Roots (85 page)

Chicken George laughed. “We git right to work on a gal for you, Mammy!”

“You git
out’n
here!” exclaimed Matilda.

But only a few months passed before a look at Matilda made it clear that George intended to be a man of his word.

“
Hmph!
Sho’ can tell when dat man been spendin’ reg’lar time home!” commented Sister Sarah. “Seem like he wuss’n dem roosters!” Miss Malizy agreed.

When her pains of labor came once again, the waiting, pacing George heard—amid his wife’s anguished moans and cries—his mother’s yelps of “
Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus!,
” and he needed no further advisement that at last he had fathered a girl.

Even before the baby was cleaned off, Matilda told her mother-in-law that she and George had agreed years before that their first girl would be named Kizzy.

“Ain’t done lived in vain!” Gran’mammy cried at intervals throughout the rest of the day. Nothing would do for her then but that the following afternoon Chicken George would come up from the gamefowl area and tell once again about the African great-gran’pappy Kunta Kinte for the six boys and the infant Kizzy in his lap.

One night about two months later, with all of the children finally asleep, George asked, “’Tilda, how much money is we got saved up?”

She looked at him, surprised. “L’il over a hunnud dollars.”

“
Dat
all?”

“Dat
all!
It’s a wonder it’s dat much! Ain’t I been tellin’ you all dese years de way you spends ain’t hardly no point even do no talkin’ ’bout no
savin’!
”

“Awright, awright,” he said guiltily.

But Matilda pursued the point. “Not countin’ what you winned an’ spent what I ain’t never seed, which was yo’ business, you want to guess ’bout how much you done give me to
save
since we been married, den you borrowin’ back?”

“Awright, how much?”

Matilda paused for effect. “Twixt three-fo’ thousan’ dollars.”

“
Wheeeew!
” he whistled. “I
is?
”

Watching his expression change, she sensed that she had never observed him grow more serious in all their twelve years together. “Off down yonder by myself so much,” he said finally, “I been thinkin’ ’bout whole heap o’ things—” He paused. She thought he seemed almost embarrassed by whatever he was about to say. “One thing I been thinkin’, if’n us could save ’nough dese nex’ comin’ years, maybe us could buy ourselves free.”

Matilda was too astounded to speak.

He gestured impatiently. “I wish you git yo’ pencil to figger some, an’ quit buckin’ yo’ eyes at me like you ain’t got no sense!”

Still stunned, Matilda got her pencil and a piece of paper and sat back down at the table.

“Trouble to start wid,” he said, “jes’ can’t do nothin’ but guess roun’ what massa’d ax for us all. Me an’ you an’ de passel o’ young’uns. Start wid you. Roun’ de county seat, I knows men fiel’ han’s is bringin’’bout a thousan’ dollars apiece. Wimmins is worth less, so le’s call you’bout eight hunnud—” Getting up, bending to inspect Matilda’s moving pencil, he sat back down. “Den let’s say massa let us have our chilluns, all eight, ’bout three hunnud apiece—”

“Ain’t but seb’n!” said Matilda.

“Dat new one you say started in yo’ belly ag’in make eight!”

“Oh!” she said, smiling. She figured at length. “Dat make twenty-fo’ hunnud—”

“Jes’ for chilluns?” His tone mingled doubt with outrage. Matilda refigured. “Eight threes is twenty-fo’. Plus de eight hunnud fo’ me, dat make ’zactly thirty hunnud—dat’s same as three thousan’.”

“
Wheeeew!
”

“Don’t carry on so yet! De big one you!” She looked at him. “How much you figger fo’ you?”

Serious as it was, he couldn’t resist asking, “What
you
think I’se worth?”

“If I’d o’ knowed, I’d o’ tried to buy you from massa myself.” They both laughed. “George, I don’ even know how come we’s talkin’ sich as dis, nohow. You know good an’ well massa ain’t gwine never sell you!”

He didn’t answer right away. But then he said, “’Tilda, I ain’t never mentioned dis, reckon since I know you don’t hardly even like to hear massa’s name called. But I betcha twenty-five different times, one or ’nother, he done talk to me ’bout whenever he git ’nough together to buil’ de fine big house he want, wid six columns crost de front, he say him an’ missis could live off’n what de crops make, an’ he ’speck he be gittin’ out’n de chicken-fightin’ business, he say he steady gittin’ too ol’ to keep puttin’ up wid all de worries.”

“I have to see dat to b’lieve it, George. Him or you neither ain’t gwine never give up messin’ wid chickens!”

“I’m tellin’ you what he say! If you can listen! Looka here, Uncle Pompey say massa ’bout sixty-three years ol’ right now. Give ’im another five, six years—it ain’t
easy
fo’ no real ol’ man to keep runnin’ here an’ yonder fightin’ no birds! I didn’t pay ’im much ’tention neither till I kept thinkin’ dat, yeah, he really might let us buy ourselves, an ’specially if we be payin’ him ’nough would he’p ’im buil’ dat big house he want.”

“Hmph,” Matilda grunted without conviction. “Awright, let’s talk ’bout it. What you reckon he’d want for you?”

“Well—” His expression seemed to mingle pride in one way and pain in another at what he was about to say. “Well—nigger buggy driver o’ dat rich Massa Jewett done swo.’ up an’ down to me one time dat he overheard his massa tellin’ somebody he’d offered Massa Lea fo’ thousan’ dollars fo’ me—”

“
Whooooooee!
” Matilda was flabbergasted.

“See, you ain’t never knowed de valuable nigger you sleeps wid!” But quickly he was serious again. “I don’t really b’lieve dat nigger. I’speck he jes’ made up dat lie tryin’ to see if I’d be fool ’nough to swallow it. Anyhow, I go by what’s gittin’ paid nowdays for niggers wid de bes’ trades, like de carpenters an’ blacksmiths, sich as dem. Dey’s sellin’ twix two-three thousan’, I knows dat fo’ a fac’—” He paused, peering at her waiting pencil. “Put down three thousan’—” He paused again. “How much dat be?”

Matilda figured. She said then that the total estimated cost to buy their family would be sixty-two hundred dollars. “But what’bout Mammy Kizzy?”

“I git to Mammy!” he said impatiently. He thought. “Mammy gittin’ pretty ol’ now, dat he’p her cost less—”

“Dis year she turnin’ fifty,” said Matilda.

“Put down six hunnud dollars.” He watched the pencil move. “Now what dat?”

Matilda’s face strained with concentration. “Now it’s sixty-
eight
hunnud dollars.”

“Whew! Sho’ make you start to see niggers is money to white folks.” George spoke very slowly. “But I ’clare I b’lieves I can hackfight an’ do it. ’Cose, gon’ mean waitin’ an’ savin’ up a long time—” He noticed that Matilda seemed discomfited. “I knows right what’s on yo’ mind,” he said. “Miss Malizy, Sister Sarah, an’ Uncle Pompey.”

Matilda looked grateful that he knew. He said, “Dey’s family to me even fo’ dey was to you—”

“Lawd, George!” she exclaimed, “jes’ don’t see how jes’ one man s’posed to be tryin’ to buy ever’body, but I sho’ jes’ couldn’t walk off an’ leave dem!”

“We got plenty time, ’Tilda. Let’s us jes’ cross dat bridge when we gits to it.”

“Dat’s de truth, you right.” She looked down at the figures that she had written. “George, I jes’ can’t hardly b’lieve we’s talkin’ ’bout what we is—” She felt herself beginning to dare to believe it, that the two of them, together, were actually engaging for the first time in a monumental family discussion. She felt an intense urge to spring around the table and embrace him as tightly as she could. But she felt too much to move—or even speak for a few moments. Then she asked, “George, how come you got to thinkin’ dis?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I got by myself, an’ seem like I jes’ got to thinkin’ mo’, like I tol’ you—”

“Well,” she said softly, “sho’ is nice.”

“We ain’t gittin’ nowhere!” he exclaimed. “All we ever doin’ is gittin’
massa
somewhere!” Matilda felt like shouting “Jubilee!” but made herself keep still. “I been talkin’ wid free niggers when me an’
massa go to cities,” George went on. “Dey say de free niggers up Nawth is de bes’ off. Say dem lives ’mongst one ’nother in dey own houses, an’ gits good jobs. Well, I
know
I can git
me
a job! Plenty cockfightin’ up Nawth! Even famous cockfightin’ niggers I’se heared live right in dat New Yawk City, a Uncle Billy Roger, a Uncle Pete what got a big flock an’ own a great big gamblin’ joint, an’ another one call ‘Nigger Jackson’ dey say don’t nobody beat his birds, hardly!” He further astounded Matilda. “An’ ’nother thing—I wants to see our young’uns learnin’ to read an’ write, like you can.”

“Lawd, better’n me, I hope!” Matilda exclaimed, her eyes shining.

“An’ I wants ’em to learn trades.” Abruptly he grinned, pausing for effect. “How you reckon you look settin’ in yo’ own house, yo’ own stuffed furniture, an’ all dem l’il knickknacks? How ’bout Miss ’Tilda be axin’ de other free nigger womens over for tea in de mornin’s, an’ y’all jes’ settin’ roun’ talkin’ ’bout rangin’ y’all’s flowers, an’ sich as dat?”

Matilda burst into nearly shrieking laughter. “Lawd, man, you is jes’
crazy!”
When she stopped laughing, she felt more love for him than she’d ever felt before. “I reckon de Lawd is done give me what I needs dis night.” Eyes welling, she put her hand on his. “You really think we can do it, George?”

“What you think I’se been settin’ up here talkin’ ’bout, woman?”

“You ’member de night we ’greed to marry, what I tol’ you?” His face said that he didn’t. “I tol’ you sump’n out’n de first chapter o’ Ruth. Tol’ you, ‘Whither thou goes’, I will go, an’ where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people—’ You don’t’member me sayin’ dat?”

“Yeah, I reckon.”

“Well, I ain’t never felt dat way more’n I does right now.”

R
emoving his derby with one hand, with the other Chicken George held out to Massa Lea a small water pitcher that looked as if it were woven tightly of thick strands of wire. “My boy, Tom, de one we done name for you, Massa, he done made dis for his gran’mammy, but I jes’ want you to see it.”

Looking dubious, Massa Lea took the pitcher by its carved cowhorn handle and gave it a cursory inspection. “Uh-huh,” he grunted noncommittally.

George realized that he’d have to try harder. “Yassuh, made dat out’n jes’ ol’ rusty scrap barb wire, Massa. Built ’im a real hot charcoal fire an’ kept bendin’ an’ meltin’ one wire ’gainst ’nother ’til he got de shape, den give it a kin’ o’ brazin’ all over. Dat Tom always been real handy, Massa—”

He halted again, wanting some response, but none came.

Seeing that he’d have to reveal his real intent without gaining the tactical advantage of some advance positive reaction to Tom’s craftsmanship, George took the plunge. “Yassuh, dis boy been so proud o’ carryin’ yo’ name all his life, Massa, us all really b’lieves he jes’ git de chance, he make you a good blacksmith—”

An instantly disapproving expression came upon Massa Lea’s face, as if by reflex, and it fueled George’s determination not to fail Matilda and Kizzy in his promise to help Tom. He saw that he’d
have to make what he knew would be the strongest appeal to Massa Lea—picturing the financial advantages.

“Massa, every year money you’s spendin’ on blacksmithin’ you could be savin’! Ain’t none us never tol’ you how Tom awready been savin’ you some, sharpenin’ hoe blades an’ sickles an’ different other tools—well as fixin’ lot o’ things gits broken roun’ here. Reason I brings it up, when you sent me over for dat Isaiah nigger blacksmith to put de new wheel rims on de wagon, he was tellin’ me Massa Askew been years promisin’ him a helper dat he need real bad, much work as he doin’ to make money fo’ his massa. He tol’ me he sho’ be glad to make a blacksmith out’n any good boy he could git holt of, so I thought right ’way ’bout Tom. If he was to learn, Massa, ain’t jes’ he could do ever’ thing we needs roun’ here, but he could be takin’ in work to make you plenty money jes’ like dat Isaiah nigger doin’ for Massa Askew.”

George felt sure he’d struck a nerve, but he couldn’t be sure, for the massa carefully showed no sign. “Looks to me this boy of yours is spending more time making this kind of stuff instead of working,” said Massa Lea, thrusting the metal pitcher back into George’s hands.

“Tom ain’t missed a day since he started workin’ in yo’ fiel’s, Massa! He do sich as dis jes’ on Sundays when he off! Ever since he been any size, seem like he got fixin’ an’ makin’ things in ’is blood! Every Sunday he out in dat l’il ol’ lean-to shed he done fixed hisself behin’ de barn, a-burnin’ an’ bangin’ on sump’n’nother. Fact, we’s been scairt he ’sturb you an’ de missis.”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” Massa Lea said, turning abruptly and walking away, leaving Chicken George standing there confused and frustrated—purposely, he felt sure—holding the metal pitcher.

Miss Malizy was seated in the kitchen peeling turnips when the massa walked in. She half turned around, no longer springing to her feet as she would have done in years past, but she didn’t think
he’d mind, since she had reached that point in age and service where some small infractions could be permitted.

Massa Lea went straight to the point. “What about this boy named Tom?”

“Tom? You means ’Tilda’s Tom, Massa?”

“Well, how many Toms’ out there? You know the one I mean, what about him?”

Miss Malizy knew exactly why he was asking. Just a few minutes before, Gran’mammy Kizzy had told her of Chicken George’s uncertainty about how Massa Lea had reacted to his proposal. Well, now she knew. But her opinion of young Tom was so high—and not just because he’d made her new S-curved pothooks—that she decided to hesitate a few seconds before answering, in order to sound impartial.

“Well,” she said finally, “a body wouldn’t pick ’im out of a crowd to talk to, Massa, ’cause de boy ain’t never been much wid words. But I sho’ can tell you fo’ fac’ he de smartes’ young’un out dere, an’ de goodest o’ dem big boys, to boot!” Miss Malizy paused meaningfully. “An’ I speck he gwine grow up to be mo’
man
in whole lot o’ ways dan his pappy is.”