The Amalgamation Polka

by Stephen Wright

Roxana took to carrying wherever she went a Bible that Grandma Octavia had brought back from Europe years ago, big and thick and gilt-edged and bound in tooled leather, and at the dinner table it occupied an extraordinary amount of space next to Roxana’s plate as it sat throughout the meal like some menacing foreign object no one dared comment upon or even look at. But when her older brother Saxby, whose relationship with Roxana had from infancy consisted largely of good-natured teasing, returned home from school, his normal disposition was not one to be readily stifled.

  “So, Roxana,” he began, with the look of a man who had spent much time studying himself in the mirror, “I understand you’ve become quite the student of religion since I’ve been away.”

  “A practice I sincerely commend to you, dear brother,” she replied.

  “I haven’t opened a Bible since I was twelve,” boasted Saxby. “Or any other book for that matter.” He leaned forward, looked around the table and burst into raucous laughter.

  “Honestly, Saxby,” commented Mother, “I do wish you would learn to contain yourself. These intemperate outbursts of yours too often give the wrong impression.”

  “To whom?” Saxby asked. “You? Father? My brothers and sister? Or is it the servants who are not to be offended? Is that it? Are we all expected to put on a show for the servants so as not to give them the wrong idea? Seems to me like this whole plantation’s run backward. They’re the ones who should be putting on a show for us.”

  “But they do,” interrupted Roxana.

  “Roxana,” warned Mother, “if you’re going to start in lecturing us all again, you can just take your plate up to your room.”

  “Well, maybe I just will.” And she pushed back her chair with a dramatic squeak.

  “Stay where you are,” commanded Father. “I’ll not have one of my own children gobbling down her food in private like a prisoner in a cell.”

  “Why not?” asked Roxana. “It’s what I feel like, what I’ve always felt like around here.”

  “Goodness,” declared Saxby, the smile still in place, though not as bright. “What has happened while I’ve been away?”

  “Roxana’s become an abolitionist,” explained Val, who had been steadily chewing at his meal as the conversation rolled and swelled about him.

  “She has not!” snapped Mother.

  “I won’t have that word spoken in my house,” said Father.

  “Why not?” asked Roxana. “I’ve heard much worse at this table, every vile word the language has ever produced.”

  “It will not be spoken,” explained Father, “because I forbid it.”

  “You’ve forbidden many things that continue to go on nevertheless. Tell Saxby about Nicodemus and Mr. Dray.”

  “No,” said Mother. “That is not a fit subject for the table.”

  “I wish,” declared Roxana, “someone would inform me one day just what is a fit subject for the table.”

  Sally entered, set down a bowl of boiled potatoes and left without looking at anybody. Immediately Mother reached in, felt each steaming tuber with her fingers, then abruptly picked up the bowl and hurled it against the wall, the porcelain shattering and potato chunks flying. “Sally, you black bitch!” Mother shrieked. “Get in here and clean up this mess!”

  After a long moment during which no one spoke, the door again opened and Sally entered with a shredded broom and a greasy rag and bucket and again without looking at anyone or speaking a word went to work scrubbing at the stain on the wall, which only seemed to increase in size with her efforts.

  “Sally,” Mother declared, without even bothering to turn in her seat, “those potatoes were half raw. I want another bowl brought in here immediately and I want them properly cooked. Do you understand?”

  Sally was sweeping the gummy pile toward the door. “Yes, Missus,” she replied, pushing the refuse out before her.

  “You needn’t have bothered on my account,” said Roxana. “I’ve quite lost my appetite.”

  “Young lady, I know it may come as a surprise to you but there are more people in this family than just yourself.”

  “How could I possibly forget? You remind me of it daily.”

  Suddenly Father brought his fist crashing down upon the table, rattling the dishes. “That’s quite enough. From everybody. When we gather together here at dinner, this should be a time of peace and thanksgiving, not an incitement to general indigestion.”

  “Well then, you shall have it,” Roxana declared, rising from her chair. “It’s time for meeting.”

  “Oh, Lord,” groaned Mother.

  Roxana picked up her Bible, clutching it snugly to her bosom with both arms.

  “Sure you’ve got the strength to carry that book all by yourself?” asked Saxby, again directing his remarks as much to the family as his sister.

  “Saxby, it appears to me that the only thing you’ve learned in that fancy school of yours is how to wax your mustache.” Then Roxana turned around and marched briskly from the room.

  “What meeting?” she could hear her brother asking as she passed down the hallway. “What’s this meeting about?”

  Roxana left the house and moved out into the night. The sky was clear, alive with the vivid spots of a million stars. She could hear the raised voices of the crickets and the tree frogs and off in the distance a dog howling and every sound seemed to possess its rightful place in an order at once mysterious and correct. Guided by the light of the moon, she made her way down to the quarters. From steps and shadowy doorways she occasionally heard voices soft and pleasant, “Evening, Miss Roxana.” By now she had made this walk so often she could have picked her path in perfect darkness, through the quarters, around the north corner of a plowed field, through the thickets and down the slope to the praying ground. A crowd had already gathered there, kneeling in a hushed, expectant circle. Again she was greeted kindly and politely and a place was made for her to kneel down on the ground with the others. Soon a lane opened in the press of people, admitting a tall, intense man with a high forehead and quick bright eyes and dressed in a clean frock coat and store-bought shoes—Uncle Dan, the preacher man. He acknowledged no one, though he knew all and all knew him, but glancing neither left nor right he advanced confidently forward, as if sheltered within an invisible bubble of his own personal force and the gravity of his mission. He settled on his knees in the center of the circle, paused for a moment, then tilted back his head and stared up through the trees at the night sky, at the drops of light sprinkled benevolently across it. Then, bending his head down toward the ground, he opened his mouth and began to speak in a gruff voice that was almost a whisper:

  “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest. This is the province of the Lord and the truth of God who made all the people out of one ball of clay and made them all to sit upon the same bench, shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye. He has spoken the words stronger than any chain and He will not be denied, He will not be mocked. I have seen these things that He has shown me and I have felt His power pressing down upon my own shoulders, I tried to rise up but I could not. I tried to see but He took away this terrible world and showed me another. I saw the throne and it was of a gold so shiny it seared my sight. And I saw a throne placed there for me and I saw a throne for each one of you, arrayed in the glory of heaven and fixed so as to spell out a word. You know I cannot read, but I have The Book in me, warming my heart, and when I saw that multitude of empty thrones just a-waiting to be claimed by their rightful masters something inside me read the word clear as the rising sun and I knew that word was ‘FREEDOM.’

  “Then, quick as I was taken up to that place, I was brought back down again and I saw my body stretched out on the ground before me and it was dead and lying there upon the very doorstep to hell and I began to tremble and shake, but God leaned down and spoke to me, saying, ‘That is the body of sin which I have cast off from you. I am with you now from this day forth, and from this moment on each step you take will bring you nearer to
deliverance out of the torment and wickedness of the house of bondage. This is My promise to you and as you bring the Word to your brothers and sisters, so shall it be My promise to them. Faith shall be your strength. Do not despair. The day of judgement is at hand, when those who are first shall be last and those who are last shall be first, all united in the power and glory forever, amen.’”

  “Amen,” cried out a voice.

  “Hush,” responded other voices. “Hush up there.”

  Sweat streamed down Uncle Dan’s face. Solemnly, he looked in turn at each member of his woodland congregation yet did not seem to be actually seeing any one of them. He’s seeing past us, thought Roxana, her own eyes brimming with tears, he’s seeing into our spiritual bodies. A woman fell moaning onto the sandy ground. A few cries were heard, then instantly muffled. Uncle Dan closed his eyes and seemed to be in prayer. When he opened them again, he said, “Our Divine Master is a kind and just god. We have not suffered in vain. The sins of a people in bondage are as a mote in the eye of God to the sins of those who hold them in bondage. But the end is near, my brethren. The Lord has shown me that this is so. The day when the shackles melt in the fire, when the whip falls from the hand, is fast approaching. I have seen this and it is so. And to hasten that glorious time, to help bring on the jubilee, all that is required is that we love God and love one another. Do you hear? Love God and love one another. Do you believe the Gospel? Love God and love one another. Do you feel the truth in your heart? Love God and love one another. Amen and a-men.”

  There was a silence then, an absolute stillness in which all that was human seemed to have withdrawn from the planet, and leaf and stone and creatures furred and feathered held reign and the world was as it appeared in the beginning and how it would appear at the end with all mankind taken up into the spirit and allowed to brood upon the consequences of their travail on earth. Then an owl hooted and the spell was broken and all was as it had been before.

  Uncle Dan’s eyes found those of Roxana’s and something within each broke free of confinement and glided out to touch the other and Uncle Dan said, “I believe we have a visitor among us this evening who wishes to speak.”

  And without compulsion or volition Roxana began to shake her head slowly, almost imperceptibly, from side to side. No, she could not, no, please do not make me do this. But Uncle Dan’s eyes never left her, never strayed for an instant to break the bond that connected them there in that place. Then he reached out his hands and she could not restrain herself; she simply rose from her knees as if obeying an irresistible command and drifted out into the center of the circle where she knelt obediently in the dust beside Uncle Dan. She could feel a company of eyes focused squarely upon her and her mind simply went out like a candle extinguished by the wind and when at last she was finally capable of daring to meet even a few of those not unfriendly gazes all she could say was, “I’m sorry,” the words no sooner taken shape than she was up and stumbling through the silently parting crowd and then running and then she was back safe in her room, and though she lighted one lamp, then another, this familiar place of hers, usually so comforting, seemed sunk in shadows as if she had carried some of the night back inside with her and if she slept at all she did not remember doing so and all the following day she wandered about like the subject of a mesmeric experiment or one who is about to come down with a serious illness. Her complexion was pale and she did not speak.

  Father sent word to the quarters that henceforth all prayer meetings were forbidden. Mother decided that she and Roxana would depart earlier than usual on the family’s annual trip to Saratoga, where the change of scenery and atmosphere would no doubt do her daughter a world of good. Roxana acquiesced without complaint, seeming not to really care where she was.

  Even before mother and daughter left the following week on the packet from Charleston to New York, Roxana experienced two more memorable visions. In one she saw herself costumed in white linen and gliding in a decorous manner over a lawn of deep green grass. She felt as if she were performing before an audience of thousands, though she saw no one. She had somewhere urgent to get to, but she had either forgotten her destination or had never known it to begin with. Then, abruptly, the ground beneath her feet began to soften and, as she went on, her shoes began to sink deeper and deeper into what was now a sea of viscous mud until finally she reached a place from which she could no longer advance nor could she retreat, but, remaining upright, while steadily floundering, trying to free herself but unable to, hopelessly stuck in this noxious mire, she opened her mouth to scream and though her tongue and throat seemed capable of movement, and the air rushed out of her windpipe, she could make no sound, not even the whisper of a noise.

  In the second vision she saw herself collecting eggs from the coop, carrying them in a woven basket back to the house, and when she broke the eggs into a bowl on the kitchen table each separate egg released a torrent of blood, the rich private scent filling her nostrils and turning her stomach.

  By dawn she had hardly slept at all, the skin under her eyes pouchy and dark as the lowering sky. Their luggage was loaded into the carriage and Eben drove them down to the landing. Roxana would remember little of their journey, neither the voyage down to Charleston nor the long Atlantic passage to New York, only the rocking of the water and the incessant noise of her mother’s voice, beating upon her ear like the incoming surf. She still carried her unwieldy Bible, clutched to her breast like a shield, and when she wasn’t staring vacantly off into the horizon she read from it, sometimes aloud. When one of the gentlemen passengers aboard the packet Creole asked politely if she might refrain from quoting from Scripture during dinner, she glanced up briefly at him and replied, equally politely, “No.” No one would talk to her for the remainder of the trip. Her mother occasionally broke into tears, wiping at her eyes with a silk handkerchief she kept up her sleeve. “I never believed that God would ever see fit to curse me with a daughter like you,” she remarked coolly one afternoon as they sat together on the deck, watching the gulls diving for scraps from the bucket one of the mates was emptying over the rail.

  “Perhaps it was part of His plan,” Roxana replied. “To awaken the conscience in you.”

  “I don’t believe I’m required to take lessons in morality from my own child,” answered Mother, drawing herself up in her seat. “I talk to God daily and that is more than sufficient.”

  “And what does He say to you?” inquired Roxana with a note of genuine interest.

  “He gives me guidance.” Her mother spoke with an air of self-satisfied finality. “He directs my mind and my heart.”

  “He directs you to keep slaves?”

  Mother stared coldly at her daughter, her lips thin and firm. “Yes,” she replied.

  They sat there for a moment, turned toward each other like figures molded from the same block of wood. Then Roxana looked away. “That isn’t God you’re listening to.”

  “I’ll not have my personal relationship with the Lord questioned by anyone.”

  Roxana did not reply. She stared at the sea swelling and subsiding like the breast of a breathing creature.

  For the duration of the voyage they spoke civilly but avoided discussions of any kind on topics any weightier than the dinner menu, the day’s clothing, the passing sights, etc. In New York they transferred to the boat to Albany, cruising up the Hudson among a group of northern merchants who talked monomaniacally of money, and Mother remarked it was like listening to a pen filled with hogs rooting for grub. The coach from Albany to Saratoga was overpacked with all male passengers, each of whom was either smoking or chewing tobacco, filling the interior with clouds of repulsive vapors, the floor with an inch of brown spittle that rolled back and forth with the movement of the coach, staining their shoes and the hems of their dresses. By the time they arrived at the Congress Hotel in Saratoga, Mother was so thoroughly depleted from the ardors of the journey that she had to immediately retire to her room for her medicine and a nap. She told Roxana s
he didn’t care what she did, but that men, particularly Yankee men, must always be regarded with grave suspicion.

  Roxana found an unoccupied plush chair in the lobby where she could sit, Bible in her lap, and entertain herself with the prodigious spectacle of guests in transit. When anyone inquired whether she needed assistance, she merely replied, no, she was fine, she was simply waiting for her mother. Though the hotel seemed smaller to her than it had in previous years, the clientele seemed much the same: the well-to-do of both North and South. She was personally greeted by several Charlestonians and recognized many others passing through the great lobby, their servants trailing dutifully behind and often outfitted in clothes as fine as those of their masters. The absolute strangeness of the system of slavery, of one man literally owning another as if he were a mere yard dog or a soulless inanimate object like a chair perhaps, seemed up here in Yankeeland to be even more peculiar. How could this have happened? How could people in every other way kind and decent tolerate this cruelty and barbarousness in their midst? She didn’t know and just thinking about the subject, if it failed to ignite her anger, had a tendency to collapse her body and her will. What could she, a plain girl, do to help drive this injustice from the world when she could not even influence the opinion of a single family member?

  She was sitting there reflecting upon such pressing issues when she noticed a young man in a chair across the lobby who appeared to be aiming his rather magnetic smile precisely at her. Quickly she looked away, pretending she had not noticed his attention, but each time she happened to glance surreptitiously back she saw the same dazzling smile attached to the same handsome face which at the moment seemed to be the only face in the vast milling lobby. She could feel the blood coming up into her cheeks like a draft of warm air blowing across her skin. She pretended to study the people at the desk as if the person she waited for was finishing up his business there and would return momentarily and then she would leave with this person and just before passing out the door she would turn for one last brief glimpse of this silly young man.