Douglass’ Women (27 page)

Dear Ottilie
,

Come to Rochester. I could use your help
with the North Star
.

Yours
,

Frederick

I crumpled the letter, tossed it into the fire. My help, he could use my help! Nothing about love, about whether he missed me. Not “I
need
your help.” Instead:
“Use.” “Use
your help.” I felt like a person let out to hire. A secretary without feelings.

Still, I packed my luggage on the weight of one word:
“Yours.”

The train ride seemed endless. The constant clacking, the swaying made me uneasy. Twice, I swallowed bile. Twice, I used all my willpower to remain on the train. I counted to ten to keep from pulling the emergency cord, which would’ve sent everyone tumbling to the floor.

Strange. I was going to meet my lover. I was frightened.
I couldn’t believe it. Me, frightened? More frightened than I’d ever been in my life.

Across the aisle, I saw a wife with a husband. How companionable the two were! Her hand laced in his. Two heads tilted together.

Douglass sent a carriage for me. I felt insulted. But, then, if he came for me, his wife might suspect that I loved him beyond imagining. That he loved me. So, I stepped inside the bleak carriage, lowered the shades, and recited,
“Your love is sweeter than an angel’s repose. Sweeter than all the wonders in heaven and earth. In heaven and earth. Your love is sweeter than an angel’s repose.”

He was on the porch, waiting for me. A bit plumper, filled out by his wife’s cooking. He was down the porch steps before the carriage came to a halt. His smile reassured me.

“Douglass.”

His arms were like steel rods, holding us apart. “We must be circumspect.”

Over his shoulder, I saw the upstairs curtains flutter.

“Here’s for your trouble,” Douglass said, paying the driver, lifting my portmanteau. “Come, Ottilie. A room is prepared.”

“The one with the back bay windows?”

“I thought it might be your favorite.” Then, he stopped, his hand gripping my arm. “I never thanked you for finding this home for me. Us.”

Then, Douglass, I’m certain of it, for the first time blushed. “Us”—him and Anna, not him and me.

Yes, I found the home. It was I who approved the study, the parlor, the bedrooms. I, who drew the portrait. I, who
for a few hours, pretended the fairy-tale house belonged to me—all white, windows gleaming, a fortress against reality. Against the American prejudice that said a white woman couldn’t love a black man.

“Come in, come in.”

I stepped inside the vestibule. My spirits lifted. It was a beautiful home. Warm and inviting. Maple floors waxed beyond gleaming; sconces glittering, free of dust. A floorboard creaked. I looked up. Anna was descending the stairs. Dark, unlovely Anna, I thought; then reproached myself for jealousy. She was different. These past two years had given her a hard-earned dignity. A natural grace. She looked directly at me, her gown swaying, slapping against the stairs. She was brave. Mistress in her own house.

Had it not been for her hands, I wouldn’t have noticed. At least not right away. Anna was broad. Her hands seemed disproportionate, thick, short. One hand held to the railing, firmly; the other hand was palm flat against her abdomen. Protective.

My throat swelled, choking off air. It would take little to turn around and run. What a fool I’d been. Sacrificing, suffering, while all the while Douglass suffered not. Like a greedy man, he’d fulfilled himself. Enjoyed his wife’s bed.

How could he bring another child into the world? Another child that wasn’t mine. Emotions moved through me like a tidal wave. Worse, I could see him: his limbs entwined with hers, his lips pressing against hers. I wanted to cry out. But I held fast.

“Good afternoon, Anna.”

She nodded.

“Bring us tea, please, Anna. Some of your cakes, too.” Then, I saw it. Her hands fell to her sides and she
looked at Douglass. Waiting for some sign, some recognition that her abdomen swelled her gown.

“Currant? Is currant cake still left?”

She looked heartstruck and I rejoiced. Was my joy always to be at her expense? I felt an overwhelming sadness. Then, anger at Douglass. He was so smart, yet ignorant of a woman’s heart. It probably never occurred to him how a child would seem between his wife and mistress. Just as it never occurred to me that seeing his child growing inside Anna, I’d wonder what was wrong with me. Years, and we’d had no issue.

Papa, with his notions of German and Jew, would be startled by the yield of German, Jew, black, and white. Such a child would rule the world. Yet, Douglass was fertile. I, not. I wanted to sit upon the stairs and laugh. No issue from my body. No child to call my own.

I exclaimed over Anna’s tea cakes, though they tasted like dust in my mouth. She poured graciously while Douglass, excited like a boy, recounted his argument with Garrison and his plans for the
North Star
. His hands were flailing, his mouth moved rapidly. All I needed to do was to say, “Yes, Douglass”; “Very interesting, Herr Douglass”; and he talked as the sun lengthened shadows across the parlor. The journey from the city to Rochester was exhausting. But Douglass kept talking as I sat in my dust, thinking, I’d rather be back in my rooms. Settling in bed with Oluwand watching.

Eventually, Anna left. Went into the kitchen. I heard children’s voices. A little boy babbling, and even with his nonsense words, sounding like Douglass at his imperious best. The girl’s voice was more musical. It floated up and down the scales, sometimes a tinkling, laughing soprano,
sometimes a somber alto admonishing her brother.

I never heard Anna’s voice. It was like she’d disappeared.

Just as I’d disappeared while Douglass talked on.

Anna cleared the dinner table and said she’d retire. She wasn’t feeling well. The children had been put to bed hours ago. “I’ve no strength,” she said, “for talk and drinks.”

Douglass didn’t look up once from the fire. “Very well, Anna. I’ll show Miss Assing to her room. We must discuss what she’s to do in the days ahead.”

Anna and I looked at each other. Both of us embarrassed by the glance. But she bristled and left with an energy that belied exhaustion. I wanted to say, “Take me with you.” I, too, wanted to retire, but I kept hoping Douglass would notice my own tiredness, notice how I was still dressed in my stained traveling clothes. But why should I expect such consideration when he couldn’t recognize his wife’s breeding?

Lassitude crept over me and I listened, without interest, to the editing and writing plans he’d made for me. I listened for the tolling of the hall chimes as hours slipped away.

Finally, I stood. “Douglass, I’m tired.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be so thoughtless.”

He smiled, all charm, but I offered no platitudes. I was exhausted. I wanted to go home.

I undressed slowly. I’d not unpack. I’d leave tomorrow. I took out my folded night rail and slipped it over my body. I shivered. Goose bumps rose on my arms. Spring’s air was
too cool. Still I kept the window open, for I enjoyed how the wind lifted the sheer cotton, exposing the half moon, the twinkling stars. Life, I thought, wasn’t meant to give you everything.

I must’ve slept. For I stirred, feeling a touch, an insistent warmth. My lips had already parted for a kiss when I realized Douglass’ arms were encircling my waist, his legs lying against mine.

Pleasure seems to be a male right.

Yet, I felt it—
pleasure
, a shuddering beyond this world to some nameless land. I was drunk with feeling. And I knew this pleasure would make it hard to leave Douglass.

“When I was most angry,
I reminded myself Freddy fathered my children.”

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

“When I was most lonely, words failed to
comfort me. Ideas can never be children.”

—O
TTILIE
A
SSING,
DIARY ENTRY
, 1874

Rochester
Sunrise

I be furious. The whore of Babylon be in my house. Jesus say, “Forgive.” But I couldn’t.

I went outside, thinking I’d find some peace in gardening. But I kept tearing roots of healthy plants, missing them weeds like I be blind. And I was. Blind with tears.

Freddy said, “I worked all night.”

“Hunh,” I say back. And I stared at him like I’m no fool.

But Freddy didn’t budge. He shuffled his papers. Sat and read his book. Clothes mussed, shadows beneath his eyes. I picked up the vase on the mantel. Clasped it with two hands and held it high. Then, I let go. Left his study not caring where the glass, the water, them flowers flew.

This much I knew. Freddy didn’t ever believe he was in the wrong. Or if he did, he didn’t show it. Having been a slave made free, I think he believed there be new rules made just for him. Like he could cause hurt, ’cause he’d suffered so much pain. Or, maybe, ’cause he’d suffered so much pain, he’d a right to take pleasure as he found it.

I stared at the tomato in my hand. A worm done made a hole. I poked my finger. All the seeds, juice broke down. I smashed the tomato into the dirt. Wiped my blood-red hands on my skirt.

I looked up. The sky was bright, bright blue. Like an upside-down ocean.

I had children in my house. I needed to tell Miz Assing she got to go.

I didn’t even knock; I barged right in. I stopped short at the vision. She be all white, dressed in a robe of white lace and silk ribbons. She be sitting at the vanity, combing her hair, threads falling like spun gold. I sucked in air. She looked at me caught inside her mirror. I saw myself, all musty, dirty, and stained.

I didn’t back down. “You should be ’shamed.”

Her brows lifted; she turned and faced me. “Shame? So bourgeoise.”

I blinked. I didn’t know what she meant. “Leave,” I say, quiet yet hard.

“You’ll have to speak with Douglass.”

I wanted to charge forward, knock her off her chair. “I’m speaking to you. This between us.”

“Is it?”

“Stop it,” I say. “You so smart, you can speak. Not hide behind questions. This be my house. My home. I don’t want you here.”

She sighed, a soft, fluttering sound. Made me want to wring her neck. Snap it like chickens. I stepped closer. I saw her soft flesh rising above her gown. I wanted to scratch and draw blood.

“Get out my house. Leave. Go. I don’t want you here.”

Her blue eyes reflected sunlight. “He has to ask me. Not you.”

“You his slave? You got your own mind.” Something flickered across her face. Couldn’t tell what it was: sorrow, anger, fear? That be funny, I thought. Fear. She should fear me. I filled with the wrath of God.

“You just got to say no. You can do that, can’t you? Speak your mind and say this is wrong.”