The Healing, page 10
Granada quit her flight and turned to cast a worried look at the woman, who was still in the buggy. The master turned out his horse into the lot and was now walking in Polly’s direction. The old woman’s snapping eyes were set on Granada. The look made the girl’s scalp creep.
Polly repeated the words Granada thought she had heard earlier. “She the one.”
The one who did what? Granada wondered. She blurted, “What she saying I done?”
But it was clear Master Ben knew what Polly was talking about. He stood there in the yard shaking his head at the woman. “Can’t have her,” he said. “She’s the mistress’s pet.”
Polly was undeterred. “She the one,” she said a third time, stern as a preacher. Then she smiled. “I’ll take her off your hands for nothing,” she said, cackling crazily.
Granada sucked in her breath.
The master seemed to waver. Granada emboldened herself. She stuck out her tongue at the old woman, and then ran up to her master begging, “Please, Master! Tell her I belong in the great house with you and the mistress and Little Lord.”
Master Ben cast an eye toward the house and when Granada followed his gaze, she saw the mistress looking down upon them from the upstairs gallery. She gripped the iron grillwork with both hands like she was about to vault over the railing.
The master winced and turned his eyes to Granada again. This time he stared at her longer than any time she could remember. He neither smiled nor frowned, and those weak water-blue eyes gave nothing away. She could tell he was thinking things through carefully, giving it the same cold-blooded deliberation he gave every decision he encountered, whether it was to sell off a slave or to have a second glass of Madeira.
He let go a deep breath and then his face brightened a bit. “You’re Polly’s problem now,” he said evenly. “Do what she tells you or I’ll have your hide.”
Granada saw Polly Shine smirk like she had won, so the girl put her hands on her hips as she had seen the old woman do. “I ain’t going with you!” she screamed at Polly with a solid stomp of her foot.
Granada felt the knuckle side of Master Ben’s hand crashing across her jaw. Her ears roared. She staggered backward several feet before catching herself.
“Benjamin!”
It was the mistress’s piercing voice. This was the first time he had ever raised a hand to Granada and the mistress had been there to see it. Now he was going to get it!
When Granada saw the master grimacing at his wife’s shocked outburst, the girl regained her confidence. She pointed to Polly and stomped her foot again. “You only hitting me ’cause you too scared to hit her!”
He took a step toward her with his hand raised, aiming to strike her again, but before he could get into range, she took off running. She scurried across the dirt yard, under the live oak, and up the steps to the gallery where she dived behind the mistress and wrapped herself in the woman’s skirts.
“Mistress!” she cried. “Don’t let him give me to that old witch. Tell him I belong with you.”
Granada didn’t hear Mistress Amanda answer. She stood silent as the master tromped up the stairs cursing Granada’s name.
Out of breath, he commanded, “Come with me, girl. We got business.”
Finally the mistress reacted. “That old woman can have another, can’t she?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “And Benjamin, you shouldn’t treat Granada so roughly.”
Granada grinned.
“She sassed me,” he said. “That’s another reason she’s going.”
Still holding tightly to Mistress Amanda’s skirts, Granada could feel the woman’s erratic sway. She hoped the mistress could keep on her feet long enough to win the argument. This was no time for one of her sinking spells. Granada peeked up at her.
The mistress had lifted her handkerchief to her face and was dabbing her lips, as if trying to locate precisely the right words. “Sometimes it seems you show more compassion to your Negroes than to your own family, Benjamin.”
“Granada is not family,” he said firmly.
She let out a startled laugh, as brief as a hiccup. “No, of course not!” she exclaimed, as if she were surprised at herself for inferring such a thing.
Once more she put the handkerchief to her mouth, as if to blot away her words. “That’s not what I meant, of course,” she said. The mistress ran a hand down her skirts like she was going after a stubborn wrinkle. “After all, you don’t need to tell me who is and who isn’t a member of this family, do you? I at least know that much. You do believe that I am aware of that, don’t you? That I can tell one daughter from another.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but she continued. “That’s not what I meant, either,” she said sadly. “I only had one daughter. Now I have no daughters. I know that as well. No daughters at all.” She twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “What happened to our children, Benjamin? Where did they get off to?”
Granada hid her head behind the mistress’s skirt again. The girl could tell Mistress Amanda was on the brink. She might do anything now.
The master must have known it as well, for when he spoke, his words were calm and measured. “Amanda,” he said, “it’s not my intention to upset you.”
“I’m not upset. Why should I be? Granada is mine,” she said. “She is not family, but she is mine. You gave her to me. See, I understand it all very well.”
Granada trembled behind the mistress’s skirts. “Please, Mistress, please!” she cried out, her voice muffled by satin and crinoline. To the girl, Polly was as fierce-looking as the witch in Little Lord’s fairytale books. “Don’t let him send me to that witch woman,” Granada shouted. “She’ll eat me up for supper like Hansel and Gretel. I know she will!”
“Amanda, she’s nothing to you,” Master Ben said loud enough to be heard over the rumpus the girl was making. “A dress-up doll to send for when you’re bored. Or when you need to take a slap at me. Admit it now, please. You don’t care for her, not really. Do you?”
“You told that old woman to pick Granada, didn’t you?” she blurted, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “You did, didn’t you? You’re using Granada to hurt me!”
“Like you use her to get at me? Listen to me, Amanda,” he said, his voice strained. “To keep the peace, I’ve let you have your way with Granada. But all that’s over with now. Granada is needed elsewhere. This is not personal. It’s business.”
The shrieks of Daniel Webster broke through the open windows. From the gallery Granada could see into the parlor and watched as Little Lord chased the monkey, trying to lasso him with a length of curtain rope. The animal jumped from the piano bench and onto the keyboard with a sudden explosion of discordant notes. All the time Lizzie stood by the window looking out upon her owners’ dilemma and smiling, while her charge wreaked havoc behind her.
Through it all, the master kept his gaze fixed on his wife. He reached out and took her hand. She flinched at his touch.
“Amanda, I know you blame me for Becky,” he said.
The mistress jerked her arm trying to free her hand, but he wouldn’t let go.
“You blame me for … for many things. And God knows I’ve deserved your wrath, but I think I’ve paid my penance, don’t you? After all,” he continued, “I’ve spent twelve years with the blackest slave on the plantation grinning at my guests.”
Again Granada felt the tug of the mistress’s arm, but the master held fast to his wife’s hand.
“The blackest Negro on the plantation standing at my table, Amanda. Looking up at me from Becky’s leftovers. It’s nearly killed me. People laugh at us behind our backs. I know that. But I’ve not said a word, have I?”
When she didn’t answer, he pulled her toward him and repeated, “Have I?”
The mistress looked like she was pushing back on her heels, but she couldn’t get away.
“Because I don’t blame you, Amanda,” he said, his voice quivering with an emotion like anger, but frailer. “I deserved it every bit. I admit it. You were upset that I wasn’t there when you needed me. And I’m sorry for it.”
“Sorry for it,” she repeated evenly. “That’s what you have to say? You’re sorry for it?”
“Yes, Amanda.”
Granada could sense the intensity returning to the mistress’s voice. To urge her on, the girl stuck her head out from behind the skirts again. “Please, Mistress Amanda, don’t let him send me away to that old hoodoo woman. Save me, Mistress. I’ll surely die.”
With a sudden show of strength Mistress Amanda jerked her hand free from the master’s grip. She said in a dry voice, crackling with rage, “It was you who said nothing bad could happen to her. It was you who said she couldn’t get sick. Because you couldn’t admit that the daughter of the great Benjamin Lord Satterfield could come down with a ‘Negro disease.’ Isn’t that what you called it? We could have left in time. I pleaded with you to let us go back to civilization. Now you spend five thousand dollars of my daddy’s money to doctor your slaves? When your own daughter went—”
“That’s enough now, Amanda. Please, calm down,” Master Ben said.
Granada was getting hopeful again. The mistress had him scrambling like somebody trying to plug a levee that had breached in three places.
“It’s all in the past,” he stammered. “Just let it go.” He reached for her hand again, but she was too quick. Granada saw that it was a fist now.
“No!” Mistress Amanda spat. “Becky knows the truth and she wants me to say it.”
“That’s insane talk, Amanda. This has nothing to do with Becky. We’re talking about Granada. She’s my property and, like I said, any decision I make about her is business. Let’s not make it personal.”
“Not personal,” she repeated bitterly. “I want to ask you, Benjamin, is it business or personal when you go skulking down to the quarters at night? It’s Lizzie’s girl, Rubina, isn’t it?”
The master opened his mouth to speak but not a sound emerged.
“Yes, I knew it. You think I’m not told things? You think I don’t know about the pretty little love nest you’ve created for the two of you out in the swamps? How she works in the fields by day and whores for you by—”
The master found his voice. “That’s enough, Amanda!”
“No, it’s not enough! Our Becky played dolls with Rubina. They were raised up together. My God, Benjamin, that girl’s got Satterfield blood in her veins.” She was shouting now, loud enough for everyone in the yard to hear. When Granada looked again through the window, Lizzie’s expression had changed to one murderous with hate.
“Tell me this,” the mistress screamed, “if you can stand a Negro lying in your bed, why can’t you abide one standing at your table?”
“Be quiet!” he shouted. “We’re done with this nonsense.”
“Benjamin Lord Satterfield!” She laughed hysterically. “Lord! How ridiculous! The fact that it’s merely your middle name says it all. You’re pathetic. My father was right. You don’t deserve me or his money.”
When he lunged, Mistress Amanda shrieked, “Don’t you dare touch me!”
But it wasn’t the mistress he was after. Before Granada could react, he had reached around the skirts and had her by the arm. He began dragging her toward the steps that led out to the yard.
The mistress found her legs and fled inside the house, shouting for all the outside world to hear. “You’re a murderer and a thief, Benjamin Satterfield. And you’re not going to get away with it.”
A crowd had gathered below, looking up from the yard at the spectacle on the gallery.
Master Ben had not yet made it to the steps when the mistress returned. As she sneaked up behind her husband, Granada fought him like a wild panther, screaming, scratching his hands, and kicking at his legs. Each time he tried loosening a hand to slap her, she would nearly break his hold and he would have to regain his two-fisted purchase.
Both Little Lord and the monkey had joined Lizzie at the window. The monkey and child stood quiet and wide-eyed, looking on with twin expressions of astonishment.
Then Little Lord shouted, “Look out, Daddy!”
Master Ben jerked his head to the side, just in time for the iron poker to clear his ear on the way to crashing into his shoulder. He yelped in pain, bringing the rest of the house servants to the doors and windows. The master released Granada and clutched his injured shoulder.
Granada took advantage of the moment and raced for the gallery steps.
Daniel Webster began leaping up and down enthusiastically, holding his hands clutched over his head in the victor’s pose Chester had taught him.
“I’ll kill you yet,” the mistress screamed. She took a sideways swipe at his head, this time missing him altogether but losing her balance and falling to the floor in a rustling heap of crinoline.
Halfway down the steps, Granada met Aunt Sylvie coming up. She grabbed the girl by the arm and dragged her back up to the gallery, and before Mistress Amanda could get to her feet for another swing at her husband, Sylvie had wrapped her other beefy arm around the mistress’s waist.
“I’ll find where you hid my daddy’s gun and this time I won’t miss!” the mistress shrieked, struggling to break the hold of the brawny cook, who now had Granada by the scruff of the neck.
The master was breathing heavy and had the look of panicked bewilderment. His hand was still trying to soothe his shoulder. Ignoring his wife, he grabbed Granada from Aunt Sylvie and hoisted her under one arm like a cypress log.
On the way down the stairs, over the threats of his wife, the wailing of his human cargo, the crying of his son, and the shrieks of Daniel Webster, he shouted for all of the plantation to hear: “Polly chose Granada and that’s the way it’s going to be. Go ahead and tell your daddy I took away your play toy. You can always find yourself another Negro girl to shame me with.”
When he made it safely into the yard, he turned to glare up at his wife, who was still being restrained by Aunt Sylvie.
“Pick one as black as midnight if you want,” he shouted, as Granada furiously paddled the air with her feet, “but this one goes to Polly. And if I ever see her back in this house again, I’ll shoot you both.”
CHAPTER 12
Violet gaped at Gran Gran in unblinking amazement, still holding tightly to Polly’s clay mask.
The old woman laughed. “I ought not be telling you tales about monkeys and witches just before you go to bed. You might never get to sleep.” Gran Gran carefully took the mask from Violet and set it on the shelf by the bed. Then she tucked the quilt tightly around the girl.
“The truth of it is, Violet, this is the first time I’ve been able to tell if you’ve been listening to my words. Leave it to Polly Shine to raise the hairs on a person’s head.”
As she did each night, Gran Gran sat with Violet until the girl finally nodded off and the old woman could be certain that the sleep that had taken the girl was a peaceful one.
Gran Gran stood up and then leaned down to kiss Violet on the forehead, careful not to touch the girl’s hand that lay open by her pillow. For the first time in ages, Gran Gran felt necessary.
In her own sleep, the velvety fabric of darkness began to part. The current of her dreaming carried her back to the time before remembering. She found herself living the stories she had been told, beginning when she was a newborn in her mother’s arms. She reached up for her mother’s face and felt the break of that heart when her mother’s arms were emptied of her child.
And then she was Violet’s age. The kitchen where she had grown up was warm and safe and she was known. The faces around the table returned vivid and distinct. Their voices sounded out once more, each carrying broken strands of memory. Aunt Sylvie and Chester and Little Lord and even the mistress. They whispered into the ear of her memory.
“Granada, want to hear a riddle?”
“The mistress going to be down here any minute with them clothes.”
“Granada, let’s go outside and play marbles!”
The next day, upon awaking, the past was fresh and moist and as real as the morning dew. She breathed deeply and noticed the unmistakable smell of biscuits in her nostrils.
CHAPTER 13
The raucous laughter from the children down in Shinetown carried sharp and clear through the crisp winter air. Gran Gran was at the water shelf doing the breakfast dishes, trying her best to ignore the commotion. Violet stood no more than an arm’s reach away, watching the woman’s every move, hands tucked behind her back.
She was done with them, Gran Gran thought to herself, every man, woman, and child of them!
She furiously rubbed the cake of soap between her hands to build a lather in the metal bucket. They preferred the white man’s medicine. That’s the way it was with this kind. To them the white man’s ice is always colder. And because of their meddling she could no longer midwife. Couldn’t bring another child into the world, the very thing she was put here on this earth to do, without them turning her in to the sheriff.
They said she was too ignorant and dirty to be touching their babies. Said she needed a license declaring her fit. The thousands of healthy children she had brought safely into this world didn’t hold as much water as a piece of paper signed by a white man. Who had the right to tell her she couldn’t do the thing that came as natural to her as the winds came to March? Indeed, when they took that away from her, they might as well have taken away her breath.
The sounds seemed to be growing louder, as if on the march to her kitchen. This sent Gran Gran hurrying to her window, wiping the dishwater from her hands on her apron as she went. Violet scurried after Gran Gran, following in her wake like a baby chick.
When the old woman pulled back the curtain, she saw what the commotion was about. “Get back, Violet,” the woman said sharply.
It was too late. Violet was already raising herself on her toes to get a look. Gran Gran heard the girl’s quick intake of breath. She had seen the wagon—the same wagon and the same black-clad Choctaws who had carted her mother away. Only this time, they were ferrying their tarp-covered burden toward the mansion.
