Good Fortune (9781416998631) (4 page)

“I
KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO MY PAPA
, S
ARAH
. B
IN ASKIN
' Mama fo' years—she wouldn't say nothin' 'bout it before. Jus' keep her mouth tight an' shut. Wouldn't nobody round here tell me, eitha,” Daniel said to me. It was a late Sunday afternoon, and the two of us stood under a lone tree a ways from the field.

“How you find out 'bout it, then? An' why you jus' tellin' me now?” I asked. My brother had his back turned to me and was bent over a wooden board, busy with his hands. His white shirt stuck to his rough, copper-colored skin like bark to a tree. He was only an inch or two taller than I was, so it wasn't his height that declared his presence. Instead, it was his chiseled features on his otherwise round face which seemed to reflect emotions that raged like stormy seas within. And his eyes—soft, chestnut brown mirrors of a piece of heaven that couldn't be found on Earth—could level the meanest of souls or could pacify the sharpest tongue with only a look.

“One mornin', a few weeks back, I was up early, as always, jus' a mindin' my business. You was still sleepin'. Mama wake up, still sleepy-like, say she got somethin' to
tell me, think I oughta know. Jus' start right into it, tell me the whole thing, an' didn't leave me no room to say nothin' 'bout it. She looked at me for a minute when she was done, then jus' walked on outta the cabin.”

He spoke loudly enough for me to hear, even though he wasn't facing my direction. The story of Daniel's father had always been a mystery to me, though one I'd never thought too deeply about before. But that mystery must have stirred in Daniel's soul quite often. I was afraid to hear the story, afraid of hearing evidence of yet another injustice born from the world we lived in. Despite this, I listened.

“Sarah, his name was Isaac. Good man. Wasn't so tall but was a good worker, Mama said.” Daniel set his tools down, turned toward me, and leaned against the tree.

“But she say he have a head on 'im jus' as dangerous as any wild creature you'd see. He worked hard, an' in all them hours he worked, Mama say things was a cookin' up in his mind that the strongest wind couldn't blow from it. When she had me, he told her he wa'n't gonna have no son've his livin' like he did.” Daniel dropped down to a seated position.

“Mama tell him he ain't got no choice, but Papa say to her he was gonna run away, figure out the road pretty well, make them a home, then come back fo' us. Mama say she pleaded with him, told him all she could think of to get him to stay, but he had his mind set on goin'.” I shifted uneasily in my place.

“Two days after he left, his dead body was the only
thing that came back. Nearly drowned in the river. Dogs found 'im half-dead on the bank, dragged 'im out jus' bitin' him up. He died in the mornin' from what Masta said was the cold eatin' him up on the inside, an' blood loss. Back on the plantation, Masta used him as an example—told the gathered slave row that none of 'em'd be spared if they tried the same.”

Daniel's eyes clouded over before he dropped his head and let it hang low.

“What 'bout Mary?” I asked him softly.

“Don't rightly know. I asked her, but she walked out mumblin' 'bout Missus.” I nodded.

“That wa'n't nothin' easy for her to tell you, Daniel.”

“I know it wa'n't. But she knew I needed to hear it.”

I sighed. “I'm … I'm sorry to hear 'bout your papa,” I whispered to my brother. He looked up at me, and in his eyes I caught sight of a pride I had never seen before. And behind that was a special look, one of bonding, almost as if the telling of his story and him entrusting me with it bound us together even more strongly.

CHAPTER
 
4 

T
HE SUN BEAT DOWN HEAVILY ON OUR BENT BACKS WHILE WE
dragged our feet aimlessly through the fields, chained together by our submission, surrounded by nothing but white cotton.

The sun ripped at our skin, forming blisters with its harsh slaps. It shone so strongly that our eyes couldn't turn to the skies to ask heaven why, so we turned to the earth, dug holes with our fingers, and screamed into the dirt, mouths open, eating, begging, pleading …

Suffocate me, please.

Suddenly, everything changed. The chains of submission turned into heavy, real chains that dug into our wrists. We were surrounded by water—an ocean that had been so familiar to my young mind. I screamed at it:
Why are you helping them drag me away like this?

But my words came up as bubbles, and I turned sad eyes away and fell back into place in line.

Why, nature, do you sit by quietly, watching these horrors transpire?

It responded with a resounding, indifferent silence.

And you, little boy, why do you throw up that way? Did you forget to eat your meal this morning? That's all right, there's no
able-bodied person left in the village who will touch your food. So please keep moving forward. Don't you know if you stop this line, they'll pull you out and we'll never see you again?

And old woman, why are you wailing in such a way? Did you forget to provide for the sickly old man before they came and dragged you away? Please don't cry—his fate is surely not as devastating as your own. But please hush. Don't you know they like the silence? Don't you know they're headed this way with sticks and stones to strike you down?

I flew back and forth between the drooped shoulders, lowered eyelids, and dragging feet, listening to these people's heartbeats, hearing them tell of their stories through silence.

And then I was pushed back into line.

A monster-man came riding by, and urine ran between my legs from the fear that shot through me, and yet the line moved forward, feet dragging right through the puddles I made. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. There was such a heaviness in step, a weariness of heart, the tension in my own chest spilled over in teardrops that would not stop running. But then my tears turned to screams that bounced off bodies and slapped me in the face.

Our feet dragged to a stop in front of a boat—a toy from the deepest dungeons of hell. Men, women, and children were shoved down, down, down, prodded, pushed, grabbed, tossed into the bowels of the ship.

What does this mean? Haven't we already walked through hell?

The monster-man laughed in my ear.

No, that was only hell's gateway, a pitiable forerunner of the journey that lies ahead.

We were swallowed by a darkness we could feel with all our senses. We could smell its nauseating stench, feel its fatal tug, taste its poisonous air, see its writhing ugliness, and touch its repulsive weight.

One body, two bodies—no, legs into chest! Yes, fold them like that. Good. Three bodies, four bodies—toss them to those waiting hands, and they'll be sure to stack them in as close together as possible. Good. Five bodies, six bodies—we need all the space we can get!

I screamed, dug, scratched, and fought my way back out. I threw myself out of the ship and onto the shore. There to greet me were waters murky with the redness of death. Bodies lay in the shallow waters staring up at me.

And there was Mathee's face, her soft skin bloated by the water's lust.

Another scream, then hands were yanking me back inside….

The dreams started about a year after I arrived on the plantation. They'd come all of a sudden, images, events, and feelings from my past too raw and savage for my emotions to handle and for my conscious mind to hold on to. They came very frequently at first, and I always woke in early mornings screaming and sweating and bound to haunting feelings. This set concern in Mary's breast, but she had
predicted that the dreams would go away after a few years. Although she was wrong, they had become less pronounced and far less frequent. I could go months without the memories or images playing with my sleeping mind, and I had learned, somehow, to turn the wild morning screams into nothing more than moans.

“You rememba it this time?” Mary asked me that day. I shook my head back and forth.

“Mary, why you gotta ask the same thing? My answer ain't gonna change,” I said with a smile.

She sighed. “That ain't gonna change, Sarah—now watch it!” she scolded as water from the mop I held splashed onto me.

In addition to cooking for the household, Mary took care of Missus's most personal needs. If there was a special request, Missus would turn to Mary first, before all others, and bid her to carry out the task in whatever way Mary thought best. It was a strange bond where Missus still assumed her position of superiority but never had reason to enforce it. Mary was just a strong woman and seemed to attract at least that recognition, despite her “place” as a slave. Missus trusted Mary, perhaps because the two had spent the majority of their living years in the presence of each other.

I didn't see Mary as often as I had anticipated. My errands and work many times took me away from the kitchen. But there were some days when I'd be ordered to stand by Mary's side and help, or help her when she stitched. This day was one of those rare times when I could be alone with Mary in the kitchen. I took my sweet time
scrubbing the floor, loving the moments I spent with her.

“I do have some small memories 'bout few folks from long ago I can tell you 'bout. Don't worry, they good ones, Mary, don't look like that,” I said, seeing Mary's eyebrows arch inward. “I rememba my mama….”—I let the mop linger on the wood—“an' this woman—think she my auntie. An' … an' my brother, I rememba the most 'bout him.” Mary allowed me to soak in the silence as long as I wanted. “You think I might know wat happen to him fo' I die?” I questioned Mary, stopping to look at her with my large, inquiring eyes. Mary moved her eyes away from mine to the food that lay before her.

“Sarah, I cain't rightly say. But you bin here long enuf to know how those things go. Don't gotta tell ya how those things just don't happen round here.” I nodded, knowing that answer all too well.

“Well I jus' figure, all these folks we knows but cain't find, we sure'll find 'em in heaven, won't we Mary?” Mary laughed softly as she drew her hand quickly across the edge of her head rag, wiping off the sweat.

“Sure will.”

In the quiet that followed, Mary started humming a tune. I listened to it long enough to realize I hadn't heard it before.

“Mary, what you singing?” I asked when I heard her humming a tune under her breath.

She chuckled softly, then responded, “This song's an old tune that was made up an' sang as fa' back as I can rememba.”

“One of dem slave songs they sing in da fields?”

She thought for a moment. “Don't think so. Only memba my mother singin' it to me fo' she was sold.”

“Where it come from?” I asked.

“From an' ole tale of a couple, man an' wife, who, on dey way to freedom, up'n found bunches of slave folk hidden an' trapped beneath a hideout dug deep in the ground right by the riverside.”