Henry reined in as Mayme ran out of the house toward the buckboard. It took a little while for Josepha to get down to the ground, even with Henry’s help. One look at her face said that she was exhausted.
“Mayme, chil’!” she said, taking Lemuela’s girl in her arms. When the two stepped back a minute later, Mayme saw that Josepha was crying.
“What is it, Josepha?” said Mayme.
“I lef’, Mayme,” she said. “I dun lef’ da McSimmons. Dat young mistress, she’s a bad woman, an’ I finally jes’ lef’. I didn’t know where ter go ’cept ter you.”
“Oh, Josepha . . . I’m sorry,” said Mayme, embracing her again.
“Does you think yer mistress’ll hab room fer an’ ol’ black woman somewheres?”
Just then a white girl a year or two younger than Mayme ran out of the house.
“We’ve always got room,” said Mayme, “—especially for you! Don’t we, Katie?”
“Of course!” exclaimed the white girl. “How wonderful. I’ll hurry back in and start preparing one of the rooms immediately.”
“What dat she say?” said Josepha in surprise as she watched the girl go. “She be da mistress? She can’t be fixin’ no room fer me!”
“Things are different here, Josepha,” Mayme laughed. “There’s no black or white, no mistress or slaves. We’re not even hired coloreds because there’s no money either. I’m sorry, but Katie won’t be able to pay you any more than she does me. But we’re a family and we’ve got enough to eat. We’ve learned that being together and being a family is all we need, and is the most important thing of all. I reckon that’s a sight better than money. We’re happy to have you.”
“Den let’s go an’ help Miz Katie wiff dat gettin’ ready. I still don’ like the idea ob her white han’s waitin’ on me nohow.”
And that’s how Josepha came to be at Rosewood, where I’d gone myself after the massacre, and was now part of the Rosewood family.
We’ve been together ever since.
It still made me sad to think of my mama. But after I knew Josepha’s story, whenever I thought of her, I imagined that it made her happy where she was in heaven that Josepha and me were together.
THE NEW HOUSE
21
I’LL HAVE ANOTHER CUP OF THAT COFFEE OF YOURS, Josepha,” said Mayme’s father, Templeton Daniels, where he and his brother, Mayme’s and Katie’s Uncle Ward, sat at Rosewood’s kitchen table.
His voice brought Josepha out of her reminiscences.
“Shore, ’nuff, Mister Daniels,” she said in a soft voice.
Josepha smiled, wiped at her eyes, and walked to the stove where the pot of coffee stood steaming.
He looked over at her. “Are you all right, Josepha?” he asked. “From that look on your face, I’d think you were . . . well, I don’t know what I’d think.”
“Dat’s all I wuz doin’, Mr. Templeton—jes’ thinking’,” said Josepha, “—thinkin’ ’bout some times long ago an’ how da good Lord brung me here.”
“Why don’t you tell us about it?”
“Maybe I will . . . maybe I will at dat one day. But I don’t reckon dat day’s jes’ yet.”
She poured him another cup of coffee and then went about with dinner preparations, while the two Daniels brothers continued their conversation at the table.
“So what I was thinking, Ward,” said Templeton, “is that we need to be thinking of the future. Micah and Emma are gone, and it’s not going to be long before Mayme and Jeremiah are going to figure they’ve waited long enough. We’ve got to get to work on a place for them, so it’s ready when the time comes.”
“What did you have in mind,” asked Ward, “building a place?”
“We could. But it seems it would be simpler and quicker, not to mention cheaper, to add on to one of the places we’ve already got. There’s that slave cabin that sits away from the others. It’s run down and the roof leaks, but it’s sound. With a new roof . . . maybe add on another room, put in a nice kitchen, running water, new windows, we could turn it into a right fine little house. There’s room for a garden. We could build a small barn to go with it.”
“You think that’d be easier than starting with a new place?”
“Seems like it to me. I don’t much like the idea of my little girl having to live in a slave cabin again. And not that I wouldn’t like them to have a big brand new place one day, like we talked about before, out past the barn. But this seems like the easiest to make a start with. Then after they begin having a family, we can make plans for something larger. We’ll ask Henry. But either way, we could pay him to work on it when he’s not at the livery and to watch over the thing as we go. He knows how to do most anything. I never built a house before. Seems like we ought to start out with something we can handle.”
“I haven’t either. That’s a good idea. Henry’ll know what to do.”
Just then I walked into the kitchen. Papa and Uncle Ward immediately stopped talking.
“What were you two talking about?” I asked.
“Nothing, little girl,” said Papa with a grin.
“Papa!” I said, “I’m twenty years old. When are you going to stop calling me a little girl?”
“When you learn to mind your own business!” he said with a mischievous wink.
I went about what I was doing, but I always knew from that look on his face when he’d been talking about me and suspected that was the reason for it this time too.
He was right about Jeremiah and me. Jeremiah was Henry’s son and he’d asked me to marry him and I’d said yes. But we were waiting until it was a little safer. A lot of things had happened recently that showed how dangerous things were after the war. Some folks in the community weren’t any too pleased with what had been going on at Rosewood, with whites and blacks mixing together. There’d been threats and they’d tried to kill Jeremiah and had killed Emma’s boy William. So the danger was real enough and that’s why we were waiting.
But Papa and Uncle Ward didn’t wait. They spoke to Henry about starting to work on one of the cabins like they’d talked about. And after making plans and deciding what to do, they got to work on it.
One day after lunch a couple of weeks later, when Josepha had just finished washing up, she heard hammering in the direction of what used to be the slave village. She stepped to the kitchen door and peered out. All she could see was the outline of a man on a roof against the light of the sun. Slowly and with some huffing and puffing she crossed the yard and walked down to the cabins.
“Henry Patterson, whatchu doin’ up dere?” she said, reaching the spot and glancing up, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“I’s tearin’ off dis ol’ rotten roof,” replied Henry. “Didn’t dey tell you?”
“Dey don’t tell me nuthin’ roun’ here.”
Henry laughed. “You know more ob what’s goin’ on roun’ here den you let on.”
“Whatchu know ’bout dat?”
“I gots me two eyes,” he said with a grin. “I kin see fo myself. You like ter pretend dat you don’t know what you knows well enuff.”
“Well, I swan!” exclaimed Josepha in a huff.
Henry chuckled at her seeming outrage.
“You know’s I’s right,” he said.
“I don’t know no such thing! An’ you still ain’t answered my question—whatchu doin’ up dere?”
“An’ I done tol’ you dat I’s tearin’ off dis ol’ roof.”
“But why’s what I want ter know.”
“’Cause we’s gwine build on to dis place an’ make a right fine little house outta it.”
“What fo?”
“Fo Jeremiah an’ Mayme is what I figger, though Mister Templeton didn’t say so in so many words. An’ you can’t tell me you din’t know all ’bout it.”
“Well . . . maybe I did, but maybe I jes’ wanted ter see fo mysel’,” said Josepha. She turned and walked back toward the house.
Henry watched her go, still grinning to himself,
then returned to his work.
Forty minutes later he glanced up to see Josepha walking toward him again. This time she was carrying something.
She came close to the cabin and set down a basket covered with a red-checkered cloth.
“Dere’s you some bread an’ coffee ef you gits hungry,” she said up to him, then turned and made her way back again.
Henry watched her go, smiling to himself. He kept working for another five or ten minutes, then climbed down the ladder to investigate. What he found under the cloth was enough food and drink for three men!
He whistled lightly under his breath.
“My, oh my!” he said, chuckling. “Dat’s some kind er feast fo an ol’ colored boy! What did I do ter deserve dis?”
But it was just about the time of day when a man’s stomach begins talking to him. So Henry sat down without any more questions. After all, he thought to himself, he knew what pride Josepha took in what came out of her kitchen.
He didn’t want to hurt her feelings!
EXTRA HELPER
22
The weather remained warm and Henry’s work on the cabin continued every day he had off from the livery, which turned out to be oftener than he might have thought. Henry hadn’t exactly said it directly, but he had the feeling that his boss was being pressured to get rid of him because he was colored.
Papa and Uncle Ward weren’t saying why they were fixing up the cabin. I know they didn’t want Jeremiah and me to feel funny or to rush into getting married before we were ready. But after what Papa had said when I’d asked what they were talking about, and from the expression on his face, I suspected the reason. Jeremiah and I talked about it sometimes, what it would be like after we were married. But something kept making us both feel like the time still wasn’t quite right. It was like we were waiting for something . . . but we didn’t know what.
Henry always ate lunch with everyone else when he was working at Rosewood. But after that first day, Josepha lost no opportunity to take coffee or lemonade and bread or cake or biscuits down to him. Sometimes she went two or three times, and gradually stayed longer and longer. When dinner and supper came, Henry never had any appetite left after all the snacks through the day!
“Josepha,” Henry called down one morning when she appeared with the basket that he’d begun to expect almost like clockwork, “I’s mighty glad ter see you. Set dat basket down an’ gib me a hand wif dat board.”
Josepha did as Henry had asked, then looked up to where he sat straddling the open beams of the roof.
“What you want me ter do?” she asked.
“Grab dat plank dere, dat’s leanin’ against da wall. See ef you kin scoot it up off da groun’ enuff fo me ter git hold ob it.”
Josepha walked over, took hold of the board as low down as she could stoop, and tried to lift it.
“It’s heavy!”
“I ain’t surprised,” said Henry. “Ef you kin jes’ git it up two or three feet off da groun’ . . .”
She strained with the board a little harder.
“Dat’s it!” cried Henry.
He leaned toward the top end as Josepha inched it a little higher off the ground.
“I almost got it!” he called down. “Jes’ a hair more . . .”
Henry reached and managed to grasp the end.
“Now . . . one mo shove on yer end wiff me pullin’—”
The plank slid up another several feet.
“Dat’s good—I got it!” cried Henry.
Josepha let go and stood back. At last Henry was able to swing the board up and leverage it enough to slide it the rest of the way toward him. In another minute he had it up on the roof and in place.
“Dat wuz good . . . thanks, Josepha!” he called down. “You saved me havin’ ter go down an’ back up dat ladder.”
“Well, now you kin come down anyways an’ hab some er dis bread an’ lemonade I brung.”
“Maybe I’ll do dat all right . . . jes’ let me git a coupler nails in dis board ter hold it down.”
Three minutes later Henry scrambled to the ground. He sat on the cabin steps where Josepha had set out the things she had brought almost like a picnic.
“Why dis looks right fine!” said Henry.
Josepha handed him a tall glass of lemonade.
Henry downed nearly half the contents in a single gulp, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Dat hits da spot!” he said with a satisfied sigh. “I didn’t know how thirsty I wuz.”
“You really think dat dis house be fo Mayme an’ Jeremiah?” asked Josepha.
“Like I said, I don’t know fo sho, but dat’s what I’s thinkin’.”
“How you know how ter do dis, build a house an’ put on a roof an’ walls?” said Josepha as she poured out another glass of lemonade, and then gave Henry a sandwich.
Henry laughed. “A man picks up things as he goes along—mostly by watchin’ I reckon. How you know how ter cook?”
“I reckon you’s right—I just picked it up. I always liked everythin’ ’bout food—fixin’ it . . . an’ eatin’ it,” she added with a laugh, patting her belly. “An’ it always seemed like da kitchen wuz da livliest place in da house. Even when I wuz jes’ a girl I liked bein’ in da kitchen. But den by an’ by I reckon I sort ob discovered dat I had a knack wiff food—least dat’s what da white men said when dey ate my food, an’ by an’ by I figgered da kitchen wuz my way er stayin’ outta da fields.”
“You gots a way wiff food, all right!” said Henry. “An’ maybe it’s somethin’ like dat fo a man. A boy sees growed men doin’ things an’ makin’ things, an’ ter him it’s like da kitchen wuz fo you, an’ a boy wants ter be aroun’ men who’s doin’ an’ makin’ an’ fixin’ an’ buildin’. An’ when you’s a slave you git told ter do things an’ you figger out how ter do dem. One time I wuz tol’ ter take some water ter a man puttin’ a roof on one ob da slave cabins where I lived on da Mississippi. I muster been five or six. I watched him a spell an’ pretty soon I wuz up on a ladder handin’ him tools an’ nails an’ watchin’ what he wuz doin’. Dat’s how you learn anythin’, I reckon—watchin’, den tryin’ it fo yo’self.”
“But you seem ter know how ter do most anythin’,” said Josepha.
“After I left Mississippi, lookin’ fo Jeremiah an’ his mama, I done lots er jobs. Whatever I cud do so I cud eat, I done it. So I reckon I learned ter do a heap a things.”
“How’d you git separated from dem? Wuz dat when you got yo freedom?”
Henry smiled sadly. “Dey wuz sent away just before. So when I got da chance ter be free, I took it an’ went lookin’ for dem.”
“You always live down dere in Mississippi?”
A faraway look came into Henry’s eye.
“Yep, I always did,” he said slowly and with a faint smile. “My papa wuz a big strong man, muscular wiff big shoulders. He had nuthin’ ob my build. His father had come from France as a free black man hired ter a Frenchman—dat wuz before France sol’ Louisiana an’ all up da Mississippi ter dis country like dey dun.”
“So wuz yo people all free?”
“My papa wuz free like his father,” said Henry. “My papa worked on da ribber, I think he might eben er had his own boat—a small boat, jes’ a one-man steamer. He took freight up an’ down between New Orleans an’ Memphis. I don’t know effen it wuz his own boat er not.”
“An’ yo mama?”
“My mama wuz a slave girl in Mississippi on a farm where da ribber ran alongside it. An’ when my papa wuz dere, dat’s where he’d stay. The owner ob da boat or, ef it wuz my papa’s boat, da man he had bought it from, it wuz his brother’s farm, so papa’d stay dere though he wuzn’t one er der slaves. Dat be where he met my mama an’ dey wuz married an’ I wuz born. Since chilluns foller dere mother, I wuz a slave too. Dat wuz papa’s home whenever he wuzn’t on da ribber. He always wuz gwine git enuff saved ter buy our freedom. But den dere wuz an explosion ob da steam boile
r, an’ his boat went down an’ wuz los’, an’ papa along wiff it.”
“How old wuz you?” asked Josepha.
“ ’Bout eleben. But I always loved da ribber cuz it reminded me ob my daddy. I wuz baptized in dat ol’ Mississippi too.”
“How old wuz you den?”
“I reckon I wuz nine er ten.”
“Dat’s mighty young ter git saved.”
“I didn’t say dat’s when I got saved, I said dat’s when I wuz baptized.”
“I don’t rightly unnerstan’ what you’s getting’ at,” said Josepha.
“Jes’ dat gettin’ baptized ain’t necessarily da same as gettin’ saved. Gettin’ baptized happens only once—or I reckon fo mos’ folks it happens only once. But I always figgered learnin’ to walk wiff da Master wuz a mite mo complicated den what can jes’ happen in a few seconds. Always seemed mo like a lifetime thing ter me.”
“You sometimes got a mighty peculiar way er sayin’ things, Henry Patterson!” said Josepha.
“I been tol’ dat a time er two!” laughed Henry
Josepha thought a minute.
“Maybe dat’s true all right,” she said. “Dat wuz good when dat Rev. Smithers, or whatever his name wuz, wuz here an’ wuz baptizin’ folks an’ all. I’m glad for dem, but I reckon what’s going on here at Rosewood’s more like what Jesus had in mind den all dat.”
“Yep,” said Henry, a smile spreading over his face, “it’s mo ’bout what kind er person you is inside den all dat hands in da air an’ singin’ an’ yellin’. None er dat makes you a better person when you walk away from da river an’ da preachin’s done.”
“I reckon you’s right ’bout dat,” said Josepha.
“You ’member how da preachers used ter come roun’ an’ all the black folks’d go an’ he’d git ’em all worked up an’ then ask who wanted ter git saved?”
Josepha laughed. “I ’member all right. An’ everybody’d call out, Amen, brother.”
Never Too Late Page 10