped and looked away.
“What, Jeremiah?”
“I don’t know . . . I’s jes’ wonderin’ . . . I reckon from da very beginnin’ I wondered ef I wuz good enuff fo her.”
“Good enuff fo Mayme, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Course you are, Jeremiah—you’s ’bout da nicest young man I’s eber known.”
“Aw, I don’t know, now wiff Micah here . . . I don’t know. How kin a boy like me dat ain’t got nuthin’ and can’t do nuthin’ an’ can’t even read—how kin I not worry ’bout what’s gwine happen?”
“Mayme likes you real good, Jeremiah.”
“But sometimes you can’t help wonderin’ . . .”
Again Jeremiah did not finish what he had been about to say.
“Wonderin’ what?”
“I don’t know . . . it’s jes’ dat—well, you an’ me, Emma, we’s both jes’ two coloreds dat were slaves an’ dat ain’t got no learnin’.”
“Mayme wuz a slave.”
“Yeah, but Mayme an’ Micah—dey’s different . . . dey’s got learnin’ an’ dey knows things. Don’t you see what I’s talkin’ ’bout. Didn’t you hear dem talkin’ ’bout the three of dem together doin’ things an’ habing adventures? We’s different, Emma. You an’ me’s different den all dey wuz talkin’ ’bout.”
“I reckon dat’s so—you an’ me’s a lot alike, ain’t we, Jeremiah?”
“Seems like it, Emma.”
“An’ my William likes you real good, Jeremiah.” Jeremiah turned and smiled. “He’s a good little rascal, Emma,” he said. “I like him too. If I eber hab a son er my own, I hope he’s as good a boy as William. You’s been a good mother ter him, Emma.”
“Dat’s right kind er you ter say, Jeremiah.”
It was quiet for two or three minutes as both pondered their future in ways neither could quite yet put into words.
“What you think ’bout all dey wuz talkin’ ’bout,” said Jeremiah after a while, “’bout goin’ west an’ all dat?”
“I don’t know, Jeremiah,” said Emma. “I reckon it soun’ mighty fine fo folks like dem, fo Mister Duff an’ Mayme, an’ Miz Katie. Dey’s da kin’ er folks dat kin do things like dat. But I’s jes’ a dummy . . . I cudn’t neber do nuthin’ like dat.”
“You ain’t no dummy, Emma.”
“You knows what I means . . . I mean compared wiff Mayme an’ Mister Duff. Dey’s smarter den most blacks—leastways, smarter den me. And you heard what Mister Templeton called dem—advenshurers. I ain’t none er dat. I’s jes’ a poor, dumb nigger girl wiff a baby ter take care ob. Not dat habin’ an advenshure wudn’t be right nice, but dat’s fer folks like Mayme, Mister Duff, an’ Miz Katie. You want ter see da Wes’, Jeremiah?”
“I don’t know, not so much. I reckon I’s as happy here as anywhere.”
“Sounds like Mayme sure wud like ter see it.”
Jeremiah said nothing. He was afraid Emma was right.
Emma stood up. “I gots ter be gettin’ back. Dat boy er mine’s gwine be raisin’ Cain wonderin’ where I’s got ter.”
Jeremiah stood with her and slowly they walked back to the house together.
Lunch gradually broke up and people wandered away from the table. I had been so absorbed in the discussion with Micah and Katie about California and the West that I hadn’t noticed Jeremiah leave the house. When I first noticed it, I realized that Emma was gone too. I was puzzled at first, wondering if they’d left together. But then, Micah and Katie and I started talking again.
As we all wandered away from the table I walked out onto the back porch.
I saw Emma and Jeremiah walking toward the house from the barn. They were talking quietly together.
All of a sudden I became aware all over again how pretty Emma was. How could any young man not notice it? I was so plain-looking alongside Emma. It had hardly ever bothered me before. But all of a sudden it did. It stung me to realize it, after all Jeremiah and I had been through together and what we had meant to each other such a short time ago. But I couldn’t help thinking how good he and Emma looked together, and how content Emma seemed to be with him.
I tried to shake off what I was thinking. I went quickly back inside to help Josepha with the dishes before they saw me.
COWS AND CONFUSION
9
I walked out through the fields one afternoon to bring the cows in for milking. About halfway there I heard footsteps behind me. I turned and there was Micah running to join me.
“Where are you off to?” he asked.
“To get the cows,” I said. “It’s nearly milking time.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Of course not. It will save me having to run after any bothersome ones.”
“By making me run after them instead?” laughed Micah.
“If you’re feeling well enough to run across the field just now, you can chase down a cow!”
“Thanks a lot!” he laughed.
We fell into step together.
“Where are they?” he asked.
“In the field yonder—just past those trees,” I said. “We move them from field to field as the grass grows. As they eat one field down, we move them to the next.”
“It sounds like a lot of work.”
“Keeping milk cows is never-ending work, in more ways than milking them twice a day. But we could all live off the milk from them, so how can we complain? It’s how we feed ourselves.”
“Do you sell any of the milk?”
“We thought about it, but lately so many people are angry at us and especially at my papa and Uncle Ward for what we’re doing here, that we don’t think many would buy from us.”
“Angry . . . why?”
“Because of blacks and whites together,” I said. “They think we—I mean me and Josepha and Henry and Jeremiah and Emma—us coloreds—they think we’re uppity and don’t know our place. But I think they hate Uncle Ward and Papa even more for treating us like equals.”
“It is the most remarkable place I’ve ever seen,” said Micah.
“I suppose I’m used to it by now,” I said. “We all treat each other normal, like people ought to be treated. But maybe it is unusual—like you say.”
“Believe me, it is. I doubt there’s another plantation like this in the whole country.”
“I am very glad you found your way here,” I said.
“I hardly found my way,” laughed Micah. “I believe I was led here. But either way—I am more grateful than I can say—both to God for guiding my steps, and to you all for opening yourselves to me the way you have. I feel like I’ve known you all for years.”
“Are you—” I began, “I mean . . . you mentioned God leadin
g you here. I just wondered . . .” I hesitated.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m not sure how to say it,” I said, smiling a little awkwardly.
“Am I a Christian, you mean? Is that what you wanted to ask?”
“I guess that’s something like it,” I said.
“Yes, I am,” Micah answered. “I try—though not as successfully as I would like—to order my ways by what I think God would have me do, and to follow the example of Jesus Christ as much as I can.”
“Jeremiah told me a little about some of the things you and he talked about. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” smiled Micah. “My life is an open book. If anyone finds anything useful from it, they are welcome to it. I have nothing to hide.”
“That’s probably as unusual a thing as you say Rosewood is.”
Micah laughed. “I’m sure you’re right. Nevertheless, it is how I try to live. How else can people really know one another and love one another than by being open and honest and transparent?”
I’d never heard a man talk like Micah Duff! To imagine that a black man who wasn’t much older than me could know so much and speak with such confidence and wisdom . . . I found myself almost in awe of him!
We were walking close together now and had entered a small grove of trees between the fields. It was quiet and peaceful and we were in no hurry. It felt good to talk and share with someone who seemed to understand everything, and even seemed to know what I was thinking as I tried to say it.
“Katie and I, after we got together here,” I said, “we were so young and alone and afraid, and we knew we were in a desperate situation. We tried to talk to God and do what He wanted us to. But we really didn’t know what to do. I had a Bible of my mama’s, but neither of us learned too much about living with God from our parents. We believed in God, but we didn’t know how to live like Christians. We tried, and Katie and I talked about it a lot. But I’ve still got so many questions.”
Micah laughed. “That’s good,” he said. “Asking questions is how we learn more about God. What kinds of questions?”
“I don’t know—like what Christians are supposed to feel like and maybe questions about God too, and what He’s like. It is confusing sometimes. A lot of what you read in the Bible doesn’t seem to make much sense.”
Micah laughed again. “You like to say what you mean!”
“Why shouldn’t I? It doesn’t make sense not to.”
“I agree. But most people don’t. They try to hide the things that don’t make sense to them. But the Bible has things in it that confuse everyone. Why not admit that being a Christian is confusing at times? At least that’s the way I see it.”
“What confuses you about being a Christian, Micah?” I asked.
He thought a minute.
“That’s a perceptive question, Mayme,” he said. “Hmm . . . I think I would say that life’s hard, that things get spread around so unevenly, even randomly. Why is life hard for some and others seem to have it easy? That’s a hard question. But a Christian just has to take life as it comes and then live in those circumstances as God would have him, whether they are easy circumstances or hard ones.”
“Do you think God tries to make circumstances easier for Christian people?”
“That’s another really good question,” said Micah. “If He did, that would sure be a reason to be a Christian—knowing God would be making life easier for us. I’ve thought about that a lot.”
“And . . .”I said.
“I don’t think God does try to improve our circumstances.”
“Why not?”
“Because outward circumstances are not of primary interest to Him.”
“What is, then?”
“The inner condition of our hearts. He cares what kind of people we become on the inside. I don’t think He is too concerned about what kinds of events or situations are used to make us into people that are His children. Maybe even the hard circumstances work better for that. Maybe as God looks at it, the whole thing is upside down from how we are looking at it. Maybe hard times are actually better for us, and that’s why God doesn’t always make the lives of Christians smooth and easy.”
“I’ve never thought about that before,” I said.
“It’s a little different way of looking at the Christian life, all right. But it’s helped me to keep the hardships of my own life in perspective.”
I wanted to ask more, but somehow the time didn’t feel right. And the fact that we had almost reached the cows put an end to the discussion.
I opened the gate to the field and walked around one side to get behind them. The cows gradually headed through the gate and back toward the barn. Micah and I followed, walking slowly behind them.
“It seems to me that God must have answered most of the questions you said you had earlier,” said Micah.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Because God’s life is obvious in you,” Micah replied. “I sensed immediately that you were God’s daughter.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“I mean it. You are an extraordinary young lady, Mayme. It’s good to talk to someone . . . do you know what I’m trying to say? . . . who understands, both what it means to be black, but the greater issue of what’s involved in being a Christian. Thank you, Mayme. There are not many people I’ve been able to talk to like this.”
As we emerged from the road through the trees, with the barn in sight in the distance, one of the cows got stubborn about going back. Suddenly she bolted into the adjoining field of growing corn and lumbered clumsily across it, then stopped and began munching away on the small green stalks.
“Hey, watch that one!” shouted Micah.
“I’ve got her!” I yelled. I tore after her, trying to swing wide and get behind her, but she saw me and ran off again in another direction. Micah saw my dilemma and ran to try to cut the ornery thing off while the other cows continued to meander toward the house and barn.
But as awkward as cows look when they’re running, they can still run faster than people! It took us both five or ten minutes running back and forth and dashing to cut off one line of escape or another to get the stupid thing back with the herd.
Just as we had nearly joined the others as they moved methodically along, the rebellious cow tried once more to make a brief dash for it. Afraid that the whole thing was about to start all over again—and I was tired!—I sprinted as hard as I could after it.
As I did I slipped as I ran through a patch of mud.
“Oh no!” I cried as I sprawled onto my face.
Micah came running just as the cow thought better of another flight and came back and fell in line behind the rest.
“I’m all right!” I said. “I just lost my balance.”
He reached down and helped me to my feet.
“You’re a mess!” he laughed.
“What do you expect?” I laughed playfully. “I’ve been chasing cows. And at least I won’t be tracking in cow manure on my shoes.”
Micah glanced down at his boots.
“Ugh!” he exclaimed.
“Now who’s the mess!” I said. “Come on!”
I broke into a run as Micah hurried to join me and we raced back to the cows. By the time we neared the barn, we were walking together again, though still laughing and teasing each other about our respective messes. A playful spirit seemed to get into us both.
Papa walked up as we herded the cows toward the barn. He looked at us up and down, head to foot, then shook his head with a smile.
“You ready for some help with the milking?” he asked me. “Or were you planning to teach Micah here the fine art of pulling milk out of a cow’s udder?”
“This refined Northern boy!” I said, nodding toward Micah with pretended seriousness. “I don’t think he could!”
“Now I ask you, Mr. Daniels,” said Micah, “is this fair? She has been giving me a hard time ever since
. . . well, I admit I stepped where I shouldn’t have. But I did help bring these ladies in from the pasture. For all she knows, I am as experienced at milking cows as she. But she gives me no chance. She ridicules me and rejects my humblest and sincerest efforts to be helpful!”
“Yeah, you’re right,” smiled Papa. “She’s an ornery one, all right. I’d stay clear of her if I were you!”
“Perhaps I should do exactly that,” said Micah. He turned and began to walk away as if I had hurt his feelings.
“So, Mr. Micah Duff,” I called after him, “how many cows have you milked?”
“For your information, young lady,” he called back, “I have never milked a cow in my life.”
“I thought so!”
“But if you can do it, I can do it!”
“Ha!” I laughed. “It’s not so easy.”
“Well, I’d stay for a lesson, but I told Mr. Daniels I’d help him shoe the new horses. At least someone around here appreciates my skills. . . .” He threw his hands in the air and again walked off. “Rejection . . . rejection! Wherever I go it’s the same!” he said as he went. “Women playing with men’s feelings like they were toys.”
I kept laughing as Papa and I got the cows inside and into their stalls. I stood up after tying the last cow to her rail and turned. There was Papa staring at me.
“What are you grinning about?” he asked.
“I’m not grinning about anything,” I said.
“Sure you are. There’s a smile on your face a mile wide.”
“Then . . . I don’t know, maybe it’s just—I don’t know. I’ll quit smiling then. Let’s get this milking done.”
He still kept staring at me and a curious expression came over his face.
“You’re not sweet on him, are you, Mayme?”
“What . . . on who?”
“Who do you think—Micah Duff!”
I was glad it was dark in the barn because I could feel my face burning bright red.
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