Douglass’ Women

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  I murmured, “Good night.”

  At the connecting door, I paused. “Ireland, Douglass. Let’s visit the heather. See if we can’t find shamrock green, the fairy people.”

  He laughed bitterly. “I’m visiting the Irish while fellow slaves are suffering.”

  “Don’t you think they hear of your travels? Don’t you think they’re happy for you?”

  “When you’re a slave, Ottilie, survival is all that matters,” he chastised.

  One step back. Another forward.

  He agreed to travel through Ireland. We were both overcome by the heather, the craggy rocks, and endless dales. Sensual nature: lush greens, moist fog, and endless streams. We rented a cottage and propriety be damned, I hired only a cook and kitchen tweeny to help with chores. Douglass and I lived alone like man and wife. We went for wild rides, shot quail, and feasted on trout we’d caught. Evenings, we drank whiskey and read before a roaring fire. Debated monetary policy, the English rule of Ireland. Though he didn’t touch me, we made love with our minds.

  The way to Douglass’ heart was through subtlety. He must freely desire and love me.

  He began writing poetry. I painted a miniature of a baby. Lighter than any child could be from Anna’s body. I knew he kept the portrait on his desk.

  I encouraged Douglass to take up the violin. Strings were the music of the heart. And the instrument did seem to soothe and inspire him all at once. He had a talent for it.

  I taught him the waltz. In the cottage, he embraced me and twirled me about the floor. His arms were reluctant to release me.

  Small victories.

  Douglass was a passionate man. But for all his control, I knew he thought of me. When I’d earned his bed again, I’d see to it that I never left it.

  Garrison wrote again: Auld will not sell.

  We returned to England. Douglass had been asked to debate two touring Southerners. The British wanted to see America’s civil discord in the flesh.

  “Douglass, it’s a trap. What if they try to kidnap you?”

  “Scotland Yard has assured me it won’t happen.”

  “These men are beneath you. Not worth your time.”

  “It’s my decision, not yours.”

  * * *

  I was glad I didn’t overrule him. Maybe it was hearing the Southern tongue or that the debate was two against one? But Douglass was inspired.

  “Slavery is as injurious to me as it is to you.” And step-by-step, he got the slaveholders to admit their laziness, their drunken moments, their boredom. Made them admit that slavery had blunted their life’s purpose. Blunted their passion for self-advancement. It was like Douglass was converting them all to the Abolitionist Church. Even when one of the fellows, so furious, threatened to kill Douglass, the British gasped with certainty that it was slavery that had made him a would-be murderer.

  For Douglass, it was a significant triumph. It infused him with new energy.

  “Ottilie, I bested them. Reduced all their arguments to nonsense.”

  “Champagne. This calls for champagne.”

  Then, he kissed me. Maybe from sheer happiness, I don’t know. But I took full advantage of that kiss. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I, you.” Still clothed, we lay beside each other. He held me in his arms. We talked as candles burned low, the fire died down. And though we grew chilled, neither of us gave way from our embrace on the bed. The night grew blacker. I could hear the pounding of his heart. Feel the tension radiating from his body.

  Then, I heard a sigh. Mournful and poignant. His voice rose like a whisper, a disembodied spirit. “I’ve been trying to decide how to live my life.”

  “Devoted to slavery’s abolition.”

  “Of course. But beyond that. Am I always to be a black man, the runaway slave, living within and without the strictures of a corrupt society? Sometimes I think what a coward I am, hiding here abroad.”

  “Never.”

  “Even now Master Auld is determining my life.”

  “You’re doing much good.”

  “Am I?”

  “Champagne has made you morose.”

  “Have I stopped one slave from being beaten, raped, sold from his family?”

  “Policies change.”

  “A war will come.”

  “It may be the only way.”

  “Yes.” He stroked my hair. “How beautiful you are. These months I’ve wrestled with my passion. I kept from you because of all the lessons I’ve learned about white women and black men. Breaking that taboo, at first, thrilled me. But it was unfair to you. And the weight of it came to unnerve me. I could be killed twice over—as a runaway and as someone who loved you.”

  “Do you love me, Frederick?”

  There. In the darkness. Hung my words. I heard his breathing. Felt his hand clutch my waist and pull me tightly, ever close to him.

  “In my fashion, Ottilie. In my fashion.”

  We kissed, our hands roaming as though we both had to be reminded of so much—of the curves, lines, and shapes of each other’s bodies.

  “If love is to be real, it should be color-blind. Your whiteness should be as nothing to me. Only our spirits should matter.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.” I would’ve said anything to soothe him.

  He stroked my face, as if, in the darkness, he could see me. Our mouths, breath to breath; our lips, almost touching. “If I take you now, it’s because you mean more to me than taboos, laws forbidding our pleasure.”

  “Yes.” My lips lingered on his throat.

  “If my people are to be equal, we must ensure a colorblind society. The best sight is to be blind.”

  His arguments had come full circle. But I didn’t care. Not seeing my color was the same as seeing it. I would’ve much preferred him to say, “I missed your body.” But say what he would, Douglass had convinced himself to return to me.

  I undid his cravat; for a time, he lay passive, yielding to me. Then, as he grew more and more aroused, he took me fiercely, thrusting inside me like a man searching for water in a desert.

  “Take, Frederick,” I murmured. “I’ll give.”

  Simple as that.

  Home,” he shouted. “I can go home. Ottilie, look.”

  He waved the letter before me like a flag. He was thrilled, almost giddy.

  “Here. Friends have bought my freedom. Auld has consented to sell.”

  I read Garrison’s loping scrawl and felt as though I’d been handed a sentence. Condemned to losing Douglass.

  I smiled for him. He moved about the room, unable to keep still, his hands and mouth moving in concert. I heard not a word. Yet how could I say I loved Frederick if I couldn’t be happy for him? Yet, I felt as though my life’s blood was draining, as though a wicked witch had cast a spell over me.

  Garrison’s letter fell from my fingers. I stared at my desk, at my busy translations. Tears welled. Glimmering as if in a pool of water were Douglass’ words:

  “Oh, would that I was ever born to this

  misery! To be a slave.”

  “Ottilie.” He was moving, his arms grasping, reaching as if at stars. “All my life I’ve wanted to be free. Not just act free, but be it. Now the dream is real.”

  “This is some trick?”

  “Never. Garrison would’ve made certain all was right.”

  “But your freedom papers aren’t here.”

  He paused. Happiness drained from his eyes. “Garrison probably didn’t want to entrust them to a sea voyage. America to here, anything could’ve happened. Yes, that’s it.” His voice grew more vibrant. “I’m certain that’s it.”

  “Yes. That’s it,” I said, knowing I shouldn’t steal his joy. But what of mine? “Promise you’ll stay, my love.” I didn’t like the tenor of my voice. Too much like those women who have no education other than what a man allows or gives them. I was Ottilie Assing. How had I come to this?

  Weeping, I laid my head on the desk, not caring whether I smeared ink script. Not ca
ring for anything, except my own lost heart.

  His hand touched my shoulder. I grasped his hand, kissed his palm. He gathered me up, carried, and laid me on the bed. “Frederick,” I exhaled.

  “Your loving made me feel I was already a free man.”

  He loved me then—more gently than ever before. He loved me thoroughly and well.

  Crossing the Atlantic again was like death. Douglass rarely came to my bed. He was a celebrity. The ship’s captain invited him to dinner.

  When I pressed, no, begged him, he answered, “Puritan stock. Americans lack European sophistication. They know me as a married man, Ottilie. Know me as a father to a son and daughter.”

  Douglass only came to me when his need was most great. He’d enter my cabin like a specter, say nothing, but, nonetheless, devour me. All but a handful of nights, I slept alone or, should I say, tried to sleep, tossing and turning in my flat, sailor’s bed.

  Anna

  “He came home a free man. Maybe too free.”

  —ANNA DOUGLASS,

  SPEAKING TO ROSETTA, 1881

  “Mama, look. That white lady’s so beautiful.”

  —ROSETTA DOUGLASS,

  SPEAKING TO HER MOTHER, 1846

  Lynn, Massachusetts

  I knew Freddy was coming but I didn’t know exactly when.

  “Ships at sea don’t keep good time,” said Mr. Garrison. “Plus, he’s got to travel to Lynn. Much farther than New Bedford.”

  Humpf. Mr. Garrison had his own pride. Thought everybody ought to do as he say!

  Mam taught me only I can live my life. No matter what Mr. Garrison said, I liked living in Lynn. I liked my neighbors and church friends. They liked me because I be me. Nobody was beholden to Mr. Garrison. Thank goodness! Nobody was nice just because of abolition. ’Cause I was Freddy’s wife.

  Still, I should be charitable. Mr. Garrison worked hard for Freddy’s freedom. For that, me and my children will always be grateful. I surprised “puffed-up” Garrison and kissed him on his cheek. “Thank you, thank you. For all you’ve done.”

  He turned fire-red and left me so fast I couldn’t believe it. I laughed and laughed.

  When Garrison left, I declared a holiday. I was tired of washing. My back ached, my fingers felt gnarled. I took my first holiday in over two years. I played with my babies all afternoon.

  Rosetta just be four and Freddy Junior be walking, babbling nonsense, saying, “Waaaater.” I taught both my babies about water and crabs. About bones littering the sea. About their Daddy, a strong Samson-man who was coming home a free man.

  All afternoon, me and my children sang songs about crossing the River Jordan, about itty-bitty spiders climbing the water spout. I told tales about the bravery of “High John the Conqueror,” about their Daddy being the first slave to write his own book.

  Oh, it was a fine, warm time waiting for Freddy to come home. Nothing upset me. It was like a different season, a time out of mind. A time when life seemed all the more precious and trees glowed vibrant, the sky shimmered with rainbows, and clouds seemed like pillows to rest a weary head.

  And if I worried some that Freddy would be angry at me, I kept it to myself.

  If I worried Freddy would dislike the life I’d built, I kept that, too, to myself. I kept all kinds of frightening worries to myself, burying them deep in my heart. I’d gotten used to my life. I liked it. As much as I wanted Freddy to come home, I didn’t want my life to change.

  It was Sunday. We be playing, “Ain’t That Good News.” Each child be telling me about something good. Each be trying to find a newer, better, good thing. Rosetta shouted about “cotton ribbons,” “dandelions,” and “hearing the church choir sing.” Freddy Junior hollered about “bugs,” “squishy bugs,” and screamed, “tall”—he mean growing tall like his Daddy.

  My children surely lifted my spirits. And, strange, they needed lifting. This Sunday, for no reason, I woke feeling my bread dough wouldn’t rise, my sheets wouldn’t dry, and my food would sour. Strange. The day was balmy, yet overcast. Storm soon to set in, I thought. I quivered as I saw a flock of birds swoop over the yard, blocking rays of sun. Then, just as quickly, disappearing.

  I heard the low rumbling of a cart. My hands shaded my eyes.

  “Mam, look,” Rosetta called.

  A speck, at first, just coming over the horizon. But as the cart got closer, I could make out the shape of two men. Both wearing black hats like they going to prayer. My heart raced and I began to murmur, “Freddy.” I step forward. “Freddy.” I step again, then I was running with the children running after me. Freddy Junior, with his fat, wobbly legs. Rosetta, swift like a colt. All of us be shouting, “Freddy, Freddy, Freddy.”

  We stopped short—children jumping up and down, my breast heaving, fingers clasped together. “Dear Lord, let it be—”

  The driver was Mister George, a colored hand who did odd jobs. The other man lifted his head. The shadow of his hat’s brim cleared and I screamed, “Freddy!”

  He leapt down and gathered me in his arms. The children clutched his coattails.

  “Who’s this? Who’s this?” Freddy picked up Rosetta and swung her around. “My, you’ve grown.” Rosetta giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.

  Then, Freddy dropped down on his knees. He’s got a fine suit on, real wool, and I almost told him to “stop, you’ll get dirty,” but I kept quiet. He be on his knees before Freddy Junior. This be the child he’d never seen. The child looked like him—all brave and strong and handsome. Just small. Looking like his Daddy might’ve looked when he was a child.

  Freddy Junior be shy, but he didn’t cling to my skirts. He held out his hand. “How do, sir?”

  Freddy gasped and clutched his son to his chest. Freddy be crying. Then, he reached his hand out to Rosetta and hugged her, too. Freddy and the children, all in the dirt, holding on to each other for dear life.

  I wiped my eyes. Blessed day. I whispered a prayer to the bones.

  Freddy looked up at me and say, “You’ve done well, Anna. You’ve done well.”

  My children did me, themselves proud. I’d done a good job. Feeding them, dressing them, loving them, making them strong.

  All of us sat down to eat, talking before the fire like a family again. Happiest day of my life. If neighbors were curious, they’d the good sense not to show it. Nobody visited. Nobody asked about the stranger.

  We had time alone. Time for Freddy to put both children to bed. To kiss them hundreds of times, catch them up and squeeze them, and swear he’d never go away. He’d leave their room, only to be called back, to kiss and hug some more. It took quite a while before the children fell asleep with smiles and dreams of their Daddy made flesh. Whole. No more stories. Their Daddy be real. He’d never be a ghost no more.

  Freddy loved me before the fire. Kissed me until I felt I’d surely suffocate or drown. All the aches in my bones and joints eased. I gave myself with fierce pride because I’d been a woman strong.

  Freddy weeped when he released himself inside me. He rested his head on my bosom and said, “Home. How I’ve missed my home.”

  And I believed home meant Lynn. This new town I’d found. Later, I thought Freddy meant my body. My body be home to him. That be all right.

  I didn’t know my body would become, for him, like an old bed. An old chair.

  But, for that one night, laying on rugs before the fire, Freddy covered my body like new land—he explored, stroked, tasted, and smelled my sweat. Knowing the children were breathing in the next room, I inhaled their Daddy deep.

  And I knew, once again, a baby be swimming inside me.

  Garrison be furious. Freddy wouldn’t back down.

  “I want my own employment, Garrison. My own business.” The two of them were arguing in the parlor, right off the kitchen.

  “Have you no loyalty? No sense of fair play?”

  “I can’t be your man forever. Have I been freed just to be another kind of slave?”

  “A united front, ma
n. We must show a united front.”

  “We are united. In the cause of freedom. Freedom means I can do what I choose. Not what you choose.”

  “Damn you, Douglass.”

  “A colored man should be free to speak to his people.”

  “But you don’t punish your supporters.”

  They argued worse than children. This storm wasn’t going to roll away. There’d be lasting bitterness. What a shame.

  Still, it’d be special for Freddy to publish his own paper. A paper about coloreds’ and slaves’ rights written by a colored. What a wondrous thing! Freddy may not be a preacher, but still he’d be doing good things. Spreading grace through his words.

  I be plump again. Sometimes I just sat and smiled. I don’t know why I didn’t tell Freddy about the baby. Maybe only so much joy could be felt at once. Maybe I was saving up good news for when times were bad. I don’t know.

  Miz Beasley knew. She cared for me so special, I like to die. Always she brought me treats. Spun sugar. Carrot cake. A lotion for my swelling legs.

  Miz Beasley said she came to see me, but I thought she really came to see Freddy. She liked seeing such a handsome, colored man doing so good. Other folks came, too, and Freddy was always polite, thanking the whole colored town for its care of me and his children. People asked him to sign his name in his book. He did. Everyone went away with a smile.

  I thought Freddy be happy. Just like me. Our house be small and Freddy and his newspaper filled it, ’til it overflowed. The parlor be his main office—stack upon stack of letters, papers, books, and more books. Overflowing with words. The kitchen table be where he “edit.” I wasn’t clear what “edit” meant, but it seemed like writing to me. Only he crossed and recrossed hundreds of words.