Never Too Late

by Michael Phillips

  “I gots ter git back or Mammy’ll box my ears.”

  She stuffed the empty napkin in her dress and ran off.

  “Thanks, Seffie!” called Mose after her. “Dey’s real good!”

  He turned back toward the slave village and continued on, munching on his snack and in no hurry to deliver Mabel her cup of sugar. The best way not to have to share his unexpected treat was to make sure it was gone before he got back.

  MINUET

  7

  THE EVENING CAME ON AND THE GUESTS BEGAN TO arrive from neighboring towns and plantations.

  A lull came in the wind and a great calm descended. From far away in the slave village the faint music of a fiddle and clapping hands could be heard as darkness descended. In the gardens of the big house, however, the refined music of the small orchestra began to lure the ladies in their colorful dresses with strains of minuet and a selection of Mozart country dances.

  Once dinner was past and all the dishes washed and dried and put away, Mammy told the girls who were helping her that they could go down to the village if they wanted, though by then it was after ten and the night starting to get a little chilly.

  Seffie was already sleepy but she didn’t want to miss out on anything. She followed the three or four other kitchen girls, all older than she was, through the night. Gradually the sounds of refined white music and culture faded behind them and the familiar sounds of slave voices and laughter and fiddling and singing in rich Negro harmony grew louder and louder, until they were in the midst of their own people again. A large bonfire was burning.

  Seffie hung back and watched, terrified by the mere sight of the fire in the center of the gathering. Mesmerized and afraid of the fire at the same time, she was also captivated by the music and dancing and laughter from the community of slaves of which she was a part. They were a people for whom happiness and celebration came easy even in the midst of their poverty.

  “Hi, Seffie, whatchu doin’ here?” said a voice at the girl’s side. It was Mose.

  “Mammy let us come when da dishes wuz all done,” said Seffie. “But I’s gettin’ sleepy.”

  “Dem biscuits shore wuz good.”

  “I wuz gwine bring you anudder one. But dey wuz all gone.”

  “Dat’s all right. I had plenty ter eat anyway.”

  “You should see an’ hear dem up at da big house. All da ladies is wearin’ pretty fancy dresses an’ da dancin’ an’ music is so fine.” She brushed some flour from her plaid dress with its two big pockets.

  “Dere’s dancin’ down here too,” said Mose.

  “It’s different up at da big house.”

  “What kind er dancin’ dey doin’? Ain’t dey dancin’ like dis here?” asked Mose, glancing toward the fire where fifteen or twenty men and women were stirring up the dust with their high-stepping feet in rhythm to the fiddle and the clapping of the onlookers.

  “No, it ain’t nuthin’ like dat. Dey’s all slow an’ graceful-like, an’ dere ain’t no stompin’ or laughin’. Da men dey reach up dere hands an’ da ladies take dem all dainty-like wiff dere fingers, an’ da only soun’ ’cept da music you kin hear is dem wide fancy dresses swishin’ as dey twirl roun’ ’bout. It’s a mighty fine sight.”

  “Let’s go look—I want ter see it,” said Mose. “Come, show me.”

  Already he had taken several steps away from the crowd gathered about the bonfire.

  “You mean now?” said Seffie.

  “Shore . . . why not? Come on, Seffie—let’s go!”

  They scampered off through the night toward the party in progress at the big house.

  They slowed as they neared.

  “Come on . . . aroun’ here,” said Mose, leading in a wide half circle behind the smokehouse, then creeping through the night toward the dancers on the lawn from the opposite side of the plantation house.

  “But, Mose,” said Seffie, “what ef dey sees us?”

  “What dey gwine do?”

  “Dey cud whip us.”

  “Dey won’t do dat, not fo jes’ watchin’.”

  Afraid to get closer, but even more afraid to be left alone in the dark, Seffie followed at Mose’s side as he grabbed her hand and pulled her along.

  In another several minutes they were crouched almost at the edge of the circle of light cast from twenty or more lanterns hanging around the garden where the orchestra was playing and the dancers were dancing. Intermingled light and shadows from the graceful movements of the minuet shot out in all directions, adding all the more to the mystery of the spectacle in the eyes of the two young black watchers.

  “You wuz right, Seffie,” whispered Mose. “Dat’s mighty fine, ain’t it? Dat ain’t like no black folk kind er dancin’, dat’s fo sho’.”

  A sudden gust of wind blew across the garden, sending lanterns swinging and a few dresses up to ladies’ knees with exclamations of alarm.

  “Dere’s dat blamed wind agin!” said Mose, looking up at the night sky.

  They watched another few minutes in spellbound silence.

  “You reckon we cud do dat, Seffie?” said Mose.

  “What—like dey’s doin’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I reckon so, effen we knew how.”

  “Den why don’t we try it?”

  “You mean . . . you an’ me?”

  “We kin do it—come on!”

  He grabbed her hand and led her to a clear spot of ground in the darkness. The wind had begun to blow again like it had earlier in the day. A few more startled cries sounded and the whipping gusts sent a few ladies scurrying from the dancing lawn toward the house. But the orchestra kept on, and in the darkness, unseen by any other person, white or black, fifteen-year-old Mose and twelve-year-old Seffie stepped hand in hand toward each other and away, doing their best to keep time to the music and imitate the steps they had been watching.

  Giggles brought a temporary end to the impromptu minuet, but almost as quickly they were at it again. Seffie had now captured the spirit of the adventure along with Mose. She stared at what remained of the dancers for a few seconds, watching their feet intently.

  “I think I hab it now,” she said eagerly. “Put yo feet dere, Mose, to da side . . . like dat.”

  As she spoke she took his hand in hers again.

  “Dat’s it,” she said excitedly. “We’s doin’ it jes’ like dem!”

  They continued to dance in the night. Beneath Mose’s dark hair and Seffie’s kerchief, both of their brown faces beamed in fun when the occasional light from one of the lanterns happened to fall in their direction. Seffie would rehearse those steps in her mind for the rest of her life.

  STORM AND FIRE

  8

  SEFFIE AND MOSE WERE HAVING SO MUCH FUN they hardly noticed the wind rising to such a fury that within another ten minutes the orchestra could no longer be heard and soon had to stop altogether. But in the darkness, the two black youths still danced forward and back, then to the right, then to the left.

  “Dis is fun, Mose! Why don’ black folks dance like dis?”

  “I don’t know, Seffie. Maybe dey don’ know how.”

  Several great drops of rain suddenly splattered on their faces, bringing an end to their impromptu dance.

  “Where dat rain come from!” said Mose, looking up again into the blackness.

  A fierce blast of wind drowned out his voice.

  The last of the dancers finally gave up and bolted for the house, with the orchestra on their heels. The drops of rain, swirling in every direction were now coming down rapidly.

  “I’s bes’ be gittin’ in da house,” said Seffie. “It’s late an’ Mammy’s like ter skin me effen I’s gone too long.”

  She started toward the house.

  “You can’t go dat way,” said Mose. “Dey’ll see you. Come wiff me. We gotta go back da way we come, den you go up ter da house by da kitchen. White folks don’t want ter see no black folks in da middle er dere party.”

  He led her back out into th
e night and again around the smokehouse the way they had come.

  “Hey, what’s dat?” said Mose. “—look, dere’s Robert.” He pointed to a young white man in a suit.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Dat no good son er da oberseer—he an’ dat girl’s goin’ inter one ob da barns. Dey ain’t up ter no good, dat’s fo sho. Let’s foller ’em!”

  The young man with his arm around a teenaged girl in a fancy dress teetered on his feet. The girl giggled as he led her toward one of the smaller barns.

  “Mose, I don’t think we should. I gots ter git back afore Mammy gits riled.”

  “Aw, she won’t neber know.”

  “She knows everythin’.”

  “But dey might be gwine—”

  “I’s gotter git back.”

  “Come on, Seffie.”

  He grabbed her hand again and pulled her toward the stables. By now the rain was coming down in earnest and the wind had risen to a gale. Men were running about from the big house, bringing in chairs, tying down carriages, running to the three or four outbuildings where the guests’ horses were tied and were now neighing restlessly. At the same time, the women were taking down the lanterns blowing about before something caught on fire.

  Several black men were running up from the slave village to help with the horses and carriages in the gale. Within minutes hurricane-force winds had blown the roof off one chicken coop, and other roofs seemed likely to follow. Animals and people alike were in a frenzy of pandemonium, animals squawking and baying and mooing and shrieking and people running every which way trying to take precautions against what was obviously going to be a destructive storm.

  Nineteen-year-old Robert McCarty had been drinking so heavily throughout the evening that he was as near oblivion as was possible while remaining conscious and on his feet. The sixteen-year-old daughter of a neighboring plantation owner had snuck more mint juleps than either of her parents would have allowed. As the two disappeared into one of the smaller barns they could barely keep their knees from wobbling beneath them, and it was with some effort that Robert kept the lantern in his hand once they were under cover and out of the wind.

  “Robert, be careful!” giggled the girl, stumbling inside as he closed the door behind them. “Uhh, I smell horses in here!”

  “What did you expect?” laughed Robert in a near stupor. “They’ll never look for us here.”

  He set the lantern down and looked about.

  “But the horses don’t take up the whole place. We’ll find some nice dry straw.”

  “Robert!” exclaimed the girl, laughing again. “Keep your hands to yourself!”

  “I didn’t come in here to keep my hands to myself!”

  “You are a naughty one!”

  They had no idea that four black eyes were watching them through two cracks in the wall.

  Suddenly a terrific blast of thunder exploded, sounding as if it was directly overhead. The three horses in their stalls screamed in terror. One reared on its hind legs and came crashing down, splitting the wall of its corral. Splintering wood flew about, knocking over the lantern where it sat. Instantly the dried straw beneath it was ablaze.

  “Let’s get out of here!” cried Robert.

  He bolted for the door, in his stupor making no effort to put the fire out before it spread. The girl followed him out into the wind and rain, her dress blowing up into her face as they made for the house.

  “Da horses!” cried Mose, leaping to his feet. “Seffie, you git back . . . git away!”

  Within two or three minutes, shouts of “Fire!” were sounding both from the big house and the slave village.

  Before the men could hope to stop it, the wind proved far stronger than the lashing rain and had whipped the barn into an inferno.

  A great ripping sounded and a large portion of the roof tore back, caught in the wind briefly, sending sparks and flames high into the air, then collapsed back into the center of the building. Almost the same instant, a crack of wood turned all eyes toward the huge oak just in time to see one of its largest overspreading bows falling toward the roof of the sunroom of the big house. Glass from a dozen windows shattered as the roof collapsed under the weight of the massive branch.

  Screams erupted from everywhere inside the house. For a moment the fire was forgotten in the rush across the grass to see if anyone had been hurt. Further away, branches cracking like gunshot could be heard falling from trees everywhere. A few windows blew out from the sheer force of the wind. Boards from the main barn were falling dangerously to the ground everywhere, and shingles were blowing about as if they were bits of paper. Two or three slave cabins seemed about to lose their entire roofs.

  By the time overseer McCarty ran back to the blaze, though only a couple of minutes had passed since the collapse of the sunroom roof, he knew there was nothing that could be done to save the barn. The wind-fanned flames had entirely engulfed it, and after the collapse of the roof the structure was mostly gone already. The storm was taking the flames and the sparks straight across the field toward the wood, so there was no danger to any other structure. The rain was coming down hard enough, in spite of the wind, that it would prevent any trees catching fire and would put the thing out on its own eventually. Might as well let it burn. Whether his thoughts would have been different had he known that his own drunken son was responsible, it would have been difficult to say.

  Neither did McCarty know, as he stood there being pelted by wind and rain while the small barn was gradually reduced to cinders, that another set of eyes was watching the horrifying blaze from fifty feet away. Seffie stood as one in a trance, immobile, mute, eyes wide in terror for what she had witnessed, yet paralyzed and unable to cry out for help.

  Still she stood an hour later, drenched to the bone, shivering, yet paralyzed in mute agony and unable to move a muscle. In the house, Mammy had grown worried when Seffie had not come back in. Braving the elements the moment the storm slackened a little, she went looking for her in the slave village. She came upon her standing alone in the night like a frozen statue.

  “Seffie, chil’!” she exclaimed. “Whatchu doin’ standin’ dere? Dere’s a storm on an’ you’s catch yo death. Come wiff me!”

  She grabbed Seffie’s hand and yanked her toward the house. Mammy was in truth relieved to find her safe yet annoyed anew at the inconvenience. She was about to begin upbraiding her all over again, but the shock of feeling her hand cold as ice stopped her. Then a tinge of genuine concern for the girl’s health entered her mind. The moment she was inside, in spite of the pandemonium still everywhere from a houseful of guests having to make the best of spending the night in the midst of a hurricane, she managed to get some warm milk into her stomach and then got her to bed under six blankets.

  A NEW DREAM

  9

  HOW SEFFIE MANAGED TO SLEEP THROUGH THE night is a wonder. She awoke weak, delirious, still chilled, and apparently unable to say a word.

  She was conscious enough, however, to overhear the conversation between two of the older kitchen girls coming from the next room.

  “. . . hear ’bout da fire . . .”

  “. . . not much lef’ da way I hear it . . . roof fell in on him, dat what massa says.”

  “. . . wuz it?”

  “. . . don’t know fo sho . . . burned up too bad . . . think hit’s dat kid Mose.”

  “. . . dat boy wiff no kin?”

  “Dat’s him.”

  “What wuz he doin’ dere . . . middle ob a fire . . .”

  “Who kin say . . . horses all got out . . .”

  “. . . roof musta fallen on him afore he cud git out hisse’f.”

  “. . . shame . . . a nice boy . . .”

  Seffie’s eyes flooded with tears. She had known the truth last night, but somehow the shock and a night’s sleep had temporarily erased the searing memory from her brain. Now it all came back, how she had stood . . . and stood . . . and stood . . . and done nothing to help.

  She cried an
d cried in her silent agony, until she had cried herself to sleep on a pillow drenched in her own tears.

  She awoke, hoped that she had dreamed the whole thing, remembered, cried again . . . and slept again.

  Seffie remained in bed five days, gradually began to eat and drink, but did not speak for weeks. What good were words with her friend gone? What was there to talk about? Who was there to talk to? If life had held little interest for her before, it held no interest for her now.

  The next months passed like a blur. She lost weight, but, with nothing to interest her now but her work in the kitchen, she eventually gained it back and continued to expand around the midsection. Within another two years Mammy had begun to value her skill and depended on her more than any of the other girls. And after a couple more years, by sixteen Seffie was responsible for most of the master’s and mistress’s meals, and they were more than appreciative for her gifts. She was a good worker but said little, for she had little to say. When the master began hinting that it was time she had a husband, then at last Seffie spoke up and declared that if he wanted to continue eating white biscuits, brown bread, apple and mince pie, assorted cakes, and all his other favorites with her special touch, then he had best forget such talk once and for all and let her decide for herself when and if she wanted to marry. She told him it was pretty easy to accidentally get too much salt in his food. She wasn’t about to marry just to provide him more slaves to add to his tally. The master did not like being talked to with such determination by anybody, least of all one of his slaves. But she had him over a barrel. Nobody could cook like Seffie. He knew it. She knew it. And that was the end of any more such talk.

  Deep inside, Seffie knew she would never marry. Ever since that tragic night, she had said to herself that she would never allow herself to have a friend again. What good came of loving? Only pain. She did not want to feel the pain that came from loving ever again. Mose had been her friend, her best friend, her only friend. She had loved him with the devotion of a young girl to a boy who watched out for her and took care of her and treated her with kindness.