The Slave Master's Son (30 page)

“I’m sorry,” she apologized as she took a sip of her warm tea.

“No need for worry,” Opal smiled. “It was a logical question.” Opal looked off into the blinding sun. The filtered, golden rays reached down and touched her, coloring her hair in shades of auburn and burnt orange. Hannah gently took Opal’s hand and placed it on her stomach. Opal sat quietly, smiling from ear to ear.

“Oh, my word,” she laughed, “feel that baby go! What an active little one,” Opal exclaimed, in awe of such a miraculous expression.

“She’s very active,” Hannah laughed. “Even more so than Jonathan was.”

“You’re rather certain it’s a girl. I sincerely hope that you get your wish. I know that she’ll be as pretty as a daisy and sharp as a knife,” Opal smiled. Hannah laughed.

“Some things you just know, Opal. I’ve dreamt of her millions of times.” Hannah looked at Opal with a sense of dreaminess. “How did Gertrude enjoy the sewing machine? I almost forgot to ask,” Hannah asked as she picked up her sandwich paper, handkerchief, and began to tidy up her surroundings.

“Oh, Hannah, she adored it! She said it was exactly what she always wanted. Since its arrival, I’ve received four window treatments, two dress sashes, and even a shawl,” Opal said proudly. “Now, I must confess, and if you tell one soul, I’ll deny it,” Opal laughed. “Her work isn’t nearly as faultless as yours. It’s first-rate, but yours is impeccable,” Opal complimented.

“Thank you. I’m pleased that you’re enjoying the dress. I think it suits you well,” Hannah complimented.

“Mr. Alexander found it befitting a queen,” Opal teased. “It was magnificent, and I have plans for that gown. I’m certain to turn heads in it,” Opal bragged shamelessly. The two continued their conversation until the boisterous noise of what seemed to be a stampede approached. Hannah quickly scooped up Jonathan, placing him protectively next to her bosom as the wagon slowed to a crawl. Dust and dirt bloomed up in the air, causing Opal to cough. John quickly got out of the wagon.

“Hannah, you must come home at once. I’m sorry to interrupt Opal.” He put his hand up. “Father has taken ill and isn’t improving. It’s imperative that we leave as soon as possible,” John urged. Hannah stood up abruptly.

“Master Stewart’s sick? Oh, my goodness.” Hannah quickly hugged Opal, took Jonathan, and hurried home to pack as Opal waved goodbye.

“The last ferry leaves in forty minutes,” John urged as he stuffed various documents and clothing into his traveling case. Hannah scurried along. Her palms were moist with unrest. She had tried to talk to John during their travel home and during the subsequent packing, but he busied himself with other thoughts, refusing to commit to a conversation of any sort. Hannah studied her husband as she carefully folded Jonathan’s belongings. His face was riddled with worry and a hint of anger. She gently touched his shoulder. He flinched. He then stood still, his back towards her. He softly placed his hand over his shoulder, rubbing his fingertips against hers as he gradually closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Hours later they were at the train station, still reeling from the ferry ride. Hannah had become seasick and excused herself to an isolated area, allowing the troubles of her stomach to exit her mouth in privacy. On the train, she leaned closely against John and held Jonathan close though he squirmed and had mild outbursts of exuberance. The night air finally basked them in earthy coolness and the star-lit sky was their umbrella amongst the Richmond trees and ritualistic memories. Hannah thought quickly back to her last visit which included her clutching one of John’s guns and being overtaken by incredible grief that, to that very day, had made a part of her joy perish forevermore.

They rode in the wagon quietly, until they approached Master Stewart’s mansion. It was lit, but eerily quiet. The occasional shadow would pass by a window or two, and the old slave quarters were darkened and lifeless. Hannah ascended the front porch stairs, her feet making the familiar squeaks they had when she was a child. She recalled her small, brown foot next to John’s as they’d race up and down them, seeing who could jump the farthest without falling. Mary approached the door, smiling silently at her daughter and John. She quietly took the baby from Hannah.

“Hannah, Baby,” she finally said in a whisper as she kissed her daughter’s cheek. She hugged John. He was stiff in her arms. She pointed upstairs to Master Stewart’s bedroom, taking Hannah by the hand and leading her to the kitchen.

John quietly went up the steps. Flashes of the Civil War took over his thoughts as he drew closer and closer to his father’s bedroom door. John stood in the hallway, taking deep breaths. His lips parted, allowing his lungs to evacuate. He could feel his heart pounding. He slowly opened the door and entered the bedroom. Master Stewart lie quietly. His eyes were closed as the moonlight and two small lanterns cast a dull light upon his taut face. John took notice of how quickly his father had aged. He was at least twenty pounds lighter, and his hair seemed to have thinned unnaturally. He was on his side, snoring lightly. John walked over to the bed and gently sat. He put his hand on his father’s shoulder.

“I hear you have
pneumonia,” John said contemplatively. “I hear you’ve been quite ill and unable to shake it away. Father, we’ve had our differences, but I love you. I don’t wish for you to suffer. I’m here. We’re all here.” John lowered his head as he listened intently to his father’s deep breathing. His father began to clear his throat. He coughed violently and flailed. Suddenly aware of the hand on his shoulder, he awoke. He sat up slowly and turned onto his back, turning towards his son whose features softened in the light.

“So, we meet with me in bed again,” Master Stewart coughed, grabbing his handkerchief and holding it to his mouth securely. He reached for an additional one and held it tightly. He laughed harshly, the air and congestion in his lungs coating his words in hoarseness. John smiled weakly as he patted his father’s shoulder.

“Yes, Father, we do,” John agreed.

“How’s Hannah?” Master Stewart asked as he wiped his mouth by placing the loose linen under the one tied around his face.

“She’s doing well. She’s growing,” John laughed. Master Stewart smiled.

“How’s business? How’s the firm doing?”

“I’m unable to keep up with demand. It’s an excellent feeling. I do have someone taking care of matters in my absence. Right now my focus is on you,” John replied.

“I appreciate that, however, you still must tend to your family and vocational needs, dear boy,” Master Stewart smiled. He picked up a glass of water with a shaky hand, lifted it to his dry, cracked lips, and took an uneven gulp. The skin around his neck, loose from sudden weight loss, moved rhythmically as each drop of water flowed down his throat. John took the glass away gingerly and set it back on the small table next to the bed. “John, I don’t have much time left.”

“Father, please don’t speak this way. You were strong as an ox before this illness came your way, and you’ll overcome it,” John demanded. Master Stewart laughed.

“No, son, I’m not as young as you and Hannah. My age has determined the outcome. I don’t wish to make others sick, so I’ll take precaution. I insist that you send Hannah and Jonathan back home first thing in the morning. She’s with child, and he’s very young. It’s unwise for her to be in my midst at this time. I don’t wish to waste time arguing about my longevity. I wish to finalize my affairs and tie the loose ends.

“A large percentage of my monetary allowances and land, besides this house, belong to you.” Master Stewart cleared his throat before continuing. “I have a letter written and signed that Mary is aware of. It details what she shall have upon my death. This house is hers, free and clear. There’s no debt tied to it, and I’ve left her an account to draw from for the rest of her days. There’s much to discuss and little time.” He coughed harshly into his handkerchief. John gently patted his father’s back as he struggled to remain calm. Their conversation continued while Hannah, Jonathan, and Mary prepared dinner.

Mary quietly cut two heads of lettuce and washed it under warm water. Dumping the water, she repeated the process until she was satisfied all the dirt was removed. She picked up a knife and sliced the lettuce carefully, tossing it into a large bowl. Hannah diced an onion and three tomatoes while Jonathan slept on a pile of thick quilts in the corner of the dining room. The two women worked side-by-side diligently. Hannah checked the large chicken that was roasting over the flame and stirred the grits as she slowly added more butter. Finally, dinner was complete, and the table was set. The fine silverware, heavy white plates, and crystal glasses were laid out. The tempting aromas made their way out the kitchen, through the dining room, and up the winding steps, gliding beneath Master Stewart’s bedroom door, announcing their presence clearly.

“Do you smell that?” Master Stewart asked, interrupting himself mid-sentence. John dropped an array of papers onto the bed which his father had handed him as his nose recognized the delectable scents.

“I do,” John smiled. “It’s the smell of fresh bread, chicken, yams, onions, mushroom soup, peach cobbler, collard greens with bacon, bread pudding, corn pudding, honey rolls, sweet tea with loads of lemon, a large pan of buttery cornbread, pork chops with gravy, and buttermilk for dipping.” Nostalgia overcame John. Hannah would cook small versions of such meals, but nothing as elaborate as what he grew up on. There was no other time like those when Mary and the other slaves would gather and prepare a feast. John remembered the late Sunday dinners as a boy he’d invite himself to in the slave quarters. While the six o’clock dinner was delicate, the nine-thirty dinner was a feast of epic proportions filled with song, dance, jokes, and gentle affection. The smells commemorated holidays, important dinner guests, and funerals. Master Stewart slowly rose from the bed. John helped him up.

“Father, I can bring you a plate. It may not be wise for you to go up and down all of those steps.” Master Stewart laughed.

“Son, there are two things in life no one can stop me from doing: dying and eating Mary’s cooking – especially now that she has her right hand helping her in the kitchen this evening.” He grabbed a hold of his son’s arm as the two descended the steps slowly and carefully. Hannah stood quietly as she watched Master Stewart approach her. She rubbed her stomach. Master Stewart quickly took a fresh handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped his nose and mouth tightly. In a slightly muffled voice, he said, “Hello, dearest Hannah. I see my second grandchild is due soon.” He looked over in the corner at his sleeping grandson and smiled proudly. “I’ll try to keep my voice down. I suppose the journey took a lot out of the dear lad.” He laughed as he took his seat at the head of the table. Mary took an empty plate and began to heap bountiful portions onto it.

“Oh, now, Mary. You know I can’t eat all that. My taste buds welcome it, but I just don’t have the strength. I appreciate your trying, though,” he smiled. Mary smiled sadly.

“Master Stewart, you’re losin’ too much weight. You got to keep your strength up,” she respectfully protested as she continued to pile on the food. Hannah sat down across from her husband and daydreamed. John made eye contact with her, his eyes pleading for Godly assistance. The four quietly ate with occasional small-talk.

“John tells me you’ve been sewing up a storm,” Master Stewart said as he covered his mouth with a balled up cloth napkin.

“Yes,” Hannah smiled. “Many women in the neighborhood have contracted me to create gowns for them, and I make many similar items for a local factory that sells them to smaller shops,” Hannah explained. Master Stewart smiled and nodded approvingly as he bit into his soft, savory chicken breast.

“John always said you had a good head on your shoulders and raw talent. You’re proving him right daily. That’s quite an accomplishment, Hannah. Especially while juggling a husband and a baby as well as the home. John tells me he’s never missed a meal, that you’re a good wife, and attentive despite these extracurricular activities. You appear self sufficient and gifted. You surely will be a good influence on your offspring,” he added as he coughed into the warm fabric. Hannah nodded and continued to slowly eat her late dinner. After the feast, Mary rose from her chair and brought out the peach cobbler. She placed it atop the table and sliced into it, removing thick, hot pieces onto the individual plates. Everyone again ate quietly.

An understanding filled the room. Each person looked at one another, making mental marks of the evening. There was full comprehension that just the way the evening was would never exist again. The realization was painfully obvious, begging for acceptance, acknowledgement, and nonverbal discussion. No one dared uttered the words, however. Somehow speaking it’d make the surrealism into a stark reality that no one, except Master Stewart was willing to accept let alone embrace. He looked over at his son. He watched John’s eyes glaze over twice. He watched as he strained to regain his emotions and continue on, business a usual. He looked over at Hannah. She was intensely studying John. The look of helplessness consumed her. He only wondered if he’d see his second grandchild before it was all over. Master Stewart turned to Jonathan, sleeping snuggly on the floor and wrapped up in the warmth of the house and the blankets. His thick curls were in disarray and a look of total peace was painted on his soft, buttery skin.