The Loom (18 page)

He shouldn’t have done it. It was a bad choice. The wrong decision because what stared back at him was an image he would never forget. The face of his father covered with black beetles, erupting out of a mouth that had praised, that had chastised, those repulsive winged insects squeezing in and out of narrow nostrils, climbing, crawling on, across the blue corneas of eyes stretched wide and looking, staring at him, through him.

Michael backed away, one step, two, and broke loose in the fields, running with his eyes shut as far as he could through the open meadow. He didn’t want to see where he was going, just wanted to keep on moving. He wanted to end up somewhere, some place unbeknownst to him. Needed to find himself anywhere else. Fleeing, he discovered that what scared him, thrilled him, was this running, racing, flying through with no vision. But distinguishing danger from excitement was difficult at nine.

Old Man Henry found him hours later crouched in a rusty shed several miles from his house, his window, his father.

And so it had been one mistake after the other. He shouldn’t have married Emma. Tied forever to a woman he didn’t love, linked to the lie of a union, bound by the burden of returning each day to a place he didn’t want to be.

He never desired her, never wanted to feel her arms around him. Nothing in him rose to touch her. Ever. The more she tried to give herself to him, the more the thought disturbed him. She was a friend of sorts, a sister, had become a mother to him. It had been an error. Just a business deal. An arrangement. And who got excited about an order, a duty, aroused over a cold, hard handshake?

He felt awful about it. Every time he saw her sitting still, staring out at the world around her, he felt his heart bleed. It was a cut on the inside, a sharp slice of truth of what he had done, of who he had become and what he had turned her into.

He still couldn’t shake that evening in the rain. It played in his mind often, especially evenings when hints of gray clouded the sky. It had been years and to this day he found himself glancing around, peeking behind him, determined to never be taken off guard again. He dreamed about it. The patter of feet following, racing after him. It put a fear in him, and to be quite honest, a respect for Emma for the first time. She was not weak, but controlled, and as much as he hated to acknowledge the bitter seed of distrust he had sown in her heart, dangerous.

He had witnessed her will when she convinced him to take two injured slaves under his care, but he saw her strength the day Isaiah was killed. Death all around him. His overseers relayed the story of the slave’s encounter with his daughter, but he knew the man. Had known him for years and was certain it had been nothing. Despite the fact, he was coerced into letting them teach his servant a lesson. He allowed it and couldn’t stop it in time. He had been wrong.

That morning when he stepped on the porch, he saw Lydia being carried away and was showered in shame. He had avoided her as much he could since that night in her bedroom. He could feel the heat rise in his face, his ears warm at the memory of rejection. He was usually so sure, read all the signs of a woman’s interest accurately. Hadn’t she glanced over him one night on the front porch? Gazed into his eyes a little too long? And to think she’d assumed he would force himself on her. It was a disgrace. He never did that. Never had to.

He was surprised how easy, how eager women were to lie in his arms. It all started with a look he shot at long lashes. It only took seconds to know, to wait for the batting, the shy glance down and her lids to lift, her eyes to lock with his. That was it. A sure thing. He would love her, adore all that she possessed, until the thrill died with the break of day and left him crammed up against a log wall, staring down at pretty eyes rolled back in a head as messy as it was wild and a mouth he had kissed, drooling against his arm. He left disgusted and determined not to return. He would see her the next day, the next week, with another on his arm, and her eyes would blaze, or she would curse him if she was bold or run off. That was the most common response. Running off. He was the master, after all. No one went crazy on him. Except his wife.

He was just like his father, and though he hated it, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. It was in his blood.

One dreadful step after the other, Michael made it home. He studied the wooden frame of the old house he’d sold his soul for, then glanced up at Elizabeth’s window. He had failed every woman in his life, had disappointed them all. He needed to do right by one of them. At least one.

The least he could do was grant his daughter her slave. He would simply tell John he misspoke. Lydia was to go with his daughter when she married, like Beatrice with Emma.

Would Lizzy end up broken like the other women in his life? Michael bit his lip and swallowed the thought, bracing himself against the chill of autumn with folded arms.

He watched John approach, his gait light and carefree. Something glistened in his hand, his countenance. What did this man have? Something more than money.

“Whew! Chilly this morning, isn’t it, sir?” John said, tugging the frayed collar of his coat against his throat. “Seems too bright to be cold.”

He nodded. Up close he could see the dented copper box. “Is that the money?”

“Yes, sir. You have the papers, Dr. Kelly?”

“Well, see, that’s the thing, John. I’ve been thinking.” Saying no proved harder with the bills so close, in a sparkly box, only a handshake away. He took a deep breath. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Sir?” His hand dropped to his side as if the weight of the treasure suddenly multiplied.

“I’m sorry, John. Lydia needs to be with Elizabeth. I should’ve never told you yes. It was a mistake.”

Like every decision he ever made.

He glanced into the eyes of disappointment, a look he was used to seeing, a glare that made him ashamed.

“But I do understand. Don’t think I don’t.” He knew all too well. “You want to spend more time with your bride. Listen, that’s no problem. I can ease up a little on the girl so it can feel like a real marriage for you. That Lydia is a beauty.” He nodded. Looked at the man a moment too long, delivered a message he had not meant to send.

John stared at him. Michael swallowed.

“You’ve caused enough pain.” The high-pitched voice startled him.

Michael turned around. Several feet away, Emma stood behind him. Had snuck up on him again.

She stepped forward, her eyes steady on his. “Let them go.”

Lydia knelt between Lou and a splintered crate in the corner of the still cabin. Inside the box, a wooden bowl and spoon shifted on top of a cast-iron skillet as she slid it against the back wall.

Closer now to the sleeping woman, she drew the rainbow quilt over her grandmother’s shoulders and placed the thin black rope of hair into her lap. Gently, she unraveled the strand and weaved lock over lock into a tight braid. Many moons had brought them here, to this cycle of life where the latter one labored like the one who came before. It was time for Lou to rest. Lydia nestled into her, happy to do anything for this one who loved her strong.

Lou stirred before mole-dotted lids lifted.

“Grandma, you all right?”

“Fine.” Lou blinked several times and smiled slowly. “My baby.”

Calm, comforting Lou.

“You certain?”

“Yes, Lydia. Just tired. Help me up now.”

Lydia knelt beside her and lifted Lou’s shoulders from the ground. Panting, Lou struggled up. Beads of sweat slipped from her temple, curved down her cheek, and slipped into the deep folds of her neck. When her breathing steadied, Lydia leaned forward and whispered.

“John is speaking with Dr. Kelly today.”

“Today?”

She nodded and grasped her fingers. “May have already done it.”

“My Lord.”

“Can you believe it, Grandma?”

“Yes, chil’, I can.”

Joy sprang Lydia to her feet. She lifted her hands and twirled herself into another world. With a spin of worn cotton, she was lifted out of the tiny log cabin into a grand hall of royalty.

“Grandma, I’m going to march out of here a free woman.”

“I like that, Lydia.” Lou laughed. “I like that.”

“I’m going to hold my head up high.” She jutted her chin forward. “Don’t need to look at the ground no longer, begging, pleading, because I’m going to walk around land I own. Bury my bare feet in grass that is mine, Lou. Mine.” She wiggled her toes and put her hands on her waist. She took a step. One, two, three steps, one foot in front of the other, she strutted back and forth for the one who rooted her on. “Oh yes, I am going to eat the richest foods.” She couldn’t think of any. “Wear the finest gowns.” These she knew well. “Satin and silk and lace, Lou, weaved, knitted, and sewn by somebody else’s tired hands.” Let them work for hours creating something for her back. “I’m going to go the furthest place my mind can take me.” She had no idea where. Anywhere but here. And then she remembered John’s words. “I am a rich, free woman, a seller of purple. You know what purple is, don’t you, Grandma?” She didn’t even wait for the woman to answer. “It’s the color of kings and queens.”

“Oh my, my, my.” Lou shook her head. She was feeling it too.

Free!

It was the most beautiful thing.

Lydia fell to her knees, laid her head back in her grandmother’s lap, and let the tears roll, slip into her ears. Lou caught the ones she could in her palms.

“Isaiah would be so proud knowing.”

He would. That right-sided grin would light his face. Yes, it would.

“I wish you could come.”

“For what? Baby, I already got what you trying to get.” She hummed a slow tune before she opened her mouth and sang, “I’m going to meet Jesus. Going to meet Jesus. Yes, I’m going to meet Jesus. Going to meet Jesus after a while.” It was slow, but sad?

Not one bit.

Lydia hadn’t heard her sing the song in years. Years. “Oh, Lou.” She buried her face into the coarse burlap against her cheek.

“What will I do without you?”

“Don’t you worry. You ain’t never going to be without me. Not for a minute.”

Lydia sat in the dark on the redwood bench her father crafted, waiting for John.

The sky was as black as the night she ran free. She tilted her head when she saw him, a shadow moving toward her, among the trees. She could see his arms, his legs lift, the outline of a man, strong and tall like her daddy. She slid to the edge of her seat and waited, watched him come to her like a dream.

“John.”

“Lydia.”

She rose to embrace him, but before her arms could lock around his neck, he gripped her elbow and stepped back.

“Is everything all right?” She looked at him, could barely make out the details of his face, nothing to read. “Let’s go inside.” By the candlelight. “Oh, and I have something for you. You hungry?”

He shook his head and followed her indoors.

“You’re back late.”

“Yeah, I was here earlier before you came.”

“Well, how did it go?” The silence between them, the pause of that moment, waiting, waiting to hear if they had been granted life, hovered endlessly. She could feel her shoulders rise. Seemed they never did fall. “Well? Did you talk to Dr. Kelly?”

“I did.”

He tormented her with each sigh, with every break in his speech. She was much too tense. She laughed. “You taunting me?”

“No. I’m sorry, Lydia.”

“It’s all right.” She could see him now. Charcoal eyes watching her, flashing white every glance away. “What did he say?”

John propped himself against the wall, a knee bent and a foot flush against the logs behind him.

“Lydia, did something happen with you and Dr. Kelly?”

The words entered her ears, tumbled to her heart.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did you… Did he… I don’t know, Lydia, you tell me.”

She shook her head. She could see his chest rising and falling, waiting. “No,” she said finally, but her hesitation told him all he needed to know.

“Lydia…” He shook his head. “Tell me it’s not true. Lydia?”

“It’s not. Not like you think.”