Never Too Late (19 page)

R
ECOVERY

26

I
didn't exactly bound out of bed that same day. The more awake I got the more I realized how weak and dehydrated I was—that's what the doctor called it, that I hadn't had enough water. Katie and Jeremiah didn't leave me alone all day, and Katie didn't leave me alone all night either but slept in the room on the floor next to me. And they sat with me most of the next day too, just like my two ministering angels
.

They poured what seemed like gallons of water and tea down my throat. Josepha had a new batch of broth or soup for them to give me every few hours it seemed
.

Somebody had ridden in for the doctor and he came and looked at my leg
.

“Can she keep it, Doc!” laughed my papa, but I glanced at the others and could tell that they didn't think it was something to laugh about. Neither did the doctor
.

“It looks like it,” he said. “But that was a close one. The ice probably saved not only her leg, it may have saved her life too.”

The next day Josepha herself came up with yet another bowl of soup with lots of vegetables in it. I sat up in bed and took it from her
.

“Thank you, Josepha,” I said as I sipped at it with the spoon. She turned to go
.

“Josepha,” I said, “I had something like a dream of you and somebody else talking about me, or maybe about my mama. Were you really up here like that?”

“Dat wuz me an' your papa,” she said. “We wuz sittin' here wiff you an' I wuz tellin' him 'bout when yor mama came ter da McSimmons' an' den about da day you wuz born.”

“Tell me about it again,” I said
.

Josepha sat down. “Well, you see,” she began, “I'd been at da McSimmons place a coupla years when yer mama came. I remembered what it wuz like ter feel alone an' afraid, an' I saw on her face dat she'd had ter leave someone she loved. I could see da pain, an' so I tried ter make it as easy on her as I cud, an' dat's how we became friends.”

“What was the promise?” I asked
.

“Well, when da night came when it wuz yo mama's time, dey sent fer me at da big house, an' I went down ter where she wuz in da village wiff da older women an' a few ob da single colored women
.

“ ‘Is Josepha here yet!' wuz da first words I heard when I walked in. Dat wuz yo mama an' she wuz
already in pain. I hurried ter da bed and asked how she wuz feelin
'.

“She said, ‘Not so good,' an' I cud tell she was hurtin' somethin' fierce. I sat down beside the bed where some ob da others wuz sponging off her face an' forehead. Hazel an' da other women wuz busy wiff hot rags an' towels
.

“Da birth wuz slow an' difficult
. Yo
mama wuz exhausted an' we wuz worried 'bout whether she'd live through it
. Yo
mama must hab been thinkin' da same thing. With sweat pourin' off her forehead an' dripping down her cheeks, she motioned ter me ter come closer. So I did
.

“She pulled my ear down close ter her mouf
.

“ ‘Tell them all to go away,' she whispered, ‘—just for a minute . . . all but you . . . I want you to stay.'

“I didn't know what it wuz all about, but I got up an' told Hazel what she'd said. Den da other women left da cabin for a minute
.

“ ‘I'm afraid, Josepha,' said yo mama. ‘Promise me, if something happens to me—'

“I tried to tell her nuthin' was gwine happen to her. But she said, ‘If it does, promise me that you'll look after my little girl.'

“Of course I said I wud
.

“ ‘I know it's a girl,' she said. ‘I can tell . . . promise me you'll take good care of her.'

“ ‘You can rest easy, sweetie,' I said. ‘We'll all look after you and yer child.'

“ ‘Please
. . .
if I die, make sure she has a good life—as good a life as a slave can have.'

“ ‘I'll do my best,' I tol' her. I remember I even said, ‘And maybe she won't always be a slave.' Though I'm not sure I really believed sech a thing back den
.

“Den I asked her, ‘Ef you know she's gwine be a girl, what do you want ter call her?'

“ ‘Mary Ann,' said yo mama. ‘She'll be Mary Ann.' ”

By then I was in tears as I listened
.

“It wuz 'bout an hour later dat you wuz born. An' though yo mama's life was never really in any danger and she fully recovered, I never forgot my promise
.

“Den yo mother married Hazel's boy a couple years later, an' dat's why you an' yo whole family wuz called Jukes. I didn't see as much ob you all or Lemuela as I wanted, since I wuz in da big house. But yo mama an' I wuz always special friends.”

I lay in my bed peacefully after Josepha left. Gradually so many thoughts about my past were fitting into place
.

A B
OOKCASE

27

O
NE AFTERNOON WHEN
W
ARD AND
T
EMPLETON
were out in the fields and Mayme was ironing, Josepha slipped out of the house and headed for the cabins.

Henry was outside sanding boards. She paused in the shade of the old oak and watched him for a minute or two. When she had caught her breath, she walked the rest of the way.

“Afternoon, Henry. Whatchu workin' on?”

“Just a coupler planks fo inside da kitchen,” he said, nodding back toward the house that was slowly taking shape.

She walked closer, looked at the board, and ran her palm across it.

“Mighty smooth,” she said. “Seems almost too nice for da kitchen. What's it fo?”

“A work counter.”

“Yep, den it needs ter be nice an' smooth. Dis'll be right nice. Nice hard oak too so's it won't git all knicked
up. But you know, seein' dat board puts another idea in my head.”

“What's dat?” asked Henry.

“Dat unless I's mistaken, Mayme'd like a bookshelf in dat house too. A nice big bookshelf full er lots an' lots er books.”

“Hmm . . . dat's a good idea, all right. Mayme read lots er books?”

“She an' Miz Katie's always got dere heads in some book or nuther, least it seems dat way ter me. Not dat Mayme's got too many books er her own, but I reckon she will someday.”

“Well, den, maybe I'll jest pick up a few more planks in town, narrower den dese, an' see what I kin do. Yes, sir'ee . . . dat's a good idea, all right. You read, Josepha?”

“I kin read all right, I reckon, but I always kept it to myself when I wuz at da McSimmons'.”

Henry chuckled.

“You's right, some white folks, dey don't like coloreds knowin' how ter do
too
much. Like readin'.”

“Or thinkin' at all . . . dey don't want you ter know how ter hold a single idea in yo head.”

This time Henry laughed outright.

“You know how ter read, Henry?” asked Josepha.

“Yep, I do. Not real good, but enuff ter git by. But my ol' master, Mister Clarkson, he hated me fo it. Dey hate what dey call an uppity nigger an' I reckon dat's what I wuz. I wuz a little uppity an' it got me an' Jeremiah an' his mother into trouble. After dat I kept what little readin' I done ter myself.”

“You ever read dat
Uncle Tom's Cabin?”

“Nope, jes' heard plenty 'bout it.”

“Nuthin' but trash,” said Josepha. “Bein' a slave weren't no picnic, we all know dat, but dat lady didn't know nuthin' 'bout how it really wuz. It sho wuzn't as bad as she tol' it.”

“Some folks might not agree wiff you on dat.”

She shrugged. “I reckon I din't have it as bad as some.”

“Well, Josepha. Now dat you's free,” said Henry, “ef you wuz gwine hab a house er yo own someday, an' you had a bookshelf, what kind er books would you put in it?”

“Well, I reckon dere'd hab ter be dat
Pilgrim's Progress
. I ain't never had a copy er my own, but I's seen real pretty ones an' heard it read ter me when I wuz young an' learnin' ter read wiff Miz Grace. An' dere'd have ter be a Bible, wouldn't dere? An' it'd be pretty special ter hab a book ob poems ob my very own. I'd like ter be able ter read more poems sometime. What 'bout you?”

“I don't know . . . neber thought er havin' books er my own. Men don't keep books—dat's mo somefin' for women.”

“Nonsense, Henry Patterson—where'd you git a fool notion like dat? Books is fo anybody dat kin read.”

Henry chuckled at Josepha's pretended outrage.

“I reckon you's right. I's trying ter teach Jeremiah ter read. Being aroun' Micah got him interested in learnin', an' I reckon I's usin' a book fer dat.”

“What book?”

“One er dem
McGuffy Readers
I borrowed from Miz Kathleen.”

Henry continued to sand the plank as Josepha stood watching.

“You ever used ter dream 'bout havin' a house er yo own?” Henry asked after a minute.

“What . . . me?” said Josepha.

“Yeah.”

“A house . . . ob my own? I wuz a slave, what would I be thinkin' 'bout such things like dat for?”

“I mean after you wuz free.”

“How cud I? I wuz too old an' didn't hab a penny ter my name.”

“Maybe you's right—din't you eber think 'bout marryin'?”

“Don't reckon I ever did,” replied Josepha. “Who'd marry da likes er me? One er my masters tried ter git me married an' I tol' him not ter think ob it ef he wanted my cakes an' breads ter turn out da way he liked.”

“Why did you tell him dat?”

Josepha thought a few seconds.

“To tell you da truf, I ain't altogether sure,” she said. “At da time I didn't figger I wanted nobody else. Maybe I'd been hurt too many times. Maybe I figgered I cud take care ob myself an' dat wuz fine wiff me.”

She paused and a distant look came into her eyes.

“To tell you da truf, Henry,” she said again, “I don't know why I said it. But den a woman gits ter my age, when it's too late fo all dat, an' den suddenly she finds herself a free woman, an' I reckon it's natural she'd sometimes wonder ef she made a mistake.”

Josepha's voice quivered momentarily. She paused and glanced away. A quick hand against her eyes was the only betrayal of the lone tear that had risen and was quickly brushed away. She drew in a deep breath.

“But den dere ain't no goin' back in life, is dere?” she said.

She looked up at Henry. His hand lay still on the board and he was listening intently.