The Loom

by Shella Gillus

  She turned, stumbling into Dr. Kelly, a tall, burly man with deep-set brown eyes, tonight dressed in formal black attire.

  “Lydia…” He twisted an unruly strand of his moustache, rubbed his beard. His wild curly hair desperately needed a trim, but she had to admit, the look fit him just fine. Loose and untamed. Where women curved, he bulked rough and rigid to their softness, straight and simple to their complexity, downright masculinity in body and breath.

  “Dr. Kelly.” She dropped her head in respect.

  “How are you this evening?”

  When she looked up at his smile, her heart fluttered.

  “Fine, sir.” She glanced at the carriage and wondered if Mrs. Kelly and Lizzy could see him. She swallowed. And if they could?

  “Where’s Cora?”

  “Already down at the cabins, sir.”

  “I see.” His voice was lower, gritty. “Looking nice tonight.”

  She rubbed the back of her neck, could feel his eyes on her. Folding her arms, she looked at the ground, the narrow toe of his black leather shoe tap, tap, tapping.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He nodded and skipped down the steps to the carriage. A chill came over her she couldn’t shake, not even after she had retrieved her shawl.

  Passing a dozen slave quarters behind a wooden fence, Lydia walked until music and laughter floated through the air. Field slaves. The style, the rhythm, the texture and tones made it clear these were her people. Her grandmother, her father. Ten years in the Big House hadn’t kept her from being one of them, the only people bold enough, bright enough to loose themselves from iron shackles at least some of the time. She walked toward the sound, felt her feet moving as quickly as the strumming beat.

  Right in the middle of an open field, more than fifty bondservants gathered in a half circle around a fire, some standing, some sitting, others clapping and singing a song Lydia had never heard. In the corner sat a reverent, white-haired fiddle player in suspenders, tapping his foot to the music he plucked with care. A bearded bald man swung and dipped a woman whose hair stood full and wide around her like a halo. A small peanut of a child clucked around, his elbows flapping faster at the growing attention. Brown skin in bland clothing created the most colorful scene of the night.

  On the perimeter, cotton-white men stood near, planted by the master to guard their safety against the uprising of a Moses and a people eager to plot the exodus of a lifetime.

  Suddenly, Lydia felt breath on the nape of her neck. She spun around and stumbled. Strong arms steadied her.

  “Sorry. With the music, I didn’t think you’d hear me.”

  “John.”

  A glowing smile of white teeth greeted her in the most handsome face she’d ever seen. Had he grown more beautiful in a day?

  “Lydia.”

  “I was looking for my father.”

  “He’s here. I saw him earlier.”

  Lydia followed his gaze over the crowd. She spotted Cora near the banjo player giggling into cupped hands with two other girls her age. Her father stood several feet away, drinking from a tin cup. He waved when he saw her, made his way over.

  Lydia wrapped her arm around her father’s waist. He nodded at John. “I see you met my daughter.”

  “Yes, sir.” John smiled at Lydia, glanced back at her father.

  “Daddy, where’s Grandma?”

  “Asleep. She didn’t feel up to it tonight. I think it’s just too much noise for her sometimes.” He looked around and chuckled. “Too much noise for me sometimes. I’m heading in myself. You coming by tomorrow, ain’t you, Lydia?”

  “I am.”

  “Good night, Baby Girl.” He squeezed her to him and kissed her cheek. “John. See she gets back safely, hear?”

  “Yes, sir. I most certainly will.”

  When her father slipped through the crowd, she turned to the man at her side.

  “He’s a good man. Your father.”

  “Yes. Yes, he is.” She looked at this stranger her daddy had entrusted her to. She could see why. There was gentleness in his eyes. She wanted to know him. Everything about him. Wanted him to be a stranger no longer. “What about you? Your father?”

  “Never knew him.” He said it matter-of-factly. “My mother died a few months back, just before I was sold here. I’ve been moved around a few times.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “A male like me is worth a lot.”

  Lydia thought back to the day before, seeing him out on the field, working. Even tonight, in his thin cotton shirt, she could see the outline of his tall frame, the muscles in his arms, the evidence of strength.

  The near sounds of a harmonica rose above the final tune of the fiddle. A young man with closed eyes and thick lashes leaned into the solemn song he blew through the wooden rectangle. Each note hunched him lower.

  “My mama died early too.” The slow music, the words carried weight, a sadness. Joy was quickly setting like the evening sun. She willed it to rise. “But I have my grandmother. My daddy’s mama. She’s good to me. I get to be with her by week’s end.”

  “Let’s sit. You hungry?”

  John returned with a wooden bowl of chickpeas and cracklin’ bread. He straddled a chair in front of her.

  “So you work inside. What’s that like?”

  “It’s fine.” Lydia ate a few bites of bread before she continued. “My sleeping quarters are nice, but I still miss staying with my daddy and grandma.”

  “You can’t miss sleeping on a dirt floor.”

  “Well, no, I don’t miss that.”

  “How are they? They good to you in that house?”

  “The Kellys? They treat me all right.” If she ignored her master’s gawking. “Their daughter, Lizzy, Elizabeth, is a good friend.”

  He raised his brows. “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.” This she knew for sure.

  He nodded slowly. “Well, good.”

  Lydia balanced the half-empty bowl on her lap and looked back into his eyes. “What about you? What’s life like for you here?”

  “Haven’t been here long. I don’t know. Like any other place, I suppose. Except one.” He looked down. When he looked back up something had changed. No smile, just eyes focused in the distance.

  She moved in closer to him, waiting. “Which one is that?”

  “The one place I’m going.” The words hovered between them until they floated away like sparkling dust. “Let me take that.” He reached for her bowl like they were never spoken. Like she had imagined them and this other man with the serious eyes. She watched him, his back to her, and a pang shot through her chest. He wouldn’t be here for long.

  “You ready?” he said much too cheerfully. “It’s getting late.” A tall couple entangled like the branches of the tree they stood under remained and a handful of youth.

  “Sure.”

  They walked in silence until they reached the back steps of the Big House. She looked up at him and smiled.

  “I enjoyed the evening,” he said.

  “Yes. So did I.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth. I’ve never seen nobody like you. No girls I know carry themselves like you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right. You’re different.”

  “In what manner?” She hated to ask, knew what he was going to say. The same thing everyone said. “You mean because I’m a White Colored.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “That’s not what I mean at all.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “It don’t much matter to me what shade a woman’s skin is.”

  “Really?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Well, you’d be the first. You’re the only one in the whole world who don’t care what color skin is.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t think so?”

  “I mean, I can’t be the only one. There’s nobody else out there w
ho can see a little deeper?”

  “A little deeper?”

  “Yeah, a little deeper.” He tilted his head and flashed a smile. He leaned forward on the balls of his feet. “I’m trying to see what’s behind them green eyes.”

  “Is that right?” she asked too softly. She bit her lip and looked down, could feel warmth flush her body.

  “Good night, Lydia.”

  “Good night.” She walked up the steps. One, two, three, four, five, six, and opened the door. Was he watching? Just before she stepped inside, she turned around. He was. She waved. He nodded with his hands still in his pockets and turned away.

  Twice in one night, his back to her. It was a sight that already stung.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lydia sat on the dirt floor in the unlit cabin across from her father, tugging on the itchy burlap against her neck and the new patch of denim now securely fastened to the pocket of his overalls. She placed them beside her and stretched. The smell of cornmeal mush still clung to her dress hours after the supper Grandma Lou prepared.

  The old woman kicked up gray puffs of dust around her thick ankles, pattering her way back to the only other room in their home. Stringy raven locks swung behind a thick frame. Though Lou had seen too many harvests to count, her hair remained black as the night.

  “Grandma, don’t forget I need you to do my hair.” Lydia always felt like a child here, like nothing had changed.

  “Wake me up when you ready.” Grandma’s voice faded when she was no longer in sight. “I’m just gonna lay down a minute.”

  She turned back to her father.

  “She all right?”

  “She’s fine.” He tapped her nose. “Stop that worrying.”

  Daddy propped himself against the log wall, beside the hearth. In the dark, Lydia could make out the withered wooden table, the stool, and a crate, but something was missing.

  “Where’s the bench?”

  “Cracked. Needs to be replaced altogether, but I don’t think it’s right here. Makes this space too tight.”

  “You could put it out front.”

  “Could.”

  She looked around the room and felt the familiar rise of guilt that always climbed up the back of her throat when she was here. They had so little. Little food. Little space. Not even room enough for a bench, a place for a seat. Not even room for rest.

  She swallowed the shame of living away from them, eating, working, sleeping in the Big House. She had so much more than they ever would. And even what she had was not enough.

  Lydia heard stirring in the other room and could see her father shift toward the coughing. She watched him in the dark. He crossed his legs and reached for the hands she hid in her lap, blew air into them. The hard calluses on his palms scraped against her skin.

  “How are your hands, Daddy? Still numb?”

  Even with gloves, the poison of tobacco seeped into his pores, stiffened his joints.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Why you quiet, Daddy?”

  He shook his head, twining his fingers with hers. “Just tired.”

  Their house grew silent again, except for the chirping of crickets. Lydia spotted one, hopping, hopping toward the window. Why did hopping look so happy? So fun and free? Even the crickets were free.

  “Why you think God made us to belong to somebody?”

  “I don’t think He did.” Daddy paused. She could barely hear him breathing. “I know we ain’t meant to. One day…”

  “God’s gonna do it.” Lydia nodded and squeezed his fingers, thought of the raising of rods she had lifted, she had hoped, believed would part the creek as a child. One day, He would let her people go. “I think so.” When he didn’t respond, she released her hand from his and patted his knee. “What do you think freedom’s like?”

  “Listen, Lydia.” He sighed. “You’re not thinking about running again, are you? I’m not willing to lose you over nothing.”

  “Don’t worry, Daddy.” If she could, she would. Given the chance, she’d be gone before night turned to day. With everything in her, she’d run free. “Don’t worry, all right?” She scooted closer until her knees were against his and whispered. “Come on, tell me. What do you think it’s like? I know you think about it.”

  “Good.” His head dropped. “Real good.”

  “Like heaven?”

  He chuckled. “Not that good.”

  “Well, that’s funny.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dead is better than us alive.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  He didn’t have to. She already knew some things were worth dying for.

  Daddy didn’t say another word. She could see his face turn away. He pressed his palms against his eyelids.

  “Daddy.” Lydia inched next to him and stroked his back. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Let’s not talk about it.”

  “We almost lost you.” His words, each syllable, broken.

  “Let’s not talk about it.”

  After a few moments, he wrapped his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. “I better get some shut-eye, Lydia. I got tilling to see to first thing in the morning. Kelly’s orders.” He stood up, stretched, and pulled her to her feet.

  Lydia hated to leave him. No one, nothing in her world was warmer, sweeter than Daddy. She stood shivering for several seconds, looking up at him.

  “Cold?” Her father rubbed her back. When she nodded, he reached down and grabbed a dark, worn blanket. Wrapping it around her, he kissed the top of her head.

  She dragged several feet toward the back room. Her father yawned, already stretched out on his back beneath a quilt, his feet flexed against the hearth.

  “Good night, Daddy.”

  “Good night, Baby Girl. Love you. It’s always good to have you here with us even if it is just for a day or two.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded. “Love you too.”

  Lydia inched forward, sweeping the dirt with the tattered blanket as she walked away.

  In the next room, draped in the dark covering, she wiggled under a thin patchwork quilt with her grandmother. She lay still, perfectly still, a game she liked to play as a little girl to see how long she could remain. She recalled not having a clue whether she improved each time, but she praised herself if it felt longer and it always did. She smiled at the memory. She turned and watched the woman next to her snoring on her back with the cover shimmying a nervous dance above her nose. It moved in short rainbow waves, up and down around her, and just when it looked like it was going to fall and cover her completely, the breath in her lifted it and kept it from coming any closer. Lydia watched until she dipped in and out of drowsiness before plunging into a world, light and fuzzy around the edges.

  Daddy’s laughing face. He was walking toward her, reaching for her. Then he startled. His smile slid into anger, slipped into sadness. He froze. What is it? What is it, Daddy?

  A ladybug crawling, fluttering, flying away. Then just as suddenly, the crushing sound of a rifle against skull.

  Lydia shot straight up and shook the picture out of her head, but tiny wings fluttered and flickered in the pit of her belly for the rest of the night.

  It was the cold breeze, the cover she was stripped of that woke Lou. She wrestled up next to her wide-eyed granddaughter.

  “Lydia. You all right?”

  Lou shook her head. Dreaming again. About them men and their guns, she knew it. What she’d give to wipe out the whole bloody nightmare. She shivered. “I thought you was gonna wake me?”

  “I was but you were sleeping so good, I couldn’t bring my heart to do it.” Even though it was dark, Lou could see her smile. “I must’ve fallen asleep myself.”

  Lydia lit a large candle in the corner next to the low wooden stool that Lou found near impossible to lower herself onto. She managed somehow.

  The girl wiggled between her knees like a child. “Plait it straight down the back,” she said.

  Seeing Lydia sitting on the dirt floor
in the dark, her head resting against the burlap between yawns and stretches, made her smile. No matter where the missus made her sleep, this old cabin was still her grandbaby’s home.

  “You know and I know you can do this yourself, girl.”

  “Not like you can.”

  She wasn’t lying. Years ago, Lou made sure every strand was woven. Every strand. Whatever her hand found to do… But now she raked her crinkled hands over the girl’s frizzy braid not knowing how she would muster the strength to complete the task. She could barely see a thing in the dim candlelight. “Take it down for me then.”

  Lydia swung her hair loose. Deep dark waves fell down her back. She laid her head against Lou’s knee, wrapped her arm around her calf.

  “All this hair on the sweetest face. Always said your daddy should’ve been a girl.” Lou laughed and squeezed Lydia’s shoulders. “I got my girl after all.”

  Slowly, Lou gathered and wrapped lock over lock until she winced. “You finish up, hear?” She wrung her hands and sighed.

  “I miss you here with us.” She slid to the edge of her chair and smiled at the girl at her feet. “I ain’t never got used to you not being here. Sometimes at night, it’s like I can still feel you right here with me.” It hurt. She wasn’t sure what hurt more. The girl being gone or the feeling she was near when she wasn’t. Would never be again. This life! She shook her head. Soon. Her only comfort rose inside her, lifting her spirit. Soon it would all be over. “Don’t imagine it will matter too much longer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Oh, Lydia. She would miss her. And her son. Isaiah and Lydia. Hoped to meet her other children again on the other side.

  “I mean, don’t nobody live forever.”

  “Don’t say that.” Lydia gripped her knee.

  “Don’t say it?” She laughed. “It’s all I should be saying. Best hope I got going.”

  “I’ll come by more.” Lydia grabbed her hand, held it against her cheek. “Much as I can. I’ve been spending too much time at the loom.”

  Lou hated the thought of that place. She had sat at the loom on her old plantation like all the women heavy with child, no longer able to work in the fields, but this place here was different. The images she conjured about The Room haunted her, kept her from its grounds, far from ever stepping foot across its threshold. The fact that everyone who dwelled within its walls died there unnerved her. Lou imagined their spirits hovering like breath at first, then swarming in a frenzy, tumbling about the cabin like a gust of wind, trapped in darkness, bound beneath a roof that suppressed sad souls that couldn’t even reach heaven. She couldn’t allow her mind to think too long of her friend Ruth, good ol’ Dessa rotting away in a pit they couldn’t escape. The only reason she hadn’t joined them was the Lord’s favor of a healthy son on the property supplying her needs. Isaiah, her savior from the pit of death.