Cissie, pulled out a long black book, and started to write in it.
The pen scratched softly, the flies buzzed lazily against the ceiling. Sophie was on the edge of drifting off to sleep again when a clattering on the porch jerked her awake. The door flew open and a man stomped in. He was dirty and roughly dressed. Sophie thought he was another field hand until she saw that he kept his broad-brimmed hat on his greasy curls and looked Dr. Charles straight in the eye.
“Devon Cut needs a new gang-driver,” he said.
Dr. Charles kept on writing. “Give it to Old Guam.”
“Guam? That pipe-sucker?” His voice was like a street car braking. “He ain’t done an honest day’s work since the day his mammy weaned him.”
“Mrs. Fairchild has chosen Old Guam, and I agree.” Dr. Charles laid down his pen. “By the way, Akins, I’ve had a letter from Chicago. The new evaporators are on their way to New Orleans and should be here, God willing, in a few weeks. Have you read those articles I gave you?”
Akins tipped his hat to the back of his head. “Yessir,” he said. “That there evaporator’s a fine machine, but I’m thinking it’s a mite complicated for them niggers to run.”
“Given that a black man invented the apparatus, I have no doubt black men can learn to operate it, given the proper training.” Dr. Charles got up and put on a black frock coat. “Come along to the Big House, and we’ll discuss it. Why, hello, Canada. Have you come to visit Sophie?”
Sophie saw Canada, looking very small and black and meek, standing in the door with a large covered basket on her arm. “Yessir.” Her voice was so low Sophie could hardly hear her. “I brung her some broth.”
Dr. Charles patted the little girl’s head as he left. Akins ignored her completely. As soon as they were out the door, Canada turned and stuck out her tongue.
“Who’s that horrible man?” Sophie asked.
“That old Mist’ Akins, the overseer. His mama beat him with an ugly stick so hard, it gone straight on till his soul.”
Sophie laughed. “You’re funny, Canada.”
“White folks calls me Canada.” She pulled a canister from the basket. “You call me Canny.”
Sophie pulled herself up against the thin pillow. There was so much she didn’t know about living in the past. If she was going to be stuck here for a while, she’d better learn — preferably before she saw Mammy again. “Canny, will you tell me about Oak River?”
“Sure. What you want to know?”
“Everything, I guess. I never lived on a plantation before.”
Canny giggled. “You surely ain’t. Flandy like to bust himself laughing when he hear ’bout you asking for a bathroom!”
Sophie flushed. “I know I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“What you want to know?”
“Well, how soap is made and what a gang-driver does and why there’s a curtain over the bed, to start off with.”
Canny nodded. “Well, a gang-driver, he watch the field hands so they don’t slack off. The mosquito bar keep the mosquitoes from eating you all alive in the night. I don’t know nothing ’bout soap-making ’cept it stink to Heaven, but I know lots ’bout doves. I takes care of all the doves in the pigeon house.”
“Tell me about the doves, then,” Sophie said. “But I also need to know about cooking and washing and ironing and —”
“Ain’t nobody know all that,” Canny said. “And if ’n they did, they too busy to hang round here telling you about it.” She thought a moment. “Tell you what. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Everybody gots a plenty of chores, but I asks around some, see who can maybe come by for a spell. That suit you?”
“That suits me just fine,” Sophie said. “Thank you.”
Canny unscrewed the canister and poured a fragrant golden stream into a tin cup. “Momi say if this set well, she see ’bout trying you on boil chicken and white bread. You gots to drink, too — water, milk, sassafras tea.”
“Your Mama sure knows a lot about sick
The pen scratched softly, the flies buzzed lazily against the ceiling. Sophie was on the edge of drifting off to sleep again when a clattering on the porch jerked her awake. The door flew open and a man stomped in. He was dirty and roughly dressed. Sophie thought he was another field hand until she saw that he kept his broad-brimmed hat on his greasy curls and looked Dr. Charles straight in the eye.
“Devon Cut needs a new gang-driver,” he said.
Dr. Charles kept on writing. “Give it to Old Guam.”
“Guam? That pipe-sucker?” His voice was like a street car braking. “He ain’t done an honest day’s work since the day his mammy weaned him.”
“Mrs. Fairchild has chosen Old Guam, and I agree.” Dr. Charles laid down his pen. “By the way, Akins, I’ve had a letter from Chicago. The new evaporators are on their way to New Orleans and should be here, God willing, in a few weeks. Have you read those articles I gave you?”
Akins tipped his hat to the back of his head. “Yessir,” he said. “That there evaporator’s a fine machine, but I’m thinking it’s a mite complicated for them niggers to run.”
“Given that a black man invented the apparatus, I have no doubt black men can learn to operate it, given the proper training.” Dr. Charles got up and put on a black frock coat. “Come along to the Big House, and we’ll discuss it. Why, hello, Canada. Have you come to visit Sophie?”
Sophie saw Canada, looking very small and black and meek, standing in the door with a large covered basket on her arm. “Yessir.” Her voice was so low Sophie could hardly hear her. “I brung her some broth.”
Dr. Charles patted the little girl’s head as he left. Akins ignored her completely. As soon as they were out the door, Canada turned and stuck out her tongue.
“Who’s that horrible man?” Sophie asked.
“That old Mist’ Akins, the overseer. His mama beat him with an ugly stick so hard, it gone straight on till his soul.”
Sophie laughed. “You’re funny, Canada.”
“White folks calls me Canada.” She pulled a canister from the basket. “You call me Canny.”
Sophie pulled herself up against the thin pillow. There was so much she didn’t know about living in the past. If she was going to be stuck here for a while, she’d better learn — preferably before she saw Mammy again. “Canny, will you tell me about Oak River?”
“Sure. What you want to know?”
“Everything, I guess. I never lived on a plantation before.”
Canny giggled. “You surely ain’t. Flandy like to bust himself laughing when he hear ’bout you asking for a bathroom!”
Sophie flushed. “I know I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“What you want to know?”
“Well, how soap is made and what a gang-driver does and why there’s a curtain over the bed, to start off with.”
Canny nodded. “Well, a gang-driver, he watch the field hands so they don’t slack off. The mosquito bar keep the mosquitoes from eating you all alive in the night. I don’t know nothing ’bout soap-making ’cept it stink to Heaven, but I know lots ’bout doves. I takes care of all the doves in the pigeon house.”
“Tell me about the doves, then,” Sophie said. “But I also need to know about cooking and washing and ironing and —”
“Ain’t nobody know all that,” Canny said. “And if ’n they did, they too busy to hang round here telling you about it.” She thought a moment. “Tell you what. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Everybody gots a plenty of chores, but I asks around some, see who can maybe come by for a spell. That suit you?”
“That suits me just fine,” Sophie said. “Thank you.”
Canny unscrewed the canister and poured a fragrant golden stream into a tin cup. “Momi say if this set well, she see ’bout trying you on boil chicken and white bread. You gots to drink, too — water, milk, sassafras tea.”
“Your Mama sure knows a lot about sick
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