Albert hopped.
“Folks!” the trader called out. “Look what a fine, strapping boy stands before you. If I was buying I would give ten dollars a pound for this little buck.”
Sarah felt as if someone had hit her in the stomach. Hard. Her brother paraded like a prized pig to market.
“Show us your teeth.” The man yanked at Albert’s mouth.
“Your eyes.” He rolled Albert’s eyelids back.
Sarah looked away. This couldn’t be happening. Should she charge the auction block? Or scream?
“Look at these big bones. By the time this little one’s eighteen, he’ll be worth a thousand dollars,” the auctioneer called out in his singsong voice, tapping his fingers together.
Sarah looked back, only to hear a broad-shouldered man call out, “I’ll take him! Three hundred dollars.”
No one else bid. The auctioneer pointed his pencil. “Sold to the gentleman from Washington, D.C.!” The gavel rang down, reverberating in Sarah’s ears like a clap of thunder.
From her place in the bushes, Sarah caught some of the buyer’s words as he bent down and spoke softly to Albert. The boy stood, immobile, with only the single trail of tears trickling down his cheeks showing he was even alive. “Come here, I’m not going to hurt you …”
She’d never heard a white man speak that way before.
“I’ll take his sister too,” the man yelled to the auctioneer, pointing to Esther. Sarah had been so riveted to little Albert, she hadn’t noticed her sister was next on the auction block. She put her hand over her mouth and slumped to the ground. How had he known that was Albert’s sister? While she’d been picking up firewood, Mister Armstrong must have told the man about her siblings. A flash of hatred blazed through her: first for ol’ massa, but then the fire zigzagged in and hit her heart. I shouldn’t have left the children alone.
“For three hundred more, this little girl can sweep the house and help my wife.” The strange white man reached out and put a hand gently on Esther’s arm. Esther bolted toward the woods behind the quarters. Sarah knew exactly where she was headed.
But the auctioneer raced behind, running faster than his short legs indicated he could, and grabbed her heel; Esther pitched face forward into the dirt. The man shook her upright, slapped her face, and shoved her roughly at her new owner.
Sarah scrambled out from her hiding place, shrieking. But before she could reach her sister, the two children were already in the buggy of the Washington man, sweeping down the driveway.
Why did he want Albert and Esther? Sarah’s quick brain had slowed to a crawl. It couldn’t process anything she was seeing, but questions flitted though her mind. Why had this man come all the way from Washington? And why didn’t he take her too?
Sarah was too stunned to cry. Right in front of her eyes, they’d rushed away the little family she’d cared for since Mama had been taken, and they’d never even let her say good-bye.
Days went by, and it all still seemed impossible. Her heart, swollen in her chest, hurt more than ever. She hardly knew what was dream and what was real. Ruth pulled her to the field in the mornings, then hunched low by her side and instructed her, “Lift your arm, chop. Cut the leaf.” At night Ruth lay with her, holding her friend close.
Still, Sarah hardly cried. Her brown-specked, hazel eyes were glassy, blankly fixed on the horizon. She didn’t answer when people spoke.
Over the next few months, more sales and auctions occurred, but mysteriously Sarah was spared. Each time traders came she had an injury, or was laid up with fever, or for no reason she could divine was never put up for sale. She knew her price, that she would be a prime offering: young Negro female, a breeder, $700. Yet somehow she was protected on this Hanover County land where she’d lived her entire life.
As the plantation—and she—began to fall apart, others cared for her, especially after their own sons and daughters were sold south one by one. Suzy, the short, wizened seamstress with a face that could “freeze hell,” as Mama used to say, mended Sarah’s clothes or cooked her a broth when Old Hannah couldn’t. Jeremiah whittled a whistle for Sarah, and prodded the phantom she’d become to pluck his fiddle mechanically while he slapped a rhythm.
Aunt Suzy spent hours on Sundays with her, teaching her to sew, while Ruth leaned in next to Sarah, warming her friend’s ever-chilled body. Grief had sucked all the fire from her core, and she shivered, even in bright sunshine. Ruth and Aunt Suzy sat Sarah between them, and together the three stitched the community’s tattered shirts and shifts.
Sarah’s body automatically put one foot in front of the other and walked stiffly toward the fields in the morning, with the overseer’s shouts dimly penetrating her daze. But she hardly cared. She returned woodenly at night and dropped off to sleep, thinking only vaguely of her family. Everything was indistinct. Papa, she believed, was still nearby in Spotsylvania County, but only barely near enough to get occasional third-hand word of, not to see. Mama had vanished to Southern cotton, into those places with the forbidding names. And now Albert and Esther taken north to Washington, D.C., a city so far away it might not be real. Sarah stopped praying, the habit of a lifetime, because she knew God had given up on her. Or she’d given up on God, it didn’t matter which. She was alone.
Evenings, Sarah hummed sorrow songs, murmuring the words without thinking. “Oh, Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn.” Sarah felt the music work its way into her veins like water trickling down a hill. When she started to sniffle she spoke out loud to herself, mouthing the words Mama would tell her: “Hush up, sister, you’ve got to bear it. You’ve got to go on, keep your faith, work with what you’ve got. Can’t sit here staring into space all your life. My spirit’s here with you.”
Over that summer, the old songs slowly breathed life into her paralyzed lungs, while her friends’ efforts began to break through her wall of shock. She felt the slightest tingling of life.
“Pharaoh’s army got drowned, Oh, Mary, don’t you weep,” she and Ruth sang together. If Mary wasn’t supposed to weep, Sarah thought, she wouldn’t either. And Pharaoh’s army would get drowned. It was a promise.
As she hummed to herself in the evenings, Ruth or Amely or Old Hannah sat by her. The energy in the music picked her up and flung her into God’s great universe, one creature spinning among many, each in their orbit. Even with her heart cracked into pieces and her anger at a burning point, she’d find a way to live.
And a way to go.
CHAPTER 10
God’s great universe, one creature spinning among many, each in their orbit. How could Dad write this? How could he believe each in their orbit, when our family got flung apart like Sarah’s family, even if it’s not as bad as hers—is that the point he’s trying to make to me, that she had it worse? It’s not God’s great universe, Dad, I’d like to tell him; it’s filled with a bunch of mean kids who divide everything into black and white, and nothing is going to turn out all right in the end. There is no harmony in this chaotic universe. Only one friend far away who might understand me. Maybe. I haven’t seen her for five months.
I’m standing in his living room. Dad would never expect me to be here alone while he’s away. I can only stay a minute ‘cause Jimi will be at our house after lacrosse practice, and Mom made me swear I’d be home. I step into the living room, my heart beating fast, and wonder if I’m crazy. Just as I’m ready to tiptoe into Dad’s study, the phone rings and the sound echoes. After a few rings I hear Dad’s deep voice cut in. His answering machine—yeah, he still uses one; he says he likes to screen calls—is turned up, and I hear that he’s actually trying to rap, which is a joke. Dad even halfway singing is like a frog croaking. Click. The caller hangs up.
When I open the door to Dad’s study and peer in, I find everything as neat as always, which I counted on. But when I scurry over to Dad’s desk, I don’t see what I came for. The blue folder should be right on top where it was last time. When I reach out to poke under a stack of papers, my hand is shaking as if it’s g
ot a life of its own, and I have to struggle to control it. Did he take the manuscript with him? I lift up a pile of papers and start to sort through them, caught up in my task until I hear a noise in the living room. I slap the pile down and take a step back. If Dad came home early from Oakland after only two days, or if he dashed back to pick up something and found me here, going through his papers—wow. No one, not even Mom, could ever touch his stuff.
What was that faint banging? A door opening? I stand completely still—except for my legs and hands, which are shivering—and listen. The wind is the only sound. Could it have been a tree branch thumping against the house?
Knock. There it is again, coming from the door.
Who could it be? My breath is starting to catch, and I can feel my palms getting clammy.
Knock. Knock. It’s louder, more insistent.
With my heart thumping against my chest, I walk toward the living room and step into the room, ready to run if I have to. I look through Dad’s peephole, the way he and Mom have trained me, and practically hit my head on the floor falling back. It’s Tyrone Jackson! I hope he didn’t see me come in. Or is it really Jimi he’s after?
I freeze and listen, trying to quiet my pounding heart. He must be as motionless as me, because I don’t hear any sound or footsteps retreating, and no further knocking. My heart is beating so loud I’m sure it will give me away. I put one hand on my chest:Calm down. I try breathing deeply—but silently—and still, no sound from outside the door.
After at least two minutes, I hear him creep away. My relief only lasts a moment, however. He must know I’m in here. Otherwise he wouldn’t have stood so quietly when no one answered his knock. How long will he wait outside?
Suddenly I’m drained. But I know I have to get out of here: I tiptoe back to the desk, and this time I see the blue folder sitting off to one side, with MISS SARAH ARMSTRONG across the front in red. Now I really better scoot. If Dad knew I was here, stealing his book … But if I go outside—my brain balks. I part the living room drapes just half an inch and peek out. No one. Wait, there he is, walking away, up the block toward Prince Street.
Allowing myself a couple of deep, noisy breaths, I force myself to sit on Dad’s couch for ten full minutes, watching the clock, just like school. Then I grab my helmet, dash out the front door, and jump onto my bike. Only losers ride bikes, Claudette says; Jessica has stopped riding hers. But at this moment, I don’t care. Since Tyrone will be taking the bus along Martin Luther King, I head the other way, toward Redwood Road, where I speed along with the wind in my face. Pink roses are still in bloom, and the delicate smell gives me a lift. I turn up Cedar Crest and left on East Hill, enjoying the breeze and the huge old oak trees. But when I see a girl up ahead on the sidewalk, alone, I skid to a stop.
“Jessica!”
Her eyes go from my green helmet to my bike, and then she says—like she’s picking up a bug—”Hello.”
Here goes. If Jessica despises me, that’s just one more reason to go. I take a deep breath, my specialty lately. “We’ve been best friends …”
She looks over my head and doesn’t answer.
“I heard you don’t want to be friends anymore. How could I go from being your best friend to nothing, so fast?” I’m straddling my bike, and I jerk the wheel for emphasis. “Tell me,” I shout. “What kind of traitor are you?”
“I never said that.” Her neck gets red and splotchy, and the color spreads up her cheeks in big patches until she looks like a strawberry with yellow hair. Jessica never could tell a lie without blushing. Too bad for her we know each other so well. “But all you ever do is hang out with—” She pauses. “You know … you’re starting to talk that way. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“That way?” I say, squinting my eyes.
“You know, your clothes, they’re changing. More—”
“How?” I can’t believe she’s critiquing me like this, especially when I haven’t changed my style much.
“It’s not only that—” She stops again, as if she’s not sure she should go on.
“What? What?” I’m fierce.
“The stuff about you stealing at Fat Slices that day. I don’t know, it made me kind of uncomfortable, with him searching you and all … It was so embarrassing.”
“Made you uncomfortable! Embarrassing! You sure did a lot to help me out. Gee, thanks. And what makes you believe some store owner instead of me? You were there, Jessica. You saw what happened! Plus, what about your fairy princess, Claudette? She put something into her pocket that day, I saw her.”
“Oh, you can’t deflect the crime away from yourself by lying.” She spits the last word. “And your brother’s a robber, I heard.” Her voice rises, shrill with venom. This is a Jessica I’ve never seen. The girl in the red jersey, flush with the joy of kicking a soccer ball to me all afternoon, has been replaced by this cardboard facsimile. “Your father thinks stealing is right—oh, excuse me, depending on who does it—and your brother evidently thinks the same, so what should I believe about you?”
“That I’m an honest person, the same one you’ve known since we were in first grade. And don’t you dare talk about my dad or my brother that way.” I lift up my fist.
She doesn’t say anything in response, and I can tell by her look that she doesn’t believe me about what happened at Fat Slices. When she raises her hand to flip back her hair, I notice her ring finger is bare. I hop on the seat and peel off, pedaling hard in spite of the tears clogging my vision. After a minute I call back over my shoulder, “I hate you!” I don’t think she hears, but I don’t care.
At home, Jimi’s in the kitchen. “Nina!” He sounds excited.
“What are you making?” I call in, dropping my backpack, which contains Dad’s folder, on a living room chair.
“Scrambled eggs.”
I stomp into the kitchen. “You know Mom said not to cook when nobody’s home.”
“I’m here. I’m not nobody.”
“Very funny.” I give him a look, the kind that used to shrivel him. His eyes would dart away, but now he looks back steadily. “And you’re here.” He’s triumphant.
“Yeah, and that means you can make me some eggs. Thanks, bro.” I put an arm around his shoulder, then charge upstairs to hide MISS SARAH ARMSTRONG in my closet. As I do, the memory of Tyrone’s face in the peephole comes rushing back. Before I leave for Fran’s, I’ve got to go back to Dad’s and get the bike, then ride it across town to Tyrone’s house without him beating me to a pulp. I can’t take Jimi with me to Fran’s—he’s too young, there’s no way he’d come without telling Mom, and I need to get away by myself to think. Ever since the world fell apart, things are spiraling down, getting worse every day, and I don’t know how to fix them. Jimi will have to show me where Tyrone’s house is. Then I definitely need to split.
Thoughts of the bike lead me to something else I need to do as well.
I race out the back door alone, carrying a small envelope. A few garden tools, rakes and shovels mostly, lean against the deck, so I grab a shovel and carry it into the back corner of our yard, then jab at the dry dirt over and over, leaning all my weight onto the spade. This clay soil, full of tangled roots, is tough; in ten minutes I manage to dig a hole just big enough for me to slide in the stupid package. “You are not my blood sister,” I whisper vehemently. “This is a reverse vow. I bury you and break our vow forever,” and with those words shovel earth over Jessica’s ring, stamping it down while I repeat, “I bury you, I bury you.”
When I return to the kitchen I try to put on a normal face, even though inside I’m churning. A mountain of hard eggs fills the frying pan.
“How many did you put in?” My voice sounds stern, like Mom’s. It’s weird to hear it come out of my mouth.
Jimi’s face pinches, and he backs up. “What do you mean, how many?” His voice is small.
“I mean how many? One, two, three—” I open the door under the sink and look in the garbage. A dozen egg shell
s, at least. “You put them all in?”
“I thought—” His eyes tear up.
“Oh no, Mom’s gonna get you. There are none left for breakfast.”
He doesn’t say anything. I see a tear roll down one cheek until it’s hanging off his chin.
“Never mind, I won’t tell. Let’s eat.” I lean down to drape my arm around his shoulder and we carry our plates to the dining room. When I do leave home, I’m gonna miss Jimi more than anybody. I wish I could tell him I’m leaving, but I don’t dare say good-bye. Instead, I ask, “Where’s the bike?”
He blanches, but swallows the mouthful of eggs and chews until he can finally get the words out. “Under the back porch at Dad’s. I shoved it way, way back under.”
“After we eat, walk me over and show me the house where you got it. I’m going to return it in the morning.” Before I leave.
When Jimi sheepishly points out the large gray house with white shutters on Cedar Crest, and shows me the exact spot where the bike was leaning against a wall, I promise him, “It will be back there next to the garage when Tyrone gets home from school tomorrow. Won’t he be surprised?” And won’t everybody? I don’t think I’ll hear Jessica talk about robbers again—if I ever do come back to Canyon Valley. Maybe Fran’s dad will let me stay a long time. What’s one more daughter when you’ve already got four?
When I come shivering out of the bathroom after my morning shower, Jimi’s already left for school. Probably just as well; I couldn’t have said good-bye to him without crying, and that would give everything away.
“Hurry up,” Mom calls from the bottom of the stairs. “Get dressed. I have to leave, and I want to be sure you have breakfast.”
“I will, I will.” She didn’t notice the missing eggs, so this must be an oatmeal morning. She makes it with these gross sunflower and pumpkin seeds, pouring some kind of strange “natural” sweetener over it and stirring so it’s one hideous gooey mess, like mucous in a bowl.
“Bye,” Mom calls up. “I’ve got to leave. Right this minute, sweetie. Are you ready?”
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