Douglass’ Women

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  I watched as Annie smiled. Just ten. She be all that’s bright and ever-sweet.

  In January, the fever and chills came. The boys tiptoed about the house, ever quiet. Brought in firewood. Icy well water. Extra blankets from the attic. Whatever was needed. They set aside war talk. Made up stories. Whittled dolls.

  I stayed by Annie’s side. Made me a cot. I swore Death wasn’t going to find me sleeping. Wasn’t going to steal my namesake child.

  I wiped her body down. Changed her gown. Sheets. Held compresses to her brow. Brushed the dirt from her hair. Massaged her feet. I did everything a mother could.

  I sang as Mam sang to me.

  I prayed, “Take me, spare her.” I stood at the window, imagining water, the ocean, bay, rivers, imagining the bones I’d long lost and no longer saw. “Please. Please. Let me be the one.”

  Mid-February, Annie sat up. She’d eat if I placed small, soft bites in her mouth. Or spooned her fresh water.

  “Mam,” she once say to me. “I seen your Mam.”

  “Naw,” I cried.

  “All of us going to be fine, she said.”

  “Naw, naw.” I howled for Mam, myself, my marriage … my children grown, bursting to get out the door and leave home. ’Cept Annie. My youngest child.

  “She said an angel will come and carry me.”

  I hoped Annie was dreaming. Or crazed from fever.

  Come March, when crocus and daffodils started to push through the earth, Annie was much better. Even laughed when Freddy Junior made a coin disappear in her ear.

  I breathed a great sigh. Made a fine dinner. Roast beef. Potatoes. Yellow cake. Everyone in Annie’s room, like this our new parlor. I knitted a bed cloak. Rosetta stitched A. D. on six handkerchiefs. She kept her back to Annie so she couldn’t see her birthday surprise.

  “Nine more days you be eleven. What you want?”

  Annie just smiled. Rosetta teased: “You want a beau? How about a chariot? Or Sir Gawain slaying a dragon?” Charles Redmond say, “Pick. You got to pick something you want.” Lewis, who never had any money, said, “I’ll buy you a doll.” Freddy Junior say, “Kisses. I’ll give you eleven kisses.”

  Annie just smiled some more.

  Candles burned low and, one by one, the boys said good night. Rosetta opened Knights of the Round Table.

  “No more,” said Annie. “Thank you all.”

  Rosetta saw first what I didn’t. “You all right, Annie?” she asked, her tone sharp.

  Annie just nodded and said, “Cover me. I’m cold.”

  Rosetta gave her a big hug, then tucked in the blankets. “I’ll heat a brick. It’ll warm you.”

  “Yes,” I said. Then: “Rosetta, why you cry?” Her eyes glistened. She just shook her head and ran from the room.

  “Mam?” Ever soft.

  I turned and saw a girl, mostly bones, lost in a big bed. I wailed: “Annie?” And before I could gather her into my arms, Mister Death done snatched her soul and gone.

  Ottilie

  “Poor Annie. Poor Anna.”

  —OTTILIE ASSING,

  DIARY ENTRY, 1877

  “I could not help but wonder whether

  Annie’s death was part of my burden of

  guilt.”

  —FREDERICKDOUGLASS,

  IN A LETTER TO ROSETTA, 1860

  Glasgow

  I found him in Scotland. I sold my mother’s pearls, booked passage across the Atlantic, traveled by carriage and by rail, and caught up with him in a Glasgow lecture hall.

  How hearty and hale he looked! In the midst of people, he was the center of attention. No John Brown critics here, calling him “traitor.” Or “pacifist.” Only Scots held breathless by his every word.

  I stood off to the side, waiting for him to recognize me. I’d bought a new dress—with a clan shawl striped in red and green. My hair was less severe and I’d bought red paint for my mouth.

  I watched him and my desire grew strong. He was still my lion, bronzed and vibrant. Scotsmen were utterly unappealing. They seemed too dour, effeminate, with their kilts and pale white skin.

  The women, on the other hand, were glorious. Redand golden-haired. Blue- and green-eyed. Staggeringly lovely. I was alert. There were no stolen glances, no pressed fingers. No languishing glance from across the room.

  He must’ve felt my presence, for he looked up.

  “Ottilie.” He came to me with arms outstretched. We clasped hands and Douglass gave a tug that pulled me close. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered into my ear. Then he introduced me all around:

  “Famous German reporter. Painter. My translator, Ottilie Assing.”

  A few clapped. Most shook hands. Ladies politely nodded.

  Side by side with Douglass, I felt at home again. Absence had intensified my emotions. I felt his comforting hand on my back and felt safer, more cared for than I had in years.

  We were hurried off to a castle, a great, crumbling pile, it seemed to me. But Douglass was honored. Honored by the great party. The almost orgy of excess: lamb, potatoes, and stewed beets. Bagpipes filled the air, managing to sound both mournful and lustful.

  Everyone drank whiskey, danced reels. The men seemed to compete for whose kilt could rise the highest, who could best show their bare bottom to good effect. Unlike the English, the Scots were affectionate. Hugs and kisses all around. Douglass laughed when men kissed my cheek or hailed me with effusive compliments. Douglass didn’t try to steal a kiss. But as I danced, I felt he watched me. Among swirling bodies, capes, kilts, and clan scarves, we were aware of each other’s presence. The party seemed intended only for us.

  A few hours short of dawn, Douglass offered to take me to my hotel.

  “The Claymore,” I responded.

  “How industrious, Ottilie. How neatly you discovered my whereabouts.” His voice low, he kissed my hand and we were away, leaving revelry behind.

  In the closed carriage, Douglass couldn’t help himself. Nor could I. We came together as two lost at sea, now found. Hot, close, quick. I shuddered against him. He held me on his lap, caressing, murmuring, “Ottilie. My dear Ottilie.” As the carriage slowed, I lifted myself from him, smoothed my dress and hair.

  Across from him, in the soft darkness, in the swaying carriage, I said bluntly, “I want to share your room.”

  “Circumspection, Ottilie.”

  “As you were with Julia Griffiths?”

  “If you’ve come to criticize, you can go.”

  “Where?”

  “Home.”

  “America?”

  “Where you please.”

  “You used to enjoy my banter.”

  “Peace, please, Ottilie. Tell me the news of America.”

  I heard the tiredness, irritation in his voice. I stared at the window with its blackened screen pulled down. I didn’t want him to be angry with me.

  “Brown’s dead. Abolitionists, more militant. It isn’t safe for you to return.”

  “Tell me what I don’t know.”

  “Fury is still heating up over the Kansas-Nebraska Act,” I said.

  “It completely undoes the Missouri Compromise.”

  “Yes. It allows slavery to enter the territories.”

  “War will come,” Douglass said, his voice calm.

  “Will you take part in it?” I asked.

  “If I must. Though I dreamt of constitutional change.”

  We sat silent for a few moments.

  “The Scots love you.”

  “A runaway? Why not? A uniquely American tragedy. They can feel both sorry for and superior to me.”

  “You exaggerate.”

  “Do I?”

  The carriage made a sharp turn. I lifted the screen. It was snowing. Hotel lights blinked like snowdrops. Shoulders hunched, chin bowed, Douglass’ face seemed all crevices and shadows.

  “Why didn’t you write? Ease my worry?” I touched my fingers to his lips. “No, you needn’t answer. I’ve traveled thousands of miles to see you. I love you,
Douglass. I don’t believe I’ll ever stop.”

  Hooves quieted on cobblestone. “Claymore Hotel,” hailed the driver. Douglass got out first, then helped me down. Just barely, a streak of yellow lit the horizon. My hands trembled, for I’d risked all. How many years did it take to speak my heart so forthrightly?

  Purposefully, I thought, Douglass kept his eyes averted. He paid the driver. Tipped the doorman who opened the hotel’s great, wood doors.

  My room was on a different floor than Douglass’. I walked the hallway with Douglass beside me, feeling condemned.

  “Good night, Herr Douglass.”

  “Fräulein.” He lifted my hands, kissed my left palm, then the right. With his eyes, he seemed to be searching my face. For what? I don’t know. But he must’ve been satisfied. For he murmured, insistently and sweetly, “Come live with me and be my love.”

  “And we will all the pleasures prove.”

  Like the good shepherd and his lover, we made each other whole again.

  How best to describe those Scottish days and nights? I felt young again. A girl embarking upon a new love. A new adventure. Douglass felt it, too, I’m certain. We walked the heather and the hills in snowshoes. Visited the castles of Lochmere. Afternoons we sipped tea laced with whiskey and Douglass wrote. I sent an article to Morgenblatt. A plea for less haste in judging John Brown a saint.

  I took up my paints again. Trying to capture the Glasgow port, the tall-ship masts against the splendor of mountains and gray foam waves.

  Nights, Douglass slipped into my room. All my hurts slipped away, all my loneliness.

  Six weeks we had. Six weeks to rival our first sojourn in London. Six weeks before Rosetta’s letter.

  March 13, 1860

  Dearest Father,

  Annie is now an angel. She is gone to

  Him whose love is the same for the black

  as for the white.

  Mother sends her love and wants to

  know when you’ll come home.

  Mother, desolate, is not well now.

  She is quite feeble about the house.

  Your Affectionate Daughter,

  Rosetta

  With no thought to his safety, Douglass headed back to America. To evade his captors, he went by ship to Portland, Maine, then by train to Montreal, then he headed southwest, down to America, to his home.

  I, who’d long since given up God, prayed. Prayed, yes, to keep Douglass safe. Prayed for Annie’s soul. Of all Douglass’ children, I had known her the least.

  Sometimes, late at night, I stared out the window at the Scottish hills. Bagpipes sounded like laments. Like children, animals wailing. Like my own heart about to burst. How fickle I was. Christian. Jew. No matter. I’d prized intellect over faith. Yet how quick I’d run to God if it meant another day with Douglass.

  I remained in Glasgow for a few weeks, then headed east to Germany.

  I made a pilgrimage to my parents’ graves.

  I stopped praying. I was well aware the world could call me many things. But not, I hoped, “hypocrite.”

  Anna

  “She be the daughter you let me keep.

  I must’ve sinned good for God to take her.”

  —ANNA DOUGLASS, 1859

  “With Annie dead, I thought

  our marriage, too, was dead.”

  —FREDERICK DOUGLASS, 1860

  Rochester

  Freddy came home. Comforted the children. Tried to comfort me. He didn’t give no speeches for four months. A good long time for him. He stayed home, tried to feed me peaches. Get me to water my garden. Tried to get me to sew myself a pretty dress. But with Annie gone, no life was left in me. At least, not for this world.

  Annie, six months dead, and I still couldn’t believe it. I loved all my children. But the boys went their own way quick; Rosetta, once she got a taste of school, had no patience for housekeeping; while sweet Annie was always content by my side. She reminded me of myself and Mam. Maybe that’s why my heart broke down so. Past and present mixed liked sugar and water. Now all that’s left be memories.

  Annie was the only baby Freddy got to see born. He acted like I was dying, but when the midwife didn’t arrive, he held out his strong hands and caught Annie, bloodied and brown, and already wailing.

  “She’s beautiful, Anna.”

  I cradled her. She was beautiful: eyelashes, thick and black; her head, full of curls.

  “Annie,” Freddy whispered. “Let’s name her Annie, after you.”

  Freddy’s kindness touched me. I knew this child be my last. I clasped his hand. “Don’t send her away. Ever.”

  Annie burped and I laughed. Freddy laughed. Soon, we be hugging, laughing, our eyes full of tears. Our other children came running, expecting sorrow. But barely a minute old, Annie brought happiness. Everyone giggled. Each day she lived, she graced my life with joy. I remembered:

  Annie, at two, learning her first word: “Pie.” Apple, peach, cherry, pumpkin, sweet potato—she loved all pies. Couldn’t help sticking her fingers in, tearing off the crust.

  Annie, four, crawling into bed with me, asking for stories about Big Blues, endless ocean, and spirit bones. “Tell me again. Like the first time.” And I did, over and over, told her tales of the happiness of catching crabs, chasing fireflies, and summer nights when Mam and Pa and all us children sat, played, and told stories on the porch like we owned the whole world.

  Annie, six, coming out to the garden, seeing me sweating, my hands gnarled from pain. “Rest, Mama,” she said, and taking the seeds from my hands, made holes in the black soil, planted the seeds, covered them gently, and sprinkled water. Those plants bore more vegetables than we could ever eat. Fine, fat tomatoes. Tender greens. Bright cucumbers and squash. Every planting thereafter, Annie was humming a song beside me.

  Eight, Annie helped with all my chores. Took real pleasure from it. I’d say, “Go play,” but while her brothers romped, Annie basted a roast and made the sweetest breads.

  Ten, her womanhood was starting to flower. “You a pretty girl,” I said. She hugged me tight and murmured, “I love you, Mam.”

  I love you, Mam. Annie was me at ten years old. I felt Mam’s presence cloak us in love. Felt Annie’s fingers, my fingers, Mam’s fingers squeezing, holding tight, promising never to let go.

  All those wet spring months—March, April, May, all summer, all fall—memories haunted. No matter the weather: hot, sticky beyond dreaming; leaves turning yellow and dying; frost lining the windows. Annie’s spirit shadowed my every thought, my every word.

  Annie was good. Kinder than me. She was Freddy’s dream child. Soon as he walked in the door, tired from journeying, he’d call, “Annie,” and she’d come sliding down the banister and throw herself into his arms. Freddy never chastised her like he did the others. Never insisted she be an example for colored society. Be better than anyone else because her name was “Douglass.” Freddy never did anything but love her.

  And when he laughed, tickled, hugged my namesake, I felt as though Freddy was loving me.

  Loving the girl, the Baldwins’ maid. Loving the girl I used to be.

  Freddy came home from Scotland. I’d worried he’d blame me for Annie dying. But all he did was hold me and cry. Wailed like he, himself, was a little-bitty baby. I rocked him and let him stroke me until my body was afire with more than fever.

  In the morning, though, he seemed embarrassed. Like loving wasn’t true to Annie’s memory. He didn’t say that but I felt it. He said, “I’ll sleep in my office, Anna. So you can rest better.” I was hurt. But I was often racked with fever, hauntings. I flailed, tangled myself in sheets.

  Each evening, Freddy spent an hour with me after dinner and just talked and talked. His hands moved like fans, and from time to time, he slapped his thigh to make a point. I liked watching his face, seeing the fire was still in him.

  Some nights, my bedroom be like a parlor. Freddy and the children crowded in, talking about the day’s news. Most times I stared out t
he window, watching whatever life swept by. Sometimes a bird. A rabbit. A baby doe. Sometimes I listened. Or, at least, well enough to know Lincoln be running for president.

  “Lincoln’s not an abolitionist,” Freddy said, “but he’s antislavery.”

  “Don’t antislavery and abolition be the same?”

  “Lincoln would return runaways.” A shadow crossed Freddy’s face. Fists clenched, pounding his thigh, he remembered his time on the run. “I hope to change his mind.”

  “War,” I exhaled.

  “Yes. It’s coming.”

  “Truly. This time.”

  Freddy Junior hollered, “Praise the Lord.”

  Lewis and Charles pretended to fire guns from behind my rocker. Freddy Junior clutched his heart like he’s hurt. Just like children. ’Cept they grown men with no more sense than chickens. War, when it comes, will make rivers run red. Plenty of bones buried in dirt. I started to cry.

  Freddy shooed everybody out. Rosetta offered to make me tea.

  Seasons came and went. I dreamt Mam and Annie be waiting for me.

  My spring garden be a tangled mess. First time in a good while, I felt like I should get up. Put my house in order. Annie’s been dead a year now.

  I was still ill, light-headed. My heart raced, then slowed. I thought I was going to die. But Mister Death didn’t come. Shame on him.

  I felt sorrow that Annie never met Mam, never saw the ocean. She be buried in a plot under an oak, well beyond my garden. I didn’t visit it. Rosetta kept it nice with polished rocks and flowers. But I didn’t visit because I knew, like Mam, Annie’s spirit be elsewhere and everywhere. I told Rosetta I saw Annie. Rosetta was so alarmed, she sent for the doctor. He gave me a draught. I slept for three days. Now I don’t tell anyone that Annie’s waiting for me.