The Loom

by Shella Gillus

  On his knees, he looked around before removing the flat, metal blade he’d swiped from Kelly’s storehouse. He pushed the debris of dry twigs and pebbles away with the palms of his hands until the earth was cleared and smooth, soft, and damp to the touch. He looked around before jabbing the tool into the ground. The soil crumbled with ease as he dug, hollowing out the special spot. For a moment, the thought of his hope being swiped sent a shot of fear through him, but his heart steadied when metal tapped against metal. He scraped the dirt away with the tip of the instrument, paused when the moonlight shone on his treasure.

  John forced his fingers into the ground around the box and yanked it free from its grave. Reverently, he lifted it to his heart, to his lips.

  She should not have come.

  Lydia pulled strands of hair over her scar and stared at Jackson and Andrew across the oblong, formal table she was used to serving. Lizzy sat at her side, oohing and ahhing, grinning and nodding at every statement the two uttered. She would never have agreed to dinner had she known it was to be just the four of them.

  A great candelabra sprawled like a spider with crystal legs over them, shone against wine-stained walls, casting a rose tint on White faces. Seemed the men suspected nothing, though Jackson’s constant staring was beginning to tickle icicles down her spine again. She pressed against the back of the mahogany chair, shivered when she encountered the house slaves.

  James, the butler, a short, sandy-haired man, gazed over her once and then strode swiftly to the back of the room. She didn’t even notice when he slipped out, but Annie, a lanky maple-colored girl her age, kept her almond-shaped eyes on Lydia. When she set a plate of roast, steaming potatoes and carrots in front of her, she lingered. Lydia could hear her breathing over her, looking, staring at what? The tight wave of her hair at the crown of her head? The tremor in a hand that served the same meals, wiped the same tears, hid the same scars?

  “Wine?” Jackson asked.

  Lizzy lifted her glass. “We sure appreciate your hospitality, Jackson. It was perfect timing. We’re leaving in a month for Richmond.”

  “You and Caroline?”

  “No,” Lydia said, too quickly.

  “No. My family and I. Caroline was there earlier this summer, isn’t that right?” Lizzy nudged.

  Lydia nodded and tugged at the napkin in her lap. She heard few of the words around her, only the pauses and the clearing of throats when she failed to fill holes of conversation directed at her. She ate little, found her hand less on her fork than the pearls she’d once again borrowed, her nails entangled in the strand, grazing each gem. For every thought of John that tugged at her, she pulled, yanked at the white treasure at her fingertips.

  “Caroline? Is everything all right? Your supper?” Jackson glanced at her plate. “Is the food to your liking?” His fork lay limp in his hand as he searched her. Steady eyes of blue like the sky she had shunned, just as blue as the one she had wished would turn dark, black—let it be night—she stared into, held their gaze.

  “Everything’s fine.” She looked at him, wasn’t even sure she had spoken the words, until he nodded and resumed eating.

  She watched him, chewing, chatting, lines streaking from the corner of his eyes and a bright smile of a mouth that let out a sound that made her sit upright, take notice.

  This sound, heavy in strength yet light enough to fly free, lift to the high ceiling, was sharp enough to enter in, jagged enough to pierce her heart.

  “Pardon me.” She pushed away from the table abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping against the hardwood. The room fell silent. She could feel their eyes on her as she stood, marched toward the doorway, the neckline of her dress slipping off her shoulder. She pulled it straight and walked through a hall, through a dark sitting room, a study that smelled of pine. She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t know how she’d gotten where she was until she swung the heavy wooden door open, not waiting for the butler’s assistance, and scurried down the thirty front steps of the manor in the heels that made her ankles wobble. She stopped, out of breath, when she heard her name.

  “Caroline!”

  She stopped for a name that wasn’t hers at all.

  “Caroline?”

  She turned to the one calling. Jackson ran to her, gripped her forearms, his eyes darting from her face, her body. “Are you all right? What is it?” Just as quickly, he lifted his hands and stepped back, his brows crinkled.

  “I want to go.” She swept her fingers through the hair above her forehead, hoped he hadn’t seen, hadn’t noticed the thing she was hiding. “I’m ready to go.”

  “All right.” He paused, stared at her, then tilted his head toward the house. “I’m not so sure Elizabeth is ready.”

  “I need to go.”

  He nodded. Slowly.

  Lydia clenched the necklace, tried to steady trembling hands.

  “Do I make you uneasy?”

  “No.” Yes.

  “I’m sorry if I do.” The truth spoke louder than her lie. “I’m just mesmerized.” He smiled. Sharp features softened. “You’re a beauty.”

  Her fingers fell from the strand.

  “Truth is, I would love to get to know you. Formally, of course.”

  She looked down. Why was she here?

  “I need to fill this space.”

  His house? She gazed up at the splendid Victorian behind him. His heart? She glanced at him. He was waiting, waiting for her to look into his eyes. She swallowed.

  “I need a wife.”

  She shook her head. John. “I’m not the one.”

  “Maybe not.” He laughed. “Maybe so.”

  “I’m not.” She turned, lifting her dress above her ankles, and walked away, crushing wet blades of grass under her feet.

  She could still hear him laughing when she climbed into the carriage. That sound. She recognized it now. Knew precisely what it was.

  The sound of life.

  In the darkest of night, Lydia sat among the dying.

  The Room was still, and though all slept, rest escaped their faces. Sprawled against the back walls, not one of them had the space to recline in the midst of material without touching the foot or the arm of another. Gnats and mosquitoes had come through the gaps of the log walls and swarmed around their heads and the flickering candlestick they had failed to extinguish in the corner.

  She sat with an unquenchable thirst, waiting for Ruth or Abram to stir, to utter a word for her to consume, to draw in like the suckling babe’s craving for mother’s milk, the field slave’s need of water after a full day’s toil beneath the hot beams of sun under a sky she prayed would darken. She thought of Jackson’s eyes. Was it darkness she wanted?

  She waited for them to tell her to endure, that everything she needed was right where she was and not in a laughter she could still hear hours later. She needed the old folk to confirm Lou’s words to stay put, but they did not wake up and the reassurance never came. Lydia folded into herself and rocked against the churning, the knowing deep down. Wouldn’t matter if they had stated every word she craved to hear because she had seen the truth so many times in their eyes, the blinking away of wretchedness, in the tears that filled but rarely fell.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lydia, there’s something I need to say.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sit down.” John helped her settle onto a pile of straw, kneeling beside her. Moonlight streaked her cheek. She lit everything, made even Dr. Kelly’s pine-scented storehouse bright.

  The space was humid, warm. John tugged on the collar of worn denim, unsure which to blame—the weather or the woman sitting in front of him.

  An hour earlier, they had slipped off and wandered around carefree. She begged him to take her somewhere, anywhere to see something different. It was a risk, but he had to admit stealing away with her gave him a rush he hadn’t expected.

  They walked past the slave cabin to the place he came daily to store supplies for the doctor.

&nb
sp; The storehouse was sheathed in weatherboard under an old shingle roof. Inside, the one-room house was divided in half by a stack of pine wood shelves rising seven feet high. Tonight, it acted as a barrier from the real world, offering them something for the first time, a place of their own.

  “Lydia, you ever seen a man in love?”

  She stared at him.

  “Ever seen a man treat a woman like she’s everything? Like a rose, making sure she don’t get trampled on?” John covered her hands with his. “Ever seen that, Lady? A man in love?”

  “Dr. Kelly’s not around much, but—”

  “I’m not talking about Dr. Kelly.” He edged closer. “You’re seeing it right now. You’re seeing it right now, Lydia.”

  Slowly, slowly, she smiled.

  “You’re my rose. But you know what? I can’t take care of it. My rose don’t got much of a chance, not if I don’t protect it. And I can’t. Not like this. Dr. Kelly’s got the freedom to do it and I’ve got to have it too.”

  “What are you saying?” He could see her chest rising and falling.

  “I’ve got money.”

  “Money?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough. Enough to get out of here.”

  “John?” She scrambled to her knees. “John, you think they’ll let you go?”

  “That I don’t know. I’m hoping. I’m going to find out.”

  “When?” She looked down, bit her lip.

  “Soon.” He had no idea. “The perfect time.”

  “There is no perfect time, John. You know that.”

  “We’ll know when.”

  “We?”

  “Yes. I want you to come with me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I have money for both of us. I have enough.”

  “John…”

  “I have enough.”

  She studied him.

  “More than a thousand dollars.”

  “John, how—where did you get it?”

  “It’s my lot.” He inched closer, her knee against his, and whispered, “Riches gathered, collected from age to age. It was my great-grandmother’s plan.”

  She stared at him, shook her head.

  “Yes. MaDora wanted one of her kin to walk free. She hired herself out washing clothes for pennies. Pennies, Lydia. Whatever she made, she stored in an old metal box, welded on the top lid, the first three cents she ever earned. She passed that box filled with all her money—didn’t spend one penny on herself—to her son, my grandfather, Lee Sanders. He was a carpenter and followed after the path of his mother faithfully. Cutting wood, carving detailed designs into rocking chairs, tables, benches, all things wooden subject to splintered hands and a mind, I believe, powerful enough to create a world. A gifted man who made the most for his children’s children. He brought in the most money out of all of us together. I’m telling you, Lydia, he could’ve used that wealth for himself. Could’ve bought himself out of bondage, I’m sure, but he remained faithful to his mother’s dream. He wanted it more for me, more for those to come.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “It is. My mother, just before she died, passed the box on to me.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Here. Buried. She sold vegetables from her garden on Saturdays. I tell you, she never did see a day’s rest.” He dropped his head, hated to think of the weariness that hung her lids, her shoulders heavy. “Master Ridge let me hire myself out, welding, at the end of the week to small farms near his plantation. And here we are. Finally enough.”

  The telling of his story, this account of his people whispered to the one he loved, was sacred. It moved him and he found his palm open against his chest, his heart, the thumping, the rhythm of life from kin to kin.

  “But with all the trading, the selling, the moving around, how did it stay in your family?”

  “That’s the miracle, Lydia. It stayed because it was supposed to stay, settled in my hands for such a time as this. For us.”

  “That money was saved for you. We’re not even married or nothing.” Her words were light and lyrical, but worry creased her brow. Although the world didn’t recognize their union, they could, should acknowledge themselves. She rubbed a piece of straw between her fingers. Large green eyes blinked up at him.

  Those eyes. Married…Yes. They’d have to do something about that.

  “I just need to talk to Dr. Kelly.” He pulled at the straw in her hand. “At the right time.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What do we have to lose, Lydia?”

  “Nothing.”

  The word tumbled from her lips too fast, fell deep in the pit of him. She had nothing to lose. Not a thing.

  She sat up on her legs and stretched the length of her dress around her, inching forward beside him. Her knee against his thigh.

  She smiled and he felt himself breathing again. Had he been holding his breath? He wanted to keep her smiling. What he would do to keep her happy…

  John lay back with his hand behind his head and closed his eyes and saw himself answering to no one but God. A real man.

  Pieces of straw pricked his arm as Lydia slid beside him. When he opened his eyes, hers were closed and he saw the girl in the woods. He would carry her again. Take her home. Keep her safe. He slid his arm behind her, around her, and folded her into him.

  What he needed was the perfect timing that would lead them on a path out of here, but what he wanted was another miracle, a way to keep the world from ever hurting her again.

  He drifted off. Lydia danced in his dreams, light and free. His Lady.

  “John…John?”

  He awoke to her smile shining down on him. He scrambled up and swiped his face with his palm.

  “Lydia, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re fine.”

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “Not long. An hour maybe.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me? I’ve got to get you back.”

  “You were smiling.”

  “Smiling?”

  “In your sleep.” She grinned. “As close to free as you could be tonight.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  It wasn’t easy living without love.

  Love was the breath that moved through a body, lit a soul, the spirit that, if quenched, left one empty on the outside of a changing world simply watching.

  Emma Kelly watched the girls picking blueberries from the sheer curtains of her bedroom window and shook her head. Their fingers would be stained purple for days, but the ruffled ivory sleeves Elizabeth repetitively shoved above her elbows would be stained for life. She couldn’t count how many times she’d warned her daughter of wearing anything she cared about in the fields. No matter how much Lydia scrubbed, dark splotches would fade, but never lift completely. Emma had tried herself once and scrubbed her fingers raw. Giving up, she resorted to lye, pouring the bubbling liquid over the cloth, but it burned her skin until it oozed pus and seared a hole through the fabric. She now knew some things couldn’t be saved.

  She watched her daughter with Lydia, saw herself in earlier years. The full of their skirts accentuated their cinched waists as they leaned over the bushes, their hands cupped under clumps of fruit they rubbed, loosened until they fell into the bottom of the wooden buckets swinging from their forearms. They were good girls, had grown into nice women. Cora still a baby among them.

  Cora.

  The pain of looking at that girl had dissipated with all her other emotions. The moment she witnessed what she tried to disregard, she froze like a pillar, her heart now stone.

  It was the only way she could rise day after day, nod at passersby, smile at humor that was no longer amusing, sit among the living. If she had continued to feel the truth, every ache, every hurt, process all the anguish and deceit from a man she had loved, the weight of it would have broken her, stripped her mind of understanding, and she would’ve ended ripped to her core. Like Beatrice.

&nb
sp; Emma and Beatrice. Elizabeth and Lydia. Her daughter was likely to suffer the same fate, her husband one day wanting the other, the slave woman in her house.

  Emma had been in love, grateful for this gentleman to whom her father bestowed her. She was to be the lady of her own home. She beamed at the thought of it, no more than a girl, three seasons shy of her twentieth year. Her heart warmed at the small smile on Michael’s lips as they rode in silence down the dark winding road, to the old colonial her father sold him, Beatrice toggling in the wagon behind them.

  Alone in their sleeping quarters, she stared into his big, brown eyes and longed to feel his large arms around her, to lie against the warm fur of his chest, but when she kissed his temple, he flinched. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he gripped her hands, his thumbs pressing against the small bones of her wrist, and pulled away. Only on occasion did he come to her in the middle of the night, and only for a few moments, only touching as much as needed. She lie like Leah, unwanted, swaddled in cool sheets and hot tears.

  Emma wondered what was wrong, why he resisted what was rightfully his. She sat for hours contemplating, painting her lids, her cheeks, her lips, bathing in scents of vanilla, crushed petals of lilac, pouring oils as fragrant as they were sacred, anointing the parts of her body she prayed he’d desire, but nothing drew him to her.

  One morning, she sat across from him, Beatrice serving hot steaming flapjacks between them. She spoke to her friend, bid her good morning, and witnessed dark eyes darting from her gaze to her husband’s. Beatrice scrunched the buttons between her cleavage into her fist and turned away. Michael cleared his throat and rose, brushed against her thigh as he walked out. It was their last breakfast together.

  She hated him. Hated her servant, but only for the hours it took for Beatrice to come to her, late in the night, bowing before her, sobbing into her lap, sorry, so sorry, her tears sticking the thin skirt of her dress to her knees. Emma cupped the back of her head and cried in agony and forgave the worst of sins.