Good Fortune (9781416998631) (12 page)

“John?” I asked again, waiting for his gaze to turn into an answer on his lips.

“I saw you, Sarah. I saw that look in yo' eyes an' knew you befo' I even knew yo' name. He was draggin' you out there. I coulda sworn it was me, that day, unda that whip.” My cheeks flushed with color.

“Ain' neva seen nothin' like that look—nothin' like it. You were hurtin' befo' he even laid that whip on your skin. You spoke to me, that day. Said, by the grace of God, nobody'd break yo' spirit an' rip from yo' soul any dreams that was born there.” I bit my lip.

“Now, you ask if you can trust me, an' I say, I'd sacrifice every piece've me befo' I eva see any person on this earth bring out that look in yo' eyes agin.” I heard his words but locked them away in my mind. They were so real, they scared me. Instead of responding, I picked up one of his hands and asked him to hold it open. But he didn't do so; a slight frown appeared on his brow. I could see him concentrating, trying to form a decent question that matched his thoughts.

“Sarah …”

“Ya?”

“Ain't nobody bin … bin tryin' to break your spirit?”

I knew already what had crossed his mind.

“John,” I said softly, looking into his eyes. He pursed his lips. “Don't think we should talk 'bout that, John.”

“Sarah …”

“John,” I responded softly, trying to coax him into letting his thoughts about Masta Jeffrey go for the moment. He looked away, shaking his head, and brought a patient face back around to me.

“All right. I ain't tryin' to talk of nothin' you don't wanna, Sarah. I won't ask again. I jus' …” I shook my head, then lifted his hand again.

“Nothin', John. Hasn't spoken to me or done nothin'. Now you gonna let me show you?” He stared at our hands for a moment, brushing his thumb against mine, and eventually opened up his palm. His eyes looked apologetic.

“Show me.” With my finger, I traced the letters of his name in his palm, watching his face while I did. A smile was drifting out from behind the clouds of his pride.

“Bin teachin' myself to read, John,” I whispered to him. His head moved back and forth, and he sat grinning.

“Can you grin any wider?” I asked him. He laughed this time.

“Naw, that's jus' … it's a good thing, a real good thing. Jus' hope you ain' goin' round tellin' folks …”

“John,” I said, placing a finger on his lips to quiet him, “don't no one know. I ain't no fool.”

“No, you ain't,” he said. Both of us jumped when we heard a rustling nearby, then turned to see a field hand walking by us. He nodded in recognition without smiling and continued on his way.

That jolted me back to reality. “I best be gettin' on now,” I said, and I stood up quickly, a bit fearful at the fact that I had so easily lost myself in a different world. John smiled softly and nodded, allowing his eyes to settle back on the wood and his carving tools that lay beside him.

CHAPTER
 
12 

T
HE FIRST WEEK OF
O
CTOBER DRAGGED SLOWLY BY, AND WITH
it came an inner battle with my learning. At this point, I had learned to read and write probably half as well as Masta Charles's little children, and that was no easy task. There was no teacher, only me and the lessons I picked up from the young ones. Every night, before I went to bed, I would take out a small section of newspaper that I had pulled from the garbage in the Big House and hidden under a loose floorboard beneath my pallet. It was on these sheets of newspaper that I'd draw imaginary letters with my finger, or with a stick, so that I could practice my writing. I'd even try picking through the words, reading what I could, and storing things I didn't understand for later.

Then, in passing one evening, I heard of a slave woman caught writing a letter to another plantation. I didn't know who it was she was writing to, or what the letter was about, but her master was deeply angered in it all and sold her far down south. What was it that had caused her master to sell her like this? Was it the mere fact that she had gotten educated in hiding? This concern stood out, and because
of it, the news hit me with a dreariness I couldn't find the energy to rid myself of.

What, really, does this education mean to me? Is it worth the risk?

The weather turned sullen and gray and my thoughts in the fields dragged me to a place deep inside where the sunshine couldn't have reached anyway, a place where dreams were crushed beneath the soles of a heaven I could not claim—a heaven where I had the basic right to be and act and live as a human being. I felt suspended deep inside that place, when I woke in the mornings and when I walked into the Big House. The feeling remained through the children's bickering and reviewing of lessons at home. I stopped paying attention.

I felt miserable, and perhaps God knew so. He brought down sheets of rain that lasted an entire week. Thunder shook the sky and wrung out any sunshine in our hearts. And at night, the lightning scared many out of sleeping. I couldn't find John to talk to; Daniel and Mary didn't know about me learning. There wasn't anybody to convince me to keep going. So I succumbed to my doubts.

It was in that manner, running from the demons and images my mind was creating, that I ran into Daniel one morning as he was trudging back from the parked wagon. The storm was coming to an end, and a strange gift that came to me unexpectedly renewed my passion.

“Hey, Daniel,” I said. “D'you hear what happened to that woman, the one try to educate herself?” He nodded, then shook his head, leaning in so I could hear his whisper.

“Bet that ain't even stopped her, neither. Hard thing to jus' up'n stop, learnin' is.” An almost invisible smile caught the edge of his lips as his eyes danced around to make sure no one was close by.

“You know what I'd give to learn?” he asked, capturing the thoughts that had been running through his head, and placing them on his lips. I looked at him closely, wondering if he was educating himself, too. But his face showed no signs. I listened quietly.

“There's places you can go from this hell, Sarah. I've seen it in the city,” he continued, his eyes wide and bright.

“What you mean?” I asked him, puzzled. He shrugged.

“Guess I'm just talkin'. But you remember that one day you asked me 'bout escapin' that burnin' feelin'?” he asked. I nodded. “Well, I met some folks know how to read an' write. An' I can tell, jus' a talkin' wit them, that learnin' sho' is one way to escape. Don't you think?”

“I think you talkin' a little loud fo' what you sayin'. An' all that's dangerous. Why even take them risks? What good does a little bit of learnin' do?”

Daniel looked over at me as if I were silly, a look that began to unwind the tight knots of doubts and tension within. “And that's not a risk worth its dangers, Sarah?” I grew aware of the noise our feet were making in the cold mud. I shrugged.

“Don't rightly know.”

He laughed and waved me away, walking off to do his day's work—a day empty of the excitement of learning. I
stared after my brother with wonder. Maybe learning was what I was supposed to do—what I was meant to do—if not for me, then for those who couldn't quite reach it.

The melancholy feelings and fear drained away from my spirit and sulked around like a sad shadow that knew it didn't have long to stay. Then, a new passion touched me somewhere in my spirit. Beneath my fears, beyond my doubts, that passion began to grow within me larger than before, a passion to learn I never thought I'd possess. I made a promise to myself: I would never give learning up.

CHAPTER
 
13 

T
HE TWO OF US WALKED OUT THE FRONT DOOR
. T
HE WOMAN
I followed was some years older than me, and had a wise air to her. Her name was Zoey; she was a house servant—obedient, very tolerant, and tactful, quite different from me. She seemed to accept her lot in life without many reservations. I liked her well enough, however.

In my hands, stacked almost higher than I could handle, was a bundle of white sheets and clothes from the house. I walked behind Zoey, trying to keep her bobbing hair, braided straight down her back, in my sight.

“Zoey, slow down!” I demanded. She had a neatly wrapped bundle set atop of her head. With one hand holding the load, she was swinging her small hips back and forth as if hearing the sound of music, as she had seen me do before. She glanced back at me but kept her pace.

“Slow down, I say, 'less you wanna take my load!” I said to her. She slowed until her strides fell in with mine.

“Wish you'd hurry up,” she said with more excitement than she mustered most days. “Don't you know what we in fo' today?”

“What you mean?”

“You ain't heard them yet, up at the Big House? It's Octoba 18.”

I nodded, remembering. It was the day Masta got his plot of land—the day we were made slaves on his plantation.

“Why is it he always celebrate that day, you think?”

Zoey shrugged. “Don't know, but it don't matta to me. You know they always celebrate, an' they give us good an' fine food fo' dinner when they do.”

There were a few holidays in the year that Masta and his family celebrated, and October 18 was one of them. For Christmas and New Year's, he and Missus would give us a resting period that lasted about a week after Christmas. That period offered me space to think. It was my relief.

Later that October day, I stood by Mary as she handed me some pots of food to take out for our feast. There were greens, cornbread, and bacon—bacon! I let the smell rise up and seep into my waiting nostrils, and shut my eyes for a moment with satisfaction. I looked over at Mary with a small smile.

“Look at this food, Mary!”

She chuckled at me. “Ya, and got y'all a surprise fo' later, too.”

“What is it?” I asked with wide eyes.

“Said I got you a surprise. Ain't gonna tell you now what it is. You go on an' take that food down to Daniel an' the othas. I'll bring it with me lata.”