Douglass’ Women

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  I never heard Anna’s voice. It was like she’d disappeared.

  Just as I’d disappeared while Douglass talked on.

  Anna cleared the dinner table and said she’d retire. She wasn’t feeling well. The children had been put to bed hours ago. “I’ve no strength,” she said, “for talk and drinks.”

  Douglass didn’t look up once from the fire. “Very well, Anna. I’ll show Miss Assing to her room. We must discuss what she’s to do in the days ahead.”

  Anna and I looked at each other. Both of us embarrassed by the glance. But she bristled and left with an energy that belied exhaustion. I wanted to say, “Take me with you.” I, too, wanted to retire, but I kept hoping Douglass would notice my own tiredness, notice how I was still dressed in my stained traveling clothes. But why should I expect such consideration when he couldn’t recognize his wife’s breeding?

  Lassitude crept over me and I listened, without interest, to the editing and writing plans he’d made for me. I listened for the tolling of the hall chimes as hours slipped away.

  Finally, I stood. “Douglass, I’m tired.”

  “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be so thoughtless.”

  He smiled, all charm, but I offered no platitudes. I was exhausted. I wanted to go home.

  I undressed slowly. I’d not unpack. I’d leave tomorrow. I took out my folded night rail and slipped it over my body. I shivered. Goose bumps rose on my arms. Spring’s air was too cool. Still I kept the window open, for I enjoyed how the wind lifted the sheer cotton, exposing the half moon, the twinkling stars. Life, I thought, wasn’t meant to give you everything.

  I must’ve slept. For I stirred, feeling a touch, an insistent warmth. My lips had already parted for a kiss when I realized Douglass’ arms were encircling my waist, his legs lying against mine.

  Pleasure seems to be a male right.

  Yet, I felt it—pleasure, a shuddering beyond this world to some nameless land. I was drunk with feeling. And I knew this pleasure would make it hard to leave Douglass.

  Anna

  “When I was most angry,

  I reminded myself Freddy fathered my children.”

  —ANNA DOUGLASS,

  SPEAKING TO ROSETTA, 1882

  “When I was most lonely, words failed to

  comfort me. Ideas can never be children.”

  —OTTILIE ASSING,

  DIARY ENTRY, 1874

  Rochester

  Sunrise

  I be furious. The whore of Babylon be in my house. Jesus say, “Forgive.” But I couldn’t.

  I went outside, thinking I’d find some peace in gardening. But I kept tearing roots of healthy plants, missing them weeds like I be blind. And I was. Blind with tears.

  Freddy said, “I worked all night.”

  “Hunh,” I say back. And I stared at him like I’m no fool.

  But Freddy didn’t budge. He shuffled his papers. Sat and read his book. Clothes mussed, shadows beneath his eyes. I picked up the vase on the mantel. Clasped it with two hands and held it high. Then, I let go. Left his study not caring where the glass, the water, them flowers flew.

  This much I knew. Freddy didn’t ever believe he was in the wrong. Or if he did, he didn’t show it. Having been a slave made free, I think he believed there be new rules made just for him. Like he could cause hurt, ’cause he’d suffered so much pain. Or, maybe, ’cause he’d suffered so much pain, he’d a right to take pleasure as he found it.

  I stared at the tomato in my hand. A worm done made a hole. I poked my finger. All the seeds, juice broke down. I smashed the tomato into the dirt. Wiped my blood-red hands on my skirt.

  I looked up. The sky was bright, bright blue. Like an upside-down ocean.

  I had children in my house. I needed to tell Miz Assing she got to go.

  I didn’t even knock; I barged right in. I stopped short at the vision. She be all white, dressed in a robe of white lace and silk ribbons. She be sitting at the vanity, combing her hair, threads falling like spun gold. I sucked in air. She looked at me caught inside her mirror. I saw myself, all musty, dirty, and stained.

  I didn’t back down. “You should be ’shamed.”

  Her brows lifted; she turned and faced me. “Shame? So bourgeoise.”

  I blinked. I didn’t know what she meant. “Leave,” I say, quiet yet hard.

  “You’ll have to speak with Douglass.”

  I wanted to charge forward, knock her off her chair. “I’m speaking to you. This between us.”

  “Is it?”

  “Stop it,” I say. “You so smart, you can speak. Not hide behind questions. This be my house. My home. I don’t want you here.”

  She sighed, a soft, fluttering sound. Made me want to wring her neck. Snap it like chickens. I stepped closer. I saw her soft flesh rising above her gown. I wanted to scratch and draw blood.

  “Get out my house. Leave. Go. I don’t want you here.”

  Her blue eyes reflected sunlight. “He has to ask me. Not you.”

  “You his slave? You got your own mind.” Something flickered across her face. Couldn’t tell what it was: sorrow, anger, fear? That be funny, I thought. Fear. She should fear me. I filled with the wrath of God.

  “You just got to say no. You can do that, can’t you? Speak your mind and say this is wrong.”

  “I don’t believe it is.”

  “Didn’t your Mam teach you right from wrong?”

  “She did, Anna.” She stood, taller than me. I thought she was going to clutch my hand. But her hands fluttered like fans at her side. “She taught me love was worth any sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice. If anybody’s doing it, it’s me.”

  “And me. Don’t you think I miss him too?”

  “You’re evil.” I pushed forward, making her step back. “Plain evil. White woman think everything by right be theirs. Thinking you better than anyone else.”

  “Not so.”

  “Yes, ’tis so. All my life white people been trying to take what’s mine. You a slave catcher, too. Catching Freddy right up from under me.”

  “Anna, you don’t understand.”

  “I do.”

  “No, you don’t.” Her hand clasped my wrist. “I’m the wife of his spirit.”

  Then, God help me, I threw her off. Everything Mam taught me about staying out of white people’s way, went out the window. I shoved her, pushed her back, ’til she clung to the bedpost. No screams. Or pleas for help.

  I couldn’t catch my breath. “You are—You are—”

  “What?”

  Tears were in her eyes. I got angry at myself for feeling sorry for her.

  “You are not a good woman. God shall punish you.” Her brow touched the post. “Leave my house.”

  No words. Just hush. I could hear morning robin birds starting to sing. I could even hear the old house creaking, someone was going down the stairs. Rosetta? The curtains flapped. I could smell my jasmine wafting up from the garden. Poor Miz Assing. She knew I be right. Her own hair a curtain as she held on to the bedpost for dear life.

  Then Freddy called from downstairs. “Anna, Anna.” Both our heads turned toward the door. “Rosetta’s hungry. Time to be doing. I’d like some tea.” Silence. Then, “Anna, Anna,” more insistent.

  Miz Assing looked at me. Her body straightened. “I’m not giving up Douglass.”

  Stubborn like a spoiled child. I’d have to make Freddy change. Choose. Tell him he’s got to choose.

  But what if Freddy didn’t pick me? Such a hard place. Me, believing in my marriage vows. Me, still loving him. Me, believing it be better to raise my children with him than without him.

  I swayed; I was falling down a well. I couldn’t catch hold of the sides. I was falling and falling, deeper and deeper. I’d hit bottom and drown.

  “Anna,” she said, all sympathy.

  I bristled. Felt rage, fury at being so trapped. “The children are not to know.”

  She nodded.

  “You are not to enter my kitchen. M
y sewing room.”

  She nodded again.

  “Or my children’s rooms.” I looked at the bed, sheets scattered like wind. I imagined her and him, twisting, tossing beneath them. “Change your own linens. They kept in the hall. Keep your own mess. I won’t.”

  “That’s fair.”

  “Fair ain’t nothing. Means nothing. You still ought to be ’shamed.”

  I opened the door, headed down the stairs. Pain settled in my joints. I heard another shout. “Anna.”

  I put my face on for the brand new day.

  Ottilie

  “Mistresses are cheap. I understand that now.”

  —OTTILIE ASSING,

  DIARY ENTRY, 1882

  “Human heart be a miracle. Can withstand

  all kinds of hurt and still not break.”

  —ANNA DOUGLASS,

  SPEAKING TO ROSETTA, 1882

  New Jersey and Rochester

  My life was split between two worlds: my boardinghouse in Hoboken; Douglass’ home during the summer.

  It isn’t true that I didn’t live when I was away from him. I did. I painted. Had dinner with friends. I stayed away from abolition meetings. There was too much talk about me and Douglass. Too much talk about Douglass and any white woman, for that matter. Some were scandalized by his friendship with Julia Griffiths. But I knew beyond abolition and women’s rights, Douglass had no interest in Julia. Their relationship was innocent.

  While ours adapted to the seasons. Confined to the times I worked side by side with Douglass. Confined to three months when I lived more intensely than many did during their entire lives!

  Birthdays arrived in regular fashion. My sister wrote me of her marriage. Later, the birth of her children. I imagined her a regular hausfrau. And though I didn’t think Ludmilla really wanted to see me, I missed her.

  I did have companionship. There was Emma, who discussed music with me. She was a fine violinist. Then, there was William, Wilhelm. Very sweet. Filled with Old World courtesy. He did nothing more than kiss my hand and cheek. Delighted to have my attention. He was a grocer (that bothered me, at first), but he was very smart. Cultured and well-read. He loved to cook, too. “You are too thin, Ottilie. Scrawny like a baby chick.” Often his meals kept me from starving.

  Once, so poor, I took a job as a seamstress. Sitting in neat rows with immigrants. Little ventilation. The women wouldn’t let me organize them. We were little more than slaves. My back, fingers, ached constantly. I coughed. My only thought was that this was one-tenth the pain of Douglass’ experiences.

  I was a poor seamstress. I was fired. Told to go home.

  I could’ve written Douglass of my need. His paper was turning a profit. But I didn’t want to jeopardize our relationship. What would it mean if I asked for help?

  William took care of me all winter. Feeding me soup, buying coal for my small stove. Once he brought the warmest winter coat. He was good to me.

  I was terrible to him. For, when spring came, I grew impatient with his kindness. His avowals of love. Spring meant summer was coming and I’d sojourn in Rochester. Color started returning to my cheeks, my curiosity was aroused. I devoured papers, political essays. I painted again in earnest.

  After three seasons, William had it out with me. It was one of those thick days, overcast with the scent of rain that never came.

  The train was preparing to leave. Clearing its steam valves, blowing its horn. William had seen to my bags, tucked a blanket about my legs. All that was left was “goodbye.” Instead, he said, “Ottilie, stay. Marry me.”

  “I must go. I must.”

  “Why? You correspond with this Douglass all the time. You can continue to do so. You needn’t be his unpaid worker during the summers.”

  “I enjoy the work.”

  “Then stay and do it here.”

  The train whistle squealed.

  “William.” I stroked his cheek. “I must go. My heart has no choice.”

  “It’s true, then. What they say.”

  “I don’t abide rumors.” I looked at him, coldly, direct.

  “But you don’t deny it?”

  I saw then that William was petty, small-minded like all the others. Conformist. His teeth bit into his chapped lip. Head cocked, he stared at me. Like he was looking for some nuance, some new discovery in me. Of course, I said nothing. He didn’t want to hear what I had to say.

  I think if William had been more at ease, more flexible, I might’ve married him. Might have been content to let him hold me. If he would’ve allowed me the freedom to love elsewhere, I think I might’ve allowed myself to love him. Just a little. Maybe more. My heart was big enough.

  Strange, I didn’t realize William was my last chance for a normal life. He was kind, smart. We found much to talk about. Young, I’d thought I’d be content to be Douglass’ paramour forever. I failed to weigh how lonely days would far outnumber time spent with Douglass. I was too young. Young enough to believe permanence and true love were both real. Real and within the realm of possibility.

  * * *

  Summer. Anna and I kept our uneasy truce. I stayed in Douglass’ office, the guest bedroom or in the walled garden. Anna had the kitchen, the vegetable garden off the back and the rest of the house where the children roamed. If I decided to take my meals in my room, I sometimes didn’t see Anna for days. It was the children who rambled back and forth between rooms, between worlds.

  I didn’t have much to do with them. I thought Anna preferred it that way. I told a fairy tale or two. Brought them candy. Kites. Twine balls. Douglass’ family had grown—one, two, three. Another child soon due.

  Without a doubt, I must be barren. Though sometimes I thought if I lived with Douglass year-round … if he held me not just during midsummer nights, a child would root in my womb. Still, I must be content. We’d found a compromise that saved Douglass’ reputation (I don’t care about mine!) and one that Anna tolerates. Maybe she felt she had the better bargain: house and children.

  But she didn’t have the nights of passion.

  July. Our pattern was familiar. Most mornings, I stayed late abed. Douglass would love me past midnight and still rise at dawn. I slept in, stretching like a cat, recalling his touch, caress. The angle of his body in relation to mine. The spaces where his lips pressed.

  Each summer night was carefully preserved in memory. Come winter, I’d retrieve, savor, mimic Douglass making love to me.

  “Who’s there?” I heard scraping. Thought I saw a blue flash from the corner of my eye. If it was Anna, I was going to scream. Though decent, the bed was mussed for two rather than one. Both pillows had impressions, strands of blond and black hair. When the fire had died and the room had chilled, Douglass held me close. I refused to let him go. I talked and talked about our longings, our love, until I fell asleep. While I slept, he must’ve left, gone to his room. The one with the connecting door to Anna.

  “Who disturbs me?”

  I saw children’s shoes at the bottom of the curtain. “Come out. Or I shall tell Douglass. Have him put you in jail.”

  “No, please. Don’t.” Rosetta stepped forward.

  “You’re a pretty thing.” And she was, too. Darker-skinned like her mother. But her eyes were intelligent like her father’s. Her hair, though coarser than Douglass’, fell in great waves, framing her face and thin nose.

  “You’re pretty, too.” The girl puckered her lips.

  “You think so?”

  She nodded solemnly.

  “Does your mother know you’re here?”

  She shook her head.

  “What are you doing, then?”

  “I wanted to see if you were as pretty as I remembered.”

  I laughed. “Am I?”

  “Yes. I like your hair.” She scrambled onto the bed, her knees tucked under her blue checkered dress. She stroked my hair, rubbing it together in patches in her hands.

  “Would you help me brush it?”

  “Oh, yes.” Her eyes brightened and I
laughed again.

  “There on the dressing table. Bring my brush.”

  She moved like a young colt, finding the brush, then skipping back toward me. She shoved the pillows aside and commenced to work.

  “Do you go to school?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “A smart girl like you should be at school. Or do you have a governess? No, of course not. Douglass is not yet rich.” Her small hands running through my hair felt glorious. Everything she did was soft and gentle. She smelled of soap.

  “My mother was a governess,” I murmured, happily remembering. “She believed in learning.”

  “Did she teach you?’

  “Yes, she did.”

  “In Lynn, the Pastor teached me.”

  “Taught.”

  “The Pastor taught me.”

  “No one here?”

  “No.” She pulled the strands of my hair from my brush. “We should burn these.”

  “Why?”

  “Mam say, ‘If a bird makes a nest with your hair, your hair will fall right out.’” Her head bobbed; she was serious. I felt angry that such superstition filled her head.

  “Can you write?” She bobbed again. “Show me.” I gathered my writing case and opened it to quill, paper and ink. “Write.”

  Biting her lip, her fingers gripping the pen, she wrote:

  ROSETTA

  “How old are you?”

  SEVEN

  “What do you like most?”

  FATHER’S BOOKS

  I laughed. “You can’t even read his books.”

  “I try.”

  What a charming child. I had to rescue her. Her life would surely be blunted if her head was filled with nonsense, old wives’ tales. What must it be like to live in a house with her mother all day, day after day? I wondered if Anna even followed suffrage.