Silent Thunder (15 page)

It took me the better part of the morning to finish the wreaths. I stitched four in all, three small ones and one big one for Parnell's front door.

I set the wreaths around the anteroom floor to admire my handiwork. Mama would be pleased.

Just then, the sound of hooves came along the lane. It was Doc Bates's wagon. He was most likely bringing Miss McCracken. I watched from the window. There was no sign of Rose. A sudden clap came to the front door. I hurried to answer it. Doc Bates stood alone on the doorstep. He was holding a drawstring pouch in one hand, and what looked to be a folded
Harper's Weekly
in the other.

He said, “I'll be sure to catch the pleurisy if I stand out here in the cold. May I come in?”

I widened the space between us to let the doctor enter. “Yessir, doctor sir. Come in.” A draft had come in through the open door.

Doc Bates took off his hat. “The pleurisy's rampant in these parts. I can't afford to take id before the Christmas Eve cotillion, which will be swarming my very own parlor in just a few days.” The doctor sighed. “My Penelope will skewer me for certain if I come home coughing. A sick host dampens the holiday cheer of his guests—and his wife.”

I hardly ever had the chance to see Doc Bates up close. And this was the first time we'd spoken. There was something familiar and calming in the doctor's eyes. He had the same easy way about him as Miss McCracken. His lips were settled in a tiny smile of contentment. The hair on his head had been mashed by his hat.

Doc Bates was a stately man. Tall. Upright. Shoulders as square as the corners of the entry hall clock, which was now giving off two chimes. “It's young Master Lowell's lesson time,” I said. “Have you brought Miss McCracken with you?”

The doctor shook his head. “It'll be long past the New Year before Rose McCracken sees fit to teaching again. That young lady is forlorn beyond mention. She's suffered the loss of her beloved, young Johnny Kane, who fell in the Battle of Fredericksburg not even a fortnight ago.”

I did my best to look like I was dumb to the news of Johnny Kane. “What brings you, then?”

Doc Bates held up the drawstring pouch. “I've brought a ration of head powders for Gideon.”

“I'II tell my mama you've come to check on the master,” I said, stepping away toward the kitchen.

But with gentle firmness, the doctor fetched me back before I even had a chance to go. “Oblige me with a chat first, won't you?” he said.

I looked at him sidelong. “Sir?”

“I guess Gideon has neglected to teach his servants the duties of cordiality.” That little smile hadn't left the doctor's lips.

“Cordiality, sir?”

The doctor came closer to me. He lowered his voice. “What's your name?”

I cut my eyes toward the master's study, wondering if Parnell could hear us having some “duties of cordiality.” Then I glanced to the stairs to see if Lowed was coming for his lesson. There was no sign of him.

“Rosco,” I said, near a whisper. “Rosco's my name.”

“Rosco,” said the doctor. “You ever watch the stars at night, Rosco?”

I didn't answer one way or the other. Ad I did was shrug. Doc Bates may have been an easy talker with a smile on his lips, but he was still a white man. Still an acquaintance of Parnell's. Who knew where his cordiality was heading? I couldn't help but wonder why the doctor was trying to draw me out. You can never tell with white folks.

Doc Bates set the pouch of head powders on the hall bench. He unfolded his newspaper and, with both hands, curled it into a thick, tight rod. “Wed,” he said, “if star-watching ever strikes you, you can use this.” He swung his rolled newspaper to the ceiling and peered through one end. “Not quite a telescope, but it will bring the North Star into brilliant isolation. Especially on a clear night,” he said.

Then Doc Bates did something that made me blink. He pressed the paper rod right to my chest. “I hear more and more young nigras are learning to read. If you're one of them, this may interest you. If you don't know letters, find someone who does—someone you trust.”

Doc Bates was speaking near to a whisper. He said, “This . . . this star-finder is best used at night and in out-of-the-way places.” Doc Bates was standing over me, looking clear into my face. I couldn't hold his gaze, though. Its openness startled me. I didn't know what-all to do. I quickly lowered my eyes.

The doctor rocked once on his heels. “I'll take the head powders to Gideon myself. No need to cad on your mama. I know the way.”

Before Doc Bates disappeared into the gray shadows of the master's study, he said, “Let me know if you ever need anything, Rosco. I'm a man of healing.”

I dared to look at Doc Bates then. Straight and long, I looked. There was something more than openness in his eyes. There was invitation. Doc Bates was encouraging me to action. Clem had been right. What he'd said about the doctor's involvement with abolition had been true.

I went back to the anteroom by the scullery. I turned that paper open quick as I could. It wasn't the
Harper's Weekly
at all. It was called
L'Union
, a newspaper written by free coloreds in Louisiana.' I didn't even know there
could ever be such a thing—a whole newspaper made by nigras, written by colored men!

The paper was dated December 6, 1862. It told of Abraham Lincoln's draft of the Emancipation Proclamation. It urged coloreds to fight for freedom. It said:

Men of my blood! Shake off the contempt of your proud oppressors. Enough of shame and submission; the break is complete! Down with the craven behavior of bondage! Stand up under the noble flag of the Union and declare yourselves noble champions of the right. Defend your rights against the barbarous and imbecile spirit of slavery . . .

Like a blurred carriage on the horizon that suddenly comes into view, I now knew the true purpose of Doc Bates's visit. Doc Bates was offering me his help to go North. And to think it! If I was to get free, I could read and write openly, maybe even in a newspaper.

With a firm grip, I curled the
L'Union
back to its roll. I looked through one end. I studied the ceiling coffers.

I now had the cad from
L'Union
poking at me:
“Defend your rights against the barbarous and imbecile spirit of slavery. . .”

December 22, 1862

“K
IT!
K
IT
!”

There was no mistaking Missy Claire's call. It flew out from her dressing chamber like a nilly goose flails up from her just-laid egg.

Mama and I were in the kitchen, preparing the master's breakfast tray. “Quick,” Mama said, “set a tray with tea service and meet me in Missy Claire's chamber.” Mama hurried to tend to Master Gideon, then to Missy Claire.

This was the day Missy Claire's brother, Thomas Farnsworth, was set to come. Mama had woken me early and had insisted I leave the quarters with her at first light, way before Chief's crow. I tried to remember what Mama had told me about Missy Claire: that I should be mindful of the hardships Missy Claire had suffered. Since this had never come easy to me, I
figured I could at least make some pretty-looking tea for Missy Claire on the day she was expecting her brother. So I set a real fine tray, I did. Silver. Linens. China. Doilies. And a tea sock with Thea's best mint leaves. As I made the tray, I tried to imagine how I would feel if Rosco was coming to visit me, after not seeing him for a whole long time. Maybe that's what Mama meant by
mindfulness—putting
myself inside somebody else's circumstances.

When I got to the dressing chamber, Mama was sitting at the vanity with Missy Claire, preparing her hair for dressing. Missy Claire was leaning in toward the looking glass that hung above the vanity. “I look absolutely ghoulish!” Missy Claire was saying. She handed Mama her ivory-handled brush. “Curl quickly,” she said. “My brother Thomas prides himself on his punctuality, and he's scheduled to arrive this very morning, soon after the breakfast hour.”

Mama put the bristles to Missy Claire's hair. She smoothed it and parted it and curled it. When she was through, I helped Mama dress Missy Claire. First, we dressed her in brown watered silk. But Missy Claire frowned at her reflection in the looking glass. She said the color brown left her face looking pale. So we undressed her all the way down to her satin slip, fitted her with a fresh petticoat, and dressed her back up again, this time in a flounced dress of emerald green. This brought an even darker frown to Missy Claire's
face. She insisted that the flounces accentuated her poorly. Mama tried to make Missy Claire come to reason. “The breakfast hour is close,” she said. “Your brother's most likely near to town by now. I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you, whatever you be wearing, even if you was to greet him in a gunnysack.”

Missy Claire huffed. “A gunnysack! Oh, Kit, don't taunt me with such foolery.”

Finally, Missy Claire settled on a simple dress of French blue dimity. To me, the dimity made her look palest of all, and it showed off her scrawny arms and her chicken neck. If it had been me, I would have chosen the emerald green. Even a chicken looks good in flounces.

Missy Claire studied herself in the vanity looking glass. “Summer, child, help me with my pearls. I want to wear them today, in honor of my brother's arrival. The pearls belonged to our mother, Leona. The sight of them will surely please Thomas after his long journey.”

I'd only
seen
Missy's pearls, had never been obliged to
touch
them. Even though Missy was telling me to help her, it seemed I needed some kind of special permission to lay my hands on her delicate jewelry. I looked to Mama.

“You heard what Missy Claire's askin',” she said, real low. “Go ‘head, now—git the pearls.” Mama nudged me.

I lifted the pearls from their velvet-lined box that
sat on top of Missy Claire's vanity table. They were heavier than I expected they'd be, but the weight of them was joy to me. My hands trembled as I fastened the clasp at Missy Claire's nape. Those pearls were milky dots of beauty, even on a chicken neck.

Missy Claire stood quickly. She smoothed her dress, patted her hair, and swept from the chamber. Mama looked to see that Missy Claire had fully left the room. Quietly she said, “If I ever see freedom in my lifetime, one of its greatest glories will be the power to choose—whether it's a dress, or a ‘do, or a spoon to stir my tea.”

Mama was speaking more to the walls than to me. But still, I nodded once firmly. “I'd choose to wear pearls,” I said.

Mama followed Missy Claire in a flurry, taking the tea service with her. As she left, she told me to straighten Missy Claire's bed linens and to fluff her pillows. That pleased me fine. Mama usually fixes Missy Claire's bed—and fetches her jewelry—but today some kind of good luck was smiling down on me. I was getting to do both.

I made Missy Claire's bed with the most special care ever. I tucked. I smoothed. I yanked and folded. Each sheet corner was tight as wax to a barrel.

I took comfort in daydreaming that someday I'd be able to sleep in a feather bed of fine linens. I arranged each pillow just as Missy Claire likes it. She liked to say
her bed pillows should be positioned as if they were “a throne of clouds for the head of an angel.”

After the pillows, it was time for putting Missy Claire's china-headed dollies onto the bed. There were three of them dollies. They sat, side by side, on the settee in the corner. I propped the first two on Missy Claire's pillows.

The third dolly—I'd already named her Clove—was the prettiest of the three. She had molasses-colored hair and amber eyes. If she'd been a shade darker, she could have passed for nigra. When I lifted her from the settee, I couldn't help but hold her for a time. Even though her head was china, there was something soft about her, too. I folded her in my arms. I rocked her gently. I told her about Walnut. I told her about Serendipity.

Then I carefully set her on the bolster that topped Missy Claire's throne of clouds.

Soon as Mama gathered the remains of Gideon's breakfast tray, Missy Claire's brother arrived.

Thomas Farnsworth didn't do much talking, but, oh, was he ever lookin' things over. He was short and round-chested, with overgrown sideburns and possum eyes that watched every move we made. Missy Claire brought him right to the kitchen, where she sang praises over Mama's cooking. The whole time, Mama refused to even look in Thomas Farnsworth's direction. He was trespassing on her roost.

Missy Claire was blind to the whole thing. She was too busy telling Mama to serve tea cakes in the parlor, where she and Thomas would be spending the afternoon.

When Missy Claire and her brother left the kitchen, I saw Mama's jaw go tight. She got the same hard look as when I'd first shown her my lesson book—scared for what might be.

The afternoon crawled slow as an inchworm, with Mama keeping to herself through most of it. She made a supper of boiled pheasant for Missy Claire and her brother, and she served them with the careful hand that's expected for company. After supper she even rolled Thomas a twig of tobacco, and lit it so's he could smoke it.