Douglass’ Women (32 page)

She nodded. “Good girl,” I thought. “My sweet, good girl.”

Freddy Junior grabbed Lewis’s hand. Rosetta took the baby. “Out the back. Out the kitchen door. Into the fields.”

“What about you?” Rosetta asked.

“I’ll be there.” I kept focused on the men. Must be about twenty. “Once I know you all safe, out the house. Hidden in the fields.”

“Come on,” said Freddy Junior.

“Go, Rosetta.”

The screen door slammed shut. I heard its echo: the back screen door banged hard open. The children must be running across the field.

I let myself breathe. The moonlit night stank from burning oil. Fireflies gone. Not even a cricket sawing his legs.

Not one of those men said anything. I preferred the ones with hoods. The few without looked like rock. Stone-hatred. Like nothing could ever be said. Nothing could ever stop them from burning Frederick Douglass’ house.

I didn’t move. Stared just as cold at them. Stood my ground ’cause each minute I kept them focused on me, my children had one more minute to be gone.

Out the corner of my eye, I saw a man on the left move. Him, high on his horse, moved forward. Then, I heard a big
whoosh
. A torch was on the porch just behind me. I didn’t flinch. Held steady. Then, someone else threw fire. Then, another. Flames started licking up the posts and I felt like an oven was opening around me.

I imagined the children, running, crazy, full out. Charles might be crying. Rosetta would be leading them to a good place. A torch hit the window; air cried out, and the glass shattered like rain. Splinters licked my arms.

I prayed, “God deliver us.” Inhaled, exhaled. Twice. I wouldn’t cry over things lost inside the house, my treasures were safe. Felt it in my heart and bones. Charles be sucking Rosetta’s finger, quieting himself. Freddy Junior be telling Lewis, “You a good soldier.” And, Rosetta, wide-eyed, watching left and right, forward and behind, would make certain no one saw them hiding, belly-low, in the wild.

Content, I stepped down off the porch. Walked like I was going for a Sunday stroll. My moving seemed to release their throats. They whooped and screamed like they was in a war fighting an army. They fired pistols. Bullets in the air, bullets at the windows. Bullets into the lattice trim. The big, white house was their enemy, fighting back something fierce.

I walked dignified, right down the middle, made those men part their horses. Not a one called my name. Though they all knew me. Some I might’ve purchased supplies from: flour, sugar; some I might’ve bought seed from: kale, collards. Or bartered eggs. Or did sewing for their wives. These white-hooded ghosts seemed like no one I knew. But I knew they knew me; and, in the sunshine, I would know them.

I walked without looking back. Hummed in my throat.

Later, I’d double back. Zigzag through the woods. Find the children. Watch the house burn to ash. Kiss them, saying, “What brave children you be.” Pat Lewis’s head; shake Freddy Junior’s hand and pretend I didn’t see him cry. Smile my widest smile for Rosetta. Tell her, “Thank you.” Let Charles feed at my breast. When they all slept, huddled about me, arms and legs tumbled all over each other. When we were all as close as close could be
—
I’d
—
what? Think of Freddy? I didn’t know. He ain’t here. He never here.

Naw. I wouldn’t let myself think that. I’d think I’d tell Mister Death to fight me if he want. But I ain’t leaving this earth ’til my children be grown.

My church found ways to feed us. House us. Somebody rode and told Freddy. It took him a week to get home.

But he nearly flew from his horse and he hugged the children, played with them all afternoon ’til they all were worn out from the excitement. Even Rosetta yawned. We all sat down to supper.

Freddy thanked Pastor and Pastor’s wife for their good care of us. Let Pastor praise God without minding that the food was getting cold. Even said, “Thank you for that heartfelt prayer.”

All day, me and Freddy didn’t say much. Freddy kept drinking in the children, like they water for a dying man. Every second he be kissing them. Every second, he be gracious, shouting his appreciation to the whole, wide world that his family was safe.

When the moon was quarter-high, we tucked the children in bed. Ready for a deep, satisfying sleep.

Freddy offered his hand. Together, we harnessed the horses to the wagon. Then, drove to the crusted, black mound that used to be home.

Moonlight made the house seem haunted. Like a haint going to rise up. Pale, white streaks cut across the scorched, black land. No marigolds. No green beans. Only twisted wires.

Freddy stepped over charred beams, kicked at shards of glass. He lingered in the far west corner, lifting his lantern high. His papers, books, all gone. Printing press gone. He set the kerosene lamp down and didn’t move. I kept still, respectful of his mourning.

“Were you scared, Anna?”

“Some.”

“Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?”

He wasn’t looking at me. He was staring out across the horizon. Like I’d first seen him. His hair still long. Only a few gray strands. He, like me, be getting older.

“Thank you for keeping our children safe.”

He turned, his arms wide open. I felt such love. I ran to him. He hugged me fierce. Soon I was crying. Freddy be kissing me all over.

“It’s all right, Anna. It’s all right. I’m here.”

I sobbed for my lost Mam. Sobbed for my lost home. Rosetta’s first blanket. My wedding dress. Sobbed for the times when I was mean, spiteful. Furious at Freddy. Sobbed ’cause my marriage seemed to have more rough than smooth.

Freddy pulled me onto the grass. Where it still grew green, it was soft. He kissed me with the same hunger as the first time. Shameless, he undressed me; I, him.

Beneath moon and stars, we loved on the grass. I cried
out, “Freddy,” digging my nails into his back, never wanting him to leave me. Leave my body. He must’ve felt this need too. For he stayed inside me for the longest time. His head buried in my neck. His tongue licking away my joyful tears.

We made Annie that night. My last child, second girl.

He helped me dress. I buttoned his shirt. I plucked grass from my hair and twisted a new bun. We be presentable. Holding hands like children, young lovers, we walked back to the wagon. The horse was stubborn when Freddy say, “Giddy-up.” Freddy had to snap the whip to make him trot. I looked back at my lost home. Only later did I realize we’d made love in the garden where summer nights, Freddy and Miz Assing kept company.

Rochester

Time flew. Wasn’t long before Freddy had the house rebuilt.

“I won’t run, Anna. This is our home.”

So be it. “You going to be here when they burn it again?” I wanted to ask. But that be water over the bridge. No sense asking him to stay.

The house rose like a white dream. I would’ve painted it blue. Would’ve built it cheaper, too. Freddy always gone to pay for it. Speeches, speeches, and more speeches.

As far as I was concerned they could’ve torched the house again. Freddy built it with an extra room (never mind extra cost) and I knew, come summer, Miz Assing be living in my house like a second wife. I didn’t count how many summers. Ten, twelve. What’s the use? Seemed like they just rolled into one, my long trial by fire. Most days, if I’m lucky, I just smelled her. Lilac was her scent. That sickly, sweet smell haunted my house; I threw open the windows even when it stormed.

Bible said man, like God, be head of his house. All right. Though, Freddy thought he lived in biblical times. Having many wives.

Sometimes I heard things. I wondered if Miz Assing did too. Julia Griffiths’ sister, Amy Post, lived in town; Miz Post boasted, “Julia’s a dear, dear friend to Mr. Douglass.” Humpf. White women could sure lack dignity. Colored women too. In church, sanctified women sat in the pew behind me. Before the children came in from Sunday school, they talked, whispering, but wanting me to hear every word. They read all the colored papers and what they couldn’t read, they heard as good gossip from the Pullman porters. They always managed to say, “She white.” Like that be the bigger insult. I rarely shopped in town. Couldn’t stand the false “how-dos,” then, the tittering behind gloves. I almost quit church. But before I knew it, Pastor would be on my door wanting to know why. I couldn’t lie to him.

“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.” How come it don’t say husband? Covet thy neighbor’s husband? Maybe God knew married women be more faithful. Obeyed their vows.

Miz Assing don’t go to church any more than Freddy. But Freddy went on special days: Easter, Christmas. He knew colored folks wouldn’t stand for him being godless. Even now, after all these years, I don’t know how deep his faith be.

Mine be deep. But I never expected God to make life perfect. Didn’t get angry at Him even when I hurt the most. Even when I was awake, knowing Freddy be inside Miz Assing, down the hall.
Lord, have mercy
.

I drew strength from my children. My garden. As Miz Sojourner Truth say, “Ain’t I a woman?” I’d feelings. I’d survived by fighting back in “little ways” where and when I could. Small battles. Still.

I’d survived by being me. Anna.

“I waited, wasted my life away.”

—O
TTILIE
A
SSING,
DIARY ENTRY
, 1857

“Miz Stowe’s book
, Uncle Tom’s Cabin,
made me wish I could read. Well and good.
Like you.”

—A
NNA
D
OUGLASS,
SPEAKING TO
R
OSETTA
, 1857

Washington, D.C
.

I was in a cheap boardinghouse in the nation’s capital. Douglass wanted his speech transcribed, translated into German for publication:

“Gratitude to Benefactors is a well recognized
virtue… .”

I’d heard Douglass give this speech numerous times and each time, I’d felt outrage. He’d never thanked me. Never mentioned me.

“When the true history of the antislavery cause
shall be written, women will occupy a large
space in its pages, for the cause of the slave has
been peculiarly woman’s cause. Her heart and
her conscience have supplied in large degree its
motive and mainspring. Her skill, industry,
patience, and perseverance have been wonderfully
manifest in every trial hour.”

For eighteen years, I’d served Douglass to the best of my ability. A true companion. Lover. Strategist.

There was only one thing I was certain about: Douglass hadn’t lost interest in the fair sex. Nor they in him.

“Foremost among these noble American women …”

American. Not German.

“Foremost among these noble American women,
in point of clearness of vision, breadth of
understanding, fullness of knowledge, catholicity
of spirit, weight of character, and widespread
influence, was Lucretia Mott of Philadelphia.”

Old witch.

“Kindred in spirit with Mrs. Mott was Lydia
Marie Child.”

I appreciated these women. Truly. But they were sanctimonious in the extreme. They held their teas and never invited me. Each passing year, I grew lonelier and lonelier.

“For solid, persistent, indefatigable work for the
slave, Abby Kelley was without rival.”

Miss Kelley survived more egg peltings than anyone.

“Nor must I omit to name the daughter of the
excellent Myron Holly, who in her youth and
beauty espoused the cause of the slave… .”

But what of
your
daughter? The summer your house burned, Miss Seward sent a letter kindly asking Rosetta not to return. Poor Rosetta. She endured much for our fine principles. Now nearly a lady grown, she hasn’t stopped struggling to please you. Off to Oberlin College to be educated, of course; but, particularly, because she’d thought you’d approve. Have you told her? That you admire her? That you’re grateful? I can still hear her saying, “Don’t embarrass Father.” Her vision of life.