Douglass’ Women (25 page)

Crossing the Atlantic again was like death. Douglass rarely came to my bed. He was a celebrity. The ship’s captain invited him to dinner.

When I pressed, no, begged him, he answered, “Puritan stock. Americans lack European sophistication. They know me as a married man, Ottilie. Know me as a father to a son and daughter.”

Douglass only came to me when his need was most great. He’d enter my cabin like a specter, say nothing, but, nonetheless, devour me. All but a handful of nights, I slept alone or, should I say, tried to sleep, tossing and turning in my flat, sailor’s bed.

“He came home a free man. Maybe too free.”

—A
NNA
D
OUGLASS,
SPEAKING TO
R
OSETTA
, 1881

“Mama, look. That white lady’s so beautiful.”

—R
OSETTA
D
OUGLASS,
SPEAKING TO HER MOTHER
, 1846

Lynn, Massachusetts

I knew Freddy was coming but I didn’t know exactly when.

“Ships at sea don’t keep good time,” said Mr. Garrison. “Plus, he’s got to travel to Lynn. Much farther than New Bedford.”

Humpf
. Mr. Garrison had his own pride. Thought everybody ought to do as he say!

Mam taught me only I can live my life. No matter what Mr. Garrison said, I liked living in Lynn. I liked my neighbors and church friends. They liked me because I be me. Nobody was beholden to Mr. Garrison. Thank goodness! Nobody was nice just because of abolition. ’Cause I was Freddy’s wife.

Still, I should be charitable. Mr. Garrison worked hard for Freddy’s freedom. For that, me and my children will always be grateful. I surprised “puffed-up” Garrison and kissed him on his cheek. “Thank you, thank you. For all you’ve done.”

He turned fire-red and left me so fast I couldn’t believe it. I laughed and laughed.

When Garrison left, I declared a holiday. I was tired of washing. My back ached, my fingers felt gnarled. I took my first holiday in over two years. I played with my babies all afternoon.

Rosetta just be four and Freddy Junior be walking, babbling nonsense, saying, “Waaaater.” I taught both my babies about water and crabs. About bones littering the sea. About their Daddy, a strong Samson-man who was coming home a free man.

All afternoon, me and my children sang songs about crossing the River Jordan, about itty-bitty spiders climbing the water spout. I told tales about the bravery of “High John the Conqueror,” about their Daddy being the first slave to write his own book.

Oh, it was a fine, warm time waiting for Freddy to come home. Nothing upset me. It was like a different season, a time out of mind. A time when life seemed all the more precious and trees glowed vibrant, the sky shimmered with rainbows, and clouds seemed like pillows to rest a weary head.

And if I worried some that Freddy would be angry at me, I kept it to myself.

If I worried Freddy would dislike the life I’d built, I kept that, too, to myself. I kept all kinds of frightening worries to myself, burying them deep in my heart. I’d gotten used to my life. I liked it. As much as I wanted Freddy to come home, I didn’t want my life to change.

It was Sunday. We be playing, “Ain’t That Good News.” Each child be telling me about something good. Each be trying to find a newer, better, good thing. Rosetta shouted
about “cotton ribbons,” “dandelions,” and “hearing the church choir sing.” Freddy Junior hollered about “bugs,” “squishy bugs,” and screamed, “tall”—he mean growing tall like his Daddy.

My children surely lifted my spirits. And, strange, they needed lifting. This Sunday, for no reason, I woke feeling my bread dough wouldn’t rise, my sheets wouldn’t dry, and my food would sour. Strange. The day was balmy, yet overcast. Storm soon to set in, I thought. I quivered as I saw a flock of birds swoop over the yard, blocking rays of sun. Then, just as quickly, disappearing.

I heard the low rumbling of a cart. My hands shaded my eyes.

“Mam, look,” Rosetta called.

A speck, at first, just coming over the horizon. But as the cart got closer, I could make out the shape of two men. Both wearing black hats like they going to prayer. My heart raced and I began to murmur, “Freddy.” I step forward. “Freddy.” I step again, then I was running with the children running after me. Freddy Junior, with his fat, wobbly legs. Rosetta, swift like a colt. All of us be shouting, “Freddy, Freddy, Freddy.”

We stopped short—children jumping up and down, my breast heaving, fingers clasped together. “Dear Lord, let it be—”

The driver was Mister George, a colored hand who did odd jobs. The other man lifted his head. The shadow of his hat’s brim cleared and I screamed, “Freddy!”

He leapt down and gathered me in his arms. The children clutched his coattails.

“Who’s this? Who’s this?” Freddy picked up Rosetta and swung her around. “My, you’ve grown.” Rosetta giggled,
covering her mouth with her hand.

Then, Freddy dropped down on his knees. He’s got a fine suit on, real wool, and I almost told him to “stop, you’ll get dirty,” but I kept quiet. He be on his knees before Freddy Junior. This be the child he’d never seen. The child looked like him—all brave and strong and handsome. Just small. Looking like his Daddy might’ve looked when he was a child.

Freddy Junior be shy, but he didn’t cling to my skirts. He held out his hand. “How do, sir?”

Freddy gasped and clutched his son to his chest. Freddy be crying. Then, he reached his hand out to Rosetta and hugged her, too. Freddy and the children, all in the dirt, holding on to each other for dear life.

I wiped my eyes. Blessed day. I whispered a prayer to the bones.

Freddy looked up at me and say, “You’ve done well, Anna. You’ve done well.”

My children did me, themselves proud. I’d done a good job. Feeding them, dressing them, loving them, making them strong.

All of us sat down to eat, talking before the fire like a family again. Happiest day of my life. If neighbors were curious, they’d the good sense not to show it. Nobody visited. Nobody asked about the stranger.

We had time alone. Time for Freddy to put both children to bed. To kiss them hundreds of times, catch them up and squeeze them, and swear he’d never go away. He’d leave their room, only to be called back, to kiss and hug some more. It took quite a while before the children fell
asleep with smiles and dreams of their Daddy made flesh. Whole. No more stories. Their Daddy be real. He’d never be a ghost no more.

Freddy loved me before the fire. Kissed me until I felt I’d surely suffocate or drown. All the aches in my bones and joints eased. I gave myself with fierce pride because I’d been a woman strong.

Freddy weeped when he released himself inside me. He rested his head on my bosom and said, “Home. How I’ve missed my home.”

And I believed home meant Lynn. This new town I’d found. Later, I thought Freddy meant my body. My body be home to him. That be all right.

I didn’t know my body would become, for him, like an old bed. An old chair.

But, for that one night, laying on rugs before the fire, Freddy covered my body like new land—he explored, stroked, tasted, and smelled my sweat. Knowing the children were breathing in the next room, I inhaled their Daddy deep.

And I knew, once again, a baby be swimming inside me.

Garrison be furious. Freddy wouldn’t back down.

“I want my own employment, Garrison. My own business.” The two of them were arguing in the parlor, right off the kitchen.

“Have you no loyalty? No sense of fair play?”

“I can’t be your man forever. Have I been freed just to be another kind of slave?”

“A united front, man. We must show a united front.”

“We are united. In the cause of freedom. Freedom means I can do what
I
choose. Not what you choose.”

“Damn you, Douglass.”

“A colored man should be free to speak to his people.”

“But you don’t punish your supporters.”

They argued worse than children. This storm wasn’t going to roll away. There’d be lasting bitterness. What a shame.

Still, it’d be special for Freddy to publish his own paper. A paper about coloreds’ and slaves’ rights written by a colored. What a wondrous thing! Freddy may not be a preacher, but still he’d be doing good things. Spreading grace through his words.

I be plump again. Sometimes I just sat and smiled. I don’t know why I didn’t tell Freddy about the baby. Maybe only
so much joy could be felt at once. Maybe I was saving up good news for when times were bad. I don’t know.

Miz Beasley knew. She cared for me so special, I like to die. Always she brought me treats. Spun sugar. Carrot cake. A lotion for my swelling legs.

Miz Beasley said she came to see me, but I thought she really came to see Freddy. She liked seeing such a handsome, colored man doing so good. Other folks came, too, and Freddy was always polite, thanking the whole colored town for its care of me and his children. People asked him to sign his name in his book. He did. Everyone went away with a smile.

I thought Freddy be happy. Just like me. Our house be small and Freddy and his newspaper filled it, ’til it overflowed. The parlor be his main office—stack upon stack of letters, papers, books, and more books. Overflowing with words. The kitchen table be where he “edit.” I wasn’t clear what “edit” meant, but it seemed like writing to me. Only he crossed and recrossed hundreds of words.

Freddy fussed about me working. Since he didn’t want my money, I set it aside for the children. I said, “When your paper’s a success, I’ll quit laundry.”

“I have money, Anna. From speaking fees.”

“What’s harm in extra?”

Working be the only thing we argued about. I liked working. Being independent. When Freddy fussed, his eyes glaring, hands crossed behind his back, I fed him.

“In London, nothing like your stew and cobbler, Anna.”

Feeding Freddy was the only thing that calmed both him and me. Whenever he be in a bad mood, whenever he be reading or writing, whenever silence reigned, too long between us, I fed him. Like me, Freddy grew plump. But no babe inside him.