“Cat is not a slave.”
“Yes, by heaven--” Henry rose unsteadily on his feet and stood inches from Madeline, “--she is a slave.”
At the venomous look in his bloodshot eyes, Madeline tightened her grip protectively around Cat’s trembling shoulders and took a step back. Henry snatched the girl’s tiny arm again and jerked her forward as though she were a rag doll. “Where is the runaway?”
“Wh–what runaway, Mister Henry?”
“Don’t play daft with me, girl.” Henry’s voice rose, and he shook with fury. “I have it on good authority you were seen going into Hanson’s barn last night. And now his brother’s slave, Horace, is missing. And just when they were getting ready to head back to Georgia in the morning. What do you know about it?”
Cat’s mouth dropped open, her eyes wide with terror. “I--I swear, I don’t know anything about a missing slave.”
“For mercy’s sake, Henry, you’re hurting her.”
Henry hesitated a moment, then dropped her arm. “Make her tell the truth, Maddy, or so help me, I won’t apologize for what I do to her.”
Fear caught in Madeline’s throat. Gently she turned Cat from Henry’s accusing glare. He dropped once more into his chair.
“Sweetheart,” Madeline said to Cat, staying deliberately composed in the hope of restoring calm to the house. “Were you inside the Hansons’ barn last evening?”
Tears glittered in Cat’s soft brown eyes. She lowered her lashes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Behind them, Camilla released a soft gasp. Madeline glanced up at her daughter. Alarm invaded her heart at the sight of the girl’s pale face. “What is it, darling?”
“Nothing, Mother. I just cannot believe Cat would be so wicked.” The look of utter hatred directed at Cat mirrored her father’s. “I had no idea she wasn’t in our room all night.”
Madeline shuddered. Henry influenced the girl far too much. “Camilla, it’s time for bed.”
The girl glared at Cat once more, then spun around and left the room.
Madeline turned back to Cat. “What were you doing in the Hansons’ barn last night? Did you help a slave to freedom?”
Swallowing hard, Cat met Madeline’s gaze. “No, ma’am.”
“What, then?”
“I--I. . .”
“It’s all right. You can tell me.”
Tears spilled from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. “I was meeting someone.”
“You see?” Henry shouted. “Didn’t I tell you they always stick with their own kind? Who were you meeting, one of those Quakers? Where did he take the slave?”
“Henry, please.” A sudden pain pushed at Madeline’s temples, draining her strength. If Cat had been caught helping a runaway, there was nothing Madeline could do for her. “Cat, whom did you go to meet?”
“Oh, Miss Maddy, I’m sorry.” Cat hid her face in her palms and sobbed.
Cupping the girl’s chin, Madeline gave a gentle nudge upward until she could observe all of the tearstained face. “Tell me.”
“I went to meet Thomas Hanson. H–he and his parents are visiting from Atlanta.”
Madeline’s heartbeat increased. “How do you even know the boy, Cat?”
“I came upon him while I was walking one day. We’ve met several times since. He’s ever so easy to talk to. He asked me to meet him last night because he was supposed to go home today. I’ve never snuck out at night before. I–I swear. We just wanted to say good-bye.”
Henry sprang from his chair and slapped Cat hard, knocking her to the wooden floor. “What did you do with that white boy?”
Cat’s round eyes filled with fear. “W–we just talked.” Blood trickled from a cut on her bottom lip.
“Henry, for the love of God, leave her alone.” Madeline knelt beside her. She removed the handkerchief from beneath the cuff at her wrist and dabbed at the child’s lip.
“Don’t lie to me,” Henry screeched. “Did you lie down with that boy?”
Cat’s gasp mingled with Madeline’s. “No, sir!”
“Liar! Why else would you sneak off to meet him after dark?”
“Henry, Cat is a good Christian girl. She wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“She’s a liar. They’re all liars. And they have no morals. Why do you think there are so many yellow babies?”
Madeline’s face burned. She knew only Henry’s drunken condition could have induced such an indelicate remark. Still, she refused to let the statement go unchallenged. “I would say, Henry, that that unfortunate circumstance is due to certain men, rather than the slave women who have no choice.”
He ignored the comment and addressed Cat. “Does the boy know what you are?”
Confusion clouded Cat’s eyes. “I–I don’t know what you mean.”
“Henry, please.” What sort of monster had her husband become?
He glowered at Cat. “I mean--”His eyes darkened, narrowed. “--does your lover know you’re nothing but a darkie?”
“Henry!”
Cat’s face blanched. “N–no.” Her voice seemed to come from far away.
“So you thought you’d snag a white man by pretending to be a white girl?”
“I--I never thought about it.”
Madeline’s heart nearly broke for the girl, and for the first time since moving to Missouri, she wondered if she had done the child a favor by allowing their neighbors to believe her to be white. In truth, marrying a white man was out of the question unless the girl fell in love with a man of broad ideas and they moved to Canada. Cat would probably never look at a Negro man as a suitable match, any more than Camilla would.
Oh, Father, what have I done?
“Cat, darling. We’ve heard enough. I’ll decide your punishment for sneaking out of the house and inform you in the morning. Run along to bed.” She pulled the girl to her feet, careful to use her own body as a shield from Henry.
Henry spoke up. “She’s not sleeping in Camilla’s room any longer.”
“What are you saying?”
An uneasy tension formed a knot in Madeline’s stomach as Henry’s drunken gaze slid up Cat’s form. “She’s not a child any longer. It’s time she starts acting like a proper servant.”
“Henry!”
“No arguments.” He raised his hand to silence her. “As a servant, it isn’t proper for her to sleep in our daughter’s room.”
“You agreed, Henry. Years ago. Cat is not to be treated as a slave.”
But Henry would not be deterred this time. “I shoulda left her with my father when he wanted to buy her. We shoulda stayed in Georgia.” His bloodshot eyes glowered at Maddy. “I shoulda never married a Yankee.”
Madeline was past caring whether Henry loved her or not. The years in Missouri had not only proven that he did not, but his behavior had caused her own love for him to wane. This wasn’t about their marriage. “Be that as it may. I insist you hold to the original agreement and allow the child to go to bed.”
“Sure.” He grinned, evil shining from eyes that looked positively black beneath squinted lashes. “She can go to bed. But not in my daughter’s room.”
“Well, then, Henry. Since you insist upon doing the dishonorable thing.” Fury shook Madeline’s shoulders and she turned on her husband, meeting his gaze head on. “In the absence of slave quarters, where would you have her sleep?”
He shrugged as though the matter was settled. “She can make up a pallet in the storeroom off the kitchen. If that isn’t good enough, she can sleep in the barn with the rest of the stock.”
Cat’s head dipped in shame and her lower lip trembled, but she didn’t weep as Henry stumbled from the room.
Madeline gathered the girl into her arms and, for the first time in all the years she’d been caring for her, felt resistance in Cat’s slight form.
“Oh, Cat. Perhaps Henry will be reasonable tomorrow after a good night’s rest.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her voice devoid of emotion, Cat patted Madeline’s back. “Don’
t fret, Miss Maddy. I’ll be all right.”
Hot tears slid down Madeline’s cheeks as Cat pulled away and regarded her through long, bristly lashes. “Don’t cry,” she said. “Please don’t cry for me.”
Chicago, 1948
“I’m back, Mama.” The back screen door swung shut with a bang behind Lexie and she struggled into the house carrying an armload of freshly dried clothing from the line.
Mama appeared in the doorway as Lexie deposited her burden onto the kitchen table with a heavy breath. “Gracious, Lex, you near gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to let it bang. My arms were full. It’s starting to rain outside.”
A smile showed Angel Kendall’s strong, white teeth. She glided across the room, despite her two hundred pounds, and flapped her hands. “I’ll live.” She lit the stove and pulled the iron from the shelf over the burner. “How was work?”
With a shrug, Lexie dropped into a wooden kitchen chair and toed off her brown platform shoes. Bending forward, she rubbed her aching arches. “Mrs. Bell hollered at me again. I swear, Mama, I think that woman is losing her mind.”
Angel’s lip pushed out indignantly. “What’d she shout at you for?”
Lexie frowned, remembering the sixty-year-old woman’s dark accusations. “I slipped on the freshly scrubbed foyer floor, and Mr. Bell. . .steadied me.”
Mama nodded. “That woman knows her man likes the colored girls. I’m surprised she don’t hire on poor whites.”
A bitter snort left Lexie’s throat. “They won’t put up with as much meanness as we do. Whites know they can find other work.”
“You know Andy didn’t want you workin’ for that woman in the first place. He don’t want you workin’ period.”
At the mention of her husband’s name, Lexie’s stomach dropped a foot. “A lot he really cares. He’s as bad as Mr. Bell, chasing other women. It doesn’t matter if he likes me working or not. I’m not taking him back this time, so I gotta have a job.”
Angel opened a cabinet door and pulled down the ironing board. She licked her index finger and made a fast tap on the hot iron. Her saliva sizzled. With a satisfied nod, she snatched up Pop’s white Sunday shirt--the only shirt he owned that wasn’t looking worn in spots. “Jesus hates divorce, my girl. And your poppa and me, we didn’t raise you to be gettin’ no divorces.”
“I know, Mama. But our marriage isn’t like yours and Pop’s. If Andy treated me the way Pop treats you, I’d be kissing the ground he walks on. But he doesn’t.”
“He’s just still trying to prove he’s a man, Honey.”
With a snort, Lexie eyed her mother critically. “Half the women in Chicago know he’s a man. You’d think he’d have figured it out by now.”
Angel cackled, then turned, her expression sobering. “Honey, you can’t expect a man who is bound by the prince of this world to think the same way your pop does. He don’t know no better.”
“I can expect him to love me like he promised.”
“No, you can’t. Only God is love. Outside of a walk with God, a person can’t even begin to understand what it means to love.”
Frustration shot through Lexie, loosening her tongue. “Mama, I mean the kind of love a man has for his wife. Not God’s love.”
“Husbands, love your wives as Christ loves the church.” As though that settled the argument, Angel hung up the freshly ironed shirt and reached for the next.
Lexie stood and grabbed her shoes with one hand. “Do you want some help with the laundry?”
“No, Baby, you’re looking awfully tired. Go on upstairs and lie down for a while. I’ll holler when supper’s ready.”
Lexie trudged up the steps, her stockinged feet making no sound as she padded down the hall and into her bedroom.
Tears formed in her eyes. She hadn’t exactly been living like she knew any better herself. If she’d been serving God when she met Andy, he never would have looked at her twice.
She was only eighteen at the time and pushing against the confines of being a deacon’s daughter. Sheila’s Swing Club seemed like just the place to dust off a little energy. When Andy entered the noisy, smoke-filled room, everyone else ceased to exist. Seven years her senior, Andy already held a steady job. He seemed so sophisticated and suave. He’d swept her off her feet the instant their eyes met.
As much as she loved him, she’d managed to stay out of his bed until their wedding night. That was probably the only reason he’d married her.
Eleven years later, she regretted ever stepping foot inside that swing club. If only she’d never met him. If only she could stop hurting. If only she could stop loving him. If only she could stop crying.
Georgia, 1948
Please don’t cry for me.
A rap on the door pulled Andy from his reading. Reluctantly he closed Madeline’s journal and set it aside. He pulled his watch from his pocket. Good Lord, it was nearly six p.m. He’d been in his room, reading, all day.
The knock sounded again, more insistent.
“Coming.” Andy sat up, buttoning his shirt. The metal headboard clanged against the wall as he stood, then strode across the room. He opened the door to find Buck scowling on the other side.
“’Bout time.”
“Sorry,” Andy muttered. “What can I do for you?”
“My missus says you should come down and take supper with us. It’s rainin’ cats and dogs out there. Ain’t no sense you gettin’ sick goin’ out to get somethin’ to eat when we got plenty.”
A bright flash through the window punctuated his words. A clap of thunder shook the house. Andy raised his brow in surprise. He had been so absorbed in his reading, he hadn’t even noticed the rain. “Tell your wife I appreciate her kindness,” he said. “I’ll wash up and be right down.”
Fifteen minutes later, Andy sat at a table laden with fried okra, biscuits, and a mound of barbecued ribs. His mouth watered at the sight and smell of all that food. He glanced around, waiting for someone to offer him a platter of something. Instead, Buck eyed him for a moment, then bowed his head and closed his eyes.
Andy studied the top of his host’s head.
“Heavenly Father,” Buck began, “we thank You for this bounty on our table. And for the guest You’ve sent our way. Lord, we pray You’ll help him find whatever it is he’s lookin’ for. Bless his life and keep it from destruction.”
Andy felt his ears burn at being the center of a prayer, and when he looked up he expected to find everyone staring at him. At the very least, he anticipated an awkward silence. But the contrary proved to be true. Six children, ranging in ages from toddler to nine or ten, Andy guessed, all began speaking at once.
Chuckling, Buck held up his massive hands for silence. “Hold on, now. One at a time.” He turned to a pigtailed girl to his left. “We’ll start right here at the front of the table. Aletha, Baby, what can your daddy do for you?”
Andy’s insides twisted with longing for children of his own--the what-ifs that always accompanied thoughts of the two children he and Lexie had lost. If he had children, would he be a better man?
The little girl sent Buck a broad grin. “Miss McGuffy says I have to have my science project in by tomorrow, and I need help.”
Andy accepted the platter of ribs from Buck’s wife, Lottie.
“Aletha, how long have you known about this?” Buck asked sternly.
The little girl shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Buck gave an exasperated sigh. “All right. Bring it to me after supper and we’ll see what we can do.”
“Thank you, Daddy.” Her face beamed with relief.
Andy’s mind wandered back to the diaries as Buck moved to the next child in line. He needed at least a week in Oak Junction, maybe two, to finish reading the diaries, make his notes, and conduct another interview with Miss Penbrook.
Andy felt like there was much more at stake than a simple biography. This was about the heart and soul of three women and their different perspect
ives on the world that held them captive. Madeline’s and Cat’s captivity were obvious. Madeline was chained to a man whose ideals were opposite her own. Cat was a slave. . .literally held in bondage. Miss Penbrook had to be Camilla. . .he couldn’t figure her out just yet, but he would. Or he hoped he would, because the old lady obviously wouldn’t be much help, other than perhaps to fill in some of the gaps. Thank God for the diaries.
He ate the last bite of his fluffy biscuit and pushed back his plate. “Thank you, Mrs. Purdue. Everything was delicious.”
Lottie blushed under the praise. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. But you’ll have to have a slice of lemon pie and a cup of coffee before you return to your room.” She spoke with a quiet grace, her soft tones almost melodious. Unbidden, the gentle face of his mother flitted across Andy’s mind, sending an ache across his heart. A longing for something familiar.
“No, thank you, ma’am.” He wanted nothing more than to escape this gathering and retire to the solitude the small room upstairs afforded him.
She captured his gaze, regarding him with tender, almost sympathetic brown eyes. “I’ll save you a slice and you can have it tomorrow.”
Suddenly feeling very uncomfortable, Andy stood and cleared his throat. “I’d appreciate that. Good night.”
By the time Andy took a hot bath, his watch read eight o’clock. Still early enough to call Lexie at her parents’ home.
He slid on his robe and tied it around his waist, then made his way downstairs.
The phone rang a dozen times before Andy released a disappointed sigh and hung up. He wandered back upstairs and took out the next diary. Stretched out on his bed, he was once again transported back in time--on the words of a fifteen-year-old slave girl.
Spring 1860
I’ve decided to stop praying altogether. After months of unanswered prayers, I took matters into my own hands and put an end to it tonight. At least I believe I did. I hope I did.
Henry Penbrook (I refuse to call him Master, Mister, or sir in my writings or my own thoughts) will not come to me in the dark again. I hid a very large, sharp kitchen knife under my bedding, and tonight, when he started to put his hands on me, I slid it out and pointed the tip at his throat. His eyes took on a look of fear that I must admit I relished.
The Color Of The Soul (The Penbrook Diaries) Page 4