by Ann Rinaldi
This year we took a ham bundled in burlap, a side of bacon, and a heap of sugar cookies. She ate like a ranchhand, that woman, and she was the skinniest little bit of a thing.
She kept an owl in her cabin. Her husband had long since died and she said she buried him standing up and facing west, with his jug of corn likker at his feet.
I don't know where she got it, but when we visited she always had candy for us. Peppermint and wintergreen.
Her small log house was surrounded with hedgerows of Cherokee roses, an evergreen with the sharpest of thorns. No animal or human could get through unless you knew the place on the side where there was a break in the hedgerows and you could shimmy through sideways.
Of course she could see the future. That goes without saying. She did it with cards or with tea or by reading your palm. I got the feeling they were only props and it all just came inside her head.
This time it was still early in the day, but the darkness was already threatening. She had candles lighted all over her cabin. And seated on the table, right next to her, was Sasquatch. He peered at us with eyes as impenetrable as a backwoods swamp. He was a snowy owl. I'd looked him up in one of Pa's books. His Latin name was Nyctea scandiaca. And he was a rare bird that sometimes honored Texas with his appearance.
He ruffled his feathers and raised his wings, showing off his wingspan.
He would never fly again. He'd come to her with a broken wing, which she'd mended. But whether it was not mended right or he refused to leave her, she would never know.
"Like with some people," she told us, "it's better we don't know."
She wore something black that draped around her and she smiled at Sis Goose. "How you doin', little girl?"
"I'm fine, ma'am."
She would not take her eyes off Sis Goose. It was like I didn't exist.
Today she was reading tea leaves. And as she peered at them in the bottom of the cup she said to Sis Goose quietly, "You ready to meet your papa?"
Sis Goose smiled. "I haven't seen him since I was a knee baby. Why would I see him now?"
"Only he knows that. Maybe he come to fetch you home."
"I don't belong to him anymore. I belong to Aunt Sophie, remember?" Sis Goose asked.
Only then did Mercy Love look at me; a long, haunting look. And in that instant it was as if I could hear her speaking inside my head. "So, you ain't told her she's free yet, is that it?"
Then she broke into insane laughter. But there were tears in her eyes.
"This war be over soon," she said. "An' then you all be free."
"And you?" I dared ask it. "What will you do when you're free, Mercy Love?"
She shook her head and sighed. "I's free now, little girl. And when they say I am I won't ever be." More laughter. "You go on and figure that out."
She gave us gifts. She came forward with two pennies, each wrapped in tissue paper. "Put these in your left shoes," she ordered.
We each took off our left shoe and put the pennies in. "What will they do?" Sis Goose asked.
"Wear them for three days, then throw them in the creek. Keep you from the cholera or the bilious fever or typhoid."
We dared not disbelieve her.
Then she brought to the table a bowl of clear water and some soap. "Wash your hands together," she said, "so you can be friends for life."
We did so, gladly. Then she gave us each a conjure bag, with goofer dust from the graveyard in it. For good luck.
As we turned to leave she patted my shoulder. "You should know that Gabriel brother of yours will be home soon," she said, "though he have a wound in his leg from the Indians."
Before I could say anything, she laughed. "But he ain't your Gabriel brother anymore. He's this one's lover." And she laughed quietly. Then, "You bring me a piece of his clothing," she said to Sis Goose, "an' I keep him safe for you."
I drew in my breath, wondering why, when the war was almost over, I had feelings that worse times were yet to come.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SIS GOOSE'S LOVER.
Sometimes Mercy Love teased. Most times likely not. The thing is you have to remember that that Christmas of '64, Sis Goose was sixteen already and I still a child of thirteen. Sure, she sometimes acted younger than me. Sometimes Gabe told me to look after her when he was gone, and I did. But when it came to falling in love, when it came to Gabe, she was somehow looking like twenty.
There were days she wanted nothing to do with me because of the age difference, days she considered herself older than the stars and full of secrets I'd never be privy to. These days she'd hurt me and I'd secretly cry. And there were days she shared with me her dreams and some of those secrets and I needed nothing else to keep going.
THE HOUSE was all decorated with garlands on the banisters and fruit on the mantels, and the tree in the parlor glowed with candles and smiled with cut-out paper decorations and strung popcorn and berries. With both my brothers home, the house took on another life, the way it did when there were men around. Their hound dogs lounged in front of the hearths, dirty paws and all. There wasn't much Ma could say about it. The dogs were usually confined to the front hall, but the boys loved them too much.
Mama said we were starting to look like a book by Charles Dickens. She looked at me in my ruffled skirts, my polished boots, my high lace-collared blouse, and my dark hair drawn back with a ribbon, when she said it.
"Go upstairs and get your brothers down, Luli," she said. "Mr. Smith and your pa haven't got all morning."
Mr. Smith was Sis Goose's father, the ship's captain, come to visit. A surprise visit, though Sis Goose and I had been forewarned by Mercy Love. He was in Pa's study, having a wake-up toddy and talking.
Sis Goose hadn't met him yet. She was just about champing at the bit, helping Ma see over last-minute details of the table.
I went upstairs, sneaked down the hall, and stood silently outside the door of Gabe's room.
"Mr. Gabriel, sir." It was Arnold, Granville's "man," who went everywhere in attendance with him. He was helping Gabe with his cravat. Gabe was an utter failure with that particular piece of menswear.
"I know she's there, Arnold," Gabe said, calmly adjusting what Arnold had done on the necktie. "You have to get used to her," he teased. "You'll find critters like her all over the house this time of year. Well, step out into the open, miss. Do you have something important to tell me?"
"Yes."
"I'm waiting."
It was about the lotion Granville had brought home from Mexico. He was wearing it. I was disappointed in him. He never used such rot.
"You smell like a pimp," I told him. "You go downstairs smelling like that and Pa will put you with the hogs."
He stopped fixing his cravat. He adjusted the suspenders on his shoulders. He looked like I'd thrown yesterday's hog slop in his face. "Where'd you learn that word?"
I shrugged. "I know just about as much as Sis Goose does about things."
"Do you now?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well then, you better know enough to run for your life right now, little girl. Because if I catch you, I'll take you right to Granville and you can tell him your opinion about the lotion he brought home. And we'll let him decide what to do with you. You know Granville's not very patient with little girls who bad-mouth their elders. Did you know that?"
My stomach was starting to churn. I shook my head no.
"Now, go on. Get the hell out of here."
He must have drank too much last night, I decided, or he'd never speak to me like that. That in itself was worse than anything Granville could do to me. I left.
***
TWENTY MINUTES later we were all seated around Mama's Christmas breakfast table, eating the specialties I and Sis Goose and Mama and the servants had prepared all week. Everything between Gabe and me had been forgotten, or so it seemed. Mr. Smith was still in Pa's study with him.
Pa had sent out word for us to go ahead and eat.
The boys were solemn on this v
isit, because the end of the war was in sight. And the South was bound to lose. Granville had brought the big-city newspapers, like gold to us, and they all said Atlanta, Georgia, had fallen in the autumn.
Ma comforted the boys. She said they'd fought the good fight and that was all that mattered. After all, the Yankees weren't here yet. We might still get a spring crop planted before they came and freed all the slaves.
I finished my breakfast and went to stand by Gabe, hoping to be forgiven and not sent away. These were serious matters they were discussing, and I needed comfort.
He took me on his lap as he told of rumors that certain groups of men were talking of running off in vigilante actions, to the west. Outriders, thieves, if necessary.
Mama said she didn't want to hear any talk about running off and joining a passel of rebels hiding in the hinterlands and holding out against the Yankees. That we had to get on with our lives, and if either Granville or Gabe did such a thing, she'd gather a group of ranch hands and come find them and whip them good.
Both my brothers smiled for the first time that morning.
"We have to figure out how we're going to run this place without slave labor," she said. "Some planters are talking about hiring Scottish laborers."
I loved listening to discussions like this, to the words that flew back and forth like doves between my family. I loved listening and learning. I leaned my head back on Gabe's chest, heard his heart, then heard something else.
"Psst, Luli, come here. Now."
The door to Pa's study was open just wide enough so Sis Goose and I could peek in without being seen.
"He's so tall," Sis Goose whispered of the man inside there with my pa.
"Yes. And handsome. Almost as handsome as Gabe."
"Why is he wearing a uniform?" she asked me.
"It's the uniform of a ship's captain," I told her. It was a wild guess, but the uniform was blue and I was sure he wasn't a Yankee.
"Luli, get away from that door." Gabe's voice floated down the hall from the dining room.
We didn't move right away. We continued peeking.
"Luli, you want me to come over there?"
If he did, what would he do? Pull me away and leave Sis Goose? Here was where it got sticky as spilled honey. She didn't have to obey him, but I did? All my life she'd been another little sister to him and now she wasn't anymore.
I backed off from the door. It was easier that way.
Just then Pa opened it, smiling, "Well, little lady? You ready to see your pa?"
"Yes, sir," Sis Goose said.
To my surprise Pa came out and gave them their privacy. I wanted to go in. I made a move toward it, but Pa grabbed my arm and said, "She can do this without you."
They were in there near an hour visiting. I went back to the table, pulled there by Gabe's look. When Sis Goose came out she was holding two packages wrapped in brown paper. Her eyes were glistening and she set the packages aside and sat down at the table with us.
"Is he going to take you away with him?" Gabe asked.
I hadn't thought of that. Only Gabe would. "No," she said shakily.
What if he wanted to? I wondered. What rights did Gabe have? Oh, I was so confused. Then before I knew it, Pa asked me to fix a dish of breakfast and bring it into the study for Captain Smith. He was busy with some papers. And although he'd brought us a large basket filled with wine, sugar in cones, coffee beans, and a giant ham, he didn't have time to join us, thank you.
The food, it turned out, was just an excuse. Mr. Smith wanted to see me.
"I understand you've been looking after my daughter all these years," he said to me.
He wore a beard that was part white, though he was not yet an elderly man. His blue eyes were piercing but unfathomable as the river currents he maneuvered every day. His blue coat was open and I could see that he wore a pistol, something long handled and carved.
"Some people would say she looks after me," I answered bravely.
He settled back in his chair and sipped his coffee. "I like you. You're straightforward. No duplicity about you." He smiled. "You haven't told Sis Goose yet that she is free, I hear."
This man doesn't waste time, I thought. "No."
"Good. I was just telling your pa that I'm glad of it. There's no telling what notion she'll get in her head if she knows it. I don't need her running off with some roustabout like her mother ran off with me."
I was shocked into silence.
"You keep on being her friend," Captain Smith went on. "She'll need one in the future."
"She's my sister," I said. "I can't think of her any other way."
He nodded approvingly. "Good girl. I've brought her a fine velvet cloak for Christmas. And one for you. You can wear them together and be sisters."
Then it was over, for me at least. Pa went back in his study for more conferring. "Likely they're talking about how to make money with the end of the war." Mama never glossed over things.
I don't know why, but I expected Gabe to meet with Sis Goose's father that day. Isn't that what you did with the father of your intended? Or wasn't he serious? Was it all one of Sis Goose's dreamed-up secrets?
I'd have to wait to find out.
THE GIFTS Sis Goose got from her pa were long cloaks of blue velvet trimmed with fur. "For the day when you come aboard ship," the note read.
For just a moment I envied her. You could see, if you were blind as a skunk in daylight, how happy she was. I just didn't know how much of it was from her pa's visit and how much because of Gabe.
We had Christmas. The slaves were given the week between Christmas and New Year's off, except for feeding the livestock, milking, and gathering eggs.
It was my job, with my brothers, to give the slaves their gifts on Christmas morning when they came up to the big house to stand outside by the front steps. I stood between my brothers and now Sis Goose stood with us.
Mama insisted we wear our long blue velvet coats. And I was surprised at how much it made us feel even closer, how we giggled and smiled as we handed out the gifts.
The children got candy and small sacks of pennies. The men and women each got a new blanket and a pair of shoes.
The tradition on our place was that the holiday lasted as long as the yule log burned, so the household help made sure that log kept burning all right.
In between the festivities, the visitors, the dancing, Pa and Mama and the boys met frequently in Pa's study, talking about what was to come in this new year of 1865.
The war would end soon now. It was only a matter of months. The slaves would be freed. "We'll not tell them about the war's end until the spring planting is done," Pa said. "I know that's what Henry Ware of Oak Grove plans on doing."
I was in on that meeting for reasons I can't recollect. But not Sis Goose.
"How many of our people do you think will stay after they're told?" Mama asked.
"A goodly amount. We'll have to pay them, of course. But I can't hit home enough with the idea that things must stay the same for as long as we can keep them that way," Pa said.
Yes, we all agreed. The same as always. Until always was not just a word but a family's history and livelihood.
Things must stay the same.
I THOUGHT Gabe forgot, but he didn't. He called it paying your debts. He called it Southern honor.
He brought me to Granville before that visit was over and made me tell him what I thought of the lotion he'd brought home, then left me there with him, in his room, alone.
Granville's room was filled with foreign remembrances, pictures of ships (for, yes, we had photos now), awards for seamanship, and him.
He wasn't clean-shaven like Gabe. He had a beard, dark eyes, a slight but lithe build. I was afraid of him.
As it turned out, he didn't believe in making a child work herself to death in the barn as punishment, or copy some glorious section of the Bible, or iron his shirts for a week, or write up the history of his lotion, or even in spanking. But he did believe, oh ho
w he believed, in washing the mouth out with vile-tasting soap, the kind the ranch hands used to wash up with. After all, that's where the dirty word had come from, didn't it? And wasn't that tradition? And mustn't things stay the same?
He took me outside, out back, where there was a trough to wash up in and where I afterward threw up.
Somehow I think Gabe knew what Granville did to me. Because I caught him looking at me once in a while across the table that night with that somber and sorrowful gaze.
Granville was quietly unsorry about it. It was done. Don't make me have to do it again. And don't go running to Ma.
I couldn't eat supper, so I didn't. "I don't feel so well, Ma. I'm kind of under the weather. I can't eat. Can I go lie down?"
She wouldn't excuse me. She knew, and she always backed up the boys. So I sat there, green in the face and near tears.
Guilty as a deer eating Ma's daylilies, Gabe was, and wanting to make it up but not knowing how. If only I could keep him that way.
I WATCHED GABE and Sis Goose all the time now, when they didn't know I was watching. I saw that he had special looks for her and she for him, looks that did not require words. How could I have been so blind before, thinking nothing of it when he lifted her off her horse, or his hands lingered a little longer when he helped her on?
Sis Goose and I slept in the same room, so I kept my mouth shut when she came to bed later than usual after taking a walk with Gabe.
And, lying there in my bed, waiting for her to come up, my mind would race and whirl.
Would he tell her she was free?
Did she think, now, that he owned her so he had a right to love her? Would she marry him if she were not a slave?
When would he tell her? Was he afraid that if he told her beforehand, she'd "run off with some roustabout," as her father had said?