“And you’re making yourself a dress?”
She didn’t answer. Weaving a dress for a make-believe bride. She sobered. No. No, she would not. Gowns were a custom reserved for White women.
“Lydia?”
“I’m going to wear something simple. Nothing special.”
Ruth nodded and gripped her hand, squeezing Lydia’s knuckles together against her palm.
The moment rested between them.
“Is he good, Lydia? Is he a good man?”
“He is. The best.”
Ruth turned aside, her shoulder resting against Lydia’s, her breathing slow and steady.
“What is it, Miss Ruth?”
“Ain’t nothing, baby. I was just thinking what it must be like.”
“What’s that?”
“Love. What it must be like to be loved. By a man.”
“You’ve never…?” Lydia blushed. Why she thought to ask something so intimate of her elder, a woman she respected, stuttered her words. “I—I haven’t neither. I’ve never—”
Ruth chuckled and gripped Lydia’s knee. “I’ve been with a man. One man plenty.” Her laughter stopped abruptly, swallowed in silence. “I ain’t talking about that. I’m talking about being loved by one. What’s that like?”
What was it like? This love?
Lydia was surprised how suddenly her mind filled with images, how quickly her lungs inhaled the feeling. Love was like the heat of summer, she thought to say, a sweltering that left her warm and wet, but she would never allow those words to leave her lips. It was like the chilling touch of winter tingling her spine until she shivered. Certainly Ruth would understand that, as cold as the cabin had been in January. Or was love more like springwater quenching a thirst she hadn’t even known she had? Better yet, it was the red and orange leaves of fall, bold and bright against a washed-out world. It was beauty at its best.
Lydia looked at the woman sitting erect, waiting. This one whose time had passed, whose life would end within these walls without the very thing needed to sustain it. The one thing Lydia possessed. “It’s something,” she said simply.
“I hear you.” Ruth nodded. “It’s everything.”
She was late.
It was several minutes after the eleven o’clock hour when Lydia dashed up the back steps of the colonial. Easing the door closed behind her, she crept down the dim hall to her room.
She heard heavy steps behind her, but when she swung around, she saw no one. It wasn’t until her thumb gripped the doorknob, slipped from the cold metal and her elbow was grabbed, she knew she wasn’t alone. She spun around.
“Lydia.” Dr. Kelly towered over her, his dark brows raised over eyes steady on hers. The ends of his moustache curved around a grin.
“Dr. Kelly.”
“You’re just coming in?”
“No.” He had seen her, hadn’t he? “I mean, yes.”
“Me too.” He smiled wider as he laid his large hand high against the door frame, leaning against the wood. Knuckles covered in hair clawed above her, his prey.
“Well, good night, sir.” Her pulse raced as she groped once again for the knob.
“May I come in?”
“I don’t think so. No.”
“Oh, just for a moment.” He swung the door open, plowed inside, bumping into her three-legged table. It wobbled against his knee. “I won’t stay long.”
Lydia stood in the doorway, unsure of what to do. Run?
“Aren’t you coming in?” He chuckled. “These are your quarters, aren’t they?”
She didn’t move.
“Oh, I see. You want me to come after you.” He strutted toward her.
Please, no.
“You were out in the slave quarters, too, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” No reason to tell she was in his storehouse without permission. “I was.”
“For?”
She hesitated.
“With whom?”
“Sir?” She could feel the ball of her foot lift against the soft leather of her shoe, her leg starting to bounce under the pressure.
“Oh, never mind that.” He stood close, his tar-scented breath drifting over her, his gaze leaving her eyes, her mouth, traveling down the length of her. “You look nice.”
She glanced down at her russet dress. Far from nice. Hot and grimy, the cotton clung to her moist skin. She gripped the front of it, pulled it away from her body until it tented around her, hiding all signs of femininity.
“I’ve noticed your glances.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve noticed, Lydia.” He reached for her. “Just a little timid, are you?”
Like lightning, he slid his arm around her waist, nestled into her shoulder, his wet mouth pressed against her neck, his hand, his solid, heavy hands, grappling, pulling, tugging at her.
She squeezed his fingers, dug her nails into the flesh of them until she felt bone and shoved him away.
He stumbled back and looked at his hands, gawked at the ruby wounds.
Lydia’s heart raced. She tried to run, but fear locked her feet in place. She was certain he would slap her, kick her, kill her, but when he finally looked into her eyes, she saw no signs of anger.
“I’m sorry.” His hands flew into the air, his palms up toward her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
She waited.
He swiped his hands through his curls and took a breath. “I misunderstood—I thought you…” He shook his head. “Never mind. Look, I’m sorry, all right?”
Astonished, she rested against the wall, trying hard to steady her breathing.
“I’m sorry, Lydia.”
He looked troubled. Worried. His eyes, round and wet, like a child before the finger wagged and the swinging rod landed. “Please. Please don’t tell anyone. Elizabeth…”
She nodded her head. Hurt her friend? Never.
“This is just between us.”
She swallowed.
“Please. Please!” He was begging. Not demanding. She stared at the pleading one who had transformed before her eyes, this man she didn’t know.
She nodded.
He took a deep breath and swallowed, the knot in his throat at rest. “Thank you.”
She heard him walking back down the hall. When his steps faded, she collapsed against the wall alone.
The next morning when she went to the field, Lydia walked slowly toward the workers, swinging the bucket low against her knees. She cared little how much water was lost on the way, just kept moving forward down the path toward the men and women like her. Folks without rights, subject to any choice, any touch the world offered.
She didn’t want to see John or her father. Two men who loved her but couldn’t shield her. She would serve them without a word. If she spoke, they would know her pain and weep in their hearts for a manhood denied.
John was right. He couldn’t keep her from being trampled on as much as he wanted. He had walked her all the way to the steps, but it wasn’t enough. His cover still fell short.
It wasn’t fair that she expected more. Of course they couldn’t protect her. They couldn’t protect themselves. Lydia thought of all the Colored men sold, hung, dragged behind wagons. She thought of the welts branched on John’s back. They were all subject to owners. She scoffed at the word so rightfully given. Yes, owners. They owned houses and land, slaves and cattle. They owned bodies and souls. They caught the spirit of life of the captured like one caught a firefly in a jar. Only so much time passed before the light flickered and went out for good. What was left was disposed of, dumped in woods or sometimes fields or kitchens, bound in boot or apron strings, tied down by the weight of death. Escaping was the only option. What did a slave have to lose? Not a thing.
She could still feel the master’s lips on her neck, his arm squeezed around her waist, his hands. Those hands she couldn’t get off her body, off her mind.
She saw John and turned away.
“I’m not getting water today?” He chuckled.
She turned to him, her eyes downcast. If he saw her eyes…
“Oh, I see. I’ve got to get my own,” he said, dipping the gourd into the bucket. “How’s my Lady today?” When she didn’t answer, he stopped, holding the ladle in midair. “Lydia? You all right?”
A secret between them. She couldn’t allow him to carry the thought of another man touching her or worse, the guilt of not being able to do a thing about it.
Tears slipped down her face. One after the other.
He grabbed the bucket from her and set it on the ground before pulling her to him. She rested against his chest.
“What is it?” He tilted her chin up to him. “What is it?”
The most gentle eyes. Gentle hands held her in silence.
“Don’t worry, Lydia. I’m right here.” He cupped her head, rubbed her back. She could hear him take a deep breath and swallow. “I’m not going nowhere.”
John waited until he saw Dr. Kelly walk out the front door. He dropped the rake at his feet and ran to him, catching him just before he stepped into the carriage.
“I want to get married, sir.”
“Pardon me?” Dr. Kelly stared at him with wide eyes.
“Married, sir.” He hated he had to ask this man. Isaiah had been different. He was honored he had come to ask for his daughter and happy for them. “I know by law it’s not granted.”
“It most certainly isn’t,” Dr. Kelly said, gripping the side of the vehicle as he climbed aboard. Red marks spotted his knuckles.
“Yes, sir, but we’d like to have our own ceremony.”
“Who is it?” The doctor hesitated. “Another slave from here?”
“Yes, sir. She’s right here. I won’t need to go off for visits.”
“Good.”
“I just need permission to have her with me.” He cleared his throat. “At night.”
“Of course.” Dr. Kelly smiled. “Why else would you get married?”
His smirk raised John’s blood. Maleness did not link them. Nothing connected him to the man.
“Sure, John. That’s fine.”
“Thank you.” Thank You, God. “Thank you, sir.” He was already jogging, running back to the fields, lighter than he’d come.
“Who is she?” Dr. Kelly yelled.
John turned around. “Lydia.” He was far in the field now but could’ve sworn he saw something flash across his face. “Her name’s Lydia.”
Of course he knew her. She was Dr. Kelly’s house slave. But soon she would be his wife.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Grandma, you have to stop.” Lydia wiped her grandmother’s tears. Lou had wept all morning in the back room of her cabin.
“I just can’t believe it. You getting married. My baby’s baby.”
Lou lifted herself up from the low wooden stool in the corner of the room, one hand on the seat, the other against her breast. She coughed herself hoarse before walking to Lydia, her tree-trunk legs dragging beneath her.
It struck her how much her grandmother had aged. Life had waged an all-out assault against her and was winning with little resistance. Her once-prominent features had melted to dough.
Lydia wrapped her arms around the old lady.
“Grandma, I love you.”
“Granny loves you, too, baby. Lydia, you better not cry!”
“Well, you’re crying!”
“The bride ain’t never suppose to cry on her day. Listen, here, chil’, you got plenty days to do just that.”
Lydia laughed.
“But today, you got to be happy, you hear me? Ain’t no reason to shed a tear today. Now, go on and get ready, girl. Noon, Lydia. John’ll be waiting.”
“Lydia!” Her father called from the front room.
It warmed her heart to see him in his white-buttoned shirt and navy trousers, Sunday’s best. He squirmed against the small wooden knob that held the collar close against his throat and smiled.
“I’ve got something for you, Lydia.”
“You do? Daddy, you know—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Now go on and close your eyes.”
She closed her eyes and heard the door open and the sound of something being dragged inside.
“Open your eyes.”
Lydia stared at the bench, a redwood cedar polished to perfection, and wrapped her arms around her father’s neck. “Daddy, it’s beautiful.” She knelt before it and ran her fingers over a carved heart and letters on the backrest.
“Says John and Lydia,” her father said. “Took me awhile to add that.” He smiled.
“It’s perfect, Daddy. Thank you.”
Lou stood at the back of the room, grinning.
“I wanted something special for you,” he said. “It’s a special day.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Lydia kissed her father and gave her grandmother a squeeze before scampering off to the Big House.
All she could think about was tonight. Joy and fret warred, flipped, and tumbled over each other inside her belly.
In the washroom outside the manor, she scrubbed her body and hair with soap made of ashes and lard in a wooden bucket of water, drying off with a few shakes of her frayed towel. She slipped into her knee-length stockings and chemise, but when she lifted the oversized cream sack dress over her head, she steadied herself. Joy swelled as she traced a string of yellow ribbon above the pocket around her waist and tied it in a bow behind her. She had wanted to wear the gown she had made for herself but thought better of it. It was Jackson’s dress now and much too formal for anything John owned. She combed through the damp tangles of her hair, wrapped it full and high, and smiled at the crown Lizzy had taught her to create.
Inside she found her friend in the sitting room, flipping the yellowed pages of a book small and thick.
“Where’s your mother? Are your parents here?”
“Who knows where my father is, but my mother’s in her quarters. Resting, I believe.” Lizzy looked up at her. “Lydia… Look at you! You coming from church?”
“This is it, Lizzy.” Lydia giggled and ran to her. Kneeling beside her, she squeezed her hand. “Today’s the day.”
“What day?” Lizzy tossed the book aside and scooted to the edge of the sofa.
“I’m getting married, Lizzy,” she whispered. “I’m getting married.”
“You’re getting married?” Lizzy nearly screamed.
“Shh!” Lydia laughed, cupping her hand over her mouth, but was no quieter. “I’m all ready. I don’t want to keep John waiting.”
“Oh, Lydia. I want to come. I’ll come with you.”
“Lizzy, you can’t. You know your parents wouldn’t approve.”
“Well, then, I’ll just sit with you until it’s time.”
Lydia squeezed her tight. Lizzy giggled all the way down the hall to Lydia’s hushes.
In the room, Lizzy sat on Lydia’s bed and smiled. The dingy, thin cotton sheets crinkled around her like sun rays. Everything was beautiful today.
Lydia pulled the sheer drapes aside and sat in the rough-hewn chair at the foot of her bed.
“What about you, Lizzy? Still thinking about Jackson?” She hadn’t mentioned his private conversation with her.
“He’s a bit stuffy for my taste.” Lizzy shrugged, then her eyes lit. “Andrew’s interesting.”
“He’s nice, but no more sneaking around.”
“Well, no, I certainly can’t ask you to go with me now. Not now.” She slurred the word and laughed.
Lydia smiled. Lizzy looked like her father. She’d never noticed how much before. She turned away.
“You all right, Lydia? Seems you should be happier. You do love him, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, very much. Lizzy, I wish you knew him. He’s wonderful.”
“So what is it?”
“I just wish…”
“What, Lydia? You wish, what? I wish I’d known you were getting married. I would’ve gotten you something. If there’s something you want…”
But what she
wanted her friend couldn’t give.
“You’re a good friend, Lizzy.”
“You’re my best, Lydia. My best.”
The beauty of The Room stunned her.
Ruth and Odessa had wrapped their heads in crimson scarves and much of the fabric on the floor was half stuffed in the cracks of the walls so that they hung down in flaps on every side. Lydia felt a tug in her heart and swallowed the lump that swelled inside her throat. She looked at the women and Old Abram inside, who wouldn’t have had the opportunity to see her wed had she not decided to come to them. She stared at her father, her grandmother, and Cora smiling at her against the open door. Her family. The sacrifice, the effort of ones with little power, moved her. Tears welled up and she tried to look at, touch, take in each piece of material they had placed like feathers in a hallowed nest. Each one took breath, strength they didn’t have. Lydia cried. Each one gave love, they did.
“Oh, now, what did I tell you about that?” Lou chastised through tears. “No crying, Lydia. Got me crying again and ya’ll ain’t even married yet!”
“Come inside.” Lydia motioned but Lou shook her head.
“I can see plenty good from here.”
Truth be told, there would only be room for John in the tight quarters.
Abram and Odessa sat in a half circle on the mounts of fabric that remained. Ruth, at the loom.
“Got something for you.”
“Miss Ruth…”
“Ain’t much, but you know it’s from my heart.”
Ruth lifted a woven rainbow band of cotton. When she heard her approach, she reached out and loosened the yellow ribbon from Lydia’s waist and tied the colorful belt behind her.
“I had to do something.” Her fingers climbed from Lydia’s chin to the cheek she patted. “Had to do something.”
“He’s here,” her father announced.
Lydia brushed past her daddy and the others and stepped outside. Her heart lifted when she saw him a few feet away.
John gripped a tattered Bible in his right hand and a red rose in his left. He ran to her.
“I made it,” he said, dusting his faded black trousers and white shirt. He grabbed then kissed her hand and handed her the flower.
The Loom Page 8