Good Fortune (9781416998631) (39 page)

When I told Florence about the matter, she immediately decided to join me that day. She'd itched with about as much excitement as I had. Florence reminded me so much of Daniel—enjoying my joys, ready to stand by me when I needed her, but steadily moving along her own path. Florence's passion was in designing and repairing clothes, but for right now, she chose to continue helping Mama Bessie with the housework.

Side-by-side, Florence and I walked to Mrs. Rosa's on that September day, a day I won't ever forget. Even the breeze welcomed us as we walked. The house stood a short distance from the road, but as soon as we saw it, we
ran all the way to the front door. My anticipation almost spilled over as I stepped up to knock, but Florence held me back.

“You sure this her house?” she asked me.

“Flo, I'm sure.”

The hollow sound of my knocking echoed.

No answer.

“Knock again!” Florence whispered.

I did, three more times. I shook my head in frustration. It seemed we had walked all the way down here only to be disappointed.

“Well, Anna, …” But before Florence could finish, the latch clicked and the door swung open. In front of me stood a gorgeous black woman whose thick black hair lay in short, neat curls all over her head. She was a young woman, but seemed to be a decent number of years older than me. Mrs. Rosa was dressed rather nicely, in a flowing skirt that just touched the floor and a white blouse buttoned up almost to her chin. Her skin color was somewhere between my own and Florence's.

“Hi there, ladies.” She smiled, showing two rows of straight white teeth. Her accent dipped beautifully out of her mouth and reminded me of a couple who had visited Masta's house many years ago, people who had traveled across the seas.

“What can I do for you?” she asked in a soft, warm voice that lacked the roughness of the language I had heard from people most of my life. I stood in place, speechless, gazing at this woman. There was a perfection about her—her
grace, refinement, and composure—that set off longing in my spirit.

How is it that this woman reminds me of Mathee?

I felt Florence nudge me gently in the back. Immediately, I straightened up and lifted my chin just slightly.

“You Mrs. Rosa?” I asked her.

She smiled. “Yes, I am. Can I do something for you?”

“Well, ma'am, I'm Anna. This, here, is Florence,” I said.

She nodded, waiting. “I'm here to see 'bout learnin'.”

“Are you?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am, I am. Bin looking for some kinda school for black folks since I came here but couldn't find none. Man found me the otha day, telln' me he'd help me get educated like I've bin dreamin' 'bout.”

“What did he say?” she asked patiently, as if she already knew.

“He told me 'bout you an' 'bout what gettin' educated means. Don't know who he was. Was a white man, I believe. I ain't seen him around here none.”

She nodded slowly, looking carefully at me.

“Ma'am, you … you know the man? You teach fo' him or somethin'?” I asked, my curiosity still biting.

She looked slowly from my face to Florence's and didn't answer right away.

“Well, now, I'm not one to answer many questions, but I can say this. I don't teach for anybody. I tutor sometimes, that's all.” She raised her eyebrows. “But no more talk about how you ended up on my doorstep. It seems that there's other business to attend to, anyhow, concerning you
wanting to learn. So, please, come in.” Having deliberately washed the mystery from the air, she then took a step back into her home and motioned for us to join her inside.

There was something familiar about the place that caught my attention. The room's calming scent reminded me of something ancient, perhaps an herb Mathee had used to freshen up the air of our hut back in Africa. The room was large, warm, and pleasantly decorated. Portraits of fancy-looking folks with black skin hung from several walls. My eyes would have lingered on them, but something else caught my attention: two large bookcases at opposite ends of the room. They were filled with books. I gasped in wonder.

“You got a lot of books in here,” I said, excited. Mrs. Rosa glanced at me, considering my excitement for a moment, but said nothing.

Florence and I sat down in chairs that had carved wooden legs. Mrs. Rosa pulled up a seat for herself in front of us. As we waited for her to sit down, I envisioned myself slowly running my fingertips across the books, then pulling one down, slowly opening it up, taking in the smell of the pages, and burying myself in the words.

“Anna,” Mrs. Rosa said, prompting me to return my thoughts to her. There was an elegance about the way she sat that made me aware of my own posture. “You say you want to learn. Learn what?”

“Well, I guess I wanna learn to write, and to be able to read whatever I pick up.”

“Can you do either already?”

“Yes, ma'am, I can read some and write a little bit. I reckon I don't really know what else I could learn in school. I suppose, maybe, I can get better with my numbers.” I paused to consider her question more deeply.

What do I want to learn?

“Mrs. Rosa”—I looked her squarely in her eyes—“I've bin carrying this idea in my mind fo' a long time that one day, I'd be able to read an' have a real honest answer to why some things are the way they are. Figure I wanna be like those educated folks who use their minds all the time.”

Mrs. Rosa looked at me for what seemed a long time. She got up, after a while, went to one of the bookcases, and began searching through books until she found the two she wanted.

Handing me the first, she pointed to the name at the bottom.

“What name is this and who does it belong to?” she asked as she sat again, placing a long finger on her lips and awaiting my response.

“P-h … Fil-lis … W-hee-at-ly … Filis W-heeatly.” I thought for a moment, running the name through my head, but I knew no such person. “I dunno—I mean, I don't know, Mrs. Rosa,” I said after I glanced over at her.

“Phillis Wheatley,” she replied with no change in her expression.

“Oh,” I said, wondering who the name belonged to.

“Where do you live, Anna? Who are your parents? Or do you live alone, or are you married?” she asked all at once, moving quickly to the next order of business.

“Parents? Well, I don't have no … I don't have any parents. I live with Mama Bessie, and—”

“She a slave!” Florence said, cutting me off. “I mean, she used to be a slave, ma'am. She was freed,” Florence said as steadily as she could as she batted guilty eyes at me, “and came here earlier this year.”

I glared at my friend, and she looked sheepishly away. I had not anticipated sharing that information with this woman. If anything, that fact might take away my chances of getting educated.

“A slave? How did you learn to read and write, Anna?” I stared down at the quilt, not answering the question. I didn't want to lie, but I couldn't tell the truth. Of what importance was that to her, anyhow? To my surprise, Mrs. Rosa laughed, a beautiful sound to my ears. I brought my eyes back up to see that her face showed admiration rather than distaste.

“Ahh, I know the answer well. You must be determined, Anna, and quite brave, if I dare say.”

“I want an education, Mrs. Rosa,” I said truthfully.

Mrs. Rosa nodded at me. “I can see that, Anna. All right. Now, do you have a job?”

“Well, I work with Mama Bessie in the house with the children. She give me a place to stay, an' a little bit of money each month that's mine to keep. But that's all.”

Mrs. Rosa nodded and searched my eyes for something I prayed that I had. Finally, she spoke.

“Most folks don't know about me tutoring, and I prefer that it stay that way. There's no danger in doing what I
do, I just prefer to have as few students as possible.”

I nodded hurriedly.
As long as you'll teach me!

“But I think, Anna, that tutoring you would be a pleasure. However, there is one thing I need from you.” Inside, my spirit sprang to the rooftop, danced among the clouds, and shouted with joy. On the outside, however, I stayed as calm as I could, waiting for her next words.

“What I require is your dedication. I want you to focus on what I teach and to learn all you can. If it so happens that you are no longer interested in this education, I need for you to let me know. I do not tutor the blind.”

“Tutor the blind?” I asked with a frown.

“I can't teach you if your eyes have closed to what I teach, rather. There is nothing wrong with that, it just means they have opened to something else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I can't tutor one who has no desire to be taught, especially around here. But I see the opposite in you and I believe that, if you can make it here by the time the sun has fully risen every Monday through Thursday, I might be able to tutor you.”

I threw my arms around Mrs. Rosa and thanked her with tears in my eyes.

“And what about you, Miss Florence, what have you got on your mind?”

Florence had been sitting silently, smiling, but quickly responded, “Oh no, no ma'am, I don't want no education like that. I jus' sew, Mrs. Rosa, that's all.”

Mrs. Rosa studied Florence for a second as I reveled in the moment. Then she got up and guided us to the door.

“All right, ladies. I apologize for having to rush you off, but I must be getting back to my business. Anna?”

“Yes?”

“I'll be happy to see you early in the morning next week.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

As Florence and I walked back to Mama Bessie's, my mouth ran fast with words.

“Flo, why didn't you ask her to tutor you right along with me? You told me yourself you wanted to learn!”

Florence shrugged. “I got other things on my mind, Anna, and when I said that to you, I didn't mean learning like this! I don't think I could do that.”

“Why not?”

“It just ain't for me. There are other things in this life for me. But you don't understand how much it means to me to see you smiling like that.”

My smile widened. Another answered prayer.

On Monday, I was up bright and early. When I knocked, it took Mrs. Rosa a little while to answer the door. When she did open it, a small child sat patiently in her arms. The little girl gazed at me with eyes that looked like Mrs. Rosa's.

“Hey, Miss Anna. Seems my baby's up early today.
Hope you don't mind, but she won't cause distraction.” She considered my puzzled glance at the child.

“I didn't tell you about Little Sue?” she asked, guiding me through the door.

“No, ma'am.”

“Well, then, this is her.”

I waved my fingers at the small child, and she bent her fingers back in response, silently and solemnly. Mrs. Rosa set her on the floor with a wooden toy and led me to the table set up in the front room to the right.

“How are you today, Miss Anna?” she asked, seating herself.

I smiled. “I'm doing good, and very grateful to you,” I replied.

“You mean, you're doing well,” she corrected without hesitation while pulling out a small piece of paper and her ink.

“Write your name for me.”

A wave of fear hit me. Would she judge the way I wrote? What would she think? But the anxious feeling faded just as quickly as it came. I put my excitement aside and focused.

I slowly drew the quill out and wrote the first letter. A. Then I paused, thinking about the next letter: y. Then, a-n-n-a. I wrote in large letters, glancing over at Little Sue upon hearing her mumble words to herself that I couldn't make sense of. I looked up at Mrs. Rosa quickly, waiting for her remarks. She took the paper without any expression.

“Oh, Ayanna is it?”

“No, ma'am, just Anna.”

“But you wrote Ayanna.”

“I wanted you to know my real name, my … my African name.”

Mrs. Rosa quickly glanced up at me. She seemed, in that moment, ready to share some secret with me, but she said nothing. Her eyes returned to the book she had been reading.

Another thought swam into my mind. “Mrs. Rosa, why ain't there any black schools anywhere? Newspapers say the city pays for white schools in different places, but I ain't heard of any black school funding.”

Mrs. Rosa looked over at my seated figure and lifted two fingers to her lips as she thought about my question. “There are black schools, Anna. I haven't heard of any in Ohio, but there's a city—Boston—that has a school for black children. It's a little different there.”

“But—”

“I think it's time we started that lesson of yours,” she said.

I let my questions slip away, and we began.

It didn't take long for me to realize that the woman who tutored was quite different from the kind, relaxed woman who had answered the door when I first met her. No badly pronounced word, uncrossed
t
, or spelling error I made ever swept past Mrs. Rosa's scrutiny. Her lips remained pursed throughout the lesson, and every blunder of mine was met with a soft but firm “Try it again.”