“No, I’m going to hide in that shack by the marsh. My wife and children are here. I’ll hide out for a few months” was all he would say. “They’ll bring me food.” Then he was gone.
Sarah would have to run alone.
Of all her childhood friends, only Ruth remained. Few uncles and aunties still lived on the plantation. In fact, Ruth, Old Hannah, Jeremiah, and Aunt Suzy were the only people she could confide in. Yet she didn’t want to burden them with the secret, for knowledge about a runaway could bring any punishment, from whipping to death. Still, she had to say good-bye. At least to Ruth.
Sarah walked over to her friend’s cabin. Her hand stretched out to push open the flimsy door, but something inside, insistent and strong, said, No. Don’t tell her. She’ll understand. Go. Now.
Sarah turned away, wiped her eyes, and hurried back to the cabin she now shared with Hannah, Aunt Suzy, and several others. She’d have to be quiet, and she’d have to be quick.
Soundlessly, she tucked her mother’s worn, miniature Bible and three bone buttons into the pocket of her shirt. It was a coarse woolen one she’d saved for this moment. She quickly rolled her old green blanket, slid the tiny compass from the bird man into her pocket, and wrapped a brown scarf around her head. Stowing a piece of salt herring and two ash cakes into a scrap of cloth, Sarah stepped out of the cabin. As she took her first steps away, heading directly into the woods behind the cabins, Sarah still longed to go and hold her friend one more time. Ruth would understand why she’d had to go. Still, Sarah hated to imagine Ruth’s face, twisted with grief and worry, in the morning. She’d know first thing that Sarah had run. Silently, Sarah wished her friend her own successful escape—though Ruth always maintained she would never have the courage—and bid her a mental farewell.
Sarah had to focus on her own survival. She reached out and touched trees as she walked. The North Star gleamed behind moving clouds while her compass confirmed moss she could feel growing on the north side of trees. She was headed in the right direction.
Memories flooded her until Sarah felt faint. “That was then. This is now,” she had to tell herself. “Keep moving. I can’t get caught.” Her throat was so sore she had to gasp to keep from hacking. Every inch of skin was covered with scratches, some of them deep, while her arms and legs burned with mosquito and chigger bites. Her bare feet bled and the hair on her arms stood up each time she heard the blood-curdling cry of a wild animal. Still, in spite of the danger, and understanding the risk that she might never make it to freedom alive, she knew she had no choice but to keep moving north. It was too late to turn back.
The more she walked away from the Armstrong plantation, the sharper and clearer her childhood memories were. But Sarah lurched on, pulled forward by the hope that Esther and little Albert were somewhere up ahead. She’d been gone from home for five endless days. Her stomach growled. She’d never been so tired. Or lonely.
In truth, she’d never been alone in her life before. Every night she’d slept in a room with her mother and brother and sister; every day she’d scampered among dozens of people, all moving to the rhythm of their work. Now she spoke only to the owls, who answered back, and the wood rats and raccoons and foxes she heard running nearby.
Sarah was so hungry she scratched with her bare hands to rip out bits of pine roots until blood seeped from under her fingernails. She found sassafras buds to gnaw on. And, grateful for the moonlight, she saw clearly enough to pick blackberries. The sound of crickets chirping kept her company, though walking without any people nearby felt stranger and stranger. She wondered if this running away were a dream. Maybe it was, and she was simply back on her pallet on the floor in the quarters? Then a sharp jab in her foot reminded her of the reality she faced.
Sarah kept to small paths, some no more than deer trails, always staying near the river. She waded back and forth across the water, and once floated on a pine log so any bloodhounds set out after her would not be able to detect her scent.
In a driving rain she shivered, and her throat seared so badly she wanted to scream, to cry out, to have Mama or Papa appear. She wished someone could hold her, even for a moment. She knew the pain in her throat would get better if only she could have a bowl of warm soup and a friendly arm around her, or a hot compress on her chest. But instead she was alone in a terrifying and thick forest, freezing, while she followed a jumble of paths that might, for all she knew, be leading her right back home. Uncle Jeremiah’s voice rang in her ears: better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.
Had it been a terrible mistake to leave after all?
CHAPTER 12
By the time I finish the chapter—catching pages that blow all over—and devour my last sandwich, it’s late afternoon. I try not to think of the last line of the chapter, of Sarah alone and without food.
I still don’t have a plan for the night, so I mosey farther along Market up to Civic Center, waiting for inspiration. Nothing seems scary. That social worker didn’t know what she was talking about. If she was one. I wonder what Miss Sarah would think about me now, running away. It’s different from what she faced, but still, she might be proud of me, taking my fate into my own hands. Why should I stay back in Canyon Valley without any friends, waiting for my dad to double-kill me—once for sass, twice for stealing his manuscript—and then let my mom punish me too, like she promised? A tear dangles off my nose.
A few times I stop to listen to a harmonica, then a guitar, until before I know it long shadows fall across the sidewalk. I’m shivering. When I get to Civic Center Plaza, homeless people—men, mostly—are sitting all over the place with bulging shopping carts, and a few men lie on the pavement. Or pace. One young woman sits cross-legged with a huge German shepherd sprawling next to her. The girl’s head falls over her knees toward the sidewalk. All I can see is a mass of hair bleached like straw, tangled, dangling over her face like a tent, until a gust of wind blows it back. I catch sight of her sunburnt face and hollow green eyes that stare out at nothing.
After I stroll around the plaza a couple of times, wondering whether I should keep heading up Market to the Castro, a scruffy young guy approaches. “Help me get a hot dinner,” he begs. When I shake my head no, he mutters, “Cheap,” and shoots a mean look. “I’m starving to death out here, sister,” he says, changing his tune, while he keeps his palm out.
I don’t want to pull out my money, which is wadded in my back pocket, while he’s watching. But I feel sorry for him since he sounds desperate, and I know how much I hate to be hungry, so I reach in, unpeel the roll as fast as I can, and hand over a five.
“Thank you, sister. Sonny’s gonna eat tonight. God bless you.” He’s beaming.
Still, I’ve got to find supper myself, and a place to sleep. The San Francisco fog is billowing in, a wind is whipping up, and it’s freezing, with that penetrating damp chill. I know better than to linger here on the plaza after dark, but with no idea where to go, I stand still and look around. Maybe I should head back to Glide? When I was there last year I think they said something about a shelter where you could wait in line for a place to sleep. But that sounds too scary. Sonny must sense my uncertainty, because he points down Larkin Street, his arm pulling him forward until he lurches in the direction he’s aiming. “Over at Burger King, I could buy you dinner,” he says with a strange laugh, a cackle that ends in a moan.
“No, thanks,” I say, eager to escape.
As the shadows lengthen I haul my luggage back down Market Street, warming up, until I find a sandwich shop with a sign in the window—Cheap Eats, 24 Hours—that calls to me, and duck in. The smell of old grease frying hits me hard, making me nauseous. Still, I’m hungry. And numb with cold.
“Welcome,” the waitress at the counter says with a huge smile, and in ten minutes I’m wolfing down a tofu burger and a plate of fries. With food in my belly my brain starts spinning again, until Sarah’s world and my world are all mixed up. It’s so strange and surreal being here; I could hide in some bu
shes, I think groggily, like she did. But where? Golden Gate Park is too far, and so vast it frightens me. I start imagining a small, cozy park with only a few shrubs, enough to shelter me but not so many that lots of other people would sleep there. Certainly I can stay out for just one night—lots of people do it—and in the morning I’ll return to the safety of the terminal and catch the bus to Fran’s. I curl my frigid toes into my shoes.
Once I’ve decided to sleep out tonight, I linger in the sandwich shop as long as I can, drinking water (“Yes, more, please”) and using the restroom until, by the time I push open the door of Cheap Eats, the moon is out, casting its silvery light and shadows. As I stumble, exhausted, back down Market Street toward the Embarcadero, I see the forms of people lying in doorways under blankets. I never thought to bring one, and I can’t imagine how they spend the entire night on cold cement. I’m trembling uncontrollably; I’ve never walked along Market at night alone, or been anywhere by myself after dark in the city. The street is deserted, with closed shops and boarded-up storefronts, until I get to Powell Street and turn left, trudging up the familiar street, where I see cable cars. I hope I can find a patch of ground with bushes somewhere up the hill. It would be less creepy tucked under some vegetation than out in the open, and I’ll have to be on dirt; the cement is way too hard.
People jam the sidewalks on Powell—tourists staring into store windows or hurry by, and locals loitering in small groups, pestering, “Spare some change?” I tug the suitcase uphill again, huffing, catching glimpses of people rolled up in sleeping bags and sprawled across every shuttered doorway. But I can’t find any kind of space that looks comfortable, so with my eyelids closing, I turn back down the hill and drift to the other side of Market Street, the seedier side. I rush along, hurrying past strip clubs advertising Adults Only. In front of one, a brightly lit marquee startles me: New Shows, Auditions Daily. I stop short. For a horrified moment I wonder how disgusting that would be, to stand naked in front of people. I scurry past the sign, head down. No, I’ll never be that desperate.
A block later I spot a small park ahead, surrounded by a low fence. As I get closer I see the wall is purple concrete, full of handmade mosaics. Circling all the way around the edge I find two gates, both locked, but it’s easy to clamber over and I haul my green suitcase up behind me. Once inside I crouch by a series of blue benches shaped like train cars, next to two tire swings hanging over orange rubber matting, and an orange-and-blue jungle gym with a short slide. It’s a kiddie park. I scoot over to an area of low bushes, hard up against the wall. Pulling my suitcase in next to me, I crawl under a bush that smells like pee. The ground is unbelievably hard and the leaves drip incessantly from the heavy fog blanketing the city. In five minutes I’m wet, hungry again, and I have to go to the bathroom.
A police siren screeches by, then another. Cars honk. A fire engine roars past. People on the sidewalk, right on the other side of the wall, talk and laugh. One woman screams “Help!” No one comes, even when she screeches “Help!” once again. Then there’s no sound until someone vomits, gagging on and on while I squirm on the cold ground. Every time I roll over, carefully, quietly, another stick prods me. I can’t get comfortable and I can’t stop sniffling. Two or three men start to yell from somewhere on the next block, until a woman shouts “Shut up!” and they do. Apparently those are the magic words out here.
After a restless hour I see a flashlight swing into the playground, swaying back and forth. In the moonlight I catch sight of a man circling the jungle gym, shining his flashlight into an orange cubbyhole at the base. My heart pounds. The light swings closer, moving toward me; I hear footsteps pound the rubber matting, then the cement bordering it, and finally the solid ground close to the bushes. I go rigid and cover my mouth with one hand to smother the sound of my breath.
The light shines near me; I can see his scuffed, black lace-up shoes. But in a minute the beam moves away, swinging rhythmically until, unlocking the gate and then clanging it shut, the guard leaves the park. After he’s gone I curl up and cry, muffling the sound with my arm. Why did leaving home ever seem like a good idea? But I know I’m way too proud—and scared—to go back. I’ve never felt so forlorn, so alone, without a friend or confidant in the world. Only the image of Fran’s smiling face under her curly black hair keeps me going. I hope Jessica didn’t tell her too many lies about me. A prayer comes unbidden while I drift off to sleep. Please, let me get through this night alive, keep me safe, show me the way. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil … thy rod and thy staff they comfort me … Even half asleep, I argue, though: Is it true? If God is love, I don’t see how such terrible things as slavery could happen. Or friends splitting by race. Or lying about each other. God isn’t supposed to let stuff like that happen. But a part of me argues back, telling me that just because things aren’t perfect or easy or right, it doesn’t mean God’s not here. That the world is totally broken. I remember the peace I felt in the church, the comfort Father Jorge’s words gave me, but my mind still wants to fight back. My sore heart hurts even more as I wake and sleep in fitful bits, reaching for the comfort of the psalm while my mind rejects it. “Pray for guidance” becomes my mantra as I toss through the night.
When I wake at dawn, I’m soaked, drenched to my underwear. Every inch of me is sore, and I’m shaking so hard I can’t stop. But while my eyes are still closed, the memory of a vivid dream rushes in, full force: Sarah and I were flying, holding hands, floating over houses. Canyon Valley and even San Francisco looked like toy villages, with patches of round, green trees, like a Faith Ringgold quilt. Cars were colorful bugs crawling along the streets. We steered by leaning one shoulder down, gliding, floating. She was a girl my age, my friend, and we were wonderfully free.
Then she was old, with white, wild hair. “Great-great-granddaughter,” she told me sternly, in quick bursts. “You’ve no business wandering all over San Francisco during the night. Get on home!” She glared. “This is nonsense. You’re no slave. Get out of your own way, daughter. You have two parents who love you. They’re mad with worry.” She stared so hard I got chills. Her voice was a low rumble, like thunder. “Many have much worse troubles, Nina Armstrong.” Bent over, she peered up at me. “Ask me how I know.”
When I started to say, “But—” she clutched my shoulders with both hands and squeezed me hard, until I woke, struggling to get her arms off my shoulders. Still she spoke: “Take charge. Listen to your heart, what guides you. Only you can.”
Rubbing my eyes, I shake my head to clear away her voice, concentrating on dismissing the words that echo—”Take charge, listen to your heart, only you can”—and, eyes wide open, I stare around the park, determined to put my attention on my surroundings instead of a bizarre dream.
Above, the sky is gray, flat. Under my back I see filthy dirt, littered with dry leaves and cigarette butts. Broken bottles—green and brown—are scattered nearby. Sharp sticks and pebbles are strewn all over the ground too, sprinkled between dozens of hard, large roots. Those were the spikes I felt all night.
Trembling with cold, I crawl out, stand up stiffly, and brush off my pants, trying to wring them out on my legs. I snatch my suitcase, soggy from the heavy fog, clamber back over the wall, and head toward Market. There’s hardly any traffic. It must be early. I wonder where to get hot food without spending much of the money I have left; I’ll need it for the bus and taxi and food along the way. My teeth are chattering and I can’t stop shaking, but the image of old Miss Sarah Armstrong lingers, in spite of my effort to ignore it. With her unruly hair flying around her head like a halo, she accompanies me, and I have to admit she makes me feel protected.
When I’m back on Market Street, standing on the corner waiting for the light to change, a black cat streaks in front of me. Some people say they’re unlucky, but I’ve heard Mom and Dad say different. Mom said that in Ireland, a black cat crossing your path means good luck, and Dad laughed, because, he told her, in
African American tradition black cats also brought good fortune. Especially one with its tail up, which this one has. Maybe my luck is changing. I’ll wake up and discover that this last month was all a dream. Dad and Jimi still live with us, Jessica is my best friend, Claudette never moved to Canyon Valley, Jimi didn’t steal a bike, and I never heard of a boy named Tyrone. Dad still calls me Lilla Bit and Mom’s eyes go soft with love every time she looks at me. Maybe Dwight even likes me. I press my fingernail into my wrist as a test, but it hurts like the devil, so I know I’m awake and really standing alone, shivering at dawn on Market Street in San Francisco. The cat waves its tail gracefully, then lowers it and slinks back to the corner. It crouches, stalking a small rat frozen at the curb. Still, this cat is a good sign. I watch the cat sink down, getting ready to pounce, while the light turns green and red again and I try to come up with the right name. In a flash I realize cats have nine lives, so I bend to whisper, “I’m going to name you Number Nine. From now on, that’s my lucky number.” I start a rap, “Nine be fine,” and click my tongue. “Nine be mine.”
Number Nine bolts across the curb and hides under a car. I drop on my knees to look underneath, but no cat. When I unbend myself, stand, and wipe the street grit off my palms, I’m shaking with cold, worse than before. My teeth are chattering so hard their clacking sounds as if it could wake people sleeping in apartments over the stores. I rub my hands together, wishing for gloves, which normally I never wear. While I’m waving one arm at a time, trying to warm up, I cross the street and, first thing, see a scruffy woman watching me. She hardly has any teeth—a couple molars left on the sides—and her clothes are stained and torn.
“Come ‘ere, luvie,” she motions me to an alley, “if you’re hungry. You look starved. New to this life?”
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