The Heart Calls Home

by Joyce Hansen

  “She seem much better, but I keeping her in the house. Grace is with her.”

  “Rose, I had to tell you this.”

  She wiped her forehead as she sat down on the porch. “This yard is a mess of work. What happen?”

  He told her the story. “Now Obi, you shouldn’t lie like that.”

  “Rose, that’s the only way I can get work beside sharecropping. Anyway, he’s robbing me. Ain’t paying me a master carpenter’s wage.”

  “You going to get found out.”

  “By that time he like my work too much to fire me. Rose, I mean to have my own business. Even if I have to act like I ain’t me.”

  “You be careful. Sometime people get very angry when they been fooled by someone who they think don’t have no sense.” As they laughed, they saw a young couple walking down the path toward them.

  “Good day,” the man said when they entered the yard. “We looking for a Mr. Booker. The lady in the store say we find him here.”

  Obi’s good cheer disappeared. He knew, even before they asked, what they wanted.

  “Mister, we was told you could make a coffin for our son. But we can’t pay you nothing now, sir. We don’t even have a peck of corn, but we will pay later,” the young man said.

  Obi sighed. And wondered at the black telegraph on the island that had spread the news about him. The coffin maker. He wanted no parts of making another coffin. “How big was your baby?”

  “Just a infant, one month,” the young woman said tearfully.

  “We sharecroppers. We pay you later. Give you a third of our crop,” the man pleaded when Obi hesitated.

  Obi shook his head. “It’s not money. Why don’t you make a simple pine box?” Even Simon could do that. “I have a lot of work here.”

  “I see what you made for another child. And we don’t just want to throw our baby in a plain box, like he nothing.”

  The woman said in a soft, grief-stricken voice, “He was a lovely little boy, sir. You must have beauty in your hands, to make the coffins the way you do.”

  “We’ll give you something, sir. We promise,” the man added.

  “Don’t have to give me nothing. Come back at dusk.” He pointed in the direction of Easter’s land. “I’ll be over there.”

  As they walked away, Obi made a mental note of everything that was still left to be done. Simon had only completed half of the foundation for the cabin, and logs still had to be cured and split. “Why didn’t I tell them no?” he asked Rose.

  “You have a good spirit. But you also riding a high and mighty horse, like Julius. I knew you was going to say yes when she start talking ’bout you have beauty in them big rusty hands. You need to go ’head and let Samuel and them other men help you finish that cabin so you and Easter have a place when you marry.” She stood up.

  Before he could respond, Samuel entered the yard. “Hey, Samuel,” Rose chuckled, “we was just talking about you. Ain’t this something?” She sat down on the porch again. “How’s Laura?”

  “Better than me,” he said, trying to joke. “Guess you wondering why I ain’t been around to help you, Obi.”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “Cain’t sleep.”

  “You go on and help Obi, Sam. That’ll make you sleep at night,” Rose said. “He have plenty work for you.”

  “You doing fine without me, Obi. I can’t do the work like you nohow.” Samuel looked weary.

  “I have another task to do, and need you to work on the cabin if you feel up to it.”

  “What about all the curing and notching and measuring and—”

  Rose rolled her eyes in Obi’s direction. “Some people too fussy for me,” she muttered.

  “Help Simon prepare the tabby and then split some logs for me. Can’t make mistakes with that. I miss you, man. Ain’t have nobody to correct except Simon.”

  Samuel smiled slightly. They walked in silence to Obi’s unfinished cabin. Obi wanted to tell Samuel about how he’d tricked himself into a job. The old Samuel would have bent over and laughed so loud, birds would have scattered. Then he would have added his own funny turn to Obi’s story. But Obi understood. Samuel didn’t need a whole lot of talk and foolishness now. He needed a friend near him, to wait quietly and patiently with him, for the healing time. When they reached the property, Simon was already there, mixing sand and oyster shells for the foundation. Obi concentrated on making the tiny coffin.

  Samuel intently and silently split logs. Just before dusk, when the couple would come for the coffin, Obi sent Samuel home. “It be dark soon, Samuel. You work hard today.”

  “See you tomorrow, Obi,” Samuel said quietly. For the rest of the week Samuel quietly and faithfully worked on Obi’s cabin, and Obi worked on Mr. Richards’s property.

  Obi had shored up the gate, replaced spokes on the fence, and made slats that perfectly matched the ones missing from the side of the house. By Friday he’d completed everything. Mr. Richards stepped out to the yard to do a final inspection and to pay Obi. Obi thought that Richards stood a little more erectly than he had at the beginning of the week.

  He stepped around the yard with his hands clasped behind his back like a general inspecting his troops. Obi wondered whether Richards had been in the Confederate Army.

  Richards shook his head, and at first Obi wasn’t sure whether he was pleased or not. He shouldn’t have any complaints, Obi thought, because he’d been closely watching him work all week.

  “Jennings, your master taught you well. I don’t think he could’ve done a better job himself.” He took his billfolder out of his back pocket. “I’m giving you the five dollars I promised to pay. Was your master pleased with that?”

  Obi nodded. “Very pleased.”

  “And I’m giving you an extra fifty cents for yourself. For the good work. That’s for you, don’t have to share that with your master.” He winked at Obi.

  “Now if I want you again, how can I find you? I saw your master’s ad in the paper, by the way.”

  “You can write him, and he’ll give me the message.”

  “New Canaan. What is it? Never heard of a New Canaan on the island.”

  “Used to be the Williams plantation.”

  “Oh, yes, I knew the family. Sold some of the land to their slaves. Lot of trouble there one time.” He looked confused. “So New Canaan is a colored settlement?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your master doing living there? He’s not a colored man, is he?”

  “No, sir, he’s renting the plantation house from the Williams family. He’s not in the village. Just uses the general store to get his mail like everyone else.”

  “You’ll hear from me again. I have a lot of work still, but I have to go to Beaufort. When I return, I’ll contact you. Now you sure he was pleased with what I paid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then, because as good as your work is, you’re still the helper. He’s got to come out himself if he wants the full pay.”

  “Yes, sir,” Obi said. “You have a pleasant evening.” He knew Richards was suspicious and would eventually find out who Mr. Booker was, but in the meantime he’d made six dollars in one week, as opposed to six dollars a month for working as a field hand. He also knew that Richards was the kind of man who loved a bargain. He’d rather continue to do business with Jennings the helper than with Mr. Booker, the master carpenter.

  It was not completely dark when Obi returned to New Canaan, so he went to see how Samuel and Simon were coming along with the cabin. As he approached, he was surprised to see that they’d completed the walls. He tried not to let his smile turn into a grimace when Simon spread his arms out and said, “Mr. Obi, you have a new home.”

  It was so small and crude. Obi could see every log and slat that was not perfectly straight. Some of the chinks between the logs were so large that a man’s fist could fit through them. But they had done their best. And he would not have had this much completed if they hadn’t worked on it. H
e reminded himself that it was temporary.

  Obi took out his billfolder and handed Samuel two dollars. “Obi, I can’t take money from you. No. Not after how you help me.”

  “Come on, Samuel. Take it.”

  “This ain’t a job. It’s helping a friend. That’s how we do in the village. Tomorrow, some of the men coming to help us. We have that roof up by the end of the day.”

  “The work I was doing is finished. Y’all take a rest tomorrow and Sunday. I’ll have time.”

  Samuel looked disappointed. “But I already told Brother Paul and James.”

  He sighed. “Okay, Samuel, y’all come on. We’ll finish tomorrow.”

  As Simon began to clean some of the debris around the cabin, Obi handed him a dollar. “No, Mr. Obi, I can’t take no money from you,” he said, echoing Samuel. But Obi saw the longing in the boy’s eyes. “You take it. This the first money you earn.” Obi smiled. “It may be the last for a while. Don’t waste it.”

  Simon’s grin was wide. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Obi.”

  “Nobody was looking for coffins today?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Maybe all this illness die down,” Obi said.

  He left Simon and walked to the store to see whether he had any mail. There was a letter from Easter. Obi was so happy to hear from her, he read it in the waning daylight before walking back to the cabin.

  January 14, 1869

  Dear Obi,

  Excuse the long delay in writing. Do not think I have forgotten you. You are always on my mind and close to my heart. We have been so busy since Christmas and the New Year. The cold weather brings in more children. I am still attending classes in the morning and working in the orphanage in the afternoons and evenings and all day on the week-ends.

  Obi, I was so sorry to hear about Charlotte’s death. She was such a smart, happy, little girl. I cry each time I think of her. Please give Charlotte’s mother and father my deepest sympathy. Unfortunately, many children fall sick this time of year. It is the same in the orphanage. There is so much illness among them.

  I hope you and Rose and the children are all faring well. I think you had no choice but to keep the children, until you find them a good permanent home. It would have been cruel to just send them away to a camp. And Obi, I am so happy that you will give our “home” another chance. I don’t think you will regret the decision. Life will bring many storms, Obi. But we are steadfast in our love. I’m counting the days until I return. Please keep yourself safe and sound. Give Rose my love.

  I received a Christmas letter from Jason. He promises to write you for the new year.

  Love, Your Easter

  Chapter 19

  The poor little thing is only a few months old, and is suffering

  dreadfully with whooping cough. It is pitiful to hear it moan.

  —CHARLOTTE FORTEN, THE JOURNALS OF

  CHARLOTTE FORTEN GRIMKE

  When Obi entered the cabin, Araba didn’t smile and throw her arms in the air so that Obi would pick her up. She barely raised her arms. Her cough was deep, as though her insides were hollowed out.

  Sitting in the rocker, Grace held her.

  “She has that whooping cough, I’m sure of it,” Rose said. “I sent Little Ray and Scipio to stay with Melissa. The doctor give me some medicine. She wasn’t so sick this morning.” Rose bit her lips nervously. “Hardly had a fever.”

  “I’ll stay here and help you tonight.”

  “No, you go on to the meeting. I send Simon for you if I need help. What happen with the work today, Obi?” Rose asked, trying to think of something else besides how sick Araba was.

  He told her, and she said, “That man going to find you out.”

  “He’s not coming here. Didn’t you say they afraid to come in a colored village?”

  “There’s always one who ain’t, Obi.” Rose smiled.

  Obi, Grace, and Rose took turns holding Araba, giving her small spoonfuls of broth and drops of the doctor’s medicine. She was always enclosed in a pair of loving arms. When she opened her eyes, she had a familiar and loving face to gaze on. Obi held her, and she was as light as a whisper. Come on, little Araba. Get up and fight this thing like you fight to walk. She opened her eyes as if she’d heard his thoughts. Araba looked at Obi, smiled sweetly and passed away quietly in his arms. Araba was buried the following night, in a coffin he’d crafted. He carved a heart on the lid and inside the heart etched Araba Booker a loving daughter. After the funeral, Obi wrote to Easter.

  February 1, 1869

  Dear Easter,

  I hope that you are fine. Unfortunately, once again I have sad news to tell. Araba, one of the children that Rose and I been caring for, died, and was buried tonight. I made her coffin and it was the most sorrowful work. All of New Canaan came to her funeral, even Miss Fortune and Julius. I am worried about Grace. Her eyes are dead again. She left this world with her sister.

  This is a joyless, hopeless place Easter. It’s killing the children. I should have put that little girl on the transport and let her go. Maybe she’d be alive now. There be too many people here troubled in mind and body.

  Julius talks about land, and the land association, but I see no land up for sale. I cannot make a decent living here, much less build a business. I had to make believe I was a fool who hardly knew slavery over, just to get a piece of carpentry work. It seems as though I have become the village coffin maker. The money I saved from the army is fast going. People here have nothing and no hope of getting anything. They losing the land they had and most of them have to sharecrop. They never make enough money to buy a piece of land.

  But I will wait for you as I promise. The cabin is almost complete, though it is small and plain. I think of Araba and the way she always get up everytime she fall. So I will get up and continue, but I am afraid for us Easter. It seems everytime I begin to find a little peace, something terrible happen. How much time do we have, Easter? I long to be with you before something else happens again.

  Your Obi

  Obi was tired to the bone as he walked down the shelled road the evening after Araba’s burial. A ferry had come in, and he wanted to see whether he had any mail. He’d been up since dawn, working on the cabin. He and Samuel both, working hard and quietly all day—both men fighting off the painful memories, the disappointments.

  He breathed in the spicy smell of Miss Mary’s store. The storm hadn’t changed that, but it had added a thick crack down the wall behind her counter. Several other customers were in the store, and he was surprised that they all greeted him warmly, by name. “Hello, Mr. Obi.”

  “Sorry about your little girl.”

  “Mr. Obi, thank you for what you done for us,” one woman said softly.

  Obi remembered her. The last mother he’d made a coffin for.

  “It’s nothing, ma’am.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your little girl,” she added.

  “Thank you. I hope you and your husband faring well. Miss Mary, I have any mail?”

  “Yes. I think you do,” she said, putting the mail basket on the counter. “Think I saw an envelope that look like it had your name on it.”

  Obi found the envelope, but the handwriting was unfamiliar, and almost childish. He quickly opened it and scanned the chicken-scratch handwriting for a signature. Jason Jennings. While Miss Mary and the other customers talked, he sat down on a crate and read the letter.

  Jan. 5, 1869

  Dear Obi,

  Happy New Year. I hope you is fine, Obi. Well it nice to hear from you after all of these many years. Easter tole me you find Rose and all of them people. Is Rose still fat and bossy? She also tole me that you an her is getting marry. Well that’s nice. You all will be happy. I know Easter can’t see no one but you. I know she be thinking of you when the sun rise and still thinking about you when it set.

  It be nice for us to live together like we did on the farm, but I ain’t never coming down there to live again. As long as there be a stage somewhere
for me to sing and dance on, you never catch me up in nobody’s cotton patch. I’m not talking big on myself, but the people here in Chicargo love the way I sing, dance and play the banjo too. I learn to play the banjo so good I could make a big yam foot like yours do a jig. (ha, ha, ha) Can’t pull my ears now like you used to do. So I guess you better disabuse yourself of any thought of me coming back there. I still don’t no the words that would make you no how sad I was when you and Easter leave me. You has to be inside my heart to no how bad I feel at that time. It make me sick. I remember it still and it still hurts to think on it.

  But Easter loves me and come back for me. You didn’t. I older now and understan. You was getting free and couldn’t take no little pissy tail boy like me with you. So you must understan how I feels. I find freedom too. Right here in sweet Chicargo. We be here for another month. Next we head for New York City and I been tole that’s even better than Chicargo. I also hear some of the people talking about maybe we go to London. Maybe I sing and dance for the Queen. I with the Georgia Minstrels, that’s our group. All of us be colored.

  Well Obi, the show start soon so I have to go. Maybe one of these days you and Easter come and see me in a show. When we go to New York, I will send Easter my address and she can give it to you. Can’t wear out my fingers with all of this writing, have to save them for pluckin that banjo, (ha, ha, ha)

  Save a space for me in your house for when I visit. I come and visit when Easter returns and you all get hitched. Bye Obi.

  Love, Jason Jennings

  Obi shook his head as he read the letter. That boy still a rascal and a jack-a-behind. He didn’t like the sound of Jason’s letter, and was reminded of performers he’d seen who came around the army campsites. Most of them were beggars and vagabonds.

  “Mr. Obi,” Miss Mary interrupted his thoughts. “Hope that wasn’t no bad news make you look so sad.”

  “No. Not bad news. Just news.”