by L. E. Waters
“What city?”
“Why it’s the same city you’ve been living in the past few months, Richmond.”
Richmond. The word sounded so foreign. I never felt my home was a physical place, set within the boundary of walls, a street, or even a city. Our home had been with Ma and her acting friends. Yet my ache hurts a little less at the thought I would see Rosalie again, hopefully soon. “But where is Henry?”
In the few seconds it takes her to answer, I imagine him running to the grandparents I’ve never met, with smiles like Pa’s and with strong arms that lift Henry high in the air just as Pa did. Why didn’t they want me too?
“Henry is going to Baltimore.” She rubs one of her temples, beside the mole by her eye. She winces. “I feel one of my headaches coming on.”
Baltimore. That even sounds nicer. “Can we walk there?”
Hope soars off the edge of this question, but it’s sunk with an explosive snicker. “No, dear. It would be much farther than that.”
My stomach clenches and breathing becomes difficult, as the thought of Henry not grabbing my hand and guiding me all around the boarding house and theater takes residence. Now I have nothing. No one knows me. Not this lady Fanny, not the Ushers, not even Rosalie knows me. Who was I now without Henry or Ma? Who did Fanny want me to be?
Fanny brings the carriage blanket up higher and shivers. “If we don’t get there soon, I’ll catch my death of cold.”
I turn away and stare out the window, surprised to see grand estates separated by long stretches of manicured lawns, harvested fields, and thick woods replace the high, crowded boarding houses near the theater. The carriage turns into one particularly fancy driveway, and I gasp when I realize that Fanny must be rich. Rich like those Kings and Queens Ma and Pa played on the stage. She might have thick, glazed ham, fruit, and sweets strewn about her dining table!
The shy December sun comes out from behind the forlorn clouds to glimmer off the slate roof, tall windows, the glossy black shutters and regal door. The brown-skinned carriage driver hurries to assist Fanny down and her slight frame lands with an unexpected heaviness on the ground. Ma’s light, dancer feet never seemed to touch floor. I shake my head at the driver’s outstretched, rein-calloused, surprisingly pale hands, but Henry’s hand-me-down shoes (still one size too big) catch on the rim of the door. I fall, sending my chest and hands into the gravel, where tiny rocks dig into my palms. The air is knocked out of me and I struggle, for what seems to be too long, for breath. As soon as it fills my lungs I let out a loud, mournful scream, which rolls into uncontrollable sobs as the huge mansion door opens and the sun hides behind the clouds again. However, even the sun couldn’t improve the face that sags at the sight of me. I roll over and hang my head between my knees, as I rub my leaking nose on my sleeve.
“Is that the boy ye picked for us?” he bellows.
Fanny rushes to my side, frantically swiping the embedded rocks off my palm and tugging me up by my elbow. “You just had a little fall. Up! Up!” She drags me along to path, the soles of my shoes scraping on slate, trying to keep distance from the man’s sour glare. “This is Edgar. This is the first time I’ve seen him cry, poor little brave thing.”
I can’t understand why she lies. I’ve been crying since she took me from Henry.
“Say hello to Mr. Allen, Edgar.” Her nudge nearly knocks me off balance. “Go on.”
I search his steel-grey eyes for any signs of kindness. Finding none, I croak out, “Hello.”
“Edgar? I thought ye were going to get the older one.”
Fanny frets with her gloves, pulling each finger off. “William Henry was requested by his grandparents, but we should consider ourselves lucky God has given us the privilege of taking in little Edgar.”
“Edgar’s no Scottish name.” With that, he turns to go back into the dark hallway, giving the door a slight push that closes it halfway.
Flustered, Fanny pats off any dirt remaining on me and wipes my glistening nose before whispering, “Mr. Allen’s a man of few words. Be careful not to upset him, or we’ll all pay dearly for it.”
I follow her up into the house and a different dark-skinned man comes, without saying hello, to take Fanny’s coat, hat, and gloves.
Mr. Allen calls from a room off the hallway. “Ye’ve delayed my supper, Fanny.”
Fanny calls back, in a high voice, “I’ll see to it.” Then sweeps me forward to the young, dark man. “See Master Edgar to his room.”
“No. Send Edgar in to me,” Mr. Allan demands.
Fanny darts a quick look to the young man but tries a nervous smile, as she coaxes me. “Well, go on in.”
I sense their eyes on my back as I step closer to his door, but they both busy themselves when I turn back to check with them. I smell a fire somewhere within the house, but a chill permeates throughout. I hear the crisp sound of papers being sorted and see him sitting behind an enormous desk, in a room lined with empty bookshelves. I notice his fireplace remains dark. It’s even colder under his stare, and I pinch my coat together to keep from shivering.
“Cold?” He barks.
I nod.
“The cold is verry guid for you. Only women and old dogs hover near fires.”
He says the world ‘very’ like a sheep, spending much too much time rolling the r. He doesn’t even have a coat on, just a plain white shirt with woolen pants.
“Come closer.” I step forward as he narrows his eyes, attempting to look through me. “Ye’ve got one of the widest foreheads A’ve ever seen.” He chuckles as I fight the urge to feel its sudden expanse.
“Ye’ve been crying all day, haven’t ya?”
I’m afraid to answer since Fanny must have had good reason to lie before.
“Ye needn’t answer. I can see it in yer puffy, red eyes.”
The burning returns, threatening more tears. I have to purse my lips to keep them at bay, while Mr. Allan watches the brimming carefully.
“Well, that wull be the last time ye cry there, Edgar. A’m going to make ye into an Allan.” He pulls back from his desk to thump his chest, hard. “Ye see this? Guid hard flesh A’m. I made my own way in this country and A’ve got the back to prove it.” He pulls each knobby finger up with great show to punctuate each word. “Fortitude. Correctness. Obedience. Industry. Self-control. Perseverance. Prudence. Guid habits.” Each word produces a spray of spittle that glistens briefly on his leather desk mat.
He stares at me a moment too long and settles back in his chair. “It’s not yer fault, though. Theatre people for parents, moving place to place, dancing around, dressing up on stage. How could you learn whit real work is? Now all that’s changed.”
All has changed.
Fanny comes to my aid. “Supper is being served, John.” She studies me quickly to see if I’m crying again and, seeing my eyes dry, stands a little taller. “It will be our first meal as a family.”
Chapter 3
I’m not sure how long it is before I become used to his constant surveillance. Does a hunting dog remember the freedom before training? Does a slave remember their leisurely life at their mother’s breast? Over the next nine years, Mr. Allen uproots and drags us to England in search of better tobacco markets. Fanny becomes extremely homesick, while I adapt to the loneliness that grows within me. Once the business collapses, we return to Richmond, where we rely on the kindness of Uncle Bill, who provides us with a house to live in.
The only time I have to myself is when Mr. Allan leaves for the tobacco fields or warehouse to watch Uncle Bill’s slaves instead of me. I wait for the back screen door to slam and his heavy boots to punish the porch slats. The whole house takes a breath. Slaves stagger to a much-needed rest on stools. Fanny flees into her special spot, called the sun porch. Thankful, her body servant, fluffs the pillows on the chaise as Fanny falls into it. I race up to my room on the second floor as fast as my razor-thin, thirteen-year old body can take me, not worrying about the clamor of my hard soles on the bare wood.
For my little son Edgar, who should ever love Boston, the place of his birth, and where his mother found her best, and most sympathetic friends.
I line her letters with my small finger, over each tiny piece of evidence that she did exist. She seemed to love me. I study her portrait again and see such excitement and warmth in her eyes—a spark unseen in this house. How terrible it is, wishing so hard for something that can never be. No way to turn back time to be with her again and, this time, commit more to memory. I peer in at the letters I’ve promised myself not to remove, for fear they will crumble from the constant re-reading. I know what they say by heart anyway.
My heart squeezes at the sight of all I have left of my family. My real family. This little bundle of paper and paint means the world to me. All that I am. I never see Henry or Rosalie like Fanny keeps promising. Too many excuses why a reunion can’t take place, usually due to one of Fanny’s headaches. Tucking the precious pile away, I slide out the journal that fell off the overseer’s wagon, half-full of numbers—counting slaves like chickens. This journal is now the papyrus pasture where my pen sways and curls in a forbidden dance. I take my spot by the window, where I keep a watchful eye and scribble away a little phrase that has been taking flight in my mind all day.
Pleased, I rush downstairs to share it with Fanny. Thankful now fans her, even though it’s a breezy spring day. I bounce up to her side, basking in the sweet cloud of her orris root perfume.
“Edgar, dear. You’re making me hot just looking at you with all those warm clothes on. Don’t stand too close, sweetheart, I could be contagious.”
I take a step back and glance to Thankful, who has no choice but to stand close.
“Fanny, I wrote a poem. Would you like to hear it?”
“You’ve got your little book! I would love to hear some of your sweet poems, but I’m in the middle of a wretched fever.” She points for Thankful to refresh the wet towel on her forehead. “These are the same aliments Mrs. McArdle had before she passed on. Hit her so fast she couldn’t even send for the doctor.”
Fear flashes through me, she might actually be sick this time. “Do you need me to go for the doctor?”
She puts a cool hand up to my forehead and swipes the hair out of my eyes. “No, dear. I just couldn’t bear him telling me it’s what I fear. I’ll wait to see if it improves first.”
I flash my book at her again to remind her of my poem and she gives a weak smile, “When I’m all better dear.”
However, she’s never better. Not even after all the water cures Mr. Allan takes her to.
A gurgling noise bubbles up from inside of her and her eyes widen toward Thankful, who grabs for the elixir bottle and pours a spoonful into Fanny’s over-puckered lips. I turn with the impulse to distance myself, but not before I overhear her say, “It’s just a matter of time, Thankful. This world won’t be long for me.”
Thankful clucks. “Don’t say such things, missus.”
The back door slaps close, and I quicken my step to reach the stairs before Mr. Allan. I know better than to run up the steps, and I fight the urge to panic. I hear his footsteps on the stairs as I’m shoving the journal down into the floor and cover it as the latch on my door lifts.
You never can slow your breathing when you need to.
“Whit’s all the commotion up here?” He peers around the room to find something amiss. Finding none, since all my clothes are put away and my bed made, he gives a frustrated suck of his front teeth. He sets his sights on me. “Ye look like a sheepdog. Hair in yer mopey eyes. When’s the last time Thankful’s cut yer hair?” He has to find something to fume about.
“I think it was two weeks ago, sir.”
“Ye think or it was? Ye can’t give answers like that.”
“Two weeks, sir.”
He grabs my arm and drags me downstairs with his double-gait, calling, “Fanny,” as though she’s a dog.
Thankful rushes out into the hall. “She’s lying down with a fever, sir.”
“Sick again!” His shaggy eyebrows knit together as he pulls me toward her “sickroom,” as he calls it. Fanny sits up with the towel sliding down the side of her face.
“Please don’t upset me, John. I can’t withstand it in my condition.”
“Yer condition. Whit is yer condition? Ye won’t see the doctor, because when ye do, he doesn’t see anything the matter with ye!”
Fanny looks light-headed and rests back on the chaise. “John, you know I’m suffering.”
“A’ll tell ye who’s suffering—me! A’ve a broken wife who’s too sick to breed but too healthy to die so I can get a more useful one.”
Fanny erupts into tears, and I wish I could pull my arm out of his grasp to run outside. Out to where I usually go when he’s in these bad moods after problems with the business. And there have been plenty of problems lately.
Thankful slips in to bring Fanny her handkerchief and jumps when he barks her name suddenly.
“Thankful! I told ye to keep this boy’s eyes clear.”
She bows immediately. “Yes, sir. I’m mighty sorry, sir.”
Fanny stares out the window, wishing all of us away.
His clutch releases and I run out the back, out to watch the overseer treat his slaves better than Mr. Allan treats his family. Why couldn’t some kinder family have come for me? I wonder if Rosalie and Henry are in better hands.
Chapter 4
I watch from a red cliff-top high, a village of sun-faded teepees with many dark-skinned children tumbling joyfully around hard-working mothers.
I stand alone. The golden sun smiles on them. I can’t feel its warmth.
A dark, rolling storm looms behind me, threatening the happy, blue sky above them. The dark cloud takes a demon shape and reaches its ethereal hands to me. A raven caws just before a crack of thunder, and the dark, feathered shadow comes at me.
“Edgar,” she says.
I turn to see the woman from my painting standing there, with the raven on her small shoulder.
“Ma?”
She smiles, as a crack of lightning rips me from the dream and back to my lonely bed.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Fanny and I lived a life indoors in England, stuck in a yardless flat, but now I roam the countryside. After a few weeks, I’m strong enough to run the entire way to school. The bell rings and boys from all around the building rush in before me, dragging their books on straps behind them.
“Edgar!” Robert runs up to me, pulling a delicate young woman with him. “I want my Ma to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you, Edgar. I’ve heard so much about you.” She looks down upon me with the sweetest smile, a smile that awakens something in my subconscious, a remembrance from a dream. Her orange curls swirl along her forehead the same way my mother’s did and her eyes hold the very spark I searched for.
I can only say, “Hello.” Though my heart wants to say much more.
“Can Edgar come to our house after school, Ma?”
She smiles with both her lips and her eyes. “Of course he is invited. Would you like to come, Edgar?”
I usually keep my distance from Robert since the other boys shun him and I’m trying so hard to be accepted, but the words leap out of my mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
She bends down to give Robert a kiss on the forehead as I stare on, jealously. “I look forward to talking to you more later, Edgar.”
I can’t get enough of her saying my name! I watch her walk off into
town and my lessons couldn’t have been longer.
We enter the massive plantation house on the river, not far from Uncle Bill’s. All the tall, narrow windows are open to the warm breezes, and Robert’s mom comes drifting in with them, bringing scents of gardenia and rose. I’ve forgotten how rosy a woman’s face could be, too used to Fanny’s sickly pallor. She opens the door to a regal foyer, painted with landscaped murals and paneled in dark cherry. The grand staircase winds all the way up from the foyer to the highest floor and makes me dizzy as my gaze follows the polished banister up. A gilded grandfather clock chimes from the first landing, a melodic and peaceful sound of time-keeping music.
She steps across the oriental rugs to give Robert a motherly kiss and brings a tray of pastries and tea with her. “Come into the parlor with me, boys.” We follow her singsong voice into a lovely parlor furnished with pink velvet settees. I’ve never been treated so adult before. She serves us both and I say, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“All Robert’s best friends will call me Jane.”
I will be Robert’s best friend forever.
She smiles on the lip of her teacup. “Robert tells me you have just returned from London.”
I nod, but realize I must start actually speaking to her or she will lose interest. “We spent some time in New York before returning.”
“New York!” she gasps. “I’ve always wanted to visit the city. Tell me all about it!”
We talk for hours, as the tea grows cold and the sun dips low, and even Robert loses interest, yet Jane’s eyes only shine brighter at every word and description I give. I would have talked into the night had her house slave not interrupted with news of impending dinner.
“I fear we have talked the day away, Edgar! I beg you to come back for supper another night so you can continue to entertain me.” She stands up, brushing the crumbs from her dress. I begrudgingly follow suit.
“I would be pleased to come for supper.” I check with Robert who seems to still welcome my presence.
“Please ask your Ma if she will part with your company for one night, so I can enjoy you for Sunday supper.”