Good Fortune (9781416998631) (15 page)

“Sarah, somethin' wrong?” I was moaning, but not loudly enough for Mary to hop up and wipe sweat and tears from my face.

“Ain't anotha dream, is it?”

“Naw, Mary, I'm all right,” I whispered into the night, shifting under my covers.

“Sarah, somethin' wrong?” she said more urgently.

No, no, Mary, nothing was wrong. It was horribly right, just another piece to fit into the puzzle of sorrow that seemed to shape my life. Ayanna, of the Bahati family, the family of good fortune, seemed nothing more than a dream.

CHAPTER
 
15 

C
HRISTMAS, THE BEST DAY OF THE YEAR, WOULD BE ARRIVING
in just a few days. Excitement came, but devastation chased it away. No matter how many times I attempted to cover up my anxiety, it seemed to peek through anyhow. No one seemed to notice, however, and I was grateful for that.

John and Daniel were leaving not a week from now, and they hadn't said one word to me about it yet. I figured they had their reasons for not saying anything. After all, they might not have had the heart to hang around a loved one who had just learned the news.

Regardless, I had assumed that they were just waiting a bit longer, seeking out a better opportunity to let me know. But as the days crept by, it began to seem that they weren't going to tell me at all, or not until the very last moment. Perhaps it was easier that way. I longed, sometimes, to be in Mary's position—oblivious to everything about the planned escape. But I had stubbornly followed my impulse to find out the secret, and I was paying for it now.

Because I knew, it was like swimming underwater; only with great effort was I able to pull my way through each day. I felt stuck in a place that was dragging me down. If I
could just keep my mind on the children, housework, and education, I would be all right. But I couldn't. Daniel and John were both running.

By this time, Masta Jeffrey's threat from earlier in the year had been swept from my mind. Any time he appeared in my presence, he acted as if I weren't there, as was done with any servant, and avoided speaking to me at all. So when, five days before Christmas, he confronted me, I was nowhere near prepared.

It was late morning, on one of the children's longer days at the school, and I'd returned to the Big House. As I stood in the front hall, pushing a mop across the floor, I heard the door swing open behind me and somebody walk through. The footsteps slowed; whoever it was stood silent, unmoving. I glanced over my shoulder, wondering who stood there.

It was Masta Jeffrey. He was looking right at me.

I snapped my head back around, hoping he would go about his business. But a nervous thought was running through my mind.

What is he doing here, looking at me like this?

There was nobody but the two of us in the hall, and I could hear him walking toward me, every step like thunder to my ears. My jaw trembled as I tried to keep hold of my emotions. His shoes clicked nearer, and I feared what he intended to do—or what I was capable of doing. Surely he would leave me be in the front hall.

I turned. He was close … so close!

His hands came up, and he shoved my back against the
wall. I started to yell out, but his hand had already covered my mouth well enough to muffle the sound.

“Shh, shh,” he bellowed in my face as my breathing quickened. I pushed him away, but he pushed himself against me again.

He's not gonna do anything. Not here, not now. Stay calm.

His face came closer, and I felt his hot breath on my neck.

“D-don't touch me.” I dared to stammer out.

“Hey!” he whispered harshly, pinning his fingers around my mouth again.

He was taunting me. I felt the sweat dripping down my face, felt my tight lips fighting to hold in the words, the screams, that all my instincts, my anger, were trying to force out.

He's not gonna do anything …

I could have lifted my hands to strike him. I could have shoved him away. I could have scratched his neck or struck his face. But actions had consequences, and I tried instead to turn my head away from his.

A door suddenly shut upstairs, and the fire in Masta Jeffrey's eyes broke. As soon as he loosened his grip, I jerked away. My chest heaved up and down as any fear left in me ran steadily over into rage. I glared at his figure as he turned to walk away. But he turned back again, a sneer in his eyes.

“It's almost time.” With that, he stepped out of the room.

All the breath I had held in came out in a rush, and the little bit of food in my stomach almost came with it. I stood
against the wall to recover myself. I tried to tell myself I had controlled my actions well, but other emotions brought my hand to my lips. A tear tried to escape my eye, but I stopped it from falling.

I won't cry—no, I won't.

I picked up the bucket I had been using and dumped the water outside, and along with it, tossed the key that locked away my feelings. I walked to the kitchen to wash my hands but stopped in the doorway. Mary stood in my path, half facing me. The feelings I had tried to hide showed plainly on her face. I looked from her face to her busy hands. She was clearing the counter with one, and the other hung by her side, a butter knife clasped so tightly in her fingers that her knuckles were almost white. I stood there, calmer on the outside than I expected myself to be.

“I know you seen it, Aunt Mary,” I whispered to her, barely moving my lips. “I'm all right,” I tried to assure her. I tried to assure myself.

Mary opened her mouth but closed it before any sound could escape. She averted her eyes from mine and continued her work.

As soon as I entered the cabin and saw her, I felt my buried feelings surface. But I said nothing, joining her in her task instead. It was late when I came in. But at a time when Mary was usually preparing for sleep, she worked as if it were the middle of the day.

A long time passed before my mother said anything, and when she did, her words came out slow and heavy.

“I done seen it in him. Young, foolish, scared. Don't know what he's doin', Sarah,” Mary said, looking at me now with tear-filled eyes. Her words seemed forgiving, but her eyes showed anger. She held her trembling lips taut, and looked away before any tears could spill over.

“Aunt Mary, he ain't got no right!” I said to her, shaking my head back and forth.

“Naw, naw he don't. Wish he was like his daddy. He ain' the best of 'em, but he gots mo' honor than that.”

“Mary,” I said, dropping onto my pallet, “he ain't done nothin' to me before, jus' tole me not to say anything 'bout what he was intendin'. That was a long time ago—back in summer. But he ain't … he ain't say nothing since! Why cain't he jus' leave me alone?” I asked in a whine.

“Don't know, chile. But I been seein' that in his eye. Scared even me, it did! Seen him born, an' … an' nursed that chile, I did. Neva tole ya. Came into dis world jus' 'bout the same time I lost my first child. A year or so befo' yo' brother.”

I shook my head. “That don't mean anything to me, Mary, 'less you can stop him!”

Mary looked at me sadly and shook her head.

“Saw him grow up an' turn into one of 'em younguns don't listen to nothin'. Defiant one—always into some trouble. Always had a hard time tryin' to figure what's right an' wrong. An' perhaps, I'm afraid to say, he done figured
usin' y'all female younguns like that ain' such a bad thing. Figure he ain't the only one thinkin' like that either. Most of 'em mastas I seen figure it ain' such a bad thing. Maybe he's jus' comin' round to that way of thinkin', chile.” I dropped my head into my hands, a moan on my lips. I let the tears fall freely. Mary kneeled by me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Shh. Shh, Sarah.” She rubbed my back for a moment. “You don't suppose I could hear what's goin' on in that head of yours?” I looked up at her with a frown, and she wiped one of my tears.

“You know what's goin' through my head, Aunt Mary. I can't do that, I jus' can't!” I searched her face, but it didn't change. It was sad, but wise and patient. “There's gotta be somethin' I could do, Aunt Mary! What's that gonna mean if I have his child? What's that mean, Aunt Mary? I can't … I can't do that….”

She let my words run until my mouth grew tired. Then she spoke, cradling me in her arms. She tried stealing me away from the thoughts of slaves giving birth to children that were only half their own kind. She told me softly, through my whimpers, that it wouldn't be so bad. She told me our tears were a source of their pleasure. She said all I had to do was hold on to that blank face she had taught me. Just hold on. She mentioned the children I could possibly have—I would have. I couldn't take that. All I could think of was my homeland, and my mother there, her soft touch, her lips, her voice. I remembered her lifting me high in the darkness of the night, kissing my cheek as I squealed with
delight, touching my belly, and singing softly the sweet tune of a mother's prayer.

I jerked from Mary's motherly touch. What exactly was she asking of me? How could she tell me to go along like this? It wasn't right.

“Sarah, we still have our lives, our own control right in here.” She tapped her head. “They may try to claim our bodies as theirs, but our souls ain't, Sarah, our souls ain't.”

Of course! There was the key. Our souls weren't theirs. Our bodies were, but our souls …

But no. What dignity lies in that?

One other possibility lurked in the shadows, waiting for that moment when I could see it clearly. Now was that instant. I felt my pureness stirring, that self which had an answer to all impossibilities, an answer I could embrace, could taste, could live.

“Aunt Mary, no! I can't do this Aunt Mary, I can't.” I thought about all the slaves who had given birth, and felt myself rising from the pallet. I heard the yelling and screaming of those slave women and the shrieks of the babies.

“Sarah, listen to me,” Mary began, watching me get up.

“Mary, don't you see?” I said with an expression of confidence, excitement stirring inside me. “Mary, he don't have no control over me if I'm free. Free, Mary, free!” Mary frowned at me, worried.

“What you talkin' of, Sarah?”

“Mary, I'm … I'm runnin' with Daniel an' John Christmas night, an' please don't try to stop me, 'cause
whatever you say ain't gonna help. I been thinkin' about this for some time, an' I know now what I need to do. I made my decision that I'ma run with them.” The words sounded good at first, hanging in the air with a sort of lightness I could feel. But suddenly, the words turned to ice and shattered before me.

Slowly covering my mouth with my hands, I stared apologetically at Mary, my heart quickening.

“Aunt Mary, I'm so sorry. You didn't … no one told …”

“Daniel's r-runnin'?” she asked, staring through me.

She must not have seen me nod, for she asked again, “My son … he's runnin'?” Even if I did answer, Mary wouldn't have heard me. I felt tears well up in my own eyes as Mary shut hers, her shaking hand coming to rest on her lips. After a few minutes of dead silence, I sat down again and pulled Mary into a hug.