In the front window of his house, a woman was ironing. Her back was to me, but I could see the shape of her, the lightness of her skin, the bright head scarf, her arm swinging over the cloth, and it caused a hitch in my chest.
When I got up on the porch, I heard her singing. Way down yonder in the middle of the field, see me working at the chariot wheel. Peering in the open window, I saw she had her hips swishing, too. Now let me fly, now let me fly, now let me fly way up high.
I knocked and the tune broke off. She opened the door still holding the iron, the smell of charcoal straggling behind her. Mauma always said he had mulatto wives all over the city, but the main one lived here in the house. She stuck out her chin, frowning, and I wondered did she think I was the new bride.
“Who’re you?”
“I’m Handful. I came to see Denmark Vesey.”
She glared at me, then down at my twisted foot. “Well, I’m Susan, his wife. What you want with him?”
I could feel the heat glowing off the iron. The woman had been hard done by and I couldn’t blame her not opening the door to stray women. “All I want is to talk to him. Is he here or not?”
“I’m here,” a voice said. He stood propped in the doorway behind her with his arms folded on his chest like he’s God watching the world go by. He told his wife to find something to do, and her eyes trimmed down to little slits. “Take that iron with you,” he said. “It’s smoking up the room.”
She left with it, while he eyed me. He’d lost some fat from his face. I could see the top rim of his cheek bones. He said, “You’re lucky you didn’t get rot in your foot and die.”
“I made out. Looks like you did, too.”
“You didn’t come to see about my health.”
He didn’t wanna beat the bushes. Fine with me. My foot hurt from trudging here. I took the bundle off my back and sat down in a chair. There wasn’t a frill in the room, just cane chairs and a table with a Bible on it.
I said, “I used to come here with my mauma. Her name was Charlotte.”
The sneer he always wore slid off his face. “I knew I knew you from somewhere. You have her eyes.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“You have her gumption, too.”
I squeezed the burlap bundle against my chest. “I wanna know what happened to her.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Coming on seven years.”
When he kept silent, I undid the burlap and spread mauma’s story quilt cross the table. The squares hung nearly to the floor, bright enough to set a fire in the dark room.
People say he never smiled, but when he saw the slaves flying in the air past the sun, he smiled. He gazed at granny-mauma and the falling stars, at mauma leaving my daddy behind in the field, me and her laying in cut-up pieces on the quilt frame. He studied the spirit trees and the one-legged punishment. Didn’t ask what anything meant. He knew it was her story.
I stole a look at the last square where mauma had sewed the man with the carpenter apron and the numbers 1884. I watched careful to see if he’d recognize himself.
“You think that’s me, don’t you?” he said.
“I know that’s you, but I don’t know about those numbers.”
He chuckled outright. “One, eight, eight, four. That was the number on my lottery ticket. The numbers that bought my freedom.”
The room was stifle hot. Sweat dribbled on my temples. So, that’s her last word, then. That’s what it came to—a chance for getting free. A fancy chance.
I folded up the quilt, wrapped it back in the burlap, and tied it on my back. I picked up my cane. I said, “She was pregnant, you know that? When she went missing, your baby went missing with her.”
He didn’t flinch, but I could tell he didn’t know.
I said, “Those numbers never did come up for her, did they?”
Sarah
The ship ride was harrowing. We plied up the coast for nearly two weeks, sickened by heaving waves off Virginia, before finally making our way along the Delaware to Penn Landing. Arriving there, I had an impulse to bend down and kiss the solid ground. With Father almost too weak to speak, it was left to me to figure out how to retrieve our trunks and hire a coach.
As we drew close to Society Hill, where the doctor resided, the city turned lovely with its trees and steeples, its brick row houses and mansions. What struck me was how empty the streets were of slaves. The sudden realization caused a tightness inside of me to release, one I was not aware existed until that moment.
I found us lodging in a Quaker boardinghouse near Fourth Street, where Father relinquished himself to me—what he ate, what he wore, all decisions about his care. He even turned over the money pouches and ledgers. Every few days, I navigated us to the doctor’s house by hired carriage, but after three weeks of seemingly futile visits, Father still couldn’t walk more than a stone’s throw without exhaustion and pain. He’d lost more weight. He looked absolutely desiccated.
Seated in the doctor’s parlor one morning, I stared at Dr. Physick’s white hair and aquiline nose, a nose very like Father’s. He said, “Sadly, I can find no cause for Judge Grimké’s tremors or his deterioration.”
Father was not the only one who was frustrated. I, too, was weary of coming here optimistic and leaving dismayed. “. . . Surely, there must be something you can prescribe.”
“Yes, of course. I believe the sea air will do him good.”
“Sea air?”
He smiled. “You’re skeptical, but it’s quite recognized—it’s known as thalassotherapy. I’ve known it to bring even the gravely ill back to health.”
I could only imagine what Father would say to this. Sea air.
“My prescription,” he said, “is that you take him to Long Branch for the summer. It’s a small, rather isolated place on the New Jersey shore known for its sea cure. I’ll send you with laudanum and paregoric. He should be outside as much as possible. Encourage him to wade in the ocean, if he’s able. By fall, perhaps he’ll be recovered enough to travel home.”
Perhaps I would be home with Nina before September.
The doctor had said Long Branch was small, but he’d exaggerated. It was not small, it was not even miniscule; it was barely existent. There were four farmhouses, one tiny clapboard Methodist church, and a dry goods store. Neither was the place “rather isolated”; it was woefully isolated. We traveled by private coach from Philadelphia for six days, the last one bumping over a foot trail. After stopping for toiletry supplies in the dry goods, we continued a ways further to Fish Tavern, the only hotel. It was perched atop a bluff overlooking the ocean—a large, sea-weathered edifice. When the clerk informed us that prayer meetings were held in the communal dining hall after dinner, I took it as a sign God had guided us.
Father had come willingly, too willingly, it seemed. I’d felt sure he would insist on returning to South Carolina. I’d expected him to quip, “Do we not have sea-air in Charleston?” but when I’d broken the news to him there in Dr. Physick’s examination room, careful to use the word thalassotherapy, he’d only looked at me for a long, strange moment. A shadow passed over his face, what I took to be disappointment. He said, “Let’s go to New Jersey then. That’s what we’ll do.”
That first afternoon before dusk, I brought cod soup to Father’s room. When he tried to eat it, his hand quivered so violently, spoonfuls splattered onto the bed sheets. He lay back against the bedstead and let me feed him. I chattered about the squalling ocean, about the serpentine steps that led from the hotel down to the shore, almost frantic to divert us from what was happening. His mouth opening and closing like a baby bird’s. Ladling in the colorless broth. The helplessness of it.
While I fed him, the crush of waves filled the room. Through the window, I could see a swatch of water the color of pewter, whipped by the wind into frothing swells. Finally
, he put up his hand to let me know he’d had enough of soup and babbling both.
I placed the chamber pot on the floor nearby. “Good night, Father.”
His eyes were already closed, but his hand fumbled for my forearm. “It’s all right, Sarah. We will let it be what it is.”
17 July 1819
Dear Nina,
We are settled at Fish Tavern. Mother would call the place shabby, but it was once elegant and it has character. The rooms are nearly filled with boarders, but I’ve met only two. They are elderly widowed sisters from New York, who come to prayer meetings each evening in the dining room. I like the younger one quite a lot.
Father commands all of my attention. We came for the sea air, but he hasn’t ventured from his room. I open the window, but the squawking gulls annoy him, and he orders the window closed by noon. I’m quite devious—I leave it open a crack and tell him it’s shut. It’s all the more reason I must go to the dining room and pray with the sisters.
At fifteen, you are old enough that I may speak sister to sister. Father’s pain grows worse. He sleeps long, fitful hours from the laudanum, and when I insist he take some exercise around the room, he leans heavily against me. I must feed him most of his meals. Still, Nina, I know there’s hope! If faith moves mountains, God will rally Father soon. Each day, I sit by his bed and pray and read the Bible aloud for hours at a time. Don’t be angry at me for my piety. I am Presbyterian after all. As you know, we’re fond of our gall and wormwood.
I trust you’re not provoking Mother too much. If possible, restrain yourself until my return. I pray Handful is well. Keep your eye out for her. If she needs protecting for any reason, do your best.
I miss your company. Perhaps I’m a bit lonely, but I have God. You may tell Mother all is well.
Your Devoted Sister,
Sarah
Every day at specified times, the hotel clerk raised and lowered red and white flags near the steps that led down to the beach. At nine o’clock sharp, the red flag went up, signaling the gentlemen to take possession of the shore. I would observe them thundering into the waves, racing beyond the breakers, and diving. Surfacing, they stood waist-deep, their hands on their hips, and surveyed the horizon. On the beach, they tussled or huddled together and smoked cigars. At eleven, the white flag went up, and the men climbed the stairs back to the hotel with woolen towels draped about their necks.
Then the ladies appeared. Even if I was in the midst of prayer, I would mutter a hasty Amen and fly to the window to watch them descend the stairs in their bathing dresses and oilskin caps. I’d never seen ladies bathing. Back home, women didn’t go into the ocean in fanciful get-ups. There was a floating bathhouse in the harbor off East Battery with a private area for females, but Mother thought it was unseemly. Once, to my astonishment, I spotted the two elderly sisters I’d written about to Nina, moving gingerly down the steps with the others. The younger one, Althea, always took pains to inquire not only about Father, but about me. “How are you, dear? You look pallid. Are you getting outdoors enough?” When I’d glimpsed her among the bathers that day, she’d glanced back, and seeing me at the window, she’d motioned me to join them. I’d shaken my head, but nothing would’ve pleased me more.
The women always entered the water differently than the men, holding on to heavy ropes anchored to the shore. At times there would be a dozen of them stretched into the water, clinging to a single line, squealing and turning their backs against the spray. If Father was sleeping, I would stay at the window and watch with a lump in my chest until the white flag came down.
On the morning of August eighth, I was there at the windowsill, neglecting my prayers, when Father woke, crying my name. “Sarah!” Reaching his side, I realized he was still asleep. “Sarah!” he shouted again, tossing his head in agitation. I placed my hand on his chest to steady him, and he woke with his breath coming hard and fast.
He gazed at me with the feverish look of someone stumbling back from a nightmare. It saddened me to think I’d been part of it. During these weeks at Long Branch, Father had been kind to me. How are you faring, Sarah? Are you eating enough? You seem weary. Put down the Bible, go for a walk. His tenderness had shocked me. Yet he’d remained aloof, never speaking of deeper things.
I pressed a cool cloth to his forehead. “. . . Father, I know coming here has been a trial for you, and your progress has been . . . it has been slow.”
He smiled without opening his eyes. “It’s time we spoke the truth. There has been no progress at all.”
“. . . We mustn’t give up hope.”
“Mustn’t we?” The skin on his cheeks was as thin and sheer as a veil. “I came here to die, you must know that.”
“No! I certainly don’t know that.” I felt aghast, even angry. It was as if the bad dream had cracked his façade, and I suddenly wished for it back. “. . . If you believe you’re dying, then why didn’t you insist we go home?”
“It will be hard for you to understand this, but the last few years at home have been difficult. It seemed a relief to be far away, to be here with you and go quietly. I felt like here I could detach more easily from the things I’ve known and loved my whole life.”
My hand went to my mouth. I felt my eyes film over with tears.
“Sarah. My dear girl. Let’s not indulge vain hopes. I don’t expect to recover, nor do I want to.”
His face blazed intensely now. I took his hand and gradually his expression eased, and he drifted to sleep.
He woke at three in the afternoon. The white flag had just been raised—I could see it framed in the window, snapping against the translucent sky. I held the water glass to his lips and helped him to drink. He said, “We’ve had our quarrels, haven’t we?”
I knew what was coming and I wanted to spare him. To spare me. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“You’ve always had a strong, separate mind, perhaps even a radical mind, and I was harsh with you at times. You must forgive me.”
I couldn’t imagine what it cost him to say these words. “I do,” I said. “And you must forgive me.”
“Forgive you for what, Sarah? For following your conscience? Do you think I don’t abhor slavery as you do? Do you think I don’t know it was greed that kept me from following my conscience as you have? The plantation, the house, our entire way of life depended on the slaves.” His face contorted and he clutched at his side a moment before going on. “Or should I forgive you for wanting to give natural expression to your intellect? You were smarter than even Thomas or John, but you’re female, another cruelty I was helpless to change.”
“Father, please. I have no resentment of you.” It wasn’t completely true, but I said it.
Giggles floated up from the beach below, tangled in the wind. “You should go outside and refresh your spirit,” he said.
I protested, but he wouldn’t relent. “How will you take care of me, if you don’t take care of yourself? Do this for me. I’ll be fine.”
I meant only to wade in the surf. I removed my shoes and placed them beside the portable changing house that had been wheeled out onto the sand. At that moment, the friendly sister, Althea, drew back the canvas and stepped out wearing a red-and-black-striped bathing gown with a peplum flounce and balloon sleeves. I wished Handful could’ve seen it.
“How lovely. Are you finally bathing with us?” she said.
“. . . Oh, no, I don’t have the attire for it.”
She scrutinized my face, which must’ve radiated unhappiness in every direction, for she announced she’d suddenly lost the desire to bathe and it would please her enormously if I would don her dress and take a plunge. After my conversation with Father, I felt flayed open, all pulp and redness. I wanted to disappear somewhere alone, yet I looked at the rope-line of women jutting into the sea, and then beyond it at the green mountains of water, so limitless and untamed, and I accepted her offer.
She smiled when I emerged from the changing room. She had no cap, and I’d unpinned my hair, which was flaming out in the wind. She said I looked like a mermaid.
I took hold of one of the ropes and followed it into the waves, hand over fist, until I came to where the rest of the ladies stood. The water slapped our thighs, tossing us to and fro, a tiny game of Snap the Whip, and then without knowing what I was about to do, I turned loose and strode away from them. I pushed into the seething water, and when I was some distance, I dropped onto my back and floated. It was a shock to feel the water hold me. To lie in the sea while upstairs my father lay dying.
9 August 1819
Dear Mother,
The Bible assures us that God shall wipe away every tear from our eyes . . .
I lowered my pen. I didn’t know how to tell her. It seemed strange I should be the one informing her of such news. I’d imagined her gathering us, her children, into the drawing room and saying, Your father has gone to God. How was it possible this had fallen to me?
Instead of the distinguished funeral he would’ve had in Charleston—the pomp of St. Philip’s, a stately procession along Meeting Street, his coffin mounted on a flowered carriage and half the city walking behind it—instead of all that, he would be buried anonymously in the overgrown cemetery behind the tiny Methodist church we’d passed on the way here. A farm wagon would pull his casket. I would walk behind it, alone.
But I would tell Mother none of this. Nor would I tell her that at the hour of his death, I was floating free in the ocean, in a solitude I would remember all of my life, the gulls cawing over my head and the white flag flying at the top of the pole.
Handful
The Invention of Wings Page 18