She opened her eyes and a fat face loomed over her. He put a hand over her mouth. It was Baby. She hadn’t spoken to Baby in a long time, and she could instantly sense that he was different. Not the Baby she’d known. She felt him try to pry her legs apart. She yelled and he punched her in the face. Her jaw burned. She kicked and arched her back. Even though she couldn’t see around her, she guessed there was no one in Big Mama’s cabin with her. The children were gone. She could hear singing. They were all outside and they wouldn’t hear her even if she did manage to move his hand from her mouth. But he covered her mouth so tightly she could barely breathe. The look in his eyes scared her. He would do this to her. He would do this to her and the next day he wouldn’t even glance in her direction. For once, she was glad her children had sneaked off.

He pinned one of her legs beneath his knee. She kicked with the other leg. And she understood what he wanted from her: just one push. He wouldn’t even wait to satisfy himself. He just wanted to violate the master’s woman. He’d do it with a finger if he could, but she kept his hands busy holding her down.

I’ll tell. If she could speak, she would threaten him. But she wasn’t sure if it would mean anything. Sleeping in the slave quarters meant she was subject to its rules. She could appeal to the elders. She could try to get somebody to beat him. But she had no family. Some women had brothers who provided this protection. Others had lovers who let it be known their women were not to be messed with. Lizzie had no one.

Except Drayle.

I’ll tell. The words died in her throat as his fat finger made its way inside of her. He groaned. His grip on her mouth loosened and she bit him. Then she heard a loud thud.

He fell back and Lizzie rolled from beneath him and covered herself. She heard the skillet drop to the floor and then the sound of her son crying. She lifted herself up.

“Nate, come here.”

Philip kicked the pan away and knelt beside her. “You al-right?”

She nodded.

“Nate came here and found him on top of you. He came and got me. Why you in here sleeping when everybody else outside having a good time?”

“Nate, come here,” Lizzie said. She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted her son next to her.

A field hand stood in the doorway. “He dead?” he asked.

“Naw,” said Philip. “He all right. Just help me get him out of here.”

Lizzie scooted back into the corner, still holding on to Nate. “Where’s Rabbit?”

“Outside,” he said. They dragged Baby’s big bulk out of the door.

Lizzie touched her hand to her sore cheek and knew it would be swollen by morning.

Lizzie and her children moved into Philip’s cabin, the only one on the plantation built with hewed logs. He kept a neat and tidy room despite being a single man. Lizzie found Drayle in the kitchen one day and told him she was now living with Philip.

“Philip? That’s fine, I suppose. He’ll take good care of you and the children.”

Drayle was right. Philip treated her and the children respectfully. He always left when she needed to undress.

Each morning, he left to give little Billy riding lessons. This kept Philip busy, and Lizzie and the children were often asleep by the time he returned. Lizzie was grateful for Philip’s protection, so she kept the cabin as a wife would. She tended his laundry, brought back leftovers from the big house. He didn’t say much, just clucked his appreciation and went back on his way. He grew closer to Nate, sharing more animal stories with the boy once he learned he liked them.

Lizzie wished Billy would leave. She did not feel any ill will toward him, but he was the sole reason she and her children were back in the slave quarters.

Fran never once inquired about Nate and May. It was as if they had never existed. Sometimes Lizzie’s children came to the kitchen door to fetch something or run an errand. If they caught sight of Fran, she turned the other way. The children now looked as ragged as the other slave children. Despite their protests, Lizzie had finally taken away their fine clothes for good. There was no use for them in the quarters. The next time a slave with a pass visited the plantation, Lizzie gave them the clothes to sell in town.

Eventually the hurt looks on Nate and May’s faces lessened as they realized Fran would not be their special mistress anymore. Lizzie dampened the hurt by bringing them treats from the house. She also took to hitting her children more, especially Nate. She didn’t want a white man to be the first to beat her son. When he received his first beating, he would take it with the knowledge that a beating couldn’t hurt him. He would have to learn how to be a slave now.

One day while Lizzie was shelling peas in the kitchen, she heard Fran scream from somewhere inside the house. She had never heard Fran scream like that, so she wiped her hands and hurried out to the front. Fran was kneeling over a small body and when she lifted her hands, Lizzie saw they were covered in blood.

Lizzie rushed forward, then stopped. It wasn’t Nate. It was Billy. His head was bleeding and his eyes were closed.

“Lord!” Lizzie said.

Philip was talking fast. “He was riding. He was all right. And Mr. Goodfellow just bucked.”

“Why did you put him on that one-eyed bastard? he’s too big for a child!”

Drayle slammed the front door behind him. “What happened?”

“Your slave. He did this.” Fran pointed at Philip. “He did this to my boy.”

“No, no, no,” moaned Philip. “I swear, Marsuh Drayle. I was right there. That one-eyed horse just bucked.”

Dessie came out of the kitchen. “I sent for the doctor.”

“Help me get him on the table,” Drayle said to Philip.

“Don’t touch him!” Fran screamed.

“We’ve got to get him off the floor, Fran.”

Lizzie took Fran by the arms and pulled her up.

Dessie cleared the table, and the men lifted the child onto it. Dessie brought out a wet cloth and wiped at the blood on the boy’s head. Lizzie sat Fran down and rubbed her arms.

“He’ll be fine,” Lizzie said.

Drayle stood in the corner, watching Dessie clean the child up. He was trembling and it took everything Lizzie had not to walk over to him.

Because first, she had to tend to Fran.

TWENTY-FOUR

Sunday morning. Two male slaves jumped. The preacher hummed a tune and the elder women moaned. A young woman shook her hands in the air. Drums had been outlawed in the entire county so two young male slaves tapped out a blunt rat-a-tat on a tree stump. Others clapped a rhythm.

Then the singing began. A woman with a strong, clear voice stepped forward and sang. When she stopped and sat down, a man stepped forward and picked up where she left off, lyrics choppy and improvised. When he paused, another one took it up. The preacher shook his leg in obvious delight.

Lizzie sat back, slightly outside of the circle, each child perched on a leg. They stared curiously. Although several of the slave women danced with babies tied to their backs, Lizzie’s children had never been to a Sunday meeting. During the last decade of Big Mama’s life, she claimed she was too old to make it down the hill, and had made her own Sunday morning right there in her cabin where she quoted Bible verses from memory, holding the Bible right up to her nose as if she were actually reading it. Once Lizzie learned to read, she read the Bible to Big Mama on Sunday mornings while the children restlessly fidgeted before they were allowed to go outside and roam the empty quarters.

Sunday morning meeting was held a slight ways off from the plantation in a hollow. Most of the slaves eagerly made their way down the hill to the grassy clearing where their own homegrown preacher took up his most respectable aspect and preached to them. He couldn’t read, but his memory was such that he could recite all of the books of the Bible in order, backwards and forwards. He had been raised by a Bible-loving woman who had a smattering of reading knowledge but had been too intimidated by her master to pass along that precious knowledge to her son. Instead, she taught him to memorize the passages. Pretty soon, the slaves learned the litany he recited at the beginning of each meeting: MatthewMarkLukeJohnActsRomans… naming the books of the Bible was a prayer in itself.