straining. I suppose I could bring one of the
other wenches in to help out—" He hesitated, clearly not taken with the
idea.
"That
won't be necessary," I replied. "I can manage nicely with Cassie
handling the lighter tasks."
"Fine,"
he said curtly.
I
left the room and returned to the kitchen. Later, when I was certain he had
left the house, I went back up to his room and made the bed, smoothing back the
sheets that still smelled of his body, pulling the counterpane back over the
pillows. As I ran my hands over the silky gold fabric, I wondered about this
strange, enigmatic man who owned me, who was apparently unaware of me as a
female. I wondered, too, about his wife, Alice, who had slept in a smaller room
down the hall, the room he had assigned to me. What had happened to her, and
why had it been necessary for them to have separate bedrooms?
Hawke
had never once referred to her in my presence, and when I had questioned Cassie
and Mattie about her, both women had looked frightened. Mattie finally
confessed that the master had forbidden any of them to so much as mention her
name.
"She
wuz a bad un, Mis Marietta," Mattie told me. "Lawd, what she done to
th' master—it ain't fittin' to speak about."
She
had refused to say more, and I had not pressured her. I wondered if Alice was
responsible for that icy, impenetrable shell he had built around himself. It
seemed likely, I thought, longing to know more about the woman who had once
lived at Shadow Oaks, whose name Hawke forbade any of the servants to speak.
Cassie
ordinarily carried Hawke's lunch out to him where he was working in the fields.
I didn't know whether this qualified as "heavy work" or not, but
after I had finished packing the basket and folding a clean cloth over it, I
told the girl that I would take the master his lunch myself. Cassie looked
relieved, for it was an extremely warm day, the sun blazing fiercely. The heat
and the long walk to the north field wouldn't have been good for her.
Leaving
by the kitchen door, I stepped outside, passed under the giant oaks that veiled
the yard with hazy violet-gray shadows, and moved past the weathered old barn
with hay spilling out of the loft, past the stables and the row of cabins.
Half-naked black children were playing noisily in the sun. Two strapping
wenches in cotton dresses and bandanas were stringing laundry up to dry. Mattie
was sitting in a rocker in front of her cabin, heavy, lethargic, contentedly
dipping her snuff. I smiled, waving, and the old slave acknowledged my wave
with a nod. Her grandson, Caleb, was halfheartedly repairing a wheel on the old
wooden wagon I had slept under so many weeks ago.
"Mawnin',
Miz Marietta," the boy said pleasantly.
A
tall, stringy youth of fourteen, Caleb had creamy, coffee-colored skin,
enormous eyes, a slack mouth. Mattie called him "a no-'count nigger"
and accused him of being shiftless and "totin' things that don't belong to
him," but I found the boy warm and friendly, a dreamy lad who was
undeniably slow-moving but always eager to do errands for me. Too thin and
sickly to work in the fields, Caleb did odd jobs around the place, like
repairing the wheel, although Mattie claimed he spent most of his time down by
the creek fishing with a bamboo pole.
"You
goin' to need me for somethin' this aft'noon, Miz Marietta?" he asked in
his softly slurred voice.
"Not
this afternoon, Caleb."
"You
goin' to make some of them molasses cookies an' slip me some liken you did last
week?"
"I'm
afraid not, Caleb. I'm baking a peach pie for the master."
"Peach
pie," he said dreamily. "Ol' Mattie don't never make us niggers
somethin' like that."
"You
ask real nicely, Caleb, and perhaps she will."
The
boy sighed and went back to his work. I strolled under the oaks that bordered
the grounds and started across the field of cotton that seemed to stretch to
infinity. The sky was a hard steel-blue, the sunlight blinding, and heat waves
rose from the ground and shimmered in the air above
other wenches in to help out—" He hesitated, clearly not taken with the
idea.
"That
won't be necessary," I replied. "I can manage nicely with Cassie
handling the lighter tasks."
"Fine,"
he said curtly.
I
left the room and returned to the kitchen. Later, when I was certain he had
left the house, I went back up to his room and made the bed, smoothing back the
sheets that still smelled of his body, pulling the counterpane back over the
pillows. As I ran my hands over the silky gold fabric, I wondered about this
strange, enigmatic man who owned me, who was apparently unaware of me as a
female. I wondered, too, about his wife, Alice, who had slept in a smaller room
down the hall, the room he had assigned to me. What had happened to her, and
why had it been necessary for them to have separate bedrooms?
Hawke
had never once referred to her in my presence, and when I had questioned Cassie
and Mattie about her, both women had looked frightened. Mattie finally
confessed that the master had forbidden any of them to so much as mention her
name.
"She
wuz a bad un, Mis Marietta," Mattie told me. "Lawd, what she done to
th' master—it ain't fittin' to speak about."
She
had refused to say more, and I had not pressured her. I wondered if Alice was
responsible for that icy, impenetrable shell he had built around himself. It
seemed likely, I thought, longing to know more about the woman who had once
lived at Shadow Oaks, whose name Hawke forbade any of the servants to speak.
Cassie
ordinarily carried Hawke's lunch out to him where he was working in the fields.
I didn't know whether this qualified as "heavy work" or not, but
after I had finished packing the basket and folding a clean cloth over it, I
told the girl that I would take the master his lunch myself. Cassie looked
relieved, for it was an extremely warm day, the sun blazing fiercely. The heat
and the long walk to the north field wouldn't have been good for her.
Leaving
by the kitchen door, I stepped outside, passed under the giant oaks that veiled
the yard with hazy violet-gray shadows, and moved past the weathered old barn
with hay spilling out of the loft, past the stables and the row of cabins.
Half-naked black children were playing noisily in the sun. Two strapping
wenches in cotton dresses and bandanas were stringing laundry up to dry. Mattie
was sitting in a rocker in front of her cabin, heavy, lethargic, contentedly
dipping her snuff. I smiled, waving, and the old slave acknowledged my wave
with a nod. Her grandson, Caleb, was halfheartedly repairing a wheel on the old
wooden wagon I had slept under so many weeks ago.
"Mawnin',
Miz Marietta," the boy said pleasantly.
A
tall, stringy youth of fourteen, Caleb had creamy, coffee-colored skin,
enormous eyes, a slack mouth. Mattie called him "a no-'count nigger"
and accused him of being shiftless and "totin' things that don't belong to
him," but I found the boy warm and friendly, a dreamy lad who was
undeniably slow-moving but always eager to do errands for me. Too thin and
sickly to work in the fields, Caleb did odd jobs around the place, like
repairing the wheel, although Mattie claimed he spent most of his time down by
the creek fishing with a bamboo pole.
"You
goin' to need me for somethin' this aft'noon, Miz Marietta?" he asked in
his softly slurred voice.
"Not
this afternoon, Caleb."
"You
goin' to make some of them molasses cookies an' slip me some liken you did last
week?"
"I'm
afraid not, Caleb. I'm baking a peach pie for the master."
"Peach
pie," he said dreamily. "Ol' Mattie don't never make us niggers
somethin' like that."
"You
ask real nicely, Caleb, and perhaps she will."
The
boy sighed and went back to his work. I strolled under the oaks that bordered
the grounds and started across the field of cotton that seemed to stretch to
infinity. The sky was a hard steel-blue, the sunlight blinding, and heat waves
rose from the ground and shimmered in the air above
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