Douglass’ Women (26 page)

I fed him apples and biscuits when he stayed up late and didn’t come to bed. I felt lonely in the bed. But Freddy didn’t want Rosetta or Freddy Junior to be curled up with me. “It isn’t proper,” he said. The children didn’t understand.

I fed Freddy. Tried to sleep as best I could.

“We’re leaving for Rochester, Anna.”

“When?” I asked, excited. Me and the children ain’t been nowhere. I thought this be a pleasure trip. Maybe, one day, we could visit Mam. This year we go north; next year, south to Baltimore.

“Everything needs to be packed by the end of the month.”

“What you mean?”

“What I say, Anna. What don’t you understand?”

I flushed. He looked at me like I was a stupid, ignorant, old woman. Freddy didn’t do that much before he left for England. Now he did it all the time. I stood as tall as I was able.

“Why I need to take everything just for a trip?”

“It
is
a trip. To our new home.”

He turned his back, arranging his papers like everything’s been said.

I was struck dumb. I didn’t move. After a while, Freddy looked up, surprised I was still there.

“Surely you see this house is too small, Anna.”

“Yes. But Lynn’s home now. These good folks helped me weather storms.”

“I’m here. I’ll help you weather your storms.” He smiled. “Squalls in a teapot.”

“I don’t want to go, Freddy.”

“Newspaper prospects are good in Rochester. Friends have found a house for us.”

“You seen this house?”

“Only drawings.” He looked down. I couldn’t see his eyes. “It’ll be fine, Anna.”

“Who draw?”

“Drew. You mean drew.”

“Who drew?”

“Miss Assing was kind enough.”

“I don’t want to go, Freddy.”

“You don’t want?” Freddy looked up, his voice harsh. I shivered. “What right have you to want or not?”

“I’m home here.”

“You’ll go or stay here—”

“Fine,” I say.

“—without the children.”

“Naw, Freddy. What you mean?”

“Court of law. Public opinion. The children belong with me.”

“Like they your slaves?”

“Stop it.”

“You just run off with them?”

“You’re not being sensible.”

I started weeping and thanked God the children didn’t see me cry.

“A man is responsible for his family.”

“These past years, I’ve been caring for the children. You not here, we do fine. You here, we do even better. What if I’ve said when you’d come home—‘go away. You’re not needed’?”

“It’s not the same.”

“’Tis so. You saying you’d leave me. Like I’m not needed. Like the children don’t need me.”

“I’ll not allow the children to be taken from me. They’re my precious possessions.”

I swallowed.

On his desk, Freddy had set, side by side, four bottles of ink. Rosetta liked playing with them bottles. One day, she was going to drop one. I told Freddy he should move his ink, but he wouldn’t listen.

In England, Freddy forgot the noise of children. Forgot how even one tiny baby can create a big mess. It was like Freddy grew rigid as he came into himself, a free man. Like his
self
became the center of all things. He be saying he don’t need me. He didn’t care about my feelings. He forgot I helped him to escape.

“Anna, didn’t you swear to love, honor, and obey me?”

I looked at Freddy hard, letting tears run down my face. I wanted him to see my hurt. See how he’d beaten me. Rosetta and Freddy Junior needed me. And as long as I breathed, I’d be beside them, loving them as Mam and Pa loved me.

I packed and packed some more. Freddy wrote. I cleaned and cleaned some more. Freddy wrote. I soothed the children’s falls, made them supper. Freddy Junior always wanted bread and jam. Big Freddy wrote.

My bones ached. At times, I felt sick, like the baby be uncomfortable inside me. I didn’t sleep. Freddy didn’t, either. He wrote.

Sometimes, when the evening was warm enough, I sat on the porch. Fireflies blinked all over and, if I was quiet, I could hear the soft roar of the sea and the rustle of small animals in the brush. I say my prayers. I promised next year I was going to see Mam. Or die trying. Mostly, I stared at the stars and wondered how I got in my fix. I loved Freddy. I did. I do. He was my last—only—hope for marriage. I was his hope for freedom. Funny, how that made all the difference in the world.

Leaving, Miz Beasley hugged me tight. “You haven’t told him about the baby?”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m going to miss you.”

“I, you.”

“Make sure you find a good midwife.”

“None as good as you.”

She squeezed my shoulder. Looking at her face, I saw wrinkles, long life lines I hadn’t seen before. “What’s your name? Your Christian name?”

“Effie.”

“If I have a girl, I’ll call her that.”

“Naw, child.” Miz Beasley wept over me like I was her own daughter. “You need a proper name. Effie sounds like a bit of nothing.”

I hugged Miz Beasley. “You something. Special.”

We all left Lynn. It was rough traveling from Massachusetts to New York. Hard to keep children from crying, hour after hour, as we bumped along in the wagon. Me and the growing baby be so sick. I told myself, if Freddy loved me, he’d notice the baby poking out my belly. If he loved me, he’d know a child be due.

Freddy never guessed. All the way to Rochester. Four hundred miles. One hundred and twenty days. Sometimes we left the wagon and stayed in colored folks’ homes. All the women cared for me like I was glass instead of flesh. They fed me the best bits of meat. The biggest piece of pie. Freddy never guessed.

At Quakers’ and abolitionists’ homes, Freddy was fussed over. Fed first, given the first glass of water. Everybody wanted to please him. Me and the children were given a wash bowl, blankets, and expected to lay down and sleep while, downstairs, Freddy talked about books and freedom. Guests dropped by to see the important man. Me
and the children slept, grateful not to be rocking in the wagon.

Freddy never guessed.

I gasped. The Rochester house be lovely. Big, with two floors, white shutters and a wide porch. Much nicer than the Baldwins’ house. Nicer than any home I’ve known. The children clambered off the wagon. Play. Squealing like fools. I told them to stay close. “Don’t stray too far from the grass.”

I clasped Freddy’s hand. “We got enough money for this?”

“The newspaper will pay.”

I looked about in wonder. I could make a garden. Lots of space for pole beans, tomatoes. Corn. This be another chance. I could make all well here. Make a home, warm and close. Writing the paper, Freddy not travel so much. Maybe he’d come to know me better. Maybe he’d guess the baby be due in four months. Maybe, in our own bed, he’d touch me again and feel the hard rise of my belly, the fullness of my breasts.

I stepped across the lawn, marched up the steps. I unlocked the door with the key Freddy had given me. I sighed, overcome by the loveliness of this house so full of light. I began sweeping the wood floors, dusting corners, wiping down the oven. I worked all day. Children played. Freddy unloaded the wagon. There wasn’t much. Mainly Freddy’s desk, two bed frames, and a dresser. Freddy claimed his office then, he was gone like a ghost. In my mind, I made lists about what we’d need. I needed to sew curtains. Find a carpenter to make beds.

Go to town for supplies: flour, sugar, meal, fatback.

That night, I woke from the deepest, tired sleep. Startled by crickets. By silence. By pine and oak smells.

Startled, because this be the first time I didn’t live near the sea.

Freddy guessed. Not because he touched or stroked me in bed. Not because he watched my dress grow tight. Or saw me breathe heavy doing my housekeeping. Or even heard the children arguing about whether it be a brother or a sister.

Some, I could understand why Freddy didn’t notice me. He’d bought a print press and taught himself how to set letters. Nonsense marks to me. But I could recognize
A
’s,
N
’s,
E
’s,
D
’s, and
L
’s now. Others I could guess at.

Freddy was writing, printing, trying to find folks to buy his paper. A ton of work. All day, all night, he worked. His eyes grew darker and sometimes, I caught him rubbing his neck or half-asleep in his chair. Other times I heard him working himself into a fever, muttering, “Garrison.”

No doubt, my children’s father be a hardworking man. I was proud of him. Proud for him. But I wanted him to guess. Wanted him to say, “This is my child.” Wanted him to hold me tight.

Freddy guessed when he saw
her
looking at me. Ain’t that a shame. When he saw me through Miz Assing’s eyes, he saw me and the baby.

Freddy had insisted I make all kinds of tea cakes for Miz Assing, and I did. Lemon tarts. Carrot bread. Currant biscuits. I wasn’t happy about her coming. But Freddy hadn’t asked me.

I cooked for two days making that fancy platter for Miz Assing. Showing her, I thought, through my baking, that I could make Freddy happy.

Freddy
be
happy. He had to be. Since everything he asked for, I gave. I was a good wife.

Miz Assing looked at me with scorn. Something else flickered in her eyes, but she pulled a shade down on her feelings. I did that, too. Though I wanted to shout and hit. Still, I kept my dignity. Even when Freddy squinted at me. Like I’d embarrassed him.

I said sweetly, “More tea?” Going back into the kitchen, I turned and saw Miz Assing’s blond head next to Freddy’s. She laid her hand on his knee. She let him cover her hand with his.

Love be true
. I knew then, Freddy hadn’t been true.

I went outside and threw up into the bushes.

“I shouldn’t have hated her. She loved him
just like me.”

—O
TTILIE
A
SSING,
1874

“Miss Assing wasn’t a Delilah. I see that
now. Freddy laid himself waste. Just as he
raised himself high.”

—A
NNA
D
OUGLASS
,
1882

New Jersey

Douglass went home to Anna and I went home to empty rooms in Hoboken. For three years, I was Douglass’ constant companion; now, his absence was like an open wound. I felt out of joint, out of time. Even a little frightened that my life would become days of empty pursuits, nights of unfulfilled desires.

It seemed to me that Oluwand pitied me.
She’d appear in my bedroom, on the edge of my bed. Her black eyes blinking like an owl’s
.

Some days I didn’t bother getting out of bed. Curtains closed, I lay in bed dreaming.
Only then did Oluwand disappear to God knows where
. But whenever I tried to get up, to do something, to be productive, she was there. Haunting, hovering. Whenever I moved through my apartments, she shadowed me. Watching me dress, eat, even cleanse myself with a sponge. When I tried to paint, she mixed up all my colors. When I wrote articles about Douglass for the German press, she caused ink to blot his name. I’d start over. And over.

Once I shouted: “Leave me alone.”

Oluwand pressed her fingers to her lips. Then, like a mirage, she was on the ship’s rail. One leg already flung over, her body arcing backward. Diving, diving toward death
.

Winter was harsh in New York. Seemed so much colder than Germany. In my sleep, I must have wept. In the morning, my lashes were frozen, tangled shut.