Freeman, page 36
He didn’t answer. A rivulet of sweat trickled down the center of his back. It was early yet, but already he could tell it would be another day of infernal heat. They crossed in the wake of the wagon, walked alongside the field, the cotton plants whispering together in the breeze.
They entered the warehouse moments later. It was pungent with the smell of the horse. She braced him as he made his way over to the cot, his bad leg scraping behind him like some remnant of another life. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I am a little tired, is all.”
“That is my fault. I should not have made you walk such a long way.”
“No,” he said, “I needed to see.”
At the bed, he had to turn slowly to position himself. She clung to his stump as he did, counterbalanced his weight with her own as he lowered himself gingerly down to the canvas. There was a moment, her face close above his, her eyes watching his.
And she kissed him.
Almost before their lips touched, he pulled back, sick with horror. He fumbled for words, but his mind was empty. He simply could not believe what she had done.
Nor could she. You could see that. The green eyes were perfect ovals, pools of shock in a face where every muscle seemed to have failed simultaneously, her features hanging slack as a flag on a windless day.
A moment came. A moment went.
Then she came forward and now she was kissing him again, pressing her lips to his with a need that obliterated his mind, that drove him slowly back upon the canvas. He was sick with horror, yet scalded by need. He fumbled again for words, for resistance, for reason. Instead, his one arm came up, encircling her, pulling her closer. He kissed her until she pulled back from him. For a moment, she simply watched him, saying nothing. Her face was flushed. Her hair had come loose.
“Prudence,” he said.
And she kissed him again.
What came next was awkward, as how could it be anything else between an injured man with one arm trying to unbutton his scavenged pants and shirt while lying on an army cot beneath a woman shrugging out of a dress and a whalebone corset? It took a while, took enough time, he thought, for them to come to their senses, change their minds if they’d wanted to. He half-thought she would. He half-wished she would.
Then he was naked and she was naked above him, sweat gleaming on her skin in the near-darkness of the old warehouse. And he stopped thinking. He put his hand on her
terrible brown hand touching precious white skin
and drew her to him.
He wanted to be on top of her, to take her as a man should take a woman. But he knew it would be awkward trying to brace himself with the one arm, knew he had no choice but to lie there beneath her. And though he barely dared admit it even to himself, there was something deliciously wicked in that, some crossing of uncrossable lines, some inversion of the natural order. Why not? With all the lines they were crossing now, all the inversions of the natural order they were committing, what did one more matter?
He felt absent from his body and yet, at the same time, furiously at one with it. He felt…loosed, felt like a balloon, the string released from an errant child’s hand, floating above the trees, floating into the sky.
She pushed herself against him with a hard urgency and he thrust back with an answering fierceness. His bad leg and residual injuries howled their protest. She was weeping. He wept without knowing.
After, she lay atop him, her breasts mashed into his belly, her moist cheek turned against his chest. His hand was buried in her October-colored hair.
They should get up from there. Someone might come to the door. Someone might peek through one of the bullet holes in the wall. Someone might see. But he did not say this and he did not move. Could not. The moment was its own universe, and it held them fast, safe in mutual embrace, sweating and breathing together, her ear pressed to the drumming of his heart.
But reality would not long be denied.
“What have we done?” he said.
“Shush,” she said.
“What have we done?” he repeated.
“I do not know,” she admitted.
“I should know better,” he told her. “You should, too. They will kill us if they find out. They will kill both of us.”
She lifted her head and turned her eyes upon him. “And how will they find out?” she asked. “Will you tell them?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I am only saying that—”
“Stop,” she said.
“I am only saying it is a dangerous thing we have done. Foolish, too.”
“Do you regret that we did it?” she asked.
He thought about it. He tried to locate regret somewhere within him, scanning for it as a sailor scans the sky for a navigational star. But he could not find it. He didn’t answer her. Which was, he knew, an answer in itself.
“I will not apologize,” she said. She turned her cheek to his chest again. “I will not. You said it yourself: they have already taken so much from us. Will we allow them to take this, too?”
“But what does this mean? What happens next?”
It took her a long time to answer. “I do not know,” she finally said, her breath stirring the hairs on his chest.
“I do not know either,” he said.
A moment passed. His chest rose and fell, the weight of her upon him pleasant and warm. When she spoke, her voice was small. “You do not know, or you have not the courage to say?” she asked.
She waited for him, but he couldn’t answer. She lifted her head again and watched him for a moment. He tried to read in her eyes what she saw in his, but he couldn’t. She lowered her head back to his chest.
“What will you do when you leave this town?” he asked.
She sighed. “I will return to Boston, I suppose, where I will try to content myself with giving money to charities and schools that are set up to help the freedmen. What about you, Sam? What will you do? Will you return to Philadelphia?”
“Yes. Maybe. I suppose.”
“There is another option,” she said. A hesitance had entered her voice. It made him lift his head and look at her. All he could see of her was her hair.
“And what is that?” he asked.
“You could come to Boston,” she said. “With me.” Now she looked up and her gaze touched his.
He had trouble forming words. “I cannot…” he began.
“Why not?” she asked.
Why not, indeed? He didn’t know.
“You could come to Boston with me,” she repeated. And then she blinked. It seemed to take all day.
Could he really do that? Could he really? Travel with this woman he barely knew to a city he’d never seen? And then what? Marry her? Simply be with her? Glare back at all the Brahmins of Boston society who glared at him and demanded with their eyes to know what place he had in her life? Leave behind the agonies and miseries his life had become, leave behind this fruitless walking toward an impossible place?
She was watching him closely and whatever she saw in his face at that moment put a smile on hers. He was wondering what it was, when he realized that he was nodding.
“Yes?” she said.
“Yes,” he heard himself say.
She rose above him, her face so close he could feel her soft exhalations upon his check as she breathed. She filled his vision, the beauty of her blotting out every other external thing. “Yes,” she whispered and there was a finality to it, a door closed, a bolt turned.
She kissed him. Her hair covered him. It hid him away.
What had she done?
A day later, and she still did not know. She sat on Miss Ginny’s back porch, the sun sliding down the sky. But she didn’t see that. She saw only herself astride Sam Freeman, surrendering to a sudden rash passion that had come over her like fever. She saw herself casting off restraint, normalcy, even simple decency as if these things were but winter garb in a room grown suddenly stifling.
For so long, her impulsiveness had been a family joke. They had chided her for it and she had always pretended to be upset, but they knew and she knew that it made her proud. She said what others feared to say and did what they were scared to do.
But even she had never done anything like this, never given herself over to ungoverned passion with a man she barely knew. Yet there she had been, naked and shameless, straddling him as a man straddles a horse, riding him with tears in her eyes. Tears.
A day later, she was still trying to understand why she had done it. And how she felt about it now that she had. But answers eluded her. Instead, only questions rushed in.
Would they marry? She had, after all, invited him in the afterglow of the act to come with her to Boston. Would he think she had proposed? Had she? Would they simply be together without benefit of clergy?
And dear God, what if she was pregnant? What if nine months from now, she gave birth to a little mulatto baby?
And what about the fact that he was a Negro? She hated the question, hated herself for asking it. But she couldn’t stop. After all, she was—Miss Ginny’s revelations notwithstanding—white. Could she simply go to Boston with this black man, marry him, and live there in her father’s house as if it were the most natural thing in the world?
What had she done?
The answer was simple, she supposed. She had finally gone too far, even for herself. She had done an awful thing.
But what confused her was that she did not feel awful. In truth, she felt good. Opening herself to this man had felt…right. It had made her feel human again.
How could that be wrong?
And now, as if on cue, here came Sam Freeman walking down the alley, leaning on his stick.
She sat up straight. For some reason, she thought of her last day in Boston, her exhilaration at seeing the house in Louisburg Square disappearing behind them, her sense that each clop of horses’ hooves against cobblestones was taking them closer to a great and noble adventure. She had laughed at Bonnie, who sat stiffly, worriedly, beside her. But Bonnie had been right to worry, of course.
She regarded Sam as he grew closer. A sober-faced man, his blunt and handsome features set as if he were embarking upon some mission of grim importance. As, perhaps in his mind, he was. He still limped, she noted absently, but he was moving with greater ease now. His recovery really had been remarkable.
And then he stood before her.
A silence followed. Sam kicked at a pebble. He cleared his throat. She looked up at him.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he said. His voice was a whisper of recrimination. “I wanted you to know that I am sorry for what happened between us. I did not mean for…you know. I did not mean to take advantage of you. I hope you can forgive me.”
It had not occurred to her that he might feel…was it guilt? Prudence cleared her own throat. “You did not…I was not…”
I kissed you first. I wanted it to happen.
And there it was, the truth of the whole matter, a truth so embarrassing, so downright shaming, she barely dared confess it even to herself—much less speak it out loud.
“It is all right,” she heard herself say instead. As if she were granting him absolution. As if she were validating his guilt. What a coward she had become.
He looked at her. She reached across and took his hand. “It is all right,” she repeated, trying to say with the fervor of her voice what she couldn’t with words. “I am very fond of you, Sam,” she said. “Very fond. Nothing has changed that.”
There was a silent moment, a pregnant moment. She saw him wrestling with her words, translating them. “Are you saying—”
He never finished the question. The door behind her opened, he yanked his hand away. Miss Ginny said, “Surprised to see you here, Sam. You feelin’ better, then.”
“I am feeling much better, Miss Ginny. Thank you.”
“Good to see you healin’ up. I was just about to send Prudence down there with your supper. But since you here, I s’pose you can just come on in and eat with us at the table.” He grimaced and Prudence knew he was looking for a way out. But Miss Ginny held the door wide and in the end, he could do nothing but follow Prudence up the stairs and into the tiny kitchen.
His plate was already on the table, heaped high with hog and hominy. Miss Ginny spooned a plate from the pot in the hearth and handed it to Prudence, who reflected absently that one thing she would not miss about Mississippi was the food. Then Miss Ginny made a plate for herself. The kitchen was tiny and there were only two seats at the table. “You two take the chairs,” said Sam. “I can eat standing up.”
Prudence said, “Sam, you cannot do that.”
Confusion. “What do you mean?”
She waited for him to realize why on his own and when he didn’t, she nodded toward the stub where his arm had been. Prudence saw his face fall as he realized his mistake. “Sit down,” she said. “I shall stand.”
Sam’s features hardened. “I still forget sometimes,” he said.
He took his seat and for long moments, the only sound in the kitchen was of metal utensils scraping meal plates. Then Miss Ginny said, “Pleasure to have you join us here, Sam.”
“Yes, ma’am. I appreciate your hospitality, and your welcoming me into your house.”
“Oh, it ain’t so such a much,” said Miss Ginny. “My old master give it to me when I got too old to work.” She gave Prudence a meaningful look. “He weren’t such a bad master, all around.”
“But he was still a master,” said Sam.
“Yes, he was that,” said Ginny.
“Yes, he was,” Prudence added.
Another silence. Then Miss Ginny brightened. “Forgot to tell you,” she told Prudence, reaching into a cubby on the wall behind her. “You got a telegram.”
It could only be from her sisters. She had sent a long letter the day Bo Wheaton came to her door. Distraught, she had poured her grief onto the pages. She had told them of her ordeals, told them of the night Bonnie died, told them of Wheaton’s offer. And she had all but begged for permission to accept it, to sell father’s properties and return home.
Prudence was embarrassed by the memory of it. How pitiable she must have sounded.
Sure enough, the message A.J. Socrates had scribbled out on the flimsy white form with the name Western Union on top was pointed and simple in its urgency. “Awful news. Terrible about Bonnie. Worried about you. By all means sell immediately. Come home soonest.”
She folded the paper carefully. “They are worried for me,” she said, meeting Miss Ginny’s concerned stare. “They gave me permission to sell everything and wish me to return home. I suppose I must now send word to the Wheatons that I am free to negotiate in earnest.” A rueful laugh. “Although, given that this was transmitted through Mr. Socrates, I am certain they already know.”
Miss Ginny said, “That’s what you wanted, ain’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“You s’pose?”
A sigh. “I do not like seeing the Wheatons get their way. I do not like having to turn tail and run. And I do not like abandoning all these people who counted on me. I made promises, Ginny. I told them I would educate them and their children.”
“Child, ain’t nobody hold that against you. They seen what happened sure as you did. They know you ain’t got no choice.”
“I hold it against myself,” said Prudence, and the force of her own anger took her by surprise. “I must say that I dislike running away from this fight, especially knowing what they intend to do in this town after I have gone, how they mean to drive out all the Negroes.”
“You oughtn’t be so hard on yourself,” said Miss Ginny.
“I do not enjoy losing, Miss Ginny. And I hate that this town will not pay for what it did to Bonnie and all those other people.” At the thought of it, she felt tears lurking behind her eyes.
“I understand that,” said the old woman. “I do for a fact. But I don’t know what you can do about it.”
Prudence sighed. “Nor do I,” she said.
A moment passed. And then Sam said, “I do.”
She turned toward him, surprised. Apparently, he had also surprised himself. He sat there with a fork frozen in flight to his mouth, his eyes wide with sudden insight. He looked at her. “I know what you can do,” he said.
“Well?” she said. “Spare us the suspense. Tell us.”
So he did, sketching out in a few bold strokes the idea that had come to him. She asked him some questions. He answered them. She asked some more. He answered those, too. When he was done, a slow grin unfurled itself across Prudence’s face, like a flag in a languid breeze. She came to her feet. “Sam, you are a genius,” she said. “What an audacious feat that would be.”
“Them white folks be mad as a hive of bees,” said Miss Ginny.
Prudence looked at her. “Yes, they would, wouldn’t they?” And they both laughed. “It would take a great deal of work,” said Prudence, “but that would be a pleasure.”
“Cost a pile of money, too,” said Miss Ginny.
Prudence waved at the caution as if it were a housefly. Her gaze was turned within. “Money is not a problem,” she said. “And it would be worth both the work and the money if we are able to pull it off.” She looked up at Sam. “Do you really think we can do it?”
He considered her question for a moment, then nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I believe you can.”
“Need to be careful,” warned Miss Ginny. “If word get out, they be even madder than they was before. Only us three knows for now, but when you start talkin’ ’round to people, you can’t be sure.”
“Miss Ginny, surely colored people are more than practiced at keeping secrets from white people,” said Prudence.
Ginny pursed her lips, thinking. Then her mouth opened in a toothless grin. “I reckon they is at that,” she said. “And you right. Gon’ be a sight to see when white folks figures out what you up to.”
Prudence paced anxiously. “I need to send some telegrams. I shall have to go to Memphis and send them from there. For that, I will need to hire a wagon. I will start off first thing in the morning.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Is the livery stable still open at this hour?”
