Douglass’ Women Read online

  “Love can make you utterly distracted. I won’t pester you about who it is. Is it that boy, Gates, that delivers our milk? He’s a charming colored. Works hard and will make a fine husband, I’m sure. You wouldn’t even have to leave me. Only difference would be you’d have your own husband delivering milk.”

  She laughed silly. High-pitched. I studied the side of her head. I didn’t want to look at her. Didn’t want her to know how furious I was. Her talking to me like I was some child.

  Then, she sighed heavily. Her voice got whispery. “Falling in love is much sweeter than marriage.” She blushed some more. Then told me to go.

  I got up.

  Her voice halted me at the door: “Anna, I’m so relieved. That it isn’t the other. You know. Never let it be the other.”

  “I ain’t planning on it.”

  “That’s good. Keep your mind on your work.”

  I went back to the kitchen confused. Outraged. “Delicate condition,” my foot. Yet I wouldn’t mind plumping out like Miz Baldwin.

  But what she mean—I in love? I can’t be in love with Mister Bailey. He don’t love me back. Even if he did love me, his Master wouldn’t let him marry. No sense thinking.

  I started the fire to roast chicken. Sat down to peel taters. Still I see Mister Bailey standing in my kitchen, worrying me.

  The Baldwins have a fine marriage. But what Miz mean “falling in love” sweeter than marriage? If “falling in love” mean everything going wrong, almost losing my job … what’s the sense of that? Embarrassing, too, to have Miz, twenty-five, three years younger, speaking to me about babies! Mam taught me well—“The Bible say wait!”

  In the evening, I find it hard to say my prayers. I remembered Pa’s favorite story. Samson and Delilah. Pa loved how man overcame, triumphed over woman’s lies.

  Delilah was paid plenty gold to discover Samson’s strength. Three times, Samson lied to her. Each time Delilah called the Philistines, Samson rose up, beat them away, and declared he free. Delilah begged. The fourth time, Samson tell her true. When he sleep, Delilah cut his hair. The Philistines chained him, burnt his eyes, and tossed him in prison.

  But why Samson finally tell Delilah true?

  Pa say, “Bible don’t explain. The point be God’s judgment.”

  God’s judgment be to give Samson back his strength, to let him die pulling down the temple pillars. But how Samson judge himself? What he feel when he discovered Delilah cut his hair?

  I think Samson knew Delilah’s faults. But loved her anyway. He told the truth to give her a chance to be different. To love him back. Delilah failed him and then, I think, she knew she failed herself, too. She hurt this man that loved her true, that gave her his trust after three wrongs. Amazing, Samson loved her that much. Amazing, she don’t know ’til too late. She grew cold and bitter like a grave.

  If Mister Bailey loved me, I’d know it. I’d hold his feelings safe in my heart. Never betray him like Delilah. I’d bury my face in his pretty hair and whisper, “True. Love be true.”

  True. Love be true.

  The words kept plaguing me. Twice, I’d buried my head beneath my pillow. Huddled under sheets, then kicked them off, disgusted. The moon was disappearing. At dawn, I needed to start baking. Dusting furniture. Washing the cloth panels in the library. But tiredness didn’t stop my mind from echoing: True. Love be true.

  Didn’t stop the walls from closing in, making the air heavy, hard to breathe. Making my head hurt. Didn’t stop my sense that the bones were laughing. Their voices rising, carrying across the sea. All my high hopes and I’d let it come to this.

  Old Auntie. Old Maid.

  Samson risked everything. I’d risked nothing.

  A man wasn’t like catching Big Blues. But at least Lil’ Bit got down off the porch. Here I was rocking on a porch owned by somebody else, letting life pass by like heartache didn’t matter. Like loneliness didn’t matter.

  Everything mattered. I threw on my robe, tiptoed outside. There was a small porch off the kitchen. I sat on the steps, scanning the trees. Fireflies lived in Baltimore as well as in Tuck’s Creek. But here on Miz Baldwin’s back porch, as far as my eye could see, there weren’t any trees or ocean. Just cobblestone. White plastered houses and white fences. It was pretty in its own way but not enough lovely green. And while I could smell the sea, I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see the water that flowed from Africa to the isles to Baltimore to my cove back home. But water was there nonetheless.

  Just like my hope for a husband was there, curled up in the corner of my heart, despite my ignoring it, wishing it away, pretending it wasn’t there.

  Time for Lil’ Bit to teach her grown self a lesson. Can’t harvest the sea without thinking about what was needed.

  True—no man had ever asked for my hand.

  Also true—there’d been no man I’d wanted.

  Love be true. Mister Bailey, I wanted.

  Him being a slave might be my advantage. I had money saved. Buying him free might be a start.

  I might not be what he wanted. But a slave man ain’t allowed to have no wants. So, he’d still come out ahead. Him, free. Me, loving him with all my might. Him learning to love me. Why not? He’d be free to love. Us, building a family. Soon love be true for both of us.

  Tomorrow, I’d find some new customers for doing laundry. I’d work more, sleep less. Save more.

  Miz Baldwin could complain about marriage. I still wanted to feel it for myself. No more secondhand, leftover feelings.

  I hugged myself and I thought I heard the bones roaring encouragement.

  Tomorrow, I’d go buy thread, material to begin a wedding quilt. I’d sew two rings locked together.

  Tomorrow, I’d aim to be happy. One tomorrow at a time.

  That next Thursday I wore my work clothes but felt all dressed up, pretty inside. I truly admired this man and I was going to propose to set him free. Give him room enough to love me.

  The day was ordinary. Sweating. Even leaves sweat in Baltimore. Trees just bend their heads low and let moisture leak, drip to the ground.

  I took the pony cart to the harbor, then walked a bit past fine ships, rigging ten feet high. Everybody busy, busy. Southeast end be where Gardner’s men build. There’s a warehouse with one side open to the sea and ships. Men be milling inside and out, going to and fro.

  For as long as I could remember, blacks and whites worked alongside each other. Not just slaves, either. Maryland had lots of free coloreds. 1841, good times. Profit made everybody mellower, easier to get along.

  This day I didn’t see nobody working on the half-done ship. No buzzards worked on its skeleton, hammering, sanding, lashing ties. But I heard a great noise from inside the warehouse. Like thunder. First, I stopped. Not knowing whether to go forward or back. No sense inviting trouble. World won’t end if I don’t deliver laundry. But I was sure my heart would crack if I didn’t see Mister Bailey.

  Besides, he might be in that ruckus. Made sense to find out what’s going on.

  So I started forward again. I heard grunts, shouts, something tumbling, falling down. Then it was: “Niggers. Niggers.” Then, “Nigger. Damn fool nigger.” Somebody was singled out.

  Sometimes my heart tells me what my head don’t know. I raced forward, dropping my baskets, sending clothes sailing onto the wharf, some blowing out to sea.

  I raced hard, raced to the half-built ship, then turned into the warehouse and pushed through a crowd. Not carpenters, but curious folk—sailors, whores, penny salesmen—hooting and hollering, “Teach him”; “Serves nigger right.”

  I stopped dead at what I saw. Mister Bailey down on one knee. His hands shielding his head. Three men battering him awful and the coloreds were being held back, punched and slapped. But nothing like Mister Bailey. He be trying to get up, trying to lift off that knee splattered with sawdust and blood.

  I cried out to stop them. Nobody paid me any mind. The foreman, off to the side with a wide, wide grin—was enjoying himself like he
was at a cockfight with a bottle of whiskey going to the winner.

  Mister Bailey gave a great cry. So thundering that everybody step back a bit, even them men hitting him. Mister’s Bailey’s fist raised beneath the chin of one man. Then, he turned, hit the other. Bailey got hit back, again and again. He clutched his stomach, then fell upon the closest man. Holding on to the man’s neck with his right hand, his left fist barreled into the man’s stomach. Again and again.

  Then, six white men were on Mister Bailey. Pulling him back by his neck, his shirt, beating him down ’til I couldn’t see nothing but their legs, fists, heaving backs. Mister Bailey disappeared in that hell.

  Seemed like forever … maybe it was minutes. When Mister Bailey laid still, the men stopped beating him. They just stepped aside. Sweating, breathing deep and fast like hitting a colored was some of the hardest work they’d ever done.

  I got my strength back and rushed forward, wailing, down on my knees over Mister Bailey. “Precious Lord.”

  “Gal, get outta here. No business here.”

  I said, “Here’s my business. Helping a down man.” Foreman considered hitting me I know. I rushed: “His Master won’t like him tore up so.” That stopped him and he looked at me hard. But the weight of Mister Bailey’s head on my lap, the stillness in his body, the blood draining from his nose and mouth made me hold on.

  I didn’t dare ask: “Why? Why this beating? Why this pain?”

  None of the colored men looked at me. Some of them were leaving, quitting the warehouse so I knowed things must’ve gone real bad. Free coloreds would take a heap of abuse to feed their families.

  “Mister Foreman,” I said, “let me clean him up. Take him back to his Master. Just tell me where to go.”

  “You wouldn’t be tricking me, would you?”

  “No, sir. You know I Miz Baldwin’s maid. Any problem, you find me there.”

  Some of the carpenters milled, complaining: “Niggers stealing jobs”; “Niggers they don’t pay, be worse than those they do”; “Slaves stealing jobs.”

  I kept shut. Everybody know a slave can’t order himself to work. Some white man ordered Mister Bailey here. But these fool carpenters beat Bailey. Hurt a man who has no say over what he does.

  Besides, there be plenty work. Bonuses for all. I didn’t see no white men crying poor. They made twice as much as a free colored. So why they worried about losing jobs, when plenty work for all?

  Foreman shouted, “Go on. Back to work.” Then, he tighten his mouth like he was going to spit. “His Master is Auld. Roup Street. Take him. Clean him up. Take him to his Master. Tell him his boy ain’t to come back no more.”

  Don’t know how I got Bailey to the Baldwins’ kitchen. Me telling him he got to stand. Him stumbling. Moaning low ’cause everything hurt.

  “Taught you, nigger,” someone crowed.

  I kept pulling. Bailey kept straggling. Inching forward ’til we were beyond the ship’s shadow and the carpenters’ curses.

  He laid on the buckboard. Curled up like a baby while I clicked, “Giddy-up,” and the old pony did its best trot. Every bump caused him pain. But I was afraid to slow. Maybe some carpenter beat him again. Maybe someone cry, “Lynch him.”

  I flew as best I could. Streets fairly clear. Everybody at supper. The sun was setting, bleeding red.

  I was lucky, this day be my off-day. The Baldwins were at Miz Baldwin’s sister’s for dinner. The entire house be quiet.

  Still I hushed Mister Bailey. Warned him we got to be careful. “Baldwins won’t appreciate talk.” He nodded and let me guide him to my room off the kitchen.

  Inside, even bent, Mister Bailey was big. My room shrinked to nothing. His legs drooped off the edge of my cot. He groaned. Eyes swollen, blood crusted on his face. Shirt, ripped; pants, dirty. His hands were the saddest. Skin torn from the knuckles, blood bubbling up.

  I lit the lamp. Poured water in the basin. Not having a chair, I got down on my knees. “Hold still, I’ll clean you up.”

  He swallowed. I touched the cloth to his head. There was a lump. Blood caked in his hair. His curls were heavy and flat. He winced and I knew I had to soak out the blood bit by bit. Then, bind it with a cloth. All over his body there were scrapes, wounds to tend.

  “I sorry this hurts, Mister Bailey.”

  “Why do you call me Mister? I’m just a slave. ‘Boy. Nigger. Bailey.’ All those names I’m used to. Not Mister.”

  I shrugged. “Seem like it fit you true—Mister. Man among men.”

  He laughed harsh. “Here I’m bleeding on your clean bed and you think I’m a man among men. More like a fool among slaves.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Believe? What does it matter what you believe?”

  I drew back, staring at the dark red blooming in the water. “I need a fresh basin.”

  He murmured, “Please, wait. I’m sorry. My words were uncalled for. Forgive me.”

  I nodded, repeated, “I need fresh water.”

  In the kitchen, I caught my breath, tried to soothe my hurt. I tossed the red water outside the door. The moon was rising, drawing the tide high. I turned back into the kitchen. Poured water from the pitcher. My hurt turned to anger. “Young, pretty girls worth believing,” I thought spitefully. “Think me an old auntie, like I don’t have nothing to say. Humpf. I’ll set Mister Bailey on his way. That I will.”

  He was sitting. A bit shaky, but facing the door, watching for me with his swollen eyes.

  “I admire you, Miss Murray. Your words, especially your respect, mean a great deal to me. I’m sorry I’m not more worthy of it.”

  All my upset faded. “Hush. Lay down. Let me take care of you.” I bustled forward.

  “All my life,” he said, “I’ve been trying to be a man, trying to be treated as a man. A gentleman like any other. When I forget myself, slavery’s won.”

  He was pale. Blood drained sluggishly from his brow and lips. “Mister Bailey, please lay down. Let me finish my work.”

  “Only if you call me Frederick.”

  “Frederick. Freddy. Anything you like as long as you lay down.” I lifted his feet and helped him lean backwards onto the cot.

  “No one’s called me Freddy.”

  “Then I will. My special name for you since you don’t like Mister Bailey.”

  He gripped my hand and I was surprised by the strength left in him. “I like Mister Bailey. It has a fine ring. But too formal among friends.”

  His eyes were gold and hazel. Green specks floated inside. I sighed. Even tore up, he was handsome. And I could see he was trying to smile, even though his mouth hurt. “Friends,” he said.

  I shook his hand.

  We were “friends,” and I felt happier than I’d ever felt in my whole life. I worked as quickly as I could. Cleaning wounds, pressing ointment, tying on bandages. Friends be a start on the road I picked.

  Since being little, Mam said I had a way with healing. I nursed all my brothers and sisters when they got spots, sore throats, gnashes in their limbs. Even nursed Mam when she had her last baby. Next to keeping house, I would’ve been pleased to heal people. There was that same sense of tidiness, of making things right.

  In the kitchen, I drained broth from a chicken, heated the juice with rosemary and a dash of pepper to lift spirits. Then I filled a cup with Mister Baldwin’s liquor.

  I encouraged Mister Bailey to sip the liquor, finish off the soup. When his lips and cheeks gained color, I felt so happy.

  My room smelled good and warm. Rosemary, columbine ointment, and Mister Bailey’s—Freddy’s—healing body all seemed sweet. Through the window, a touch of sea blew in. The same cooling, comforting smell I remembered from my family’s porch.

  Freddy just laid still, recovering, his eyes closed.

  Feeling close, I imagined this was our house, our home. I touched his hair. He didn’t move.

  I said, “Let me buy you free. I can do it. Buy you free.”

  First, I didn’t think h
e heard me. His eyelids fluttered.

  Outside, crickets sang. Moonlight made shadows on the wall. Him, on his back. Me, on my knees bending over. His eyes opened but I watched his mouth.

  Who can tell what love be? Mam and Pa loved, I think. I saw them talk for hours, saw baby after baby. Was that love? If so, I’d be content.

  “Freedom is an illusion,” growled Bailey. “Where can a colored man go and live free?”

  He sucked in air. I saw bitterness rising in him. He wasn’t talking to me. He was lost somewhere inside himself, trying to figure things out. I shivered. Devils tiptoed across his soul.

  “Master sent me to a slave-breaker. Not a week went by when I didn’t suffer some new cruelty. I was worked so hard until there was nothing left of me but animal. One minute, I’d think ‘Oh, God save me.’ The next, I’d be praying ‘Let me die.’ I tried to die. I fought with the slave-breaker, Covey. He wanted to lash me. I said, ‘No more.’ We wrestled all day. Tired and sore, I thought a feather would push me over.

  “Covey was in worse shape. Struck dumb by exertion, heat. I fought and won. I told Covey, ‘You’ll have to kill me before you ever beat me again.’

  “He didn’t kill me. But part of me was dead anyway. I worked for him for four more hard years. Covey never tried to beat me again. My service with him ended Christmas Day, 1835. Master hired me out again. But, blessedly, a year gone, my Master sent me here to Baltimore to live with his sister and learn a trade.”

  I heard his words, but they were about the past. I wanted to live my life forward. Live it entwined with his.

  “Until today, shipbuilding was fine. But, today, those carpenters became afraid that slaves, coloreds, were going to undercut their profit and steal their jobs. There had always ways been mumblings, stirrings of resentment that I was there.”

  He stopped talking, exhausted. I felt strange. This man had so much learning. I’d none. I wanted to ask how he learned to speak like a gentleman. Did he miss his Mam? His people? Were they left on the plantation? I wanted to know everything about him.

  Instead, I blurted, “I have money. Enough maybe to set you free.”