The Gospel Truth

by Caroline Pignat

  so slaves don’t steal the Master’s food.

  It strange.

  Shad strange, too,

  asking me if I’s going with Birdman again today,

  fussing over me every time he come in that back door.

  I can’t even make water without him a-calling for me.

  Bea say the Doctor gone out birding by hisself this time.

  Early this morning he go, with his backpack all loaded up.

  “Is he gone for good?” Shad ask, excited-like.

  “He better not be,” she say.

  “Else the Missus gonna be some sore

  after she and Missy plan this here spread on his account.”

  She shake her head and shove the dozen hens in the oven.

  “I swear, Master invite half of Virginia here tonight

  to meet the Doctor.

  What he trying to prove—

  when the storehouse near empty?”

  I stop shelling. Look at Bea.

  “Don’t mind that, now,” she say, hands on her wide hips.

  “Alls you need to worry about

  is getting them peas in that bowl.”

  But Bea wrong.

  I gots a lot more worries than that.

  according to Bea

  I f Y o u A s k M e

  Missus carries the key to the storehouse.

  She knows what we got

  and what we don’t.

  If you ask me,

  the way she’s acting, you’d think things are

  the same as always.

  But they sure ain’t.

  She read me the menu,

  tell Old Sam she want the red rose china set out,

  the silver polished,

  and the room scrubbed top to bottom.

  Sam tell me Master invite some businessmen from town,

  old men Master got nothing good to say about,

  other than they’s rich.

  If you ask me,

  sounds like Master setting them out around his table

  just like the china we never use.

  Meanwhile, Tessa be

  calling Phoebe up there every ten minutes

  to help her peel off that dress and stuff her in another

  or whip up another hairstyle,

  or garnish her with bits and bobs.

  Hell, if anything need peeling—it the potatoes.

  If anything need stuffing or garnishing—it the hens.

  And if anyone need learning—

  it those Duncan women.

  I know what they up to.

  Any fool can see they’s trying to impress that doctor.

  Had they asked me,

  I would’ve set them straight,

  saved a whole lot of trouble:

  No man cares about

  whether your china got roses or not

  your dress got ruffles or not

  or your hair got ringlets or not.

  The best way to impress a man,

  any man,

  is through his stomach.

  Only nobody ask me.

  according to Tessa

  S e a t o f H o n o r

  Daddy invited men of means to dinner tonight.

  Masters all.

  “She’s of age,” Mother said to Daddy

  when they thought I wasn’t listening.

  “Time to start thinking about a good match

  for Whitehaven.”

  “Way ahead of you, dear,” Daddy said.

  He sits me next to Doctor Bergman

  at the table of mother and men.

  I laugh at the doctor’s stories,

  lean in

  to touch the doctor’s arm,

  and ask

  about his work,

  just so he will look at me

  and not them.

  I suppose I can have the pick of any Master’s son.

  Lanky lads my age,

  all elbows and Adam’s apples.

  Masters of nothing

  but boyish longings

  as they slurp their soup,

  stealing red-faced looks at me,

  wishing they were sitting in Doctor Bergman’s seat.

  according to Phoebe

  T r o u b l e s

  I’s run ragged getting ready for the big dinner,

  pulled between what Bea need and what Miss Tessa want.

  Children waitig at the trough.

  Master waiting at the table.

  Everybody hungry.

  I feel like a momma bird

  flitting in and out and in and out that kitchen door

  so many times my head spin.

  Birdman kept so busy feeding their curiosity

  he don’t notice me.

  And I’s kept so busy feeding their bellies,

  I ain’t got time to notice if he did.

  I’s about ready to drop

  when Master finally take them to the study—

  for cigars and whiskey.

  After they go, I load up on dirty dishes,

  head back into the kitchen

  relieved to know

  that I made it through the day and dinner

  without spilling nor breaking a thing,

  that my long day is almost over,

  that Bea gots two Quarter girls up to do the washing.

  Then I see,

  one of them’s Ella Mae.

  And I know my troubles only starting.

  according to Phoebe

  H o t a n d B i t t e r

  “Poor Yellagirl look tired,” Ella Mae tease,

  when Bea leave the kitchen.

  Ella Mae older than me by at least five summers,

  but she always act like a child.

  “Is work too hard for your soft, yellow hands?”

  She snicker with her friend.

  I don’t know why she always call me yellow.

  I’s light brown—like coffee with cream.

  She coffee too, only dark.

  Hot and bitter.

  Maybe it’s the sun.

  Maybe I’d be that way, too,

  if I cut crops all day long.

  Working fields make their skin darker,

  their hands tougher, muscles stronger.

  And for some reason,

  it make Ella Mae hate me even more.

  I never know why it matter so much,

  what color on the outside

  or what I ever done to Ella Mae.

  She been mean to me since

  Momma left.

  “You think you better than us,” she hiss,

  “but you ain’t.

  Just ’cause you live here in the Big House,

  just ’cause you Missy’s plaything,

  picnicking while we toil in the sun,

  you still nothing.”

  She look me over, disgusted.

  “Acting all white. Like you one of them.

  You ain’t one of them. And you ain’t one of us.

  You is different.

  You a nobody, Yellagirl. And nobody want you.”

  She smile.

  “Not even your momma. Why you think she leave you?”

  I don’t know why it hurt me so.

  She say it all the time.

  And each time like I hearing it fresh.

  I don’t hear nothing else:

  not Bea scolding

  not Shad calling

  and not three red rose plates smashing on the floor

  where I drop them

  as I run out the back door.

  according to Shad

  M y P h o e b e

  I find her at her sit-spot under the deadwood tree.

  All tears and snuffles.

  “Don’t cry, Phoebe,” I say. I can stand anything but that.

  She wipe her face on her sleeve.

  “I heard what Ella Mae said,” I tell her.

  “She wrong. You know that?”

  Phoebe shrug.

  “She wrong. About you,
about your momma,

  about all of it.”

  Phoebe nod slowly.

  “Why you let that fool girl inside your head?” I ask.

  “You smarter than that.”

  I pause,

  reading her face,

  knowing her fears.

  “There’s a part of you that wonders about your momma,

  about why she left you.”

  I swallow. “I feels the same way about Will.

  How could he leave without me?

  Will and me was all each other got.”

  I wait until my voice don’t wobble.

  “Ella Mae right about one thing, though,” I say.

  “We ain’t one of them—

  not the whitefolk and not the field slaves.

  But we still somebody, you and me.

  Ain’t Bea always saying that?

  ‘Boy,’ I stand, hand on my hip, just like her,

  ‘you sure is something.’”

  Phoebe smiles

  and suddenly,

  I feel like I could do anything.

  Be anything.

  Endure anything.

  For her.

  I hold out my hands and pull her to her feet,

  but I don’t let go.

  “Ella Mae jealous. And she wrong ...

  Somebody want you.

  I do.”

  I lean in slow,

  kiss her soft smile

  and melt inside.

  “You’s my Phoebe,” I whisper.

  “I’ll always watch out for you.

  I promise you that.”

  according to Bea

  O n h i s P l a t e

  I sweep the broken china in a pile

  after I send them fool girls back to the Quarter.

  That Ella Mae,

  she lucky I didn’t break the whole set over her head.

  “Accident or not,” Sam say,

  as he put the good silver back in the box,

  “Missus ought to know.”

  “And what then?” I stop and face him, hand on my hip.

  “She’ll make Phoebe pay for this.

  Ain’t the poor girl paid enough?”

  “And what happens when Missus has another big dinner

  and tells me to get out the good china, Bea?

  What then?”

  “If Missus ask why she short three plates,

  I’ll tell her,” I say.

  “But there ain’t no use in upsetting her about it now.

  You know as well as I do, Samuel,

  Master got enough on his mind

  without her jawing at him

  over three silly old side plates.”

  Sam chew the inside of his cheek.

  He know what I mean.

  “She ain’t gonna need them anytime soon.”

  I lower my voice. “I hear the field hands talking,

  this crop’s weak, the soil spent—

  hell, I seen the empty shelves.

  I don’t need to see Master’s ledger

  to know he in trouble.”

  Sam say nothing about what he know.

  The way he hang that old white head,

  I know

  what he know is worse than I thought.

  Sam loyal to Master. And the Master before him.

  He live all his long years doing what Master need.

  “Master got enough on his plate,” I say.

  “The last thing he need

  is old Missus nagging.”

  He nod.

  I pat his hand,

  thank him for saving Phoebe

  for now.

  But we don’t smile.

  ’Cause we both know,

  when Master in trouble,

  we all is.

  according to Phoebe

  A n s w e r s

  Long after Shad leave,

  I sit in the dark by my tree,

  thinking

  about Ella Mae and Momma,

  about Shad and me,

  and, strangely enough—

  about Birdman’s key.

  Seems my mind full of questions, but no answers.

  How is knowledge a key?

  Bea say, If you wait, the answer done come to you.

  So I climb into my hollow tree.

  Burrow down in its bottom.

  And wait to know.

  according to Phoebe

  W h o

  Through the knothole, I see

  a shadow creeping closer to the clearing.

  Who-WHO! Who-WHO!

  owl asks.

  In the slim moon’s light, I see who—

  Birdman.

  He walk right up to the tree

  like he knows I’s inside.

  Like he gonna reach in and grab me.

  But he don’t.

  Instead, he turn and sit,

  lean against the smooth trunk,

  and wait.

  I don’t move.

  Barely breathe

  as we sit in silence

  separated by a bit of wood.

  Now that he’s here,

  I’s terrified.

  Who-WHO! Who-WHO!

  owl warn.

  Reminding me I know nothing about this man,

  except that he is not

  who he say.

  according to Phoebe

  C o u r a g e

  “You came,” his voice rumble,

  and I near jump outta my skin.

  I’s just about to poke my head out the trunk and surrender

  when I hear others whispering.

  Will come rustling out the shadows

  and walk toward Birdman.

  I guess he curious, too.

  Behind him come Levi, Joe, and Davey.

  “This dangerous business, sir,” Will say.

  “Risky business for all of us.” Birdman stand.

  “This here’s the men I trust.”

  Will speak it like Birdman ain’t one.

  Yet.

  “You’ve shown great courage, coming here tonight,”

  Birdman say.

  “And you’re going to need lots more of it,

  if what I’ve brought interests you.”

  He reach into his bag and hold something

  small and round

  in the palm of his hand,

  glinting like gold in the moon’s light.

  And I wonder

  if that the key.

  according to Doctor Bergman

  T h e R i s k

  Four strong males.

  I had hope there might be more.

  But I would do all this,

  risk all this,

  for even one.

  according to Doctor Bergman

  W h a t I K n o w

  “I am a doctor, yes,

  I study birds,

  but that is not why I am here.

  I’ve come to the South to give you

  the key to freedom:

  knowledge.”

  I pause.

  “Many men, like Will, have tried to be free,

  but don’t know where or when to run.”

  Will nods.

  “Others, so broken by the bonds and lash,

  can’t even dare to think such a thing is possible.

  But I’m here to tell you

  it is.

  And I can show you how.”

  They exchange glances of disbelief.

  “I can show you routes” I say,

  “teach you friend from foe,

  because you have friends

  beyond the borders of Whitehaven.

  Not every white man is like your master.

  I may be the first you’ve met,

  but believe me:

  there are hundreds more like me,

  and hundreds more,

  like you,

  who have escaped from slavery

  to live up north,

  free.”

  according to Doctor Bergman
>
  W o r d s o f A W h i t e M a n

  I hand them what I’ve brought.

  Each man silent,

  as he stands in the moonlight considering what he holds:

  a compass

  a knife

  a pistol

  twenty dollars

  a chance at freedom.

  “I can give you the tools,” I say,

  “to guide and protect you.

  I can show you the path,

  but in the end,

  it’s you that must choose it

  and walk it.

  You alone that must risk it.”

  I watch them weigh it.

  Each man wondering if he’s willing

  to wager his life

  on the words of a white man

  in the woods at midnight.

  according to Phoebe

  T h e P l a n

  “Think carefully on what I’ve said,” Birdman say,

  “and if you choose not to run,

  I beg you

  not to speak a word of what was said here tonight.

  All of our lives

  depend on it.”

  He hold out the bag and they put their gifts inside.

  “Gather what provisions you can,” Birdman say,

  “take this sack and

  meet at Carson’s Corners

  ten days from now.

  Saturday night.

  Hide in the ditch,

  watch for my wagon.

  Wait for the signal.”

  He stand with his back to me

  and I don’t see the signal.

  coo-WOO woo-woo-woo

  a lone mourning dove calls,

  sad and soulful in the dark of night.

  Birdman bundle the sack,

  turn around and drop it down the tree trunk.

  It tumble on top of me,

  blade cutting through burlap

  and stabbing my arm,

  deep.

  I bite my lip,

  so hard it bleed, too,

  but I don’t make no peep.

  according to Phoebe

  S t a i n e d

  Long after the men leave,

  I sit in that hollow tree listening to the night,

  waiting to feel safe enough to climb out.

  But I don’t.

  I doubt I’ll ever feel safe again.

  Even as I walk back to the Big House,

  it feel like their secrets are all over me,