Good Fortune (9781416998631) (6 page)

T
HE MORNING AIR FELT A BIT BIT TOO COOL FOR EARLY
springtime, but I knew it would warm up quickly. It had been almost a month since the sugar cube incident; the remaining wounds from the whip had scarred over. I had long since been back to work. The breeze filled my lungs as Daniel and I headed toward our religious gathering on Sunday morning. We neared a large shack in the middle of the woods, not too far from the Big House. It wasn't much of a building, but the men of the plantation kept our church setting decent. Everyone had gathered outside the shack, since it was used only when the weather made it necessary.

Daniel and I approached the small backless benches that had been carried out of the building.

“Hey, Mary,” I whispered as we passed her seated figure, looking for seats. There were none left open.

As Daniel and I made our way toward the back to stand, a young man moved from his seat, offering me the place with a smile. I refused it and turned to walk with Daniel, but my brother had slipped into the shadows. The man offered the seat once again. I recognized him somewhat;
I didn't know him too well—there were quite a few slaves here—but I believed I might have seen him in the fields, or maybe doing carpentry work with Daniel.

I inched my way in front of the seat, nodding to the young man, and turned toward the woman who stood at the front. But my mind kept dancing back to the smiling man, wondering why he was standing so close—so close that our shoulders brushed. I locked my gaze in front of me.

Sundays were to be our free days, God's day. Masta gave the field hands half the day off. The house servants had less freedom, and oftentimes some of us were made to work. After all, housework never ended. But morning hours were always mine to have.

Our church had different preachers on different days. Masta picked a black overseer who had been a good “lamb of Masta's church” to make sure we weren't plotting, and he gave the permission for others to preach. Most of the preachers, however, knew how to dodge the rules. They would use biblical stories to create messages of joy and freedom for us right under the overseer's nose. “Slave language” is what Daniel and I called it.

As the woman finished singing, “an' we be free,” I heard a deep amen resound next to me. People sat as an older man stood up and walked to the front.

“Now, we gots a new voice wit us today. But befo' that, I got a few words fo' ya.” He went on to share news from other plantations and a Bible verse Masta always prepared to have shared with us. On this Sunday, Masta had chosen a few verses from first Peter, chapter two. The man recited
the verses from memory and added his own statements where he thought it necessary.

“The Bible say be submissive to yo' mastas wit all respect, not only to them who is good an' who is gentle, but also to them who is unreasonable. Fo' what credit is there if, when you's sin an' is treated bad, you endure it wit patience? But if, when you do what is right an' suffa fo' it and patiently endure it, then that's what God find favor in, an' we's all lookin' to please God.”

I leaned back and listened as closely as I could, my attention frequently drifting away to the chirping birds playing above or the young children stifling giggles just across from me. I remained awake but drifted into a heavy daze, playing with my imagination. The amens were lulling me into another world; they were taking me to another place where the chants were of a different language. I could hear a strange beat; there was a drummer tapping out fascinating rhythms while sitting, quite at ease underneath a large, beautiful, exotic tree….

My small hands clutched the African cloth that hung over the beautiful legs of a tall woman. Mama Mijiza moved from one foot to the other, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She was soon spinning into the center of the circle. I grabbed Sentwaki's hand, staring with awe and longing, praying that I could be as free as Mama was right then, letting the wind feed her hungry body with nothing but … but … Africanness.

The next thing I knew, I was spinning too, spinning in Mama's arms in the center of the circle. The beat released the thoughts in my mind and I knew I was flying….

A round of clapping and joyful yelling pulled me from the spell of my deep daydream. I left my hazy pictures of what life probably would have been like for me as a little girl and fell back into reality. Looking up, I drew my eyebrows into a puzzled arch. The young man who had been standing next to me had taken over the preacher's place. I let my mind focus on what he was saying, careful not to drift off into my old world again.

“Yessuh, we got'sta work hard, yes we do so's when we leaves this place, an' we knock on that door to heaven, the good Lord'll look us up'n down, say sho' nuff, Mrs. Patsy”—he gestured to a slave woman who sat in front of him—“you's can come on in here to my kingdom! That's where your freedom lie.”

Mmm, freedom.

The word rolled off the young man's tongue in a seductive manner. He was saying that working was the only way to freedom, but I set that thought aside for the moment. There it was again: freedom. I could taste it!

“Amen, yes, uh-huh.” Everyone around me chimed in with their own amens.

“But if'n you's ain't workin', says if you's ain't workin', the Good Lord'll look you up'n down, say ‘Nope' an' He'll close that door.”

He continued and I listened, dwelling in the essence of his words of freedom, trying to understand what all he was attempting to say beneath his phrases. Then, as the heat of the speech began to subside, I found myself staring into the eyes of the young man, locked for the better part
of a second in an odd gaze. Although brief, it brought up a deep feeling that rose from within. Perhaps it was a mere second, but that second felt like an eternity. But I forced the moment to end, and heat rushed to my dark face as I quickly looked elsewhere, trying to dismiss the glimmer I saw in his eyes.

I bet that's a glimmer for freedom,
I thought, trying to ignore the feeling in my gut telling me otherwise.

Following the sermons, everyone ate what little they had and talked with one another. I stayed with Mary, keeping an eye out for Daniel, who usually disappeared to talk with others and to do whatever else he did on Sunday afternoons. A little while later, Mary left me to return to the Big House to finish her day's worth of work.

I searched for Daniel for a long while and finally seated myself outside the shack. I hated looking for him; it always gave me a nervous feeling in my bones. So when he came up behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder, I let out a short sigh of relief but began questioning him immediately.

“Daniel, where you bin? You ain't told me I'd hafta search for you this Sunday! Why cain't you eva let me know where you at or where you go to? I told you I don't like lookin' for you! C'mon, let's go.”

“You a bit cross today, ain't you? I'm fine, Sarah,” Daniel said, half-smiling.

I relaxed a little when I saw his smile—a warm, unusual smile that lit up his face.

“Don't worry so much 'bout me. You need to be worryin'
'bout that Missus of yours layin' her hands on you!”

“Don't talk like that, Daniel! You know good 'n' well you could be beaten an' sold befo' the day is out, talkin' like that.”

“John!” He said, ignoring my comment and addressing the man who joined us as we headed back. It was the young preacher man who had given me his seat.

“Those was some words you shared today. This my sister, Sarah.” The man turned his eyes toward me.

“B'lieve I done seen you round some, but ain't met you the right way,” John said, gazing at me. The glimmer had disappeared, and I pushed my curiosity away with it.

“I ain't neva shook no one's hand befo',” I said, placing my sweaty palm in his. He chuckled, bobbing my hand firmly up and down.

“Well, look atcha now, shakin' hands like you bin doin' it all yo' life.” I gently pulled away from his grasp and occupied my hand with brushing away a bug that had landed on the back of my neck.

“You preach befo', John?” I asked him.

“Naw, not befo'. Why?”

“You'se got a good mouth on you.” He chuckled.

“Well it's 'bout time. John bin talkin' 'bout speakin' fo' the people fo' a while,” Daniel told me.

“You understand everything I say?”

I frowned and crossed my arms. “That some kinda s'prise to you or somethin'?” I asked.

“'Course not.” His reply seemed to laugh at my immodest tone. I grunted.

“You ain't got no question fo' John, Sarah?” Daniel asked me. I listened closely to Daniel's words. He wanted me to test the man and he knew it was just a matter of time before I would.

“Well, then, sho' I do. John?” I asked, looking up at his teasing eyes.

“Yes, Miss Sarah?” he asked.

Miss Sarah.
I boldly returned his gaze.

“Y'all was talkin' 'bout us workin' hard, reachin' heaven when we pass on, you know? But where in God's mind or God's book fo' that matta do it say we gotsta work hard fo' Masta? I mean, nobody like doin' this day in an' day out. That's what I would think, unless I'm wrong,” I said, curious. We were far enough from everything not to be overheard.

“Naw, you right—,” he replied, but I continued, cutting him off.

“But they all say amen like y'all's speakin' the truth. Why that be?”

“Ya, John, why that be?” Daniel mocked, with a laugh.

“You hush!” I said, swinging my hand at his arm.

John answered, “You knows we gotsta watch what we say in front of the ova'seer.”

“Guess I can see that. But I reckon he ain't the only one you gotta watch what you say in front of,” I replied in a matter-of-fact way.

“'Course not, it ain't jus' them. Some of us on slave row be runnin' to Masta, tellin' him what we sayin' against him.”

“An' how you s'pose to tell which've us is loyal, an' which've us ain't?” I asked.

John laughed. “You testin' me, Miss Sarah? 'Cause seems to me you knows these answers already.”

“Sho' she is,” Daniel said, reaching into his pocket for some wood and a knife.

“Naw, ain't no point in testin' you or tryin' to prove a point. I jus' wanna know!” I responded as my shoulders rose and dropped in a shrug.

“Well, there's some of us that meet sometimes—secretly, of course. We talk 'bout things like that—you know, who we can trust, what we know 'bout Masta sellin' any of us off, an' otha things like that. We risk Masta catching us fo' the truth to be told. Those who unda'stand the truth talk wit us lata on, kinda like me an' you are doin' now, till we rightly understand the news 'bout otha plantations an' so's we can share otha things among us. Them peoples who ain't loyal be thinkin' on Sundays we talkin' 'bout workin' fo' the white man.”

A deep laugh passed from John's lips as he continued quietly but insistently, “No, sah! We talkin' 'bout workin' hard.”

“Workin' hard so's we can reach the op'n door to freedom?” I asked softly, using some of his words from the church service. He nodded, impressed.

“Yeah, that's right. Workin' hard so's we can make it through our own freedom doors,” he said, eyeing me closely.

Working toward freedom sounds good, real good. But how?

“Well all right then, mister,” I said with a nod his way. He responded with a loud remark.

“Looks to me like we got ourselves one smart gal round here! Take folks fo'eva to understand some've these things.”
John winked at me but turned before I could say anything about it, walking off in another direction and whistling a tune I couldn't recognize. I could only imagine the words that went with it. A smile crept up on my face, though I refused to let it stretch too wide.

I didn't notice Daniel's smirk until he remarked, “He's only five or six years older'n you, Sarah.” I shook my head and tried to wipe the smile away.

“Ain't interested in nobody. Got otha things on my mind,” I said with a firm nod toward my brother.

“Like what?” he asked, still smiling.

In my mind, images of books, schoolhouses, stacked words, and ink scratched onto paper ran wild through my mind, but there I bid them stay. Instead I replied, “You talkin' 'bout me, but you ain't heard me say nothin' 'bout you an' that Birdie.” I glanced over at him. He was rubbing the small stubs of hair on his chin with his fingers, looking as if a secret had been exposed. Birdie was a laundress owned by a city slave owner not far from the plantation. Daniel sneaked visits to her when he traveled with Masta around her way. I had never met the woman.

“Ain't nothin' to say,” he said unconvincingly.

“You got nothin' to say? Nothin' at all?” I asked. “I should tell her that.”

He simply laughed, but after a while, he said, “She a good woman, Sarah.”

“I s'pose,” I commented, keeping my eyes set in front of me.

“What's that s'pose to mean.”

“You don't fool me. She ain't the only one got yo' attention,” I replied.

He sighed, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the work in his hands and my face. “Now, you know that ain't the truth. I kinda like her,” he said, his face darkening a bit. “An' Mama like her, anyway,” he said after a short while, with an edge of persuasion in his voice.

“She doesn't know her,” I said simply.

“Heard enuf 'bout her to figure,” he replied.

“Well,” I said, shrugging, trying to beat back the hints of a smile at the corners of my mouth, “sounds to me you'se softenin' up!”

Daniel chuckled. “You ain't got no decency at all,” he replied, throwing his arm over my shoulder.