Good Fortune (9781416998631) (8 page)

It must be his rare time to check up on all us slaves.
I wondered about his sudden, odd appearance as a fear settled in my gut.

“Git away from that gal, boy!” The words erupted from Masta Jeffrey's lips as he approached the two of us. I stole a glance at John, his face set, almost calm-like, but his movements exaggerated in a clearly defiant manner. A frown broke through my blank face as Masta Jeffrey's boot came up and caught John's side.

“Move it!” he hollered, without even glancing over at me. I was frozen in place. Without flinching, John lifted himself up, moving as slowly as possible, and paused where he stood his ground quietly, quite obviously taller than Masta Jeffrey. He stared into the air. Anticipating the worst, I bit my lip in confusion, my fear growing.

“Didn't I say git, boy? Git away an' stay away. Too
much work to be done round here on my father's place for this kinda thing to be goin' on. Go on now.”

John turned his back after running his eyes across mine, which held questions I had no answers for. As John walked down the hill, Masta Jeffrey began a loud rant, to me, about complaints his mother had of poor work being done in the house.

“You are a house servant?” he asked, glancing back to see John's form still receding. I nodded but kept my gaze lowered, internally begging for that form to climb back up the hill.

Don't leave me here with him!

Afraid of moving, I sat there waiting for Masta Jeffrey to finish what he had to say. But he was silent, and I knew he was waiting until John had completely disappeared.

“You don't have to be afraid of me, darky. Look at me,” Masta Jeffrey demanded. I kept my eyes locked on the grass as if looking up would blind me for the rest of my life. He stepped closer to me. I pulled myself into a smaller ball. My heart was beating rapidly.

“I said look at me,” he spit out again. His voice didn't have the same harshness it had when he was talking to John, but it remained forceful. I looked up, afraid that if I didn't, he would lash me with his whip, or … worse. He smirked as we made eye contact. I quickly brought my eyes back down.

What does he want?

He bent down toward me. Startled, I tried to scramble backward, but a tree stood in my way. He bent lower.

“I said you don't have to be afraid of me.”

How could I not be afraid? In truth, I knew it then. I knew exactly what he wanted. It was the way his eyes dipped over my small frame as if I were a slice of cake on a fancy platter. But the fact was, I didn't want to know. As many times as I'd heard the whispered talk in slave row about young slave women being impregnated by their masters, I knew that just didn't happen on our plantation. Mary and the older woman had been here for years and never had that problem. Somehow I could not bring my mind to latch onto the idea of this happening to me. And yet, that very thought kept appearing, hauntingly, in my mind.

Why doesn't he have his way with me right now? What's he waiting for?

Maybe … maybe he wants something else? But what?

He bent nearer.

I was caught—a bird in a net with nowhere to go and no one to help. It was then that the urge to fight awakened in me, and suddenly, I was afraid of what I might do if he bent any closer. I did a dangerous thing, following a stubborn impulse that raced through my bones—those bones that remembered the feeling of having been my own person those many years ago. I lifted my eyes again and looked directly at him.

Take that from me, I dare you.

The feeling, the glance, and the words they signified lasted only a split second, but it seemed to be just enough.

A different sort of look ran through Masta Jeffrey like a
snake, and he took on the manner of a small child caught in a lawless deed. He rocked back slightly but regained his composure in a matter of seconds.

I scrambled up in panic, wondering why I'd allowed myself to let my feelings bleed so easily through my actions. Surely he'd do something now. I had to get away….

I was on my feet, and I turned to run, but his hand came quick and fast around my arm. I tried jerking away, but he tightened his grip.

“You listen close, you better keep your mouth shut about me coming near you. This ain't anybody else's business.” The craze and excitement over the undone deed seemed to be melting away. He patted the whip at his belt and loosened his grip on my arm. I pulled free and ran.

“You understand?” he hollered after me.

I wanted to scream back,
No, I don't understand! What do you want? Tell me, so I know!
But I kept running, and wouldn't turn back.

I stumbled down the hill, scrambling when I had to. I couldn't stop; I feared that if I faltered, he'd come storming down the hill behind me. I could have run back to my quarters and grabbed Mary in a tearful hug. But that was the direction I had seen John saunter, and I wanted to be alone. Nearing the woods, I dropped behind some bushes to listen for footsteps behind me. Straining my ears and hearing nothing of the like, I ran to the stream in the woods and cradled myself underneath a tree, trying to distract myself from the fear and confusion I felt inside.
With my finger, I drew the letters of the alphabet on the tree bark, and traced words I needed to hear.

No, I will not cry.

I rested my hand, leaned back against the tree, and sat still and quiet, allowing my thoughts to channel themselves into a low, monotonous hum.

CHAPTER
 
8 

I
T HAD BEEN TWO WEEKS SINCE
M
ASTA
J
EFFREY CONFRONTED
me, two weeks of anxious thought and nervous work. I tried to bury my fear beneath my composure, but at times, I'd find Mary scrutinizing me. She said nothing, however. I feared that at any time—when I was walking back alone to the cabin at night or cleaning an isolated room in the Big House—Masta Jeffrey would find me and force himself upon me. But that didn't happen.

I hadn't seen John in those two weeks, except for glimpses of him in the fields, where I worked in the afternoons, and when he preached one Sunday as if nothing were amiss. He was not there afterward, and I had no intention of searching. I thought he must've taken what Masta said seriously, and with good reason. It seemed to me that everything that brought me joy was taken from me.

It was Sunday once again, and after an exhausting week I was back at the waterbed. Missus called it a stream, but it was deep like a lake. It had its rushing waters at times and another bank that stretched to the length of about two or three of me. With my rags of clothes hanging on a tree branch close by, I had entered the water, prepared for
the chill. The day was unusually cool, considering that we were at least a month and a half shy of the fall season—the picking season. One of the days in this season had snuck up and turned me fourteen before I even noticed.

A group of trees stood directly between the stream and the back of the Big House, giving me the benefit of privacy. The cotton fields stretched out on the opposite side of the Big House. From where I was, I could spot anyone approaching long before they could see or hear me. There were no rules against slipping into the water; none I heard or knew of.

Slowly releasing my hand from the bank, I began kicking and paddling, doing my best to keep my head above the water. By now, I was pretty good at it. I'd discovered the stream when Mary took me with her to gather some herbs and fruit for cooking when I was much younger. A wild apple tree stood at the edge of the water. Masta and Missus had a small orchard of apples, but this tree grew the largest, juiciest apples of all. I remember climbing up to pull some of the fruit down for Mary. I fell into the water and couldn't get back out until Mary, frantic with worry, found a rope to drag me out. I walked away shaken, shivering, and determined to be able to fight my way through the water myself. I resolved to teach myself, and that I did.

On this Sunday, as I made my way toward the bank, I suddenly had the sense that someone was nearby. Moving closer to the bank and lowering myself until my mouth was underwater, I looked around and spotted no one. Assuming my intuition was wrong, I started to turn back.

Then I saw him.

The outline of his tall body was all I needed to tell me that John was there.

How long had he been there? Had he seen my naked body in the water?

I knew he wasn't that close, perhaps not even close enough to recognize that it was me. But a feeling of exposure made me shrink from his sight. His back was against a tree, feet crossed at his ankles, and he was fiddling with an object in his hands.

Carefully inching my way out of the water, I moved out of his line of vision. I grabbed my clothes and quietly struggled into them, still dripping with water. I ran my hands through my short hair to shake away what droplets I could. In order to leave, I had to cross back over to the other side of the bank. Silently, I made my way over, keeping my eyes on John's figure. As much as I wanted to see and talk to him now, I knew I couldn't; Masta Jeffrey's threats rang like bells through my mind. One inch, two inches. I crept along.

Reaching the other side, my heart leaped with both relief and sorrow. I had escaped. But I looked away from my feet too soon, and my left foot clumsily snapped a twig. My whole body went rigid as John's head snapped up. He looked right at me.

He turned my way and I waited there, knowing the best thing I could do was leave, to run. But I didn't, I just stood, holding my breath. Doubts rushed to my head from two Sundays ago.

What does he think of me?

I knew I had to go, but my feet wouldn't budge. Why was my heart always so stubborn against what my mind told me was right? I thought again about leaving, but it was too late. With a few strides, John was standing right in front of me.

“Your heart's speakin' loud today, ain't it?” he said quickly.

I wanted to scold him for reading my thoughts so clearly, as he had done many times before. Without looking at him, I responded softly, “You don't know nothin' 'bout my heart speakin'.” I made a motion to leave.

“Don't …,” he started, reaching out for my arm. But I held back.

“You know what Masta said,” I told him, my eyes set like stone on the ground, resisting the urge to meet his.

“Masta ain't here. He gone off into town,” John said quietly. I didn't even have to ask if he was talking about Masta Jeffrey or not—that was the only Masta on both our minds. His voice seemed to coax me into looking up at him, but I wouldn't.

“Sarah.”

“What?” I asked as I crossed my arms and stared up at him with the emptiest look I could muster. He held on to it tighter than I expected.

“Did he … did he do somethin' to you? He hurt you?” John's voice was heavy, but it seemed patient. I lowered my eyes and said nothing, the fear of confronting Masta Jeffrey again and him carrying out his intentions swelling like powerful winds inside my chest.

“Sarah …” But he stopped, waiting, as if the very ground beneath his feet would rumble when I spoke.

I pursed my lips and looked back up at him. “Naw,” I said simply.

John gave into the silence that followed for just a moment, before concluding that I was not convincing enough. “You ain't cryin', but I can see tears runnin' through you like a storm.” He said the words calmly, but I could hear an unsteadiness lurking beneath them. A wind blew past my face. I heard the water move behind me and a single bird chirp. Everything seemed to be saying, “You better not tell, Sarah, you better not.”
Tell what?
I had nothing to tell. Or did my heart know something my head didn't want to accept? And did John know something I didn't want to believe? I itched to get away, to escape confronting the very thing that frightened me when I worked in the Big House, anticipating the worst. But my feet remained firmly planted.

“He didn't do nothin', John.”

“He didn't do nothin'? That the whole truth?” He questioned me calmly, but I heard a hint of mockery and anger, whether imagined or not.