As the night grew dark and they sank into the thin soft of their pallets, they slept lightly, anticipating the crowing of the cock so they would know if they would have to work under the white-haired woman again.
In the morning, the slave women rose earlier than usual to begin breakfast. They looked to their tow sacks for the grain they used to round out their meals, but found that the sacks were empty. The women went from cabin to cabin to see if the same was true for everyone. And then the slow realization sank in that the food had been rationed.
Master Drayle had taken their food in order to punish them for complaining about the woman overseer. They were certain of it. When they reported to the fields that morning, there perched the hefty, white-haired white woman high in the tree, the heavy folds of her dress snapping off tips of branches.
“Get to work!” she yelled, fiercer than usual.
The slaves began their toil, their stomachs rumbling with emptiness. No one spoke to Jeremiah, even those who had encouraged him. He was back to his usual silent self. A sack of nuts made its way from slave to slave, and the sound of shells being crunched between teeth rumbled among them. That night, the women barely spoke to their men, blaming the lot of them for the empty sacks hanging slack by their doors.
NINETEEN
On Fran’s fortieth birthday that year, the slaves cooked a celebration dinner. Fran’s best childhood friend, Yancy Butterfield, arrived in a sea of green. Taffeta, earrings, necklace, jingling bracelets. Green shoes peeking from beneath her dress. All set against a skin so translucently white that Lizzie had to force herself not to stare. Mr. Butterfield and Drayle retired to the library where they defied Fran’s wishes by having a before-dinner cigar.
The two women settled in the parlor and waited for Lizzie to stoke the fire.
They began their visit by taking turns admiring each other’s jewels. Lizzie couldn’t help but notice that Yancy’s were more exquisite. Fran seemed to note it, too.
“What a lovely dress, Yancy. You outdo me on my own birthday.”
“It’s all in the fabric, dear. That’s why I brought you something special.” She lifted her chin toward Lizzie. “Miss Dessie. Would you mind fetching that box out of my carriage?”
Lizzie forgave Yancy for calling her the wrong name. All because she said “miss.” Because she said “would you mind.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Wash up first,” Fran added.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lizzie knew that the women had grown up together and were closer than Fran was to her own sister, but the two friends seemed different to Lizzie. Whereas Fran was moody and subject to extreme changes in temperament, Yancy exhibited a mild steadiness. There was a genuine pleasantness to her that Lizzie sensed to be more than a public offering, and when Lizzie saw the woman sitting next to her husband in the parlor, she observed a tenderness between them that she had never seen between Drayle and Fran. At one point, the man had even fondled the bracelets on her arm. Lizzie felt that if she lived with the Butterfields, she would not be so guiltless in her betrayal of the mistress. In a way, Fran’s spite made it easier.
Lizzie was transfixed by the Butterfield carriage. She had never seen one so fine. Leaves swirled around it, its dark fabric a stark contrast to the fall foliage. She poked her head inside and inhaled. Lilac sweet, just like Yancy Butterfield. Lizzie climbed into the carriage and closed the door behind her. She shut her eyes and pictured her and Drayle, riding along, his head on her shoulder, her hand on his knee.
She leaned back into the seat and felt a soft package dig into her back. She pulled it from beneath her, hoping it wasn’t ruined. She perched it on her shoulder and went into the house where she carefully deposited it in front of their guest.
“Thank you, dear.”
Yancy placed the package in Fran’s lap. “Why don’t you open your present now? The men don’t have much interest in these things, and I can hardly wait.”
“Why not?” said Fran. She tore back the paper.
“I hope you like it.”
Lizzie took her time exiting the room.
“Oh my. Ohhhh my.” Fran pulled out yards and yards of blue fabric, the same fabric as Yancy’s green.
“This is why I wore this dress. I wanted you to see how beautiful it looked all put together.”
“I love it, Yancy. I just love it.” Fran disappeared with the fabric trailing behind her. “This must have cost you a fortune,” she called from in front of the hall mirror.
“If you need me to, I can get my seamstress to make the dress for you,” Yancy said. “You don’t want slaves fooling with this fabric.”
“A slave? With my fabric down in that old nasty workyard? I wouldn’t dream of having a slave touch this!” Fran came back into the room, her hand on her cheek as if the very thought made her flushed. “And I don’t need your seamstress. What would I need your seamstress for? I have my own.”
Dessie brought in cold drinks on a wooden tray and placed them on the table beside the women. Fran watched Dessie closely as she took the blue fabric and folded it into a neat square before placing it on the settee.
“Y’all be needing something else ’fore dinner, Missus?”
“No, Dessie. That’ll be all.”
Lizzie and Dessie nodded at the women before they went back to the kitchen.
Lizzie’s children sat at the table slurping milk, white mustaches above their lips. Nate was big for his age-only five and already taller than other boys his age. His legs bumped against the chair beneath him. Although Rabbit was just a year younger, she was smaller. She held the cup in her pale hands and smiled at her mother.
“Who gave y’all milk?”
“Master Drayle,” Nate said. He had learned recently that Drayle was his father, but was still unsure what this meant. He called Drayle by the name everyone else did-Master-and he had not connected that Drayle was his “pa” as some of the other slave children called their fathers or called men who were like fathers to them.
Lizzie patted at the milk stains above their lips with the tail of her apron. “Well stay out of the way, y’all hear? We’ve got to serve this dinner. If y’all want to play, go on back in the storeroom. Go on now.”
Dessie stirred a big pot of onion soup, bringing up slivers of the red and white bulbs to the surface. That would be followed by fried frog legs, Fran’s favorite. The rest of the meal had been planned by Drayle who insisted the only thing Fran cared about were the frog legs. So he’d ordered up his favorites: pork roast, mashed potatoes, collard greens. Dessie had made soda biscuits from scratch, the same kind she made for breakfast. Mrs. Butterfield’s husband still remembered Dessie’s soda biscuits from his previous visit, years before.
During dinner, Lizzie tried not to concentrate on the conversation. Serving dinner when there were guests present, whether a special occasion or no, was always a serious affair in the Drayle household. Nothing could be spilled on Fran’s hand-tatted tablecloth. Plates had to be taken at exactly the right time. Lizzie and Dessie had to distinguish between when a guest was actually finished and when they were merely taking a break. On days when there was no company Fran played games with them by pretending she was done-nudging her empty plate away from her and then picking up her spoon as soon as one of them approached. Whenever they made a mistake, she shouted at them so loudly that whenever they did have guests, the memory of her criticism was strong enough to make them nervous.
The dinner went off without any major slip-ups, and Lizzie offered dessert-a blackberry pie. Everyone declined except Mr. Butterfield who looked pleased with everything that had been served so far.
The others asked for coffee and Dessie instructed Lizzie to pour the coffee while she spooned up some dessert for Mr. Butterfield. Lizzie hated pouring coffee because the slightest mistake could cause it to spill into the saucer. She was convinced Dessie had assigned the task to her on purpose. But the head cook was older, and among slaves that meant something.