Douglass’ Women

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  One day Garrison came and brought Rosetta a rattle. My hands shook, splattered tea, dropped the pie. That’s how certain I was he’d come to take Freddy away from us.

  Mr. Garrison said, “No need for speeches yet, Douglass. It’s a false spring. Ice will return soon.”

  “Do you think slaves care that it is winter up here?”

  “Patience, man. All things in good time.”

  * * *

  In good time. I rejoiced; Freddy grew sad.

  He grew restless. He’d been on a big stage and our house be so, so small. Sometimes I thought he’d burst. So much energy and no place to put it. Without abolitionist work, he was adrift. Only so much energy to be used in tending to a wife and an itty-bitty child. Only so much energy needed for chopping wood, hauling tinder, and tossing grain at our one chick. Though I praised him, I couldn’t compare to a stomping, clapping crowd.

  Freddy never complained. He saw how much money was needed for candles, cotton, and thread. How much money was needed for flour, ham, black-eyed peas, and rice.

  He tried welding. He was good at it. So good, white workers complained.

  For two weeks, Freddy straggled home tired. Sore in spirit.

  “Coloreds might not be slaves, Anna. But it doesn’t mean we aren’t resented. Prejudice has well-tended roots in the North.”

  I didn’t say a colored church be more welcoming. I didn’t say that with his learning, a great Pastor he’d make. Mam always told me “deeds, not words” speak the truth of a loving heart.

  I wanted to ease Freddy’s burden. I guess, too, I wanted the big man who thought great things and fought to free the slaves. Tired out, this new, quieter man slept soundly in bed. Less time for us touching. Less time for playing with his baby before the fire. Less time for learning ABC’s.

  There was only one bright spot: as days became weeks, my heart grew full; Miz Assing didn’t knock at our door. I hadn’t actually seen her for a good long while. But Freddy came back full of smiles after visiting Mr. Garrison in town. I figured Miz Assing must’ve been at some of them meetings. I figured Freddy, too, must’ve told her not to come. Not to his house.

  I still hadn’t found a way to think good about Miz Assing; but I knew the way to do good for Freddy.

  I carried my baby on my back and went to town.

  Love, love be true.

  Chill was creeping in the air again. Squirrels who poked their noses out early, scurried back to rest. Even birds flew south again. Wind blew white kisses across the waves.

  Still I knew where to go.

  Salt Hill was where rich white folks lived. In Baltimore and in other cities and towns, too, I imagine, there be Salt Hill places. Streets where folks lived better than most. Where white folks could pay others to do their work.

  I walked the half mile, trudged up the hill with a view of the harbor, ships and flapping masts, and knocked on the first kitchen door I came to.

  “Laundry,” I said to the colored kitchen maid. “No one does it finer.”

  She nodded and left me standing on the steps, in the cold, my baby curled against my breast. I kept my head up; my face smooth. No frowns. No false smile. When the woman of the house came to see me, I spoke quietly:

  “I’m Anna Douglass. Honest. Clean. Not afraid of hard work. I wash, iron, sew better than anyone.”

  The colored maid whispered in her Mistress’ ear.

  I thought: in Baltimore, I would’ve been invited in. Told to wait in the kitchen, then escorted to the parlor. Northerners had shabby manners. But I kept my face ever still, my eyes cool. The woman studied me; her faded brown hair pulled tight beneath a white cap.

  “Fine lace. Can you clean and sew that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Most anything. I worked for a fine lady in Baltimore.”

  “Twenty cents a week. On trial. Come back Tuesday.”

  I bobbed a curtsy and turned to step down.

  “You’re Mr. Douglass’ wife? The escaped slave?”

  I nodded.

  “And that’s his child?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She cracked a wide grin. “Come back Tuesday. I’ll have a fine load for you then.”

  At first, I didn’t understand. What matter who my husband be? My husband won’t be turning his hand to cleaning. I knocked on houses, door-to-door, and those ladies that hesitated, didn’t hesitate to hire me once I said, “Anna Douglass. Wife of Frederick Bailey Douglass.” Some would say, “I heard him speak.” Others would say, “Time for him to lead a quieter life. Abolition has no meaning here. We’ve always been enlightened this far north.”

  Mercy me. Foolishness. These women cared more about the one cleaning their clothes, than the cleaning. Cared more, for better or worse, that it would be in Frederick Douglass’ house and be Frederick Douglass’ wife that boiled water, starched, and pressed their clothes. Fine with me as long as I received my due.

  And I did. Eight households gave me their wash. Eight basket loads Rosetta played in while her Daddy worked at the shipyards, twisting metal.

  At the end of a week, I fixed a fine dinner for Freddy. Even baked a cake as good as Mam could make.

  “What’s this, Anna? Has the North taught you wastefulness?”

  He’d come home bone-tired, I could tell. Stinking of fire, soot, and metal.

  “Wash up, Freddy. I have a surprise.”

  “Not before you tell me the meaning of this. Do you think I work for niceties, Anna? Survival, Anna. I work for our survival.”

  I blinked back tears. I took his hand and pulled him into the parlor. There I’d cleared the table and made a desk. I had a candle, a quill, an inkwell, and vellum I’d purchased at the feed and sundries store.

  “You big, Freddy. Too big for shipyards. I think I tell you that before. In Baltimore.”

  “What does this mean, Anna?”

  “Write. Your book. Your story should be written down. I’ll work.”

  “Anna, no—”

  “All my life, I work. I be proud of what my hands and back can do.”

  “You have work, Anna. You have a child to raise.”

  “If Mam can raise five kids, I can surely raise one and do a little laundry on the side.”

  He squeezed my hand. His hands touched the quill and paper like he was a blind man. He feel every fiber, every wrinkle, every feather.

  Then he dipped the quill in black ink:

  The Narrative of Frederick Douglass,

  An American Slave

  He paused, looked at the words, then added more scratches:

  Written by Himself

  1845

  I brought food to him. He worked all night. Such pleasure on his face, I be almost jealous. He here. In our house. Home. My husband. Daddy to my child.

  I thought another babe be on the way. Rising inside my oven. Rising because of the warmth inside me. Mam said nursing kept another baby from coming too soon. I wasn’t done nursing Rosetta, but I didn’t mind. I thought how strong Freddy’s seed be. I thought even though I was older than him, my body knew woman’s work.

  Six weeks of heaven. Days grew colder, a snowstorm blanketed roads and frosted all the windows. I heard the Bedford Mary was lost at sea.

  Freddy wrote, said little; but I was content. Mr. Garrison, once he found out about the book, gave us a drudge horse to carry me to and from my white women’s houses. While it helped, it was another mouth to feed. Mr. Garrison didn’t think about that.

  He thought about Freddy’s “tract,” he said. “All the time. All the time.” Said he’d pen the introduction. Wendell Phillips might pen another. He was so excited, he couldn’t sit still. Eyes wide, cheeks bright, his lips cracking from all his licking, like he think a slave story be a piece of pie.

  Mr. Garrison lifted one of Freddy’s many pages. “Have you read your husband’s words, Mrs. Douglass?”

  I shook my head. (I thought Garrison be trying to shame me on purpose.)

  He cleared his throat; a picture flies out of
his mouth:

  “Mr. Gore then, without consultation or

  deliberation with anyone, not even giving

  Demby an additional call, raised his

  musket to his face, taking deadly aim at

  his standing victim, and in an instant poor

  Demby was no more. His mangled body

  sank out of sight, and blood and brains

  marked the water where he stood.

  “A thrill of horror flashed through

  every soul upon the plantation, excepting

  Mr. Gore. He alone seemed cool and

  collected.”

  So much I didn’t know. These markings were a window. My fingers touched the sanded and dried ink.

  Freddy buried his head in his hands.

  “Success. This is to be a big success,” Mr. Garrison chortled.

  And so it was. So it was.

  Freddy be the biggest man. Everybody wanted to hear the man who wrote so fine a book. Telegrams, letters came every day, inviting Freddy to speak. Sometimes money was folded into envelopes.

  “Abolition has no finer champion than Frederick Bailey Douglass,” wrote Mr. Garrison in the Liberator. Everybody be happy: abolitionists, for printing the book; Freddy, for doing such noble work.

  I be happy, too. Freddy didn’t travel further than a half day from me. I was clumsy, filled with a new child. Rosetta still tugged at my breasts. Freddy forbid me working. I could make lots of money. More money than I did trapping Big Blues. All the white women in town wanted me to clean their sheets. Freddy said, “No.” He said, “Dignity.” Still, I wished there was extra to send to Mam.

  On Sabbath, Freddy be home. His hands waved when he talked. He practiced his speech about his battle with Covey:

  “My long crushed spirit rose, cowardice departed, bold defiance, took its place; and I now resolved that however long I might remain a slave in form, the day has passed forever when I could be a slave in fact. I did not hesitate to let it be known of me, that the white man who expected to succeed in whipping, must also succeed in killing me.”

  I clapped my hands.

  Having babies gave me good excuses not to go to meetings. I didn’t miss the cigar smoke, the loud noise, the people pressing tighter than a school of fish. Freddy, though, enjoyed being noticed. He be more joyful than Christmas.

  Sabbath evening, he said, “Today, Anna, we begin again. Frederick Junior is inside you. My son must read and write.”

  “I’ll send him to Pastor’s school.”

  “And how will you know if Pastor teaches him right? What about that, Anna?”

  I had no time for letters, I thought. There be laundry to do. Cooking, cleaning. The new baby be draining much from me. Sometimes I just wanted to lay in bed. Not even get up for Rosetta’s call. But I did. I found the strength. Maybe this be why having a second baby too soon caused grief?

  I bit my lip. It wouldn’t be right to ruin Freddy’s vow. I nodded and smiled. Freddy’s fingers caressed my lips.

  On a small chalkboard, Freddy made me draw uppercase, “I,” and lowercase, “i.” I frustrated him because I asked too many questions, like why have upper and lower? Words would always say the same thing. He said, “It’s grammar.” But I thought a word be a word … be a word. Whether it be tall or small. He’d just finished sighing at me when the knock, no, the pounding, came at the door.

  Both of us looked up, startled by the sound. I didn’t move, ’cause the sound was too big and loud, too frightening. None of the neighbors would knock so.

  Freddy moved quick, like all along he’d been waiting for the sign. Been waiting for this sharp crack on wood to call him, make him jump from the chair, and swing open the door without putting on his coat.

  “Garrison,” he said. “Miss Assing.” My heart froze. Freddy bowed. I lost my breath.

  Something made me get up and move, though—get up, get baby Rosetta from the bedroom, and come back into the parlor, cradling the baby just as Mr. Garrison and Miz Assing come in.

  It be raining. Miz Assing’s worried her cloak be dripping water on the floor. All this time, I’d let myself forget about her. But here she be like a ghost in my parlor.

  “Not to worry,” I said, taking her wrap.

  Garrison, slicking back his hair, say, “Plenty to worry about. There’s word, Frederick, a slave catcher’s on the hunt for you.”

  Freddy stumbled back like someone had hit him a strong blow. Funny, I felt next to nothing. None of this was a surprise. All along, I expected the slave catcher to come. In Maryland, the children sang: “Run, nigger, run. The paterrollers come.” Slave and slave catchers be common. What’s not so common be a catcher traveling this far north. Staying on the trail for months. This catcher must be stubborn. He meant to have Freddy or die trying.

  Freddy looked at me. “I am the trained, educated monkey.”

  “We’ll buy you free,” said Miz Assing.

  Freddy shook his head. “Auld won’t sell.”

  “Then you must be gone, man. Gone to escape this fate. Enslaved again, you cannot help the cause.”

  “You mean I’d be worthless to you?” Freddy said bitter, his words sharp.

  “No, that isn’t what Garrison means,” said Miz Assing, placing her palm in his. “You are worth much, dear friend. So much so, I commit all my resources to keep you free from slavery.”

  “Europe,” said Garrison.

  “England,” said Miz Assing. “London is the place.”

  I moved forward. “What you mean? We can’t travel that far with a baby. Not in this cold.”

  Then all three turned—two white faces, one black; two men, one woman. The outline of the door framed them. Miz Assing be in the middle, Garrison be beside her on the left and Frederick be on the right. The two men be looking at the floor but Miz Assing be looking directly at me and the baby. Hand outstretched, she stepped forward. One step, two. Three. She stopped, shrugged. Her hands fell to her sides.

  “Naw,” I said. “Naw. Not without me. He not going without me.”

  “Mrs. Douglass, be reasonable—” “You must see—” “Anna—” All three spoke at once. But Freddy, he come take my hand.

  “It’s like before, Anna. I need to go ahead. I’ll send for you. The baby, too.”

  I didn’t want to fight in front of these people. I tried to keep my voice calm; I spoke softly, but I knew these strangers could still hear. “Freddy … Frederick, I do not want you gone so far from me. Please.” I murmured again, “Please.”

  “He’ll become a slave again.”

  I didn’t want Miz Assing speaking to me. Her voice grated; it be too harsh. I kept my eyes fixed on Freddy. His two hands cupped my face and, though wordless, he be speaking to me. Telling me to stay strong.

  “Frederick, my friend.” Garrison cleared his throat and spoke, soft and serious. “It’s true that you are worth much to the abolitionist cause. But I couldn’t bear knowing you were enslaved. Were your soul not known to me, I’d still dread and fight against your enslavement. But knowing your spirit and soul, I think I’d lose my mind if you were enslaved and I’d done nothing to help you.”

  “Thank you, Garrison.” Freddy never turned around; he spoke his words to me. Cupping my face, looking at me, he gave his solemn thanks to this white man. All the while suggesting it was my turn to be generous.

  I bowed my head. “My fault.”

  “No one’s fault.”

  “But the book—”

  “I would’ve written it without you.”

  But not so soon, I think. I stared at the chalkboard and cursed the letters. White marks on black slates. I shook my head. There be no hope but to give in. “I’ll fix tea.”

  “We’ll make plans,” said Miz Assing, curt and sharp. I imagined spilling scalding tea on her skirt. Foolishness for me to feel so spiteful.

  While I worked in the kitchen, I heard their voices. Freddy’s voice, like a sweet melody; Garrison’s deep, like a smooth drum; but it was Miz Assing�
��s voice that ruined the music, making it flat.

  More fool me. Being mad at Miz Assing ’cause Freddy was leaving. Why did I expect his journey to be over? Eyes open, I knew I married a slave. What right had I to complain? But, Lord, it hurt. Until Pa died, he never left Mam for even a night. Now Freddy would be so far gone, I couldn’t pretend he’d be home any day. Far as England be, it would be months of travel there and back. Months of living in this place called London. The tea canister crashed to the floor.

  “Anna, are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I called back. Tears filled my eyes; I silently pleaded, “Come see for yourself, Freddy. Come see for yourself if I be all right.” Talk from the parlor kept on and I shivered. “Don’t be scared,” I tell myself. “Don’t fear.”

  Freddy’s fleeing was my children’s only hope to know their Daddy one day. What a funny truth. Freddy’s leaving meant I still had hope. Meant he’d still have a chance to come back. Meant he might return to my side.

  Mercy, this side of Heaven, my marriage would still abide.

  I looked at Rosetta sleeping in the box on the kitchen table. She only knew her Daddy weeks and he was gone. I’d known him for almost two years but only for a few months had I kept him by my side.

  Ottilie

  “Sometimes the journey from slavery never ends.”

  —FREDERICK DOUGLASS,

  IN A LETTER TO W. L. GARRISON, 1859

  “I learned to whisper love in his ear.

  While he slept, I spoke my heart.”

  —OTTILIE ASSING,

  DIARY ENTRY, 1862

  New Bedford