The Loom

by Shella Gillus

  “What is it, Lydia?”

  Like lightning, he glanced around them, then back at her.

  She blinked. Shaking her head, she simply smiled, but when she looked back into his eyes, she whispered, “The night I ran off. I sat just like that.” She dusted his shoulder clean. “Just felt like when I looked at you I’d seen it all before.”

  She hadn’t, but he had. Witnessed it all.

  “I always wish there was more, John.” Lydia swiped her hands through the grass then glanced up at the Kelly manor. “More to our lives. I think about being free all the time.”

  “I can’t imagine there’s a slave who don’t.” John brushed a blade from her wrist, damp from the moisture in the air.

  “Oh, there’s slaves who don’t, John. Plenty of them. Believe me. They just stop thinking about it. They give up. But that’s not me. I’m never gonna stop wanting it.” She looked into his eyes. “There’s nothing I want more.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  The statement stung. Not even love, he’d thought to ask, but instead he nodded and added, “I won’t rest until we have it.”

  “I can see that.” Her words, her voice waved through him. “I can see that in you.”

  “Do you?” He leaned closer. “What else you see?”

  “I see somebody late for curfew.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “What else do you see?”

  Lydia curled her pinkie around his. “I see a man who makes me happy.”

  “Better. I like that.” He touched his lips to the back of her hand, stared into her eyes, and studied her face, promising himself he would hold the picture as beautiful, as perfect when he was alone, until the next time. “Go inside now, Lady. I want to watch you go in. We’ll leave together, at the same time.”

  “All right.”

  In the moonlight what was soft became softer. How could he let her go? He walked backward until she was several feet away.

  “I need you to be safe, John.”

  “Pray for me.”

  “I’ve never stopped.”

  Right there, right then he knew he loved her.

  “I just can’t let go,” she whispered.

  He knew the feeling.

  One dark night Lydia sat on the back porch of the Kelly manor shucking peas when she heard a deep voice behind her. She turned to see Charles approaching, his long, thin arms swinging at his side.

  “Lydia.” He greeted her with a wide smile and whispered, “I’ve come to take you to John.”

  The sound of his name made everything on the inside flow.

  “Come with me.”

  She hesitated, searching for spying eyes that might witness her departure without permission during the week.

  “Hurry now.” He glanced behind him. “We’ve got to hurry.” When he looked back at her, she slipped her hand in his, spilling the wooden bowl of peas across the porch, green gems rolling free. She slipped on them as she ran down the steps after him.

  The beauty of the night amazed her. She gazed at the star-filled sky as Charles rushed her to a covered wagon several feet away. He flipped a corner of tarp back and lifted her into the wagon. She watched him tie it down from the outside.

  It was dark, incredibly dark under the cover. She could hear her own breath and the breathing of one near.

  “Lydia.”

  John. Before she could reach for him, he was there, his arms around her, pulling her to him.

  Like a dream.

  “I missed you,” she breathed the words, wondered if they were even spoken. Only three days apart and she missed him. “Where are we going?”

  “Just a ride. I’ve been looking out, waiting for a good time. When I saw it, I took it. Charles was ready.”

  “You were watching me.”

  “I was. You never know when I might be watching.”

  She laughed.

  “Sit back, Lydia. Rest.”

  Lydia turned around and leaned back between his open legs. His arms wrapped around her, his hands on hers, his mouth, his lips on her ear, the back of her neck.

  The wagon was bumpy, much rougher than a carriage ride, and she couldn’t see a thing, but it didn’t matter. She felt everything. She knew they were passing the slave quarters when the air filled with the smell of sweet potatoes, caramel, and custard. Women preparing for Sunday, the best day of the week. She closed her eyes and thanked God for a sweet sliver of joy. So close she could taste it.

  Like a dream.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The perfect pearl.

  Lydia gripped Mrs. Kelly’s strand around her neck and forced her hand steady despite the bumpy carriage ride that bounced her endlessly into Lizzy.

  “Gorgeous night, isn’t it?” Her friend beamed.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

  “Oh, Lydia, it’ll be fun.”

  “It’s foolish.” The whole thing was a foolish idea. Lydia’s hands shook as she straightened the shawl over the cream dress that had started this mess. Lizzy had arranged her hair again, but this time in a tight chignon at the nape of her neck. “What if we get caught?”

  “My mother said yes, Lydia.”

  “Reluctantly.”

  “She said yes.”

  “To my going as your caretaker. Not as…” Lydia looked down at her attire. “If she knew what we’ve done. How I look…”

  “She won’t.”

  Lydia raised her brows.

  “She won’t.”

  “What if Dr. Kelly—”

  “Don’t worry about him.” Lizzy dismissed her concern with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “If he finds out, what do you think he’ll do?” Why had she gone along with this? Lydia balled the cloth of her dress in the palms of her hands. “Lizzy—”

  “Oh, stop it, Lydia. Live a little.”

  It was all she ever wanted to do.

  “Enjoy tonight.” Lizzy squeezed her hand. “No one will ever know.”

  Lydia pulled the curtain back inside the carriage and watched as she journeyed rough roads to another world. They were crossing the Maryland state line.

  “Tell me more about this Jackson.”

  “Well, he’s as handsome as he is charming. A well-to-do bachelor. The last of his bloodline. His brother was killed years ago. His father was a friend of the family, but he passed recently and left Jackson with everything. Wait until you see this place. I haven’t seen it in years, but if it’s anything like I remember, you’re going to be amazed.”

  Lydia only nodded because there was nothing to say. Why had she even asked? It wasn’t as though knowing more calmed her. In fact, it caused her more anxiety. She had never been in the company of White folk as their equal.

  “What do you all say to each other?”

  Lizzy’s forehead crinkled.

  “I mean, you know, when you’re talking? The only party I served at was the one your mother had five years ago and I was so nervous, trying not to spill nothing, I don’t remember a thing. So what do you talk about?”

  “I don’t know, Lydia. Same thing you talk about, I suppose. Just people talking. Nothing special.”

  “Let’s practice.”

  Lizzy laughed.

  “Come on, now, Lizzy. You be a lady at the party.”

  Lizzy straightened her posture and batted her lashes. She flapped the accordion fan in her hand against her chest. “So very nice to meet your acquaintance, dear.”

  “Oh. Yes, thank you.” Lydia shook the tips of her stiff hand.

  “Well, I’d be obliged to—”

  “Obliged?”

  “I’m just kidding, Lydia.” Lizzy snickered. “We don’t do that. And we don’t have a special language. You talk to me all the time! Just be yourself.”

  But Lizzy wasn’t like any other White person she knew.

  “We’re here.”

  The forty-five-minute carriage ride was quicker than Lydia was prepared for. The horse clanked to a stop. A
lush evergreen meadow sparkled under the starry sky, framing, in the distance, the Whitfield manor.

  Lydia could feel her eyes widen, her back straighten at the sight. What would John think of this place?

  She had never seen a house more beautiful. The terra-cotta woodwork extended to a rounded front porch with three seamless front windows. A narrow wooden platform extended from the front door to the sides of the manor.

  They rode into the center of a circular path of grass worn thin from the frequent travel of wagons and carriages, and waited.

  “You ever seen so many steps?” She counted. Twenty-nine…Thirty. “Thirty steps, Lizzy.”

  “Magnificent, isn’t it? I remember the first time I saw it.” Lizzy stared at Lydia and the moonlit Victorian she admired.

  Assisted by the driver, Lizzy stepped from the coach and crossed the dewy meadow to the rear of the manor. Lydia wobbled behind, the smell of blue grass under the ivory kid side-laced boots she struggled to walk in.

  “Lydia, you’re with me, remember? Don’t walk behind me.” Lizzy looped her arm through hers. “You’re with me.”

  “Oh, look. I see Margaret Dillon.” Lizzy released her. “Remember to be yourself.” She turned and added, “Oh, and your name is Caroline. Caroline.” She winked and walked away.

  Be yourself but change your name. Not an easy charge to manage.

  Lydia meandered through the crowd, acknowledging fellow guests with a slight tilt of her head, flashing smiles that faded as quickly as they appeared.

  Occasionally, she fussed with the knot of tresses at the nape of her neck, until it loosened, but mostly, she focused.

  She tried to disregard the faces, the inquisitive eyes, the mouths—it was the mouths, chattering, murmuring, whispering, that crept icy fingertips up her spine. What were they saying? Did they know? Did they sense that she was not like them? An imposter. A Colored amongst them.

  She noticed three ladies conversing nearby. She thought back to her reflection in the mirror. There was no difference if she focused, remembered who she was. Rolling the pearls between her fingertips, she joined them and plunged into an act of premeditated nods, grins, and “do tells” for dialogue she hardly heard.

  Familiar laughter pulled her to the present.

  From the gazebo porch, Lizzy waved her over and rose from the swing she shared with a woman in pink. Blond tendrils bounced against her round face as she made her way to Lydia.

  “Ah, well now, aren’t you a picture, Caroline? Simply stunning.” Lizzy slipped her hand in Lydia’s and pecked both cheeks. Her emerald dress shimmered in the moonlight.

  “It’s a pleasure.” Lydia leaned into her friend and whispered, “Where’s Jackson? Have you seen him?”

  “Did I hear my name?”

  Both women turned. Jackson Whitfield, clad in black waistcoat and trousers, laid his hand on the backs of several guests as he edged his way to Lizzy’s side. He greeted Lydia with a grin.

  Lydia took in this man. His deep sapphire eyes, black, wavy hair, and slender build. He was handsome, a perfect match for Lizzy.

  “Hello, Jackson,” Lizzy gushed.

  He nodded his acknowledgment but kept his eyes on Lydia. “Have I had the pleasure…?”

  “Oh, this is Caroline. My friend Caroline.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m much obliged,” Lydia said awkwardly.

  Lizzy giggled.

  “Are you ladies just arriving?”

  “We are. Yes. Just arrived.” Lizzy inched closer to the man. “We didn’t miss anything, did we?” She lowered her head and looked up with wide eyes.

  “You two miss anything? I don’t believe it’s possible.” Jackson looked through the crowd. “Listen, ladies, I would like you to meet someone. Ah, there he is.” He stretched out his hand, brushing it against the top of Lizzy’s head, and waved over a young man with freckles. “This is Andrew.”

  Andrew pecked Lizzy’s hand, then Lydia’s, planting a kiss that seeped through the thin cotton of her glove.

  “So Caroline, is it?” Jackson asked.

  Lydia nodded, swallowed.

  “And from where do you come?”

  “She’s from Dorchester.” Lizzy inserted herself between them. “Her father is a friend of our family, Jackson.”

  “Good ol’ Jack,” a balding, heavyset man with a full mustache said, slapping the host on his back, extending his hand with the other. “Henry Sullivan,” he said, tipping his top hat to them.

  “Whoa, Henry,” Jackson laughed. “Hardly recognized you. You clean up rather nicely.”

  Beside him was a rail of a man who introduced himself as Rex, a close friend of Jackson’s. “Henry and I’ve known Jack since he was eight years old.”

  “Six. I think he was six,” Henry corrected.

  “They work for me, my overseers. Actually, Henry’s right. I was six. Timothy was eight. Well, excuse me, gentlemen, ladies, I need to tend to my other guests, but please don’t slip away.” He directed the last phrase at Lydia.

  Jackson excused himself, but even from a few feet away she could see him staring at her, stealing glances as he conversed.

  She was flattered to receive attention from a man so handsome, but her mind was on John.

  “So, nice night, isn’t it?” Andrew glanced up at the sky and nodded. He bit his bottom lip then grinned.

  He looked tenser than she felt. Lydia smiled. She wasn’t alone. By evening’s end, her nervousness drifted, sailed away with each conversation, with every encounter. She moved more and more into a world she’d only dreamed of. She didn’t even flinch when Lizzy accepted the invitation to a dinner party Jackson extended to them. She was having fun, after all. Living for the first time.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For the first time, she felt it. Something sweeter than Grandma’s apple fritters. This was sweet that stayed long after the first taste. Love for a man.

  Lou sat on the porch in a grand wooden rocker Daddy had made her. “Girl gone and fell in love.” She slapped Lydia’s thigh with the rag she used to mop the sweat trickling from her scalp.

  Lydia flinched and giggled. She swatted at a fly. It was much too warm out here on the porch. Funny how it didn’t bother her as a child. She pulled the sticky front of her dress away from the circle of sweat it clung to and looked up at her grandmother.

  “You loved PaPa like that?”

  “Oh, honey, yes. I sure did. Looonggg time ago.” Her head fell back with laughter as she rocked. “Oh yes, indeed. Had all them babies ’cause of it.”

  Daddy had been the only one who hadn’t been sold off, stripped from her. Lydia couldn’t imagine how she was able to bear it. How her people were able to bear any of it.

  “Well, I don’t want no babies.”

  “What you say?”

  “I don’t want not one child.”

  “Why not, girl?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Now don’t you sit up here and tell that lie. You know you know why.”

  “I don’t want to bring another slave in the world.”

  “Girl…”

  “Really, Grandma. Ain’t nothing good about being a slave.”

  “Something good about being alive. I know that! How you gonna deny somebody the right to be alive?”

  “I’m not denying nobody nothing. I’m just saying I’m not having no babies. If they want to come in the world they’ve got to come from between somebody else’s legs.”

  “Watch yourself, now.” Lou threw the rag at her. “Don’t be grown.”

  “You know I know about babies, Grandma. You taught me everything I know.”

  “Fine you know. You just keep your own particulars to yourself.” She smiled and shook her head. “You thought about how you gonna keep yourself from having a child? Lust and limbs got a way of deciding things for themselves.”

  “I know what to do.”

  “All right, then.” She crossed her arms and swung a good four
or five swings in her rocker without a word before she leaned down close like a little girl and grinned. “So tell me. He makes you happy, don’t he?”

  She hesitated.

  “He don’t make you happy?”

  “Yes, Grandma. He does the best he can.” John loved her something good. He would do anything for her, but as wonderful as love was, she wasn’t sure it was enough.

  The moment John’s foot hit the soil, his heart raced. The warm night breeze of August whipped through his shirt as he crept across the fields, the thin cotton billowing around him though tucked into his faded work trousers. Every few feet, he gripped the handle of the trowel in his back pocket and shoved it further from view.

  He searched ahead and looked behind him. If he was caught without a pass, he could face a punishment he didn’t want to remember. He would never forget the sting of rope around his wrist, the strike against his back, would always recall how he struggled to break free, but the grip was too tight. Not this time. He was careful, smarter, prepared. He was certain no matter what life brought, no grip would ever hold him again.

  Crossing over the tobacco field, he slipped between large green leaves that pressed the musky odor of nicotine into his pores. Working on the row each day, he would reek of the scent for hours. Only after a hard lye soap scrubbing could he cleanse himself from the smell that caused Lydia to crinkle her nose.

  At the edge of the field, John slipped through the trees into the forest, safer from the ropes of catchers, the guns of hunters, if he could remain quiet. The rustling of leaves dangling around him, and the ones crunching underfoot, could give him away, could ensure overseers of his exact whereabouts.

  He was parched after several miles but the thirst ceased when he saw it. He stopped and caught his breath. It was beautiful, as beautiful as the first time he discovered it and decided it was the perfect place.

  John walked toward the tree. The silver maple towered over him, made him feel like a child beneath strong, dark branches raised like arms of Africa to the heavens. He stood under the rounded crown of leaves and exhaled. It was the perfect place.