The Gospel Truth
Page 8
Or tasted.
Revolutionary.
Accidental.
Imagine a leaf that’s brighter. Milder.
Imagine a smoke you inhale.
Surely fortifying.
Probably poisonous.
And I’ve got six hundred pounds of it
hanging in my rafters.
A limited supply.
My last harvest.
And enough eager buyers
to sell it for a price that’s reasonable.
Outrageous.
What’s more, no one knows the recipe but me.
And the boy.
according to Phoebe
L u c k y P u p
Ever since he make a mess of that crop a week back,
Shad been the Master’s pup,
trotting at his heels,
begging for attention,
doing any trick
for Master’s praise and prize.
Shad prance around like he invented yellow leaf
on purpose.
We all know
he just lucky.
And luck has a way of running out,
eventually.
according to Phoebe
N e w C l o t h e s
Shad forget about his whipping,
about his wetting and weeping.
Shad even forget about Will and Charlie.
And this morning, when Bea ask him where the milk at
and he say, “Get a Quarter boy to do it,”
I knows Shad surely forget hisself.
“I did not hear that coming outta your fool mouth,”
Bea cuff him,
kick him to the door.
“You still my kitchen boy.
Now, get your sorry ass down to the stables
and bring me that milk
or you can tell Missus yourself why her tea is still black.”
Bea toss him down the steps.
Slam the door.
“Fancy pants and new shoes
don’t change the fool that wearing them,” she say.
And she right.
I know it. She know it.
But Shad sure don’t.
according to Shad
T h a n k s t o M e
I heard Master say Gold Leaf Tobacco saved Whitehaven.
Thanks to me.
Without Gold Leaf,
Bea, Phoebe, all y’all Whitehaven slaves
woulda been on the auction block.
But do any of you thank me?
No, sir. Not a one.
This must be how poor Master Duncan feel,
carrying all you ungrateful Negroes.
Except for me. I’s grateful.
“Thank you, Master,” I say. “Oh, thank you, sir.”
when he give me my new clothes,
when he invite me to move my pallet from
the stables to the Big House,
when he say he gonna be keeping
a real close eye on me.
Bea can’t boss me no more.
I’m gonna talk to Master about my plans.
For me. For Phoebe.
Yessir, lots of things gonna be happening ’round here,
thanks to me.
according to Master
T h e L e a s t I C a n D o
No one else sells Gold Leaf.
No one else can cure it.
No one else knows my secret:
that coal is key.
That boy saved his skin
and mine
by stoking that fire last week.
Any idiot could’ve fallen asleep in the curing barn.
But Shadrach’s the idiot that did.
Either way, I figured I’d get the boy some new clothes.
Ones that fit.
It’s the least I can do.
But he’s getting too big for his britches now, asking:
to apprentice with Sam
to marry Phoebe
to have his own cabin.
I’ll admit, the boy has initiative,
and that’s what scares me.
Perhaps he’s more like his brother than I thought.
So I’m keeping a close eye on him.
He can ask all he wants,
but if he even thinks about telling
my secret—
he’s done.
I’ll cut out his tongue before I let him breathe a whisper.
That is the least I will do.
according to Tessa
S m o k e a n d M i r r o r s
Doctor Bergman’s not impressed by
the richness of Daddy’s smoke
or how I primp in Mother’s mirrors.
Breathtaking, I was,
at our big dinner
and he barely noticed
with all that talk of crops and flocks.
I’m tired of doing things Mother’s way,
with her floppy hats
and fancy meals
and foolish orchids.
I’ve been a simpering fool.
I know what men really want.
So I’ll show him what I have.
I’ll give him what he wants
to get what I am after.
For once the deed is done,
he’ll have to marry me.
according to Phoebe
B e d t i m e
Miss Tessa tell me not to braid her hair for bed.
She wear it loose and long.
Miss Tessa tell me to put back her cotton nightie.
Fetch her silk robe instead.
The way she pinching her cheeks
and putting on pearls and perfume,
you think she’s going a-courtin’
and not a-climbin’ into that canopy bed.
according to Phoebe
S e c r e t s
Secrets got a way of keeping you up at night,
scuttling in the corners of your mind,
weaving webs of worry under your eyes.
My mind crawling with them,
itching while I lay helpless.
They meeting at Carson’s Corners tomorrow.
Is Birdman an abo-li-tion-ist?
Ain’t they criminals come to steal us away?
And what if he lying?
Even if he telling the truth—what if Will run?
What if he get caught again?
Should I tell Shad?
Miss Tessa’s door click open
and I wait for her
to call me,
to scold me,
to tell me what she want.
But she don’t.
Instead, she tiptoe past me
down the dark hall
to Birdman’s door.
And without even knocking,
she crank the handle real slow
and let herself in.
Seems like she gots some secrets of her own.
according to Tessa
P l a y i n g w i t h F i r e
He leans over his desk,
a clutter of sketchbooks and notes,
writing in the flickering candlelight.
So intent on what he pens,
he hasn’t heard me enter
or walk up behind him
to brush the broad shoulders that pull his shirt so taut.
My touch makes him jump,
spill black ink across the page,
as he bolts to his feet to face me.
“Miss Tessa?”
“Ross,” I smile, let him look at me
standing in my robe.
“Miss Tessa!” he gasps, breathless,
glances at the door.
“What are you doing here?”
My hands slither up his chest
and he grabs them,
forcefully,
making my heart race even more.
I smile. “You know why I’m here.”
according to Tessa
B u r n i n g
“This is ridiculous …” he whisp
ers.
“Your father would …”
I kiss him then,
sure it will make him forget my father,
the letter,
those damned birds.
Sure the burning want will make him forget everything
but me,
leave him weak-limbed and woozy
like Johnny Cooke was.
Like I am now.
But it doesn’t.
“Stop.” He pulls back, shoves me away.
I try again.
“Enough.” He scolds me like a parent,
weary with my childish games,
then turns back to his desk.
“I think you should go.”
But …
My shame burns like the candle’s flame:
hot, intense, and illuminating.
Why wouldn’t he want me?
Any available man would.
Unless …
He flips his sketchbook face down on his letter,
but not before I see a glimpse of truth.
A sketch, not of birds, but
a woman.
according to Phoebe
F i r s t T i m e
Moments after she go in,
Miss Tessa bolt outta that door
and come flying down the hall,
robe flapping,
tears flowing.
She throw herself on her bed
and sob her sorry self to sleep.
I smile in the dark.
Look like Miss Tessa didn’t get what she want.
I guess there’s a first time
for everything.
according to Tessa
H e r
Phoebe brings me breakfast in bed the next morning.
I can’t face him, not after last night.
Not with these puffy eyes.
Another woman.
Of course that’s why. It all makes sense now.
My shame had subsided somewhat,
but not my curiosity.
She must be something special for him
to choose Her over me.
Who was this mystery woman?
And why hadn’t he mentioned Her?
Throwing off the covers, I set the tray aside
and tiptoe down the hall,
as voices echoed from below,
spoons clinking on teacups.
Another ten minutes, at least.
I retrace my steps into his room,
to his desk,
now empty of all but an ink stain.
His packed bags sit on his bed—
he’s leaving today.
but I know that sketchbook will be in his satchel.
And it is.
I open it,
flip past birds and nests and weeds,
to the very back
to the ink-stained page,
to where he’d sketched Her:
… Phoebe?
according to Tessa
M o t h e r S a i d
“Look what I found.”
I hand the sketch to Mother
but keep last night to myself.
She looks at me suspiciously
but I press on, like she would.
You’ve got to believe your story
if you want others to.
“I suppose he forgot that was in his notebook
when he loaned it to me.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Mother complains.
“She’s nothing but trouble.
Get rid of her, I said to him when she was born.
Get rid of her, I said when he finally sold Ruth.
But, no, no one listens to me.
And here we are.”
My eyes burn from memory’s sting. “How could Doctor—”
“Oh, forget him. Our fortunes have changed,
and there’s a thousand more suitable suitors,
never you worry.”
She sits and stares in the mirror at me,
at us.
She seems old.
Tired.
As though my discovery deflates her, too.
“Men are selfish, my girl.
They’re all the same.
It won’t matter which one you marry,
whoever steals your heart
is sure to break it.”
She stares off, eyes wet and weary,
as though great hurt lies beneath her hate.
I’d never seen her so frail.
She blinks twice and turns to me,
her fire feeble,
but her words a warning,
a plea more compelling than any demand:
“I beg you, child, for your own good,
one woman to another:
Get rid of Phoebe.”
according to Phoebe
L e a v i n g
Master shake Birdman’s hand,
give him a box of Gold Leaf smokes.
“The cream of Whitehaven’s crop,” he say.
“Take them and tell your Northern friends all about us.”
Birdman say he surely will.
“Tessa sends her farewell, she’s feeling under the weather,” Master tell him,
“brokenhearted that you’re going, I’d say.”
“Arnold!” Missus scold.
She look at Birdman. “So, Doctor,
did you ever find your elusive … bird?”
Birdman say he surely did.
He look at me, eyes full of secrets.
Missus watch me sideways.
She know something.
But what?
Birdman climb up in his wagon,
tip his hat,
slap the reins
and get to leaving.
Wheels crunch on the gravel
as it slowly roll down the long lane of tall trees
to life outside of Whitehaven.
To where I never been.
according to Master
S t r a n g e
“Nice fellow.” I watch the doctor drive away.
“Strange, though.”
I’d told him his future was here for the taking.
He could have had Tessa’s hand.
He could have had Whitehaven
one day.
But he said he had work to do
today
to drive south;
“to draw birds.”
I shake my head as he disappears over the horizon
leaving nothing behind but a dust cloud.
“He may be a wealthy scholar,
but I’d say he’s birdbrained.”
according to Phoebe
B i r d B r a i n e d
I used to think Master know’d everything.
But he never know’d:
why Birdman came
what Birdman said
who Birdman is.
He right about one thing, though,
Birdman is birdbrained.
Birdman a watcher,
like the sharp-eyed chickadee;
he a hawk-hunter,
bold enough to swoop and steal
right outta your nest;
and he can mockingbird-mimic
well enough to fool any old bird,
even the Master hisself.
according to Tessa
N o t i c e d
Later that afternoon, I sit on the porch and watch Phoebe
hang the sheets out back,
hauling her wet-heavy wash on her hip,
leaning and lugging
from basket to line with her strong arms.
I’ve seen her do it a million times.
And yet—
I’d never noticed
she’s taller,
still slender,
but not the gangly girl I knew.
I never saw the
curves of breast and bottom
that swell above and below
the knotted apron strings
tied tight around her narrow waist.
/> Until now.
She stoops and stands.
Curls fall free from her tightly bound bun,
dangling from her kerchief in perfect spirals
dark against her slender nape—
her beauty spilling out.
These past few years,
I’d been so busy fussing over my looks,
I hadn’t noticed hers.
But Ross had.
Any man would.
according to Master
M i n e
“Daddy …”
Tessa comes into my study and she’s after something:
a new dress, another horse.
She knows I’d give her anything she wants.
“… I want to sell Phoebe.”
Anything
but that.
“Does she work hard?” I ask.
Tessa nods.
“Obedient?”
She nods again.
“Do you want Brutus to discipline her?
A few lashes is often all it takes to make them—”
“I just don’t want her anymore.” She pouts.
“Does there have to be a reason?”
The suddenness of it surprises me.
But then, you can’t make sense of a woman’s whim.
Sighing,
I dip the nib, write the numbers, sign my name.
“Five hundred dollars,” I hold out the check.
“That’s more than she’s worth.”
Tessa ignores it, arms folded, cheeks flushed,
the spit of her mother making demands.
“You gave her to me, Daddy. I own her.
She’s mine. Can’t I do as I please?”
She’s right. The girl is hers by law.
But mine by blood.
according to Tessa
D a u g h t e r
I look at the check.
Five hundred dollars?
He must be joking.
“She’s worth double that, and you know it.”
Daddy glares at me,
and for a moment I feel like I’m five years old.
Then he smiles. “You’re your father’s daughter.
A Duncan, through and through.”
He writes another for a thousand. “My final offer.”