Grace

by Natashia Deon

  He knocked on the front door with his knees bent two inches low, trying to make hisself seem small and pitiful. Knocked again and hugged my baby close, half-wishing nobody never come.

  When the door opened, a young white woman stood behind it. Her small voice said, “Good evening, sir. May I help you?” Her thick dark hair hung to her waist, half pin-curled from earlier in the day and the moonlight made her skin blue. Another young woman, a negro girl, cowered behind her, watching Bobby Lee’s tall frame go from bent-kneed to hunched-back, smaller. When the light caught his scarred eye, the negro girl pushed the door closed and said. “I’ll have you know, suh, the man of the house is here.”

  “Please, ma’am,” Bobby Lee said. “I don’t mean no harm. I have here this baby that needs tending to.”

  It was Josephine’s broken cries that finally sent Annie out to her without caution. Annie searched Bobby Lee and found Josey under his coat. She peeled his coat away from Josephine’s face and we watched my baby yawn.

  The cool air made her cry again.

  “Quickly,” Annie said. “Come in. Please.”

  “I don’t like this, Miss Annie,” the negro girl said, trotting close behind.

  “Sissy, please . . . fetch a few clean blankets.” Annie tugged the coat from Bobby Lee’s arms.

  When Sissy came back, Annie snatched the blankets and wrapped my baby in ’em. She bounced Josey in her arms, twirled her around. “Please. Sit down, sir.”

  “I don’t have much time, ma’am,” he said to Annie. “Are you the plantation mistress?”

  “I am.”

  “My wife,” he told Annie. “She . . . she didn’t make it through the birth.”

  “Dear Lord, Mr. . . .”

  “Smith,” he said. “Bobby Lee Smith, ma’am.”

  Annie gazed at my baby, sorry for her. “Mr. Smith. I’m so sorry.”

  “We been traveling a full day, ma’am.”

  “Sissy, fetch the wet nurse,” Annie said sharply. Sissy mumbled on her way back through the kitchen and out the back while Annie put her pinky finger in my baby’s mouth.

  “Ma’am . . . Missus Graham?” Bobby Lee said. “I know I’m just a stranger to you and I appreciate your kindness but I got to be honest with you. . . . I heard you might take this child.”

  “Mr. Smith?”

  “I ain’t got no place else to go,” he said. “She’s healthy, far as I can tell. But I cain’t do it on my own and . . .”

  “Don’t you have family?”

  “No, ma’am. None to speak of, ma’am. My wife. She was all I had. And now . . .”

  Annie held up her hand to stop him talking.

  She paced with my baby. Her happiness at a chance to be a momma was guarded by her fear. She carried Josey near the warm fire, looked into Josey’s eyes and it’s like she fell in love. She said, “I don’t have no money to give you, sir. Don’t have anything of value, no place for you to stay. Nothing.”

  “And there’s nothin I want from you, Missus Graham. Just your kindness. For you to say yes.” He sat down slowly in her big armchair, scooted to the edge of it, his knee jumping. He held it still with both hands. “I don’t want to push you none, Missus Graham. But I’m afraid that if you don’t spare me this, this baby won’t make it another night.”

  “I will!” Annie said.

  “You will?” It was the first time I saw Bobby Lee smile—all his straight yellow teeth flashing between his thin lips. Josey cried as if for joy, too.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank God for you.”

  Sissy came out the kitchen with a full-bosomed slave. “Miss Annie, she here.” The nurse hurried to my baby and scooped her from Annie’s arms, quieted her with her breast.

  “Cain’t no good come from this, Miss Annie. You cain’t help God. You cain’t just give a baby. If God wanted you to have a baby, He’d give you one. Look at me . . . he didn’t give me one befo’ Paul pass. Ain’t nothin wrong wit not havin’ one.”

  “God’s giving me one now, Sissy.” Annie shook Bobby Lee’s hand like they made a deal, said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Smith. Sincerely, I am. But I think God sent you to me.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “God’s blessing me. You’re giving me and this baby a special gift.”

  Annie sat down on the sofa next to the wet nurse and touched Josey’s forehead, swept her wispy blonde hairs aside, watched her suckle. She said quietly, “Mr. Smith? What do you call her?”

  Bobby Lee washed his hand around his head, smiled. “I didn’t want to name her ’til I knew she was gon’ make it.”

  “Josephine,” Sissy said, bitterly. “I woulda named mine Josephine.”

  “That’s a beautiful name, Sissy. Yes, we’ll call you Josephine.”

  “HOW YOU THINK your daddy got you, huh, Miss Josephine? You weren’t always his. You used to be white.” Sissy paces around Josey, clinching her teeth, rabid.

  “It’s ’cause a you I’m here!” she say. “I’m the one Annie blame. I’m the one she told, ‘Don’t come back,’ like I was a stranger. All my years she lied. Said I wasn’t like the others. That I was her friend. That I was like her. Just born unlucky. So where’s my reward?”

  Tears smear down Sissy’s cheeks. Her grunts of emotion almost cover the crunch of coming footsteps from somewhere behind us, not near enough to see.

  The front door of Sissy’s house swings open. “Mama!” a boy’s voice calls—the black boy who belongs to nobody—Wayward. “Mama!” he say again.

  The footsteps from the woods stop behind Josey. Ada Mae. She grabs Josey arm, and tells her to run.

  “Come back here!” Sissy yells. “I know who you are. You owe me!”

  14 / FLASH

  Conyers, Georgia, 1847

  BLACK NIGHT SURROUNDS us—Johnny and I—as we sit near Cynthia’s back door. It’s open, a little, and the new gambling parlor is just on the other side. At dusk a triangle of light seeped out and soaked the porch floor where it got trapped and spread to the steps and out to the dirt where it colored our game. I can see better now.

  I get down on my knees, balance myself on one hand, and shoot my marble across the dirt. Missed the one I was aiming at.

  As much as I love our games, I know me and Johnny cain’t do this forever. Cain’t play forever. Johnny’ll grow up soon and go the way that we have to—blacks and whites. I spoke to Albert last week about his South. About leaving here once and for all like Hazel woulda wanted me to.

  He said we had two choices. The Railroad, north, or these Freedom Fighters, south.

  “Both got problems,” he said. “The Railroad’s made of good people with safe places to get negroes out of this country. Not to Boston. Negroes is slaves there, too. North means Canada.

  “Problem is, the Underground Railroad, north, don’t start ’til Virginia. Who gon’ get us to Virginia from Georgia? There ain’t no secret maps to show us how. It ain’t organized for us here. We’re too far south.”

  Albert had heard of a newer railroad to freedom that comes twice a year, fall and spring. And that’s only maybe.

  “It can take us up to Virginia,” he said. “More dangerous and a longer journey. Could leave us worser off, too.”

  Our second choice was these Freedom Fighters going south.

  “Law ain’t looking for negroes heading to Mexico like they do for ones going north. But the way south has been weakened in the last two years. Slave owners are getting wise to the trick. Fighters used to go around asking owners to hire their slaves for the week. Paid top dollar for borrowed labor, but not enough to buy a slave outright, and when that slave never got returned, the Fighters and their property had a one-week head start.

  “Didn’t take long for word to spread that owners was getting duped, their slaves kidnapped, for the cost of a week’s wage. So for a long while, couldn’t nobody—a kidnapper or employer—hire out a slave. Not even for a day.

  “The Freedom Fighters had to change their method ’cause nothing was gon�
�� stop ’em from risking their lives for God’s will—to set the captives free—so they started taking ’em. Outright stealing ’em. Took whole families. Made their own meshwork of willing men, and fed and watered steeds, lined the way from here to Texas, racing the devil. That became the fear of slave owners, the threat—having their property kidnapped.

  “So Fighters started moving into communities, building relationships with owners, would hire a couple of their new neighbor’s slaves for the day, return ’em back. Hire ’em for two more days, return ’em. A week, return ’em, kneading the leather soft so that the next time they hired slaves, they’d take ’em. Weren’t no going back, neither. For nobody. To the life they built or the people they knew.

  “The Fighters are more careful now. Don’t go near places they been. They ain’t been through Conyers before. Are set to do it in the next six months. A pass through only,” he said. “An arrangement made by the Mexican girl, Soledad.”

  “I know her,” I told Albert. “I mean, I met her.” She left here raging at Cynthia with a mask of grief and the devil in her eyes.

  “Her father was a Freedom Fighter in Mexico and she said when these men come, we’ll know who they are by the orange stripe on their satchels. Orange, like sunsets and sweet fruit—the taste of fought-for freedom.”

  JOHNNY HUNKERS DOWN next to me and shoots his marble. It flies past mine skipping a trail over the soft dirt. It leaves a dotted line behind. Click.

  I squat on the last step behind Cynthia’s brothel. Inside, a handful of customers hoot and holler every time dice shake or get flung across the floor. Fists slam down and glass cups jump from broken tables. Crumpled dollars wave in the air to get in on the next game. A voice yells, “Seven!”

  A young man is cheering ’cause he bet against the roller. The rest of the men inside moan ’cause they lost. An angry man throws his hands up and yells to the only winner, “You cheated! You and the roller in it together.”

  The accusing starts a scuffle of flat shoes sliding back and forth on the wood floor. I bend over the last step and lay on my side, stretch further to see better, see who the winner was. The new house dealer, Mr. Shepard, say, “Jeremy, g’wan git yer money. You won it fair and square.” The low light hides his face but even through shadows his walk is confident. Jeremy steps into the light.

  He takes my breath away.

  He strolls out onto our porch in no particular hurry, lights a cigarette, and leans over the railing above us. His skin is buttery smooth like a pot of sweet cream. (Everybody else here is plucked chickens.) Everything on him is perfectly placed—his square jaw, his crinkled and full lips. They look like they belong on a black man, soft as pillows. He licks ’em and I tingle inside.

  “How do?” he say.

  I turn back around. I don’t want to see his pretty lips no more.

  I point at Johnny so he would hand me a marble but Johnny don’t know what I’m talking about ’cause I already got both mine.

  Jeremy say, “I’ve never seen a pretty girl play marbles.”

  My mouth drops open. I close it.

  He comes down the steps, flicks his cigarette out his hand, and stoops down next to me. “Can I play?”

  I cain’t talk, cain’t move my head to look at him. Johnny hands him his marbles.

  “So what do I do?” he say to Johnny. “Just flick it?”

  Johnny nods.

  He say to me, “How about you, beautiful? What do you say I do? Is there a secret?”

  “I don’t know a secret, suh.”

  “Everybody’s got secrets. Even the boy here’s got a secret.”

  “Yes, suh.”

  He sticks his hand out near mine for me to shake it. He say, “Not ‘sir.’ Just Jeremy.”

  I shake his hand and a giggle slips from my mouth. “Naomi, suh. I mean. My name is just Naomi.”

  “You been out here the whole time, Naomi? I reckon you my lucky charm.”

  My cheeks lift on their own.

  “Pretty smile,” he say and stands up, lighting a new cigarette.

  He reaches in his pocket and pulls something out. “Want to see ’em?”

  Before I say yes, he kneels next to me again, shows me a set of dice in his hand. “Bought ’em in Louisiana,” he say. “Can you believe they’re carved from knuckle bones? Made into perfect little cubes.”

  One of the dice got four black eyes showing, the other got two eyes up. I touch one—without thinking.

  “Would you like to roll?” he say.

  “Yes, suh . . . I mean, yes.”

  He puts his knuckle bones in my hand and I clutch ’em and get ready to throw ’em but before I do, he grabs my arm, tugs me up. “Come with me.”

  I rein back on him straight away, almost make him fall down.

  “I just want you to roll one for me,” he say.

  “I cain’t go in there!”

  “Aw, come on. I won’t let nothing bad happen.”

  “You asking or telling me to go?”

  He smiles the softest, most kindest smile I ever did see and say, “Asking.”

  I look back at Johnny and he nods and smiles for me to go. Jeremy tugs me again and I let him take me. When we walk in the parlor, it goes from loud to quiet. “Fellas,” Jeremy announce, “this here’s my lucky charm.”

  A man yells something but Jeremy puts his hand up and speaks over ’im. “I know women ain’t allowed in our game.”

  “Or niggers,” another man shouts.

  “But as my lucky charm, I’m including her.”

  “I ain’t playing wit no nigger,” the same man say.

  Dealer acts like he cain’t hear none of what’s going on. “Put your bets down,” he say, starting the room into a frenzy of noise again. I step back into the corner, listen to all of ’em yelling numbers, waving money. Arguing starts about who’s s’posed to be the next roller. Two of ’em get to shoving. Dealer say, “The girl’s g’wan roll.”

  I shake my head, tell Jeremy, “I ain’t really the lucky charm.”

  “All you have to do is throw, Naomi. Bubba,” he say to his chubby friend. “Give me a few more dollars so we can bet on my lucky charm.”

  Bubba hesitates.

  “You know I’m good for it,” Jeremy say. “And you only here one more night. Let’s go for broke.”

  Bubba throws his money down.

  “Then, go!” somebody yell. “Roll the dice!”

  I flinch.

  Everybody’s watching me.

  My two bones is laying on the ground, waiting. Jeremy say, calmly, “Go ahead. Pick ’em up.”

  But I’m scared to.

  “You’ll just shake ’em in your hand, then throw ’em out there and make sure they hit the back wall.”

  I cup the dice in my hands, close one hand over the other, and shake.

  “Can’t use two hands!” a man yell.

  I drop ’em both. They scatter.

  Dealer say, “No roll.”

  “Let somebody else do it,” another man say.

  Dealer picks up the dice, gives ’em to me again. “Come on, darling. Your roll.”

  Jeremy leans over me, touching me with his body, whispering in my ear. “Just relax,” he say. “Feel ’em in your hand. Shift ’em around in there. You feel ’em?”

  “Uh huh,” I say.

  “Now shake ’em. However you want. A little or a lot.” I move ’em a little. Rock ’em in my hand. “You shaking ’em?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now, think seven or eleven. You thinking it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now cock your hand back.”

  I do.

  “Throw ’em!” He push my hand forward and I open it, let the dice fly out, blurring their dots in twirls. They crash into each other, hit the wall, roll back and finally on their sides.

  Four eyes. Three.

  “Seven!” the dealer shouts. Jeremy hollers, excited.

  CHEERS BOUNCE OFF the walls. Johnny stands in the doorway jumpi
ng up and down. I do, too, ’cause almost everybody’s cheering. Jeremy points at me, tells the crowd. “My lucky charm.”

  “Let her roll her number,” say the man who didn’t want me to roll in the first place.

  I roll an eight—my point, my number. Now, I got to keep rolling my number to win for those who bet on it.

  Jeremy puts everything on eight. He say, “Eight is good. Real good. There’s three ways to roll an eight.”

  Most everybody else in the room bet on eight, too. I roll eight four more times.

  I get the dice again.

  “Ain’t no way she’ll roll another eight,” a old man say. “I’m moving my bet.”

  From the front part of the brothel house, I hear Cynthia’s voice calling, “Naomi!”

  “I gotta go,” I say to Jeremy.

  “You cain’t go.”

  But I do.

  He looks in my eyes, smiles that smile. “Well, you cain’t go without this.” He unfolds his wad of money, separates out about half his winnings, gives it to me.

  “I cain’t take this,” I say.

  “Could be your ticket outta here,” he whispers. “Besides, we’re a good team. You and me. I can’t cheat my teammate.” He yells to the men, “Y’all ain’t gon’ wear out my good fortune. Say bye to my lucky charm.”

  “Naw, no,” the old man betting against me say. “She gotta keep rolling and crap out like the rest of us.”

  The dealer picks up the dice. “She say she’s done. Who’s next?”

  “Dealer, you ain’t fair,” the old man say.

  Jeremy pulls me up to a stand and goes with me to the door, pushes it open ahead of me. Johnny’s waiting across the yard, playing marbles with hisself.

  “Naomi!” Cynthia calls again.

  Jeremy comes all the way out to the porch with me.

  “Thank you,” I tell him.

  “So . . . you think it’s wrong?” he say.

  “For a negro to gamble wit whites?” I say.

  “For a man like me to fancy a beautiful woman like you.”

  I hide my smile with a turn down the stairs. He catches my swinging hand, stops me, and say, “I won’t tell.”

  Everything inside me flutters.

  The back door bursts open and Bubba comes out holding the note of a long burp. He bear hugs Jeremy, lifts him up, and carries him back through the door. Jeremy’s eyes stay on mine ’til his door closes.