Douglass’ Women (15 page)

“Fräulein Assing?”

“Mr. Garrison, this has been wonderful. The most exciting night of my life.”

“Then let me make it more so.” Courtly, he offered his arm and I rose, letting my hand rest gently on his arm … and all the while I felt such breathlessness, such thrills as Mr. Garrison guided me toward Mr. Douglass upon the stage. People seemed to fall away, part like the sea before Moses. Bantering, exclamations, laughter were muted. Color seemed to drain from the room—red and yellow silks became gray, white faces paled, and the rich wood of walls and chairs lost their luster.

Like walking through a tunnel, dulled, without life, I was moving toward a burning warmth, toward a man of color and passion, intelligence and conviction.

Mr. Garrison introduced us. I offered my hand and Mr. Douglass clasped it, then bent over it like a distinguished European. I was charmed.

“Your speech was wonderful. Exhilarating.”

“Thank you.”

“Miss Assing is thinking of financing our cause,” said Garrison.

“If you would allow me.”

“I’d allow much for anyone who helped in the abolition of slavery.”

I smiled at Herr Douglass. Up close his brows were thick; his eyes, flecked gold and green; but his hair most reminded me of unbridled energy, strength without measure. Waves of black velvet strands shielding the mind of a brilliant man. A mind inside a body owned by a Southerner. Probably one who was less intelligent. Certainly less noble and kind. It made me feel more vehement on Herr Douglass’ behalf. No one should own this man. Or any man. But especially this man.

“May I introduce you to my wife?”

“By all means, Douglass,” exclaimed Garrison.

“Miss Assing.” Douglass nodded his head and I gracefully curtsied.

Garrison surely spoke, but I’ve no notion of what he said. No notion of anything other than watching Douglass turn toward his right. Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes seemed like hours, and then I heard my name again and saw Douglass gently pressing a woman forward. I saw the stark contrast between black skin and white silk. I was disappointed. Frau Douglass was short, thick in stature. She reminded me of a butcher’s wife. Contrite, I offered my hand.

“A fine man, your Mr. Douglass.”

She didn’t speak but trembled as if I frightened her. I felt sympathy for her. She looked a woman bowed, overlooked, and overshadowed.

“My wife is free,” said Mr. Douglass. “She has but recently come north.”

I gave her my best smile. They did not fit. Looking at her, my eyes settling on him, I could see the incongruity. Herr and Frau Douglass. They were not a good pair. No more than one would mate a dog to a cat, pair
china with crockery, or sweet wine with sour borscht. Him, tall; her, short; him, glowing with color and life; her, dark and dull. Douglass was triumphant; yet his wife seemed to be grieving.

Who was I to question?

I was here to help abolition and so I would. Help Mr. Garrison. Free Mr. Douglass. These were good causes. German Marks would be put to good use.

I laughed.

I told Herr Douglass I hoped to see him again soon.

He bowed, never once allowing his gaze to break with mine. “And you, Frau Douglass. Good-bye. I hope to see you soon.”

My breath quickened.

I felt a new story was being written and I was a part of it.

“I will speak boldly against any evil.
My voice shall carry far and wide.”

—F
REDERICK
D
OUGLASS
,
A
BOLITIONIST
C
ONVENTION
,
1853

“I only thought of doing, not speaking. Of
sewing, cooking, caring for my children.
Showing my love with my hands.”

—A
NNA
D
OUGLASS,
SPEAKING TO
R
OSETTA
, 1882

New Bedford

Could I have turned away Freddy’s loving? Naw, I couldn’t. I didn’t have the heart.

How strange to return home. Our borrowed home. I dragged my feet; Freddy walked on air. I’d barely lit the kitchen candles when Freddy began tugging at my clothes, kissing my cheeks, neck, and mouth. There was a fire in him as if his speech unleashed a new passion. Nothing I could do to bank it down.

Strange. Me, who loved Freddy with all my heart, slowing my feet when it came to loving. This wasn’t me. Not the me I wanted to be. So I wrapped my arms about him, hugged him with all my might, and kissed him fiercely.

Freddy breathed harder. His hands roamed over my body, touching my breasts, thighs, touching my stomach where our baby lived.

I almost tripped as Freddy bent me back onto the bed. He moved rough, shoving my dress up, his knees spreading my thighs, and him entering quick and hard.

Everything quick and hard.

“Freddy, Freddy,” I say, but he didn’t hear. He be lost in his pleasure.

I tried, but I didn’t feel anything. This loving was too fast. I couldn’t help thinking: my best dress getting wrinkled, my lace torn; his suit would need pressing in the morn; we be on top the quilt, not under it, not warm together with flesh touching flesh.

I stared at the shadows on the ceiling. This be my husband. Let him take what he needs. “Take”—it be that. And ’cause he wasn’t giving, I didn’t. Shame on me.

I buried my mouth against his throat, tasted beads of sweat on his skin, and murmured, “You my true love.” But he didn’t hear. He cried out as I spoke. His body arched back and away from me. Then, released, he fell onto me. Breathing hard, his face buried deep in the pillow. My face turned toward the window and the fading moon.

Freddy got up. His face hidden by shadows; he said he’d get his nightshirt. He didn’t offer me a hand. Or a caress. Or a word of love.

I sat up, feeling the room sway. As Freddy undressed, I undid my buttons, one by one, and slipped out of my best dress. I let it fall to the floor. So unlike me not to hang it neatly. So unlike me not to take each of Freddy’s clothes and smooth them with my hands, hang them on pegs, or fold them within the drawer. I put on my shift, crawled into bed, and tucked myself beneath the quilt with the wedding ring pattern I’d stitched with love. When I was full under and turned on my side, Freddy slipped into bed. We laid back to back.

I bit my lip. This was the first time we be ashamed to let the other see our nakedness. First time we loved without
looking into each other’s eyes. Head averted, clothes on, Freddy rode me like a mare.

What had Freddy seen that he didn’t want me to see? Why didn’t he let our joining be more sweet, warmed by our bodies clasped together?

Darkness be good for lying. Be good for hiding faces and true feelings.

His breathing slowed. Freddy slept. I stayed awake.

He is not here.” “He is not here.” That’s what I got used to saying. Folks all the time be knocking at my door asking for Frederick Douglass. “The great Frederick Douglass.”

“He is not here,” I say. Freddy strongly told me not to say “ain’t.”

“He
ain’t
here, isn’t good English,” Freddy said. But whether I say “ain’t” or “is not,” didn’t change the truth. Freddy be gone and I was left with white folks, colored folks, Quakers in black, abolitionist ladies with white gloves and fur hats knocking on my door, looking sorrowful when I answered.

Some got angry. Some suspected I lied. Some thought I was the maid! Foolishness.

My one comfort was if a slave catcher called, I could tell the same truth:
Freddy is not here
.

After a month, I stopped answering the door.

Five months married and I barely saw Freddy. He be off speechifying, preaching the evils of slavery. What about the good of marriage? The good of getting ready to raise a child? Our baby—almost due—kicked inside me, hollering for her Papa.

I may have been selfish, but I hadn’t seen Freddy more than two days in a month. I was more lonely in New Bedford
than I’d been anywhere. Church folks invited me to Sunday dinner. They praised Freddy, told me how proud I must be that the Anti-Slavery Society be promoting his speeches. They said he be the most famous colored man in America. I nodded my head. But I also saw that many of them pitied me—a new wife left all alone. Maybe it was ’cause I wasn’t a
young
, new wife. Maybe Freddy thought an old hen could take care of herself. And I
could
take care of myself. I could take care of the whole world if I had to—but it didn’t mean that I wasn’t hurting inside. It didn’t mean I wasn’t afraid of birthing my—
our
—first child.

Sundays, I was given pieces of pie left uneaten. Given cold biscuits, ham, and anything else not eaten at dinner. I took these offerings with shame. Neighbors, church folks, knew I was poor. They didn’t know their food sometimes stuck in my throat. Still—I thanked them for their kindness and ate gratefully, ’cause the baby needed more than the slim choices in my larder.

Weather had turned cold, and rocking in my chair, I sometimes thought of Lena. I wondered whether she came back to the Baldwins’ kitchen hunting for me. Or maybe she died? Drowned? Fought with another cat? Maybe she found a new home to raise her kittens?

Sometimes I couldn’t help taking to bed. I thought Freddy had found a new home too. Sleeping in abolitionist houses. Living, eating, speaking with Mr. Garrison, the Quakers, and those who packed great halls to hear him speak. I stopped myself from thinking of Miss Assing. I didn’t have a good way to think about her. But I wondered if she be at home too? in New Bedford? doing whatever
white women do without a husband, without a child, or parent to care for? What was there to hold her? Even Miz Baldwin had babies and household matters to keep her busy. Miss Assing could do anything without a care for nobody. I wondered if she be at Freddy’s side in all those cities and small towns where he spoke?

Our baby weighed me down. Nobody would ask me to speak. And if they did, what would I have to say? I’d say, “Life be precious. Babies, gardening, a home be special.” That be what Mam and Pa taught me. Nobody in this world would pay to hear what I knew.

I made circles on my belly. I sang to my baby, hoping it’d be a girl who wouldn’t grow up to leave me. Like I left Mam.

Freddy said he sent a Penny-man, but I wondered. I’d not heard back. But then, it be a long way to Maryland. Maybe just now the Penny-man be pulling up to Mam’s house, smiling, saying, “Anna fine. Baby fine. You fine?”

Maybe Mam didn’t have a penny to answer? When Freddy came home, I’d ask him for another penny. This time I’d speak the message myself. Maybe Mam would answer.

I only needed to wait.

And wait and wait some more for Freddy to come. I stared at the small stack of letters he’d sent. I was too ashamed to ask anyone in the town to read them to me. So I cried over the black ink.

When me and the baby napped, I dreamed Freddy was with us, whispering his words, his letters, into my ears.

I woke, feeling a pain rip across my belly. Like someone had taken a knife and stabbed it deep within me. It be dark—
sometime past midnight, I thought, but not quite dawn. Demon hours.

The pain came again and I balled my fist into my mouth. My other hand held my belly to keep it from breaking apart, wrenching open.

My time be here. Freddy was not home.

Light snow outside and I thought I must get help. Get up, get out of bed. Get a midwife. Get someone to help me birth my baby live and kicking into this world.

I dragged my legs over the bed, and I stumbled forward, holding on to the bedpost. Pain rocked me again and I breathed deep, telling myself, “Girl, get going. Get help.”

I shuffled forward one step, another, then one more. I made it to the bedroom door, then my water broke like an ocean undammed. Water poured down my legs, ankles, onto the wood floor. My flannel gown be soaked and though grown, I felt like a child again.

“Mam,” I hollered. “Mam.”

Even though the window was barely cracked open, wind snapped through and curled around my damp legs. The cold air braced me.
“I’m here, baby,”
I heard Mam say,
“I’m here.”

My heart calmed. I no longer gulped air like a fish. I thought: “What would Mam do?” Mam who gave birth to me when no one was at home—Pa and the children were clearing fields.
“You slipped out the easiest of all my children,”
she said. My baby be easy, too, and, if not, I’d manage as if Mam, Pa, and all my family were beside me, speaking their love.

I pulled off my night shift and pulled a second quilt from the dresser and wrapped myself in it like an Indian.
I snatched my sewing kit and brought it into the bed beside me.

Pain roared, wave after wave after wave. Sometimes I thought I’d get towed under; other times, I thought I’d float; still other times, I saw myself a beached, black whale, flopping on land without enough air.

I grunted. I groaned. And when the urge came to push, I raised my knees and clutched the sheets. The blood scared me. So much of it. Too much of it. And I began calling my baby’s name:
Rosetta
. Praying. Calling my little baby to come out and be just fine.