Never Too Late by Michael Phillips

have.”
    â€œI’ll do my best. And maybe she won’t always be a slave.”
    Hardly hearing the prophetic statement, Lemuela smiled and laid her head back down on the pillow, at peace for the moment, whatever should happen. Gradually the other women returned.
    An hour later a little girl was born. The minute she appeared Josepha suspected the reason for Lemuela’s silence—the father of her daughter was surely white.
    But though Lemuela’s life was never really in any danger and she fully recovered, Josepha never forgot her promise. As the girl grew, Josepha’s secret devotion to the daughter grew equal to her devotion to the mother.
    Much to Hazel’s joy, the new mother became Lemuela Jukes two years later when she became the wife of Wayne and Hazel’s son. She gave the old couple four grandchildren before Hazel died of influenza one particularly bad winter. The growing family continued to live in the cabin with Grandpapa Wayne, though as the years went by, being field slaves, Lemuela’s children did not see as muchof Josepha in the big house as she might have wished.
    Josepha continued to work in the McSimmons kitchen. As she had foreseen, the younger sons of the plantation owner grew to become wild, with a mean streak not to be found in the father.
    A day came in the mid 1850s when Josepha heard a knock on the front door. Both master and mistress were out. She went to answer it. A tall, thin black man she had never seen before stood on the porch.
    â€œMornin’ ter you, ma’am,” he said, smiling and tipping his hat.
    Josepha stood staring. She had never been called ma’am in her life!
    â€œI’s new ter dis area,” he said, “an’ I’s lookin’ fo work.”
    In the distance Josepha saw the master and his thirteen-year-old son walking toward the barn.
    â€œMister McSimmons, suh,” she called, descending the steps past her visitor. “Dis man says he’s lookin’ fo work.”
    Master McSimmons turned and approached.
    â€œWhat do you mean looking for work?” said the McSimmons boy. “He’s just a nigger like you. We don’t pay niggers to work. We tell them what to do and they do it.”
    â€œShut up, William,” said the father. “You’re not as smart as you think you are.—What are you, a freedman?” he asked, walking toward the house where the black man still stood.
    â€œYes, suh,” he answered.
    â€œYou from the North?”
    â€œNo, suh. I’s from down Mississippi way. I earned my freedom, suh.”
    â€œI see. Well, I’m sorry but I’ve got all the help I need.”
    â€œI’s good wiff horses, suh.”
    McSimmons nodded and scratched his chin for a moment.
    â€œHmm . . . all right,” he said, “—tell you what . . . let me think on it a spell. Then you come back and see me in a week or so. I’m not promising anything, mind you. I’m just saying come back and see me just in case.”
    â€œYes, suh. I’ll do dat, suh.”
    The master and his son turned away and continued on toward the barn. Josepha stood staring after them. The moment they were out of sight she turned and motioned for their visitor to follow. She led him around the house toward the side entrance to the kitchen, where she walked in, gesturing for him to follow. He did so.
    â€œSit down ober dere at da table,” she said as she immediately began gathering a plate and putting things on it. “By da looks ob it, you could use somefin’ ter eat.”
    The man chuckled. “Hit’s true,” he said. “I been travelin’ a long time. Sometimes hit’s a mighty long time between meals.”
    â€œWell then, you eat as much as you kin,” said Josepha, setting a plate of sliced bread in front of him. Butter, cheese, milk, and a generous slice of apple pie followed.
    â€œDis is mighty kind er you.”
    â€œI knows