When the Reckoning Comes, page 19
“How much?” they asked, and for each of them a price was yelled. Men thrust their money and paid. Afterward, they each took their woman and left the room, going off to another part of the house Mira couldn’t see.
“Her, I want her,” a man said, pointing to Mira. He had blond hair wetted so he could make a side part. Behind his mask blue eyes fixed themselves on her. His skin was tanned, most likely from working all day doing whatever fieldwork necessary for his living. He was dressed plainly, but many of the men in the room wore similar clothes.
“Marceline’s not on the table,” another man called. This man entered the room wearing a mask like all the others, but he carried himself with a different air. His clothes were more formal, as if he were attending a ball, and his dark shoes made a loud clack as the heels hit the floor.
“I’m not Marceline,” Mira said to them both, but the men continued on with their conversation, ignoring her.
“If she’s not on the table then why is she here?”
“She’s been waiting here for me. That’s why. Look, Tatum, I’m not going to argue with you. Either pick another girl or leave. Your choice.”
Tatum. Had she heard right? The man pouted, giving a once-over at Mira, and she wished she could see his face. Without thinking, she raised her arm to take his mask, to pull it off him, to see him for who he was. He backed away from her, deciding on another woman nearby.
After he left, the other man, the one with the clacking shoes, walked straight to Mira and gestured for her to follow him. He led her out of the room, down one hall and then another. As they walked, Mira noticed that more of the scenery had changed. This was not the house she’d seen before.
He led her into one of the rooms and cornered her toward the bed. “Shhhhhh,” he said, spittle dripping onto her chest. “Unless you want to play our game? We could play that game too, if you want.”
He wanted her to succumb. To lie back as he stripped her of her clothes, as his calloused fingers rubbed against her skin. “Stay still,” he yelled as his hands reached for her body, his order to obey coming out like a hiss. In other rooms were other women, women who knew what would happen if they fought, and so they lay on their stomachs and backs while these men got on top of them, stinking of booze and the crops they tended. In other rooms were other women, each one rented out by masked men who wanted to relinquish their desires in the safety of secrecy.
“Marceline, stop it now. Stop!”
Mira would not yield. She would not quiet or succumb. She’d spent an entire life doing nothing—of sheltering herself, of not speaking up, of hiding, of letting others go before her, of denying what she wanted—and looking at this masked man filled her with rage from all of it. Her hands reached for his face, wanting to claw at the skin, wanting blood.
The man’s mask loosened and it fell off onto the floor. This made him jump back, shocked at this sudden revelation of his face. It was Roman Woodsman. Mira recognized the same eyes, the same squint-eyed expression that had been in his portrait. “What are you doing? This isn’t how we do this. This isn’t how we play.”
Roman’s face quickly shifted from confusion to anger when he realized that her resisting wasn’t part of whatever game they played.
“You should know better,” Roman said.
Mira reached to grab for Roman’s mask but he blocked her with his body. He laughed, seeing her distress. His laughter grew louder, maniacal, and when he lunged toward her she darted away, grabbing for the mask and heading for the door. He tried to stop her but Mira was quick, opening the door to escape before he could hold her down. She took one last look behind her and almost gasped. Another woman was on the bed—the same woman in white. Her eyes held a vacant stare. She was gone, somewhere other than here, and Roman towered over her, his pants lowered to his ankles, his bare buttocks thrusting with fury.
Mira ran down the hall of the house, hoping to get as far away from the ballroom and the other men as she could. The clacking of Roman’s shoes resounded in her head, chasing her, until Mira had to stop. Her body shook as she tried to shut out the noise, but the rapraprap would not stop. She closed her eyes and waited, silently counting the seconds, and eventually all was silent. Mira opened her eyes. When she looked down at her hands the mask she thought she’d taken was gone.
XXII.
A CHILD’S LAUGHTER CAUGHT Mira’s attention next. A little girl appeared before Mira, or maybe she had been there all along. She wore a plain dress, the fabric faded and worn. Someone had attempted to fix her matted hair but had done so poorly. A loose ribbon held a puff of her hair at the end. She had an amused expression on her face. The corners of her mouth were slightly upturned and her round eyes stared intently at Mira.
“Did you lose your parents?” Mira asked, looking down at the girl. She crouched so as to meet her face at eye level. “Do you need help finding them?”
The girl nodded and Mira held out her hand but the girl shook her head in response.
“I don’t understand. Don’t you want to go?” Mira held out her hand again but this time the girl made a screeching sort of sound and pulled the dress she wore over her head. The sound continued, growing louder, and Mira looked around for someone to help her, but she was alone. “It’s okay. It’s all right,” she said, in as calm a voice as she could muster. “Shhh, shhh, it’s all right.”
The girl quieted, much to Mira’s relief, and pulled her dress back down. “See?” Mira said. “Everything is fine. You’re okay.”
They were in a part of the house that was unfamiliar to her. She worried that walking in the wrong direction would lead them back to the men from the ballroom, and what if they saw her with this child? What would they do to her?
“I need to get you out of this place,” Mira whispered. She glanced down one end of the hall and then back toward the other, not sure which direction was the right one. The girl, however, decided for her, retreating down the hall away from Mira. Nervous that the girl would get away and fearing what could happen to her, Mira followed. “We have to go. Please, take my hand, and we’ll go,” she said, moving toward her, but the girl picked up on Mira’s urgency. She sprang away, and Mira, not wanting to lose her, ran after her. The house was a maze, far larger than she remembered it being, and the girl was fast.
“Wait,” Mira called, hoping for her to stop while praying others in the house wouldn’t hear. “Don’t go. I can get you out. Come back!”
The girl didn’t look back. Mira followed her as she ran up a staircase. Mira began to go up, but the stairs creaked with her weight and she stopped. Carefully, but as swiftly as she was able, she went up the steps. When she reached the top, she was faced with another long corridor with a series of rooms. The girl must have slipped inside one of them.
The sconces on the wall flickered as Mira tiptoed along. With each step the light dimmed further. Mira held her breath as she stopped at each of the bedroom doors, pausing to listen and see if she could hear her inside. She moved toward the end and with relief heard the sound of laughter again.
Mira leaned against the wall and then lowered her body toward the floor. The door hadn’t been closed completely and she peeked through the crack, careful to make sure the door didn’t fully open by accident. The girl stood in the center of the bedroom, her arms folded behind her back, waiting for something or someone Mira couldn’t see.
“My nig, where did you go?” Mira heard a woman’s voice call in the bedroom. “Oh, there you are!” the woman exclaimed. “You know you shouldn’t run off like that. I get so worried.”
The girl nodded. She let out a light giggle.
“Are you hungry? Do you want a treat?”
The girl made a high-pitched squeal and jumped up and down at the word treat. The woman smiled, appeared overjoyed at her response, and then walked over to the dresser and picked up something off the table.
Through the mirror’s reflection Mira saw the woman’s face. The resemblance fit the images in the photographs Jesse had shown her and Mira knew it was Mrs. Woodsman. That meant the girl was Lucy, her Lucy.
Mrs. Woodsman put the treat in her palm and balled her hand into a fist. “Spin,” she commanded, and Lucy lifted a leg and turned herself around, spinning her body in a loop. She finished with a little kneel and Mrs. Woodsman exclaimed, dropping the treat for Lucy to pick up off the floor. “Oh, good job,” she said. “Do it once more. Spin.”
Lucy did as she was told, spinning in another loop, but this time Mrs. Woodsman didn’t let her stop.
“Spin, spin, spin!” she yelled, and Lucy spun round and round, laughing at first, but the longer she had to do it the quieter she got, and Mrs. Woodsman kept yelling. Lucy twirled around, becoming more unstable with each turn until she lost her balance and fell to the floor. Her face was scrunched up in pain and confusion.
“No treat for you,” Mrs. Woodsman said. “I didn’t tell you to stop. What have I told you about not listening? You need to do better. You don’t want to end up like those—”
Lucy’s eyes welled up, and seeing her face, Mrs. Woodsman stopped. “Well, next time. Maybe you’ll follow directions,” she huffed.
Lucy nodded again. All of Lucy’s answers were either nods or simple gestures with her hands. She wouldn’t speak, barely made any sort of sound at all.
“It’s time for bed,” Mrs. Woodsman said. She moved toward the other side of the room and Mira was able to see her. She was dressed in her nightclothes and her long thin hair fell down her back. She walked around the bed and went to Lucy, patting her hair lightly before going to something else Mira couldn’t see. She heard the clicking sound of a latch opening, and the squeak of rusted hinges. Mira lightly pushed on the door so she could get a further glimpse.
“In you go,” Mrs. Woodsman said, waving her hand, and Lucy followed on command. Mira pushed the door again, craning her head to see.
Lucy got on her hands and knees and began to crawl across the floor. She crawled toward what looked like a wire cage. It was barely big enough for her to fit. The metal brushed against her back as she squeezed herself inside. She was unable to stand so she curled into a ball on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees as Mrs. Woodsman closed the door and locked it shut.
“Sleep,” Mrs. Woodsman ordered, and Lucy closed her eyes. Mrs. Woodsman stood next to the cage, watching Lucy and waiting. She gave a light tap to the cage. “There, there. Such a good little nig. Unlike all the others, but they are getting what they deserve. Go to sleep now. Sleep.”
After a few minutes more, Mrs. Woodsman disappeared to the other side of the room again. She heard the sound of metal clang against a surface—the key, Mira reasoned—and a few seconds later the lights blew out and the room went dark. The sheets rustled as Mrs. Woodsman crawled onto the mattress and sighed. Soon, her body was still except for subtle breathing. Mira took this opportunity to enter the room. She crawled along the floor, afraid of standing lest Mrs. Woodsman wake in the night and see her. Her clothes made shushing noises as she moved along past the cage where Lucy was kept. She needed to get to the other side to the key. Her eyes focused in the dark, looking among the shadows, and she soon settled on the outline of a dresser. The woman must have placed the key on top of it. Mira crawled around the front of the bed, moving over to the dresser, and then she stood up and carefully felt around for the key.
Got it, Mira thought once she grasped the cool metal handle. She held the key in her hands. All she had to do now was let Lucy out and get them both out of here.
A vanity mirror was attached on top of the dresser. Mira caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror’s glass. She was about to move away but something caught her attention. She squinted, trying to focus on the shadow, and as her eyes adjusted she realized that the shadow was a man’s.
Mira opened her mouth but no sound came. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t risk waking up Mrs. Woodsman and being caught. She couldn’t move. Could only watch as the shadow crept in the dark. He went first to the cage, saw the lock. His hand slipped into his pocket and he pulled out his own key, a copy, made for this moment, and he pushed it into the lock and opened the cage’s door. Lucy’s eyes opened and she crawled out almost immediately. She must have known this whole time, must have been waiting for him to come and release her. The man pointed toward the door and Lucy disappeared through it.
He went to the bed next. As he moved closer, Mira got a better look. He was young, thin, with a thick beard that obscured most of his face. He didn’t appear to notice Mira as she stared at him, too concerned with Mrs. Woodsman sleeping in her bed. He stopped when he got to the side of the bed, pausing to watch her shift.
Mira stood, frozen. Even if she somehow managed to sneak out unnoticed, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Part of her knew what he was about to do, but still she stood, waiting to see if she would be right.
The man raised a hand in the air, a signal to God. He lifted his head and whispered a few words. When he was finished with his prayer his hand went to his hip. The knife he pulled out managed to gleam despite the room’s darkness.
His hand gripped the knife as he leaned over the bed. He brought the knife inches from Mrs. Woodsman’s throat and stopped. Mira held her breath. She expected any moment he would drag the blade across her throat, and she prepared herself for the gurgling sound it would make, Mrs. Woodsman choking as blood poured out, staining her clothes and the sheets.
It would be quick, if he were to do it. He needed to make one single, smooth stroke and then it would be done. He was so close, and yet—he stood silent, unmoving, unable, or unwilling.
What is he waiting for? Mira thought. His hand wavered. Mira worried he would drop the knife, but he managed to hold on. Why won’t he do it?
He stepped back, tried to regain his courage. He straightened his posture and breathed in. Then, when he appeared ready, he brought the knife to her throat again. This time he would do it, Mira believed. He steadied himself and closed his eyes.
Outside, a shot fired, the single pop followed by the howl of dogs. The wild calls of men filled the night. Mira tried to slip away, but it was too late. Mrs. Woodsman had woken, saw a black man standing over her holding the knife, and she opened her mouth wide, letting out a shriek loud enough that Mira was sure those outside could hear.
She had minutes before the men found their way inside the house, to her. She needed to find a way to get out. She ran down the first staircase she saw, moving faster, going down another staircase, paying no attention to where she went just as long as she was moving and no one had caught up to her. Down the staircase, down, down, down, and the light around her dimmed, growing darker, chasing her as she ran farther down. At the sight of a door she pulled it open with such force she stumbled back, taking a few seconds to stabilize herself before running outside into the night. She ran, hoping to follow in the direction of the plantation’s entrance, but she tripped and fell. Her head banged against something hard.
XXIII.
WHEN MIRA WOKE, she felt a searing pain in her forehead. She reached up to touch the wound and her hand was wet with blood. She wiped herself clean using the front of her shirt.
Wherever Mira was, it wasn’t outside. Inside a barn maybe. She must have run far enough away to get to one of the barns on the southern side of the house.
The air was stuffy and damp. A putrid mix of feces and urine, of decaying flesh. Of rot. Light streamed in from slits in the wooden walls, and Mira could see two tables, one with an array of paddles, whips, and a cat-o’-nine-tails, the other just a tabletop. All the instruments were stained a brownish-red color, dirty from blood.
Mira got up from the ground and walked over to the door. It was locked. She jerked on the handle, pulling a couple of times in disbelief. She couldn’t figure how she’d gotten locked inside. How long had she been unconscious? It couldn’t have been that long, but then the light must mean it was morning. She began to bang on the door, crying for help, hoping someone would come.
Soon enough, Mira heard men’s voices from outside. She started to bang again but the sound of a loud wailing scared her enough to stop. The men’s voices grew louder. They were heading toward her. Mira crawled quickly across the floor to a corner to hide, burying herself as much as she could in a pile of damp straw.
The door opened and two white men entered. They dragged another man and threw him on the ground. The man on the ground was black. His clothes were ripped, and his shirt was stained a deep red on the side. His wrists were tied with rope. He tried to get up but one of the white men immediately grabbed the whip from the table and struck him down. He fell instantly and gave out a muffled cry.
“What’s that?” one yelled, and the man on the ground winced quietly, appearing to want to deny them the satisfaction of hearing his pain. The white men loomed over him and Mira held her breath, afraid that they’d hear and be emboldened to do more damage.
The two white men were almost identical in their dress. Both wore dark vests over white collared shirts. Belt buckle badges flashed. Wide-brimmed hats covered their heads. Their boots were caked in mud and the bottoms of their pants were darker than the rest, damp from the river where they’d hunted. These men were pattyrollers, self-appointed with the task of maintaining order. They carried themselves with a sense of righteousness as they enforced their judgments.
“He’s one of them that orchestrated this mess. That’s what they’re saying. He’s the one.”
“What about the others?” a third voice called, and Mira saw Roman enter the room. He walked in leisurely, as if on a stroll, as if the entire day had been saved for this. He appeared unbothered by the stench in the room. The expression on his face was one of ambivalence, perhaps an air of slight annoyance that was directed more at the two white men.
Roman Woodsman. He was the common horror in all of this. He had orchestrated those women, gathered them together to profit off their bodies. He was the one who’d forced those men to dig what she’d thought were graves, but maybe the task was a futile one, the act itself meant as punishment. They were slaves after all, their life of labor worth more than death, and it was their labor that had made him. The bending of backs until they broke. Their blood had made his money.
