The Freedom Maze (12 page)

“Missy Caro, she don’t care a lick if you can read or write or fly to the moon if you can’t do nothing useful. You ever thread a needle?”

Sophie said she had, and when Aunt Winney challenged her was proud to knot the thread one-handed, as Lily had taught her. Aunt Winney rewarded her with a ripped petticoat to sew up, then settled down to mending a lace collar and lecturing Sophie on her duties, stopping from time to time to criticize the size and evenness of her stitches.

Sophie hoped the Creature didn’t mean her whole adventure to be devoted to learning how to be a lady’s maid, because the number of things she’d need to know was as vast as Mrs. Fairchild’s wrapper. Besides arranging hair and lacing corsets, there was cleaning hairbrushes and airing dresses, mending, fancy ironing, getting spots out of silk and stains out of linen, and, last but not least, making her mistress’s morning coffee on a spirit stove in the dressing room.

By the time Mrs. Fairchild came upstairs to change for dinner, Sophie was rigid with boredom and heat and so hungry that the thought of cornmeal mush was making her mouth water.

Mrs. Fairchild gave her a shrewd look. “Why, you’re white as a sheet, child. Run along now and get something to eat.”

After what had happened the last time she was in the kitchen, Sophie was nervous of the reception she might get. There was some giggling, but mostly everybody was too busy to bother her. She got her mush without incident and carried it outside. A group of yard slaves was gathered under the oak, eating and talking.

Asia waved her wooden spoon. “If it ain’t young Sophie, back from death’s door. Come over here and sit down by me. That Miss Lotty’s yellow you wearing, ain’t it? The trouble them sleeves give me, I like to give up sewing and beg Mammy to send me to the fields. But I ain’t done such a bad job of it in the end.”

Sophie perched gingerly on a root. “Who’s Miss Lotty?”

Before long, she knew everything there was to know about Miss Charlotte Fairchild, Old Missy’s youngest and most recently married daughter, who lived in all the way up in Georgia with her husband, Mr. Franklin Preston, and their new baby, Franklin Humbolt Preston III. She also wished that, if she had to learn to mend, she could learn it from Asia. Aunt Winney wasn’t very good company.

She wished it even more that afternoon, when she helped Aunt Winney with the ironing. Despite the heat, Sophie had to build up the dressing-room fire, then haul glowing-hot irons to an iron stand to sit until they were cool enough not to scorch the fine linen. Sweating and sore, Sophie wished for an electric iron and an outlet to plug it into. Also a hotdog, or some macaroni and cheese, or an ice-cream cone.

She would have done almost anything for a cold Coca-Cola.

Supper was mush again, with greens and chicken and pot liquor. Exhausted, Sophie nodded over the petticoat until Mrs. Fairchild came up to be unpinned, unbuttoned, peeled out of her layers of silk and cotton, rinsed off with water heated on the dressing-room fire, and bundled into her nightgown. She climbed into bed, Aunt Winney unrolled the mosquito bar so it draped the whole bed from tester to footboard, and then it was time for Sophie to read aloud.

The book was
Little Dorrit.
Mrs. Fairchild was already halfway through it, but Sophie was too tired to care that she didn’t know what was going on.

She started out well enough, eager to please, but it wasn’t long before she started stumbling over words. Mrs. Fairchild said, “That’s enough, Sophie. You’ve done well today. Winnie has given me a good report of your industry, and I’ve seen for myself how quick you are. Keep on as you’ve begun, and I’ll have good reason to be proud.”

Surprised at the warmth in Mrs. Fairchild’s voice, Sophie looked straight at Mrs. Fairchild, who smiled at her. She smiled back, shyly, then turned down the oil lamp as Aunt Winney had taught her, stumbled off to the dressing room, unrolled her pallet, lay down, and fell asleep. Next thing she knew, someone was shaking her and telling her the dawn bell done rung and she best shake a leg if she didn’t want a licking.

She didn’t want to get up, but she had to anyway. She was a slave, and slaves didn’t have choices.

What she did have was mosquito bites all over her face and arms because she’d forgotten to pull up her mosquito bar.

All week, the routine was the same. Up at dawn, into the yellow dress and white tignon, roll up the pallet, make coffee on the spirit stove, open the curtains, roll up the mosquito bar, set the cup where Mrs. Fairchild could reach it. Help Aunt Winney down from her attic bedroom, light the dressing-room fire, put a pan of water to warm for Mrs. Fairchild’s morning wash.

Empty the chamber pot.

The first time Aunt Winney pointed to the stinking pot and told her it was her job to clean it, Sophie had looked at her in disbelief. “No! Ew! I’ll be sick. Can’t Sally do it?”

Aunt Winney gave her a whack with her walking stick. “Sally ain’t Missy Caro’s body servant. You is. You get used to it by and by. Scoot, before I tells Mammy you being uppity.”

Nose wrinkled, Sophie carried the pot downstairs, emptied it in the outhouse pit, rinsed it at the pump, and left it to air while she went down to the kitchen for breakfast. She felt too sick to eat, but she’d learned enough to put a corn cake in her apron pocket for later.

And then the real work of the day began.

Mrs. Fairchild had decided that the best way for Sophie to learn her way around Oak River was to use her as a messenger service. When Mrs. Fairchild wanted Mammy, Sophie ran and got her. When Mrs. Fairchild wanted to talk to Mrs. Charles, Sophie ran down to Oak Cottage to let her know. When Mrs. Fairchild had a question about the roses or the new colt, Sophie ran and got a gardener or a stable boy to answer it. And when dinnertime came at two o’clock, Sophie stood behind Mrs. Fairchild’s chair to fill her glass and pick up her napkin when it slid off her lap.

Sophie didn’t mind the running around, but she hated waiting at table. Waiting was a good word for it, since it involved standing with her hands folded over her apron and her stomach growling, watching the Fairchilds tuck into their soups and gumbos and roasts and vegetables, and counting the minutes until everyone was done eating. Even then, Sophie had to wait to eat her own dinner until Mrs. Fairchild was settled on her daybed to rest.

When she wasn’t running errands, Sophie was keeping the bugs off Mrs. Fairchild with a big palmetto fan, bringing her lemonade, keeping track of her books and her workbasket and the contents of her lap desk. She had no time to herself, no moment of the day when she wasn’t working or waiting for orders. Some days, the only time she wasn’t on her feet was when she was sewing or reading
Little Dorrit.
The only thing that kept her going was knowing it couldn’t last forever. The Creature might be tricksy, but she didn’t think it was mean. Soon, when she least expected it, it would appear, floating in the air and grinning, to take her home to the cozy clutter of Oak Cottage. Come Sunday, her adventure would have lasted two weeks. Maybe the Creature would take her home on Sunday.

And if he didn’t, at least she’d have a day off.

It was only part of a day off, really — Old Missy couldn’t dress herself any better on the Lord’s day than any other day of the week. And then Aunt Winney said it was time for church and made Sophie help her down to the yard, where they stood in the heat and the sun while a red-faced minister read out a text from Matthew:

“For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath. And cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
”

It wasn’t a comforting text, or particularly easy to understand, which must have been why it took the minister over an hour to explain it. Sophie shifted from one aching foot to the other, her rose-sprigged calico Sunday best glued to her skin with sweat, wondering if it was actually possible to die of boredom.

When the minister finally closed his book and went away, Aunt Winney groaned and rubbed her back. “Well, we done with that foolishness for another week. Now we go praise the Lord our own way.”

Sophie very nearly rebelled at the thought of enduring another sermon. But everybody else was heading toward the bayou, and Aunt Winney had already hooked her firmly by the arm and started walking. And there was the niggling fear that the Creature might punish rebellion by leaving her in the past another week. So she went along.

As the path wandered into a swampy grove, Aunt Winney puffed like a steam engine and weighed on Sophie’s arm like lead. Grimly, Sophie helped her along, falling farther and farther behind the others, wondering if they were walking clear back to New Orleans. Just when she thought she’d have to sit down and rest, they were in a clearing, where what looked like every Negro on the plantation was swarming around a big rough-built barn down by the water like bees around a hive.

Aunt Winney waded into the swarm and found a seat on a hay bale next to Mrs. Fairchild’s butler, Uncle Germany. There wasn’t anywhere for Sophie to sit, so she stood by the wall, wishing she was back home with Mama among the polished pews and bright stained glass of St. Martin’s Episcopal, and looking forward to eating shrimp remoulade and strawberry shortcake at the Hotel Ponchartrain.

When everybody had quieted down, a tall man in rusty black climbed up onto a plank table against the back wall.

Sophie leaned forward to whisper in Aunt Winney’s ear. “Who’s that?”

“That Old Guam, and he fixing to preach. Hush up now, and listen.”

While Sophie was wondering if Old Guam was any kin to Young Guam, he raised up his hands to heaven — big hands, with one finger missing — opened his mouth, and began to preach.

Old Guam’s preaching was about as far from the red-faced minister’s as Alaska is from Louisiana. He told stories Sophie knew from Sunday School, about Moses and Pharaoh and the Children of Israel, about the fiery chariot of Elijah and how the Lord had promised a heavenly home to all those who suffered here below. But even the Reverend Lucas at Lily’s church hadn’t told them like he’d been there, personally standing behind Moses on the shores of the Red Sea. All around her, heads nodded and straw fans waved and voices shouted “Hallelujah!” and “Amen!”

Sophie leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, half dozing on her feet. Suddenly, everybody was singing and Aunt Winney was poking her. “What you doing, standing there glum as Monday morning? Praise the Lord, girl.”

Obediently, Sophie clapped while the slaves around her sang, “
I know when I going home, true believer. I know when I going home.
”

Well, that was more than Sophie knew. She couldn’t deny that her adventure had been interesting, but she was ready for it to be over now. She’d got what she wished for. Mrs. Fairchild treated her more like family than Grandmama did, and Canny and Africa were definitely friends. She’d learned valuable lessons, too. Mama’s ideas about Negroes were flat-out wrong, for instance, and the Good Old Days were a lot more complicated than Grandmama — or her history teacher — had led her to believe. If the Creature didn’t appear on its own, she’d just have to go and find it.

The hymn ended with a rolling “
Amen!
” and everybody filed out of the barn, laughing and chattering. A pair of thin, strong arms grabbed Sophie around the waist.

“Sophie!” Canny squealed. “You gots a new dress. I gots one, too. Want to see?” She twirled, showing off a very familiar blue gingham dress, taken in at the waist and shoulders, deeply hemmed, and much too big for her.

Sophie took a deep breath. “You look pretty as a picture, Canny.”

Canny grinned. “You want to come fishing with Young Guam and them? We can catch us some wall-eye for supper.”

“I’d like to, Canny, but —”

“I knows.” Canny sighed. “House folk ain’t got all day Sunday free, like we do. Momi, neither. We catches any extra, I asks Momi to fry it up for you, special.”

Sophie surprised herself by giving the little girl a hug. “You’re a real friend, Canny,” she said and barely stopped herself from telling her she’d miss her when she went home.

Oak River slept in the afternoon heat. The kitchen was quiet, the Oak Cottage garden empty, the yard and field between it and the Big House drowsy in the sunlight. The gardeners were busy hoeing and watering their own plots; the Fairchilds were dining with the Robinsons next door at Doucette. There was nobody to see Sophie slip between the white urns into the maze.

The Oak River maze wasn’t spooky or mysterious in 1860. The marking stones were white, the hedges young and neatly trimmed. Sophie took the time to check on Belle Watling, who was clean and new and looked even more nude with an unbroken nose and both her arms. The central garden was bright with roses, flowering camellia, and oleander, the summerhouse painted green and white like a shiny toy, with pots of flowers beside the steps. The air was scented with lavender and glittered in the heat like an old movie, with a sound track of cicadas.

Sophie looked around for a place suitable for calling up magical creatures. In the center of the garden was the white marble column — whole and new, surrounded with ferns and lilies, and sure enough, with a sundial on top. Sophie went up to it and laid her hand on the warm bronze, next to the motto engraved on the rim: I Measure None But Sunny Hours.

“Creature,” she said softly. “I want to make a wish. I want to go home. Please take me back. Please.”

Nothing happened, no shadow over the sun or shiver in the grass. Nothing.

Sophie stayed in the maze as long as she dared, trying everything she could think of to get the Creature’s attention. She cried, she stormed, she wished on Africa’s
gris-gris.
She thought of asking Papa Legba and Yemaya to help her, but that felt too dangerous. After a while, the plantation bell rang, and she ran up to the Big House just in time to escape a scolding from Aunt Winney.

Thinking about it that night on her pallet in the dressing room, Sophie was sad and madder than a wet hen. But she wasn’t really surprised. Sometimes it seemed to her like she was always getting sent somewhere she didn’t want to be and left there, like luggage in a railway station. She should be used to it by now.