Douglass’ Women (16 page)

I screamed. Toward the end, I screamed. I thought Freddy could hear me anywhere in Massachusetts. But no one came. If anyone heard me, they probably thought I was a haint roaming Bedford’s streets. It be two days past Sunday and no one thought to check on Miz Douglass. Part of this be my fault. I found more peace being alone. Part of it be the abolitionists’ fault too.

Abolitionists told everybody when Freddy married. These white folks were truly excited to help a slave find love. (Acted like they had some hand in it!) So even though I’d been big for months, my neighbors counted well enough to know the baby wasn’t due. Not yet. Not yet.

Not when I was only six months married. Not if I went to my marriage unspoiled.

My baby didn’t know anything about polite time. Secret time. The pains grew stronger.

In my mind, bones be rising from the ocean. Bones be mocking me, scattering my family, shooing them away. Wind rattled the window. And Mr. Death be rocking slowly in the corner chair. Old two-horned, hoof-footed devil.

I’d die from this pain. And if I died, who’d come to care for my baby? Who would know that I was gone? It might be days, weeks, a month before my baby’s Daddy came home.

One last, low, howling scream and out came my baby’s head, face up, curious about the world. I cried, laughed. Then pushed some more and the babe slithered out like a fish. But, too quiet, she scared me. I cut the cord connecting us and lifted my baby to my breast. Milk was running down my chest. Her lips found me and suckled hard. A new kind of pain. My baby’s hand curled against my bosom; her other hand, curled against her cheek. Drawing down milk, I knew she’d be all right. “Sickly babies don’t milk,” Mam always said.

One last push and the afterbirth whooshed out—all purple, red, and glittering like silver. I wrapped the afterbirth in a sheet. I wrapped my baby in a blanket I’d knitted from the finest yarn. I cleaned myself with rags, then put on a clean shift. I folded the stained and bloodied blanket and laid it upon the floor. Then, I climbed into bed beside my baby.

She slept peaceful. Warm brown like her Daddy. Smelling like new earth. Her lips, red like a bright rose. Inside her mouth, all pink and sweet. Everything about my baby be delicate. Light, soft, tender, matching the blanket I wove.
Like a rose—Rosetta
. My little girl. My answer to loneliness. My answer for who I be: I was proud to be Miz Douglass, but I was Rosetta’s Mam and always would be.

Rosetta would get my truest love. And I’d raise her as Mam raised me. I’d show her my bay where I caught Big Blues. Then I’d whisper my news that the bones had promised to bring her sweet, blue crabs every time she
dunked her trap into warm waters. The bones would provide for her just as they did for me. The bones be happy she alive.

I counted Rosetta’s toes. I counted her fingers. I kissed the soft spot on her head, the cord, already drying, already cracked red on her belly. I smelled her hair.

Before I fell asleep, before I let myself rest, I thanked my Mam. Thanked the bones too. I smiled as the sun rose so sweetly on a new day. There be no turning back. I was now Mam. I thought: Poor Freddy. He has missed this. Missed this new and special wonder.

Anna. Can you wake, Anna?”

I thought I was dreaming. Freddy’s voice be in my ear.

“Anna, the child is beautiful.”

I opened my eyes. A beautiful face be in front of mine. “Freddy?”

“I’m home, Anna.”

“Home.” I threw my arms about Freddy, hugged him tight. “Let me get up, fix you some food.”

“No, Anna, I think you must be ill. You’re still abed at noon.”

I pushed myself deeper beneath the sheet. I hadn’t the heart to tell Freddy nothing be wrong with me. I slept when the baby slept. With the ground still hard with ice, my garden wouldn’t grow. If I slept, my time waiting for Freddy flew.

“Was the delivery hard?”

“Naw. I did just fine.”

“Why didn’t you have the midwife in? Pastor Wells’s wife to help?”

I heard the scold in Freddy’s voice. Neighbors talked to him before he could talk to me. “It be too fast,” I answered, “too late to ask for help.”

“You don’t want people thinking—”

“What? That I be strong?”

“That you don’t require the same care a white woman expects.”

I was shocked. Mam sometimes had a midwife. Sometimes not. But Miz Baldwin had the whole world watching when she gave birth. There’d be the doctor, the nurse, the baby-to-be’s nurse, and oftentimes a woman friend. I was asked to stand outside the door, in case Miz Baldwin needed anything. That always made me laugh. What was I supposed to do? Cook her a stew? Bring her a cup of hot milk when she be screaming beyond the door, calling upon Jesus one minute, then shouting for everybody to go away the next?

“Let me show you Rosetta. Show you that she’s fine, growing strong. She didn’t need any help coming into this world.”

“Rosetta?”

“Yes. You don’t mind? She’s fine like a garden rose.” I went to the dresser drawer that I’d made into a cradle. Rosetta be sleeping, but I pulled back the blanket and showed the pink soles of her feet, the pink undersides of her hands.

“She’s not so dark.”

“Naw. She’s warm-colored like you. Like you, she’ll have black, silky hair.”

For the first time in a long time, there be joy on Freddy’s face.

“Come, sit with her in the rocker.”

“Her eyes,” he murmured, awed. “She opened her eyes.”

It be love, deep and true. Freddy rocked in the chair, sang, cooed, and told his daughter she was free and nobody was going to chain her.

He clutched my hand. “Thank you. Anna.” I was right pleased. My body warmed.

I looked into Freddy’s face and I saw the strain on him. Not from the baby but from long days on the road, long nights giving speeches. And I was proud of him, proud for him. He worked for something bigger than himself. I saw he worked for our baby’s future. I leaned forward and kissed his brow.

Freddy reached out and stroked one of my breasts. They were both heavy and full with milk. Almost hard. A trickle of milk drained from my teat.

“Does it hurt?”

“Naw.” I smiled as if he be my baby too. “Rosetta just needs to be fed.” I gathered her in my arms and held her to my left breast. Though sleepy still, my baby fed hungrily and dearest Freddy, my husband, was amazed at what my body could do. Then, he was up, saying, “What chores need doing?” “Let me feed you.” “Bring in more wood.” “Anything you need, just let me know, Anna.”

I laughed. He be acting like the new, proud Papa. It made me feel special. He be on his knees, watching me feed Baby, and from time to time, he be stroking Baby, then gently stroking me.

“When was she born?”

“A month Tuesday.” I realized my mistake.

“Why didn’t you write me? Have someone write me?”

“I didn’t need no one.”

“You offended the folks of this town?”

“That’s not what I said. Folks came Sundays. Some offered to stay. But I kept telling them I was all right—”

“And they left you alone.”

“Yes.”

He stood, pacing before me. “Anna, Anna. You have offended them. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know what folks will say about me?”

I started getting tight, angry. Baby started crying. Freddy didn’t care for the noise, didn’t care for a child’s wailing and me, talking back.

“Freddy, I’m sorry,” I said, wanting our good feelings back. “But I didn’t need them people. Didn’t need them asking about when I was due. Asking: ‘Did a fright cause the baby to come too early?’

“Pastor Wells’s wife was the worst: ‘When did you say you married, dear?’ I didn’t want no one looking crosswise at Rosetta. Didn’t want folks whispering behind their hands.”

“If you’d acted graciously, no one would’ve questioned you.”

“You mean no one would’ve said you jumped the broom too late.”

“Anna!”

I kept my head tucked down, looking at Rosetta. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel at home here.”

“You feel more at home in a room off a white person’s kitchen?”

“You felt home enough there to make Rosetta,” I shouted back.

Freddy be furious. “She is the last child to be made in a bed not my own.”

I didn’t remind Freddy that the New Bedford house wasn’t his. The sheets and quilts, I’d made with my hands. But except for books and words, nothing in this house be his.

I reached out my hand. “Freddy, let me take care of
you. You must be tired. I can fry some fatback. There’s some cornbread left.”

But Freddy didn’t look at me. Rosetta was still wailing ’cause I stopped feeding. Then, I looked down at myself. I be a mess. Heavier. Hair undone. Shift stained with milk.

“I’ll dress, Freddy, and bring you some food.”

“See to the child, Anna.”

That’s it. That’s all he say. Then he left me, shutting the door ever so softly, yet ever so sure, for I heard the click-click when the latch took. And I looked at the sunshine flooding our room making my shadow look like it was lying on the floor.

I could’ve explained to Freddy I’d wanted to tell him about the baby myself. (Seemed like good neighbors would let a wife share her joy first!) Could’ve told him though I felt well, having a baby takes its toll. Could’ve told him how I sometimes feared the cold, not having enough to eat. Could’ve told him how I missed him, missed Mam. Told him I was afraid he’d stopped loving me.

I could’ve given a hundred reasons for acting so uncivil. But Freddy didn’t want to hear them. He be cold, formal. I thought he believed his sense of right applied to both him and me. He didn’t think I might
feel
different.
Believe
different.

Loneliness came stealing over me again. Silence stretched between us.

After an hour, both Mam and Pa would’ve been saying “Sorry,” “My mistake,” “My fault,” “No one’s fault,” and been hugging before all us children. During dinner, they’d be serving each other bread, greens, slices of ham. Offering a glass of water. Sweet buttermilk. Feeding each other like babies. We children would giggle as Pa spooned Mam some greens, as Mam lifted a glass to Pa’s mouth, and we would know all was right in the world.

But, during dinner, Freddy said not a word. Said no
kindness, said nothing except, “On the road, the food was plentiful. Quakers cook simply, but abundantly.”

Humpf. I looked at the table. My pickings were slim indeed. A bit of rice mixed with collards. A squash mashed into soup. Lard biscuits. A cup of tea. I didn’t tell Freddy I’d saved the rice for his homecoming. Or that he’d used the last grain of sugar for his tea.

“Tell me about your journey,” I said.

His head tilted up and in the between space where the wall met the ceiling, he fixed his gaze. I looked to see what he be seeing but I saw only dust, cracks, and a spider weaving a sac around its babies. But Freddy saw packed halls, people applauding him. He saw the glory of the road. Saw Garrison’s flushed, excited face, the respect Quakers have for him, and maybe Miss Assing’s admiring gaze too.

“There is great joy in speaking for a cause. It soothes me greatly.”

“What you mean?”

“Slave memories disturb my rest. Each day slave owners are inflicting such hurt, such injustice. But, when I speak in these great halls, I imagine I am talking to slaveholders.

“Anna, if I can convince one slaveholder that not only is it evil to hold a slave, but that the slaveholder risks great evil to himself for owning the slave, then there is real hope for the antislavery cause.”

“How do owners get hurt? Seems everything already be their way.”

“Yes, that’s it, Anna. Why should a Master give up slaves if he gains money, gains property, gains workers, gains leisure?”

I was touched he called me Anna. I could feel his passion, his words taking wing.

“The slave owner must be convinced that slavery is as injurious to him as it is to the slave.”

“In-jur-i-ous?”

“That it hurts him, Anna. Hurts his wife, his children. The moral fiber of his family. Don’t you see? Slavery corrupts. Turns the kindhearted owner into a demon, the sweet angel of a mistress into a devil. When one human owns another, the power corrupts. Owning even one soul, the slaveholder risks losing his own.”

“You should be preaching the Bible, Freddy. The word of God be upon you.”

“It’s not the word of God. It is an argument, Anna. A logical argument.”

“It be hard for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, so it be hard for a slaveholder too. That your argument?”

“Yes, Anna, but—”

“That be in the Bible. I remember that from church. Pastor’s words.” I was excited. I thought I understood what Freddy meant.

“You preaching Gospel, Freddy. You preaching the word of God. This be the way for your learning to make a living. Helping folks come to God.”

He stood up, tossed his napkin on the table. “I’ll never preach the Bible.”

I shocked. “You godless?”

“No. Of course not.” His voice be strained like bark. “But I disrespect religious men who say the Bible allows for slavery. They tell white men it is their
duty
to baptize savages. Then those same preachers counsel slaves to be
happy, compliant, for their reward is in Heaven. Suffering under the white man’s care, slaves can reach the great hereafter, cross the great River Jordan beyond the sky. Paradise is in death.”

“Freddy—”

“Frederick.”

It felt like he slapped me in the face.

I stood straighter, my hands clasped. I wanted to be clear. I wanted him to hear me.

“Frederick, you speak fine words. I don’t understand everything you say. Your mind be quicker than mine. But I understand there be a baby in the room beyond, and if you keep preaching abolition, then I need to take in laundry. If you preach Gospel, I know you can make a living. But if you preach abolition, I’ll end up carrying my baby on my back and cleaning some white woman’s house.”

“No.” He moved quick, grabbed my hand. Then, he wrapped his arms about me. “Anna, I’m sorry. I’ve not been fair. Leaving you to handle so much on your own.”

“I can manage, Frederick.”

“Freddy,” he said. “I like that better.”