Jimi, wait for me too, I want to call out. Wait. I’m coming home. Suddenly there’s no more question, no arguments from my mind throwing up reasons to stay away. I tighten my grip on my suitcase and take off, running downhill toward the BART station. But as I race I trip on a crack on the sidewalk and roll down the hill, crashing smack up against a trash can with my suitcase on top of me. Two men in suits stop. “Ouch,” I say, wincing when one puts his hand gently on my shin.
“I don’t think anything’s broken.” He looks down kindly. “You seem able to move. Can I give you a hand getting up? Let’s make sure you’re okay.” He offers me a dollar, but I don’t take it. He must think I’m homeless, with my hair matted and covered with debris.
I don’t know what will be different at home—except maybe me—but I know I have to get there. Jimi might be hurt already. Gasping, I stumble into the station and shamble downstairs as fast as I can for the train. It’s waiting. By the time I’m about to step in the doors start to close, but I slide my hand in the opening, push them apart, and squeeze in, yanking my suitcase behind me.
Even this early in the morning people fill up the train, carrying backpacks or briefcases, and one wrinkled older man in my car has a bike. I take a deep breath before I stumble to a seat and wedge myself in. I have one more chapter of MISS SARAH ARMSTRONG, so I could finish the whole manuscript before I go home. But I can’t read here, not now. Not with tears glazing my eyes.
While I’m limping up Redwood Road to Calusa, getting near my house, I start thinking about home. Mom must have found me missing when she came home from work. I’m sure she called the school, and they told her I never got there. What did she do? I’m shivering, and I try to duck behind the live oak trees lining the sidewalk every time a car drives by. I’m not ready to deal with anyone I know yet. When I pass the real estate office at the corner, I catch sight of myself in the window. My hair is wild like Mom’s but more tangled. I run my fingers through the snarls and walk slowly, scraping my feet along the pavement, listening to Sarah’s voice in my head. “Were you running away or to something?” There’s only one answer.
If I stay outside any longer, somebody I know is sure to see me and call my parents before I’m ready to talk. A few people are out walking their dogs, two runners jog on the other side of the street, and cars whiz by. The doors at Café Suzette, my favorite coffee shop, are opening, so I go in to use the bathroom. But once I’m inside, smelling the fresh coffee and croissants and feeling the warmth, I can’t leave. I decide to curl up in the back corner on a wooden bench, spend the money for another cup of hot cocoa, and read the last chapter before I go home.
The Dark River
Sarah trudged through the dark, keeping alert for sounds of people and animals, while she thought about the terrible night she’d left the Armstrong plantation. It seemed a lifetime ago. She’d lost count of the days but vividly remembered the tangle of feelings when she set out: relief that she was finally going, mixed with terror of an unknown future.
That night, like this one, there was enough moonlight to illuminate the path, yet not so much to make her an easy target. But the moon was getting thinner each night; in another few days there wouldn’t be any light at all.
As she followed the river, Sarah searched for signs she was getting close to the next checkpoint. Owls hooted as if urging her on. There it was! Sarah spotted the signal Miss Jackson had described: a yellow light shining just below blue.
Cautiously moving along a path on the bank, Sarah approached a small boat and called out, ready to run. “A friend of a friend sent me.”
“Jump in,” she heard the quiet answer. A young man moved quickly, taking her hand and pulling her into the boat. To Sarah’s surprise, his skin was the same brown hue as her own. “I’m Jason,” he said, his eyes scanning the horizon. “You’ll need to get under there.”
She crept in the direction he pointed. As day began to light the sky, he rowed her upriver, hidden under nets and fishing gear. Her heels itched from the cracks that split them and the earwigs that crawled on her legs, but she didn’t dare scratch. Whenever she moved, Jason hushed her: “Stay still.”
All day she heard the slap of the oars, felt drops of water from their spray, and heard him talk softly to her from time to time.
“I’m free,” he whispered. “Soon you gonna be too. You’re real close now. I’m gonna tell you where to go. You do like I say and you’ll be all right. “
Papa used to sing a song like that: “It’s all right, it’s all right, my soul’s got a seat …” Sarah fell asleep, rocked by the boat and the memory of her father’s sweet song. At twilight Jason let her out, handed her another bundle of food, and gave final instructions. “Stay to this side”—he touched her left arm—”at the fork. You don’t ever want to go over to that side.” He grazed her right hand to reinforce his message.
“Thank you,” she said, squeezing his hand, and took off at a run.
That night she kept moving in the direction he’d pointed. And exactly as he’d predicted, she came to a fork in the road. Weary but energized by anticipation, she took the path on the left and trudged on, around one curve, and then another.
Had she remembered the correct instruction? She had her answer when she reached an abandoned cabin, where a tired man waited. “Free,” he grumbled as he shoved her under burlap, into a wagon brimming with onions. “Free. But I don’t feel free. Drivin’ all these runaways …” He moaned and complained all day, until he let her out “one night’s walk, if God’s willin’,” from the city of Washington.
While it was still night, Sarah saw the dark waters of the Potomac River. It looked exactly as everyone had said it would: wide and muddy and marshy, with narrow spots where brush grew into the water.
She crept toward its banks crouching low, for the waning moon still was bright enough to cast a dim shadow. Thirsty, she scooped up water in her hands and drank. She dunked her arms and splashed chilly water all over her head.
Shivering, she looked up and saw the Long Bridge.
After all these years of wanting and wishing, and now these cold nights and hungry, terrifying days of running, was she really going to be free? And would she find her brother and sister?
Sarah took a deep breath and looked carefully around. No one was in sight. She couldn’t get caught now, not when she was so close. But was it safe to be out in the open the way she’d have to be? She stood, indecisive, and then stole toward the bridge, bending as low as she could. Reaching its entrance, she stood resolutely and began to walk, still stooping, afraid to run in case anyone noticed her at this early hour.
For ten agonizing minutes she walked as fast as she dared, her heart thumping with fear and exertion. As a brilliant pink rippled the sky, her feet touched land.
She walked for a few minutes, following the muddy road that led her off the bridge. When she passed two young men, they strode by her with an air of confidence she’d never seen in other Negroes. For a second Sarah stared. They gawked back, then smiled and waved; tempted to speak, she nevertheless ducked her head and darted away as quickly as possible. Don’t trust anyone, she scolded herself.
Soon, spotting the entrance to an alley, she stepped off the road. Once again, Sarah felt as if she were in a dream. Could she be walking, for the first time in her life, on free soil?
She straightened her shoulders. “Keep your head up, daughter.”
Yes, Mama, yes, Papa, I am.
She paused for a moment, but knew that, even now, she had to keep moving. Slave catchers might be about at this early hour, on the lookout for people like her. The bird man had warned her, and so had everyone she’d met on her journey. “There are auctions in the capital,” people advised. “Stay away from them; the traders might snatch you up.” She’d heard of bounty hunters who searched the city streets, knowing that runaways mingled with the city of Washington’s free blacks—or with slaves who worked on gangs in the city digging ditches, building roads or government buildin
gs. She still had to be alert, ready to flee at the slightest suspicion.
Sarah walked farther into the alley, turning her head from side to side to look around. Small two-story wooden houses jammed up against each other. These places could belong to slave catchers, she thought, trembling. White people must live here. No colored person lives in a two-story house, even an undersized one like this. I should get off the street, she worried. But where to go?
Walking to a house with a small, pink flower breaking the monotony of gray cobblestone and dirty gray clapboard, she crouched close by its short brick steps. A door inside slammed. Startled, Sarah threw herself flat on the ground next to the house and lay still. Who was inside? The woods, even with the cries of wild animals and the possibility of snarling bloodhounds, seemed suddenly preferable to this strange city where she didn’t know who to trust or where to go. In the woods she knew how to interpret the sounds; she knew how to find enough food to keep from starving, even if her stomach constantly growled.
Here, among all these houses, what were her clues? She needed shelter and safety and food, but didn’t know how to find them. All her benefactors had focused on getting her here, instructing her about forks in the river and lanterns and bells. When they talked of Washington, they mentioned “free black churches that help runaways” and “a vault in a burying ground that’s a safe haven,” but they’d been vague on details.
Sarah remained flat against the steps, heart pounding, trying to fade into the small brick stairway. Wasn’t I better off back on the Armstrong place? There, at least I had regular meals. And people I knew, Sarah thought, feeling sick to her stomach.
She heard a creaky wheel and the click-clack of hooves on cobblestones—a wagon pulled by horses, with a driver calling out, “Whoa …” She burrowed deeper into her hiding place. Somewhere a cat meowed. The beseeching high pitch of the cat voiced the sadness rising up in her, a lonesome, weary grief. The insistent whine mirrored her misery exactly; she felt a kinship with this stray that also had no warm, safe place to turn. Suddenly a touch on her arm startled her, and she jumped. It was only the cat brushing by; soon it rubbed in earnest. As she felt the warmth of another creature, tears gathered in Sarah’s eyes.
A new sound caught her ear. A voice from the house above? Through the thin boards she heard a woman call, “Robert, come here. Now, boy.”
She started. The tone of voice sounded familiar. As she had many times in the woods, she willed herself to become stone.
Silence. A pat of feet on squeaky floorboards. Another set of heavier footsteps. And one more set, walking quickly, almost hopping.
A pungent smell filled her nostrils. She knew that smell. Pigs’ feet boiling.
And then it came.
“Steal away, steal away …” The notes hung in the air.
Tears flooded Sarah’s face. The lump inside her throat dissolved, and a salty ocean burst forth. She laid her arms under her face. She couldn’t stop crying.
Still sobbing, she crawled out from her hiding place and sat on the low front step, listening. She didn’t mind who saw her. The voice that sang that song had to belong to a friend. Now that she’d braved so much to get here, and stayed out of sight so vigilantly, she threw caution away in the morning breeze. She would sit here and listen and cry and someone would find her. Someone who could help. Right now her whole insides felt as if they were in a tornado, spun by a churning of emotions—fear and relief, joy and sorrow—so intense she hardly cared what happened. She could go no farther.
The front door opened and a large woman with a red-striped shawl stood in the doorway. Hands on her hips, she took one look at the raggedy girl on her front steps and called out, “Child!”
Sarah looked up.
“Where did you come from, sitting there looking like the raggedyest …?”
Sarah looked down at her torn dress. Strips of cloth, really. She could hardly speak through her tears. “Arm … strong … place,” she sobbed out.
“Child, where in heavens is that?” The stranger took a step and leaned down to take a hard look at Sarah’s face. Her eyes looked kind, and she smelled of home. A lovely blend of pig grease and sweat and coffee enveloped Sarah. But abruptly she felt her watchfulness returning, and decided not to answer any questions. The woman could turn her in and get a reward. Her description was already in the Washington newspaper, she imagined: Negro girl, tall, well spoken, may put up a fight.
“Are you here alone, child? What Armstrong place?” The woman interrupted Sarah’s thought and put a hand on her arm. Sarah winced. Hardly an inch of arm or leg was free of a cut or scrape or bruise.
“Hanover County,” she mumbled automatically, from a long habit of answering questions put by her elders.
“Where in the world is that, and how in the Lord’s name did you get here?”
“I walked. For … many days …” she blurted out. Sarah couldn’t believe it herself. And was she safe even now? Should she be sitting here like this, talking, when a slaver was after her? Or could be summoned.
The big woman leaned down, pulled Sarah up, and dragged her into the house. “Robert, Benjamin, Mary, Sister, look who’s here. Another one come across, by the grace of God. Hallelujah!”
Children poured into the tiny front room of the house and stared. They reached over and touched her filthy clothes and sore arms, while she stood, stiffly, every nerve tense, ready to bolt.
“Where did you come from?” they asked all at once, questions tumbling over each other. “Who brought you?” “Why you here with us?”
Sarah remained speechless. Finally, after they’d fingered her clothing and gingerly touched her bruises, they lightly stroked her arms. The smallest child, a girl, tried to pry open Sarah’s curled fingers so she could take Sarah’s hand in her own.
Still, Sarah did not respond. She looked around, shaking, and stared through the doorway. There, in front of her, she saw a staircase. Were the white people upstairs? Wouldn’t they wake up, with all this noise? She tried to make herself smaller, shrinking into herself.
“I’m Miz Louise,” the woman said, throwing her red shawl over Sarah’s shoulders. Following Sarah’s worried gaze, she said, with a puzzled look, “No one’s up there.” Understanding flashed across the woman’s face, and her brown eyes lit up. She chuckled. “This is our house. We pay rent.”
Sarah gaped.
“You’re safe.” Miss Louise smiled, then pulled Sarah into the kitchen and motioned to the table. “Poor child.”
Dizzy, Sarah sat down for her first meal in freedom. Miss Louise carried steaming dishes to the table: collards, eggs, corn mush, and flour biscuits. All the food of home. Still speechless, Sarah ate as much as she could, until her shrunken stomach could hold no more. Her head nodded down on her chest and she peered out of lidded eyes.
“Sister Elsie.” Miss Louise gestured toward the short, stocky woman who came into the kitchen from the back door while they ate. “My sister.” The woman was followed by an older man who dragged one foot. “And Mister Frank Thomas.”
Sarah nodded groggily; she tried to stand up to greet the pair, but had to steady herself by holding on to the back of the chair.
“Lord,” Miss Louise said, shaking her head, “That child needs rest for a week. Take her up to my bed.” Sister Elsie carried Sarah upstairs, laid her down, and gently pulled up a quilt. Before Sarah drifted off she thought, I did it! I came all that way, by myself, and now I’m home. Even through the drowsiness that fogged her mind she vowed, I will never, ever go back to slavery. And I will find Esther and little Albert.
Of those two things, and little else, Sarah was absolutely sure.
CHAPTER 14
I close the folder and remain motionless, holding on to the magical ending. Sarah made it all the way to Washington—and had a glorious sort-of homecoming. I hope she found Albert and Esther. If Dad ever talks to me again, I’ll find out.
For half an hour I sit stock-still, savoring the pleasure of Sarah finding a
safe haven. But I don’t feel safe. I scan each person who comes into Café Suzette, and the later it gets, the more people arrive. I want to head home under my own steam, not have someone who sees me call the cops to report “the missing girl.” By now Fran’s probably wondering what happened to me too, since my cell went dead. I hope she didn’t call my house. I don’t think she’d bust me.
When I come outside at last and stand in front of the cafe, ready to charge toward home, Mom’s words flash into my mind: “If you wear a Kick Me sign, people will oblige.” Could I have really created my own storm system, as she tells me whenever I complain? It seemed so real though. I couldn’t imagine feeling safe and trusting, with that warm feeling of “knowing” that somehow things will work out, even if I can’t see how. Why does that seem so obvious today? Is that what Dad’s been trying to tell me, through Sarah?
While I walk I start to rap out loud, lyrics that simply emerge from my mouth like words did on those days when I basically cursed out Dad and then Mom, but this time it’s something wonderful: “I’m big and bad and bold. Comin’ in from the cold.” I get into the groove and snap my fingers. “I be black and I be white. If you my friend, you all right.” I chant it, softly, nodding, “I be black and I be white, hey, if you my friend, you all right.” Wouldn’t the kids in Music be surprised to hear me now, laying down such a cool rap?
I feel myself smile for the first time since I can remember, really grin in a deep, good way that reaches into every part of my body. “I be black and I be white, if you my friend—” I’m in the groove. I snap my head and stand tall, thinking home might be all right, that somehow I’ll deal, when I hear my name screamed.
“Nina!” Saundra’s Lexus screeches to a stop. “Nina!” She skids over and leaps out. “Child, where’ve you been?” Soon she’s grabbing and hanging on to me the way Miss Sarah did in my dream. “Are you all right? Where were you? Silas and Maggie—” She puts one hand to her head while the other keeps an eagle grip on my arm. “I have to call them. They’ve been frantic all night. The police …” She’s talking so fast I only get part of it. “What happened?” She rushes on. “Kidnapped? Why do you have your suitcase? Everybody’s hysterical. Did you run away? Oh my Lord, I have to tell Maggie and Silas.” She pulls out her phone, then looks up to scream, “Look at you, filthy—girl, you gave everybody a scare!” Her entire hand wraps tight around my arm, and I can tell she’s not going to let go. She yanks me hard, until the snot dripping from the end of my nose flies off.
Black, White, Other Page 18