Yellow Wife Read online

  Over bread pudding he revealed, “I was born here in Richmond. Lived in a two-room shack just up the road. After my father died, I had to figure out a way to put food on the table. We did not have much to begin with and I was never good at starving. My mother and younger brother needed me to look after them, so I left home at sixteen in search of work.”

  He shared how he had gotten his start as an itinerant trader, much like the men who had brought me to the jail. Moving up and down the East Coast, knocking on the doors of tobacco and rice planters, inquiring whether they would sell.

  “It took about four months to assemble a profitable coffle of about three hundred, and then we would march farther down south. I got good at trading and developed a reputation, but after a few years the travel wore on me. On a trip home, I saw this place for sale with all the buildings intact, and I knew it was time to settle down and expand my business endeavors.”

  He purchased the jail for six thousand dollars and quickly established himself as the proprietor. While he spoke, I kept my face pleasant and my eyes on his large hands. The more he drank, the more he waved them around to illustrate his point.

  Not once on our nightly visits did he ask about my growing belly. I figured he spent his time with me because he was lonely, and often wondered why he did not have a wife. My fear of him never subsided and I remained on guard. But after a few weeks, I came to look forward to those moments of human kindness. He always spoke to me as if I had what Miss Sally would call good gumption, which made life at the Lapier jail bearable. While I waited on Master Jacob to come for me, I could temporarily endure his company for a few small comforts. Besides, sitting in the parlor provided an escape from the droning, depressing music of my confined circumstance.

  “You are always looking at the piano. Can you play?”

  I wrung my hands. “Yes, sir.”

  “I would be pleased.” He motioned.

  I could barely calm the eagerness that surged through my toes as I stood and moved toward the instrument. Sitting at the piano, I arched my back to make room for my front. The baby started kicking as soon as I poised my fingers to play, and I hoped the music would settle it.

  The first song that came to mind was the last one I’d played for Master Jacob, “Pretty Dreamer.” I felt a bit off-center and my fingernails scratched the keys. But by the third stanza, I did not have to think about where my fingers traveled. I just walked across the keys and let the sound flow through me. I was no longer in the parlor, the jail, or Richmond. I floated high above this place. Dancing, feeling, recalling Essex, my mama, and all my family on the Bell plantation as if no one controlled me. Like I was free.

  When I finished, the Jailer rose from his seat and offered me his hand. I got to my feet, and he caught me off-kilter by kissing me on the neck. I stood still as plywood.

  “I have chosen well.” He took a rose from the vase on the table and handed it to me. I did not look at him when I wrapped my fingers around the stem.

  “May I go?”

  “I am not trying to frighten you. You are special, Pheby Delores Brown.”

  I could not move, because he stood in my way.

  “I am not feeling well, sir. May I go?”

  He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. The kiss was wetter than the first, and my skin burned with repulsion. No other man had touched me except for Essex. I clutched the rose stem tighter.

  “Please, sir.” I felt sweat gathering under my armpits.

  “Yes, you may.”

  I hurried to my bedroom and closed the door behind me. When I opened my hand, my palm bled from where the thorn had pierced my flesh. I dipped a cloth into my water pitcher and scrubbed at each of the spots on my body that he’d touched, until my skin felt raw and bruised.

  CHAPTER 14

  Christmas 1850

  When I lived on the Bell plantation, Christmastime was the season of the year we all looked forward to. Rules were relaxed, and Master Jacob permitted the field hands a whole week of rest and leisure between Christmas and New Year’s Day. Aunt Hope would have Parrott slaughter the fattest hog and sometimes, if the season turned a good profit, a few chickens and a lamb, with the meat to be distributed evenly amongst the field hands. Most of Lowtown spent the free time repairing their cabins, tending to their gardens, hunting for game, and fishing. If they had family on a nearby plantation, Master Jacob wrote passes for them to visit.

  Every night there was a party in Lowtown, and even those of us who lived in Hightown were permitted to attend once we were finished with our evening chores. Down in the clearing, the fire pit blazed, food was plentiful, men drank whiskey, women plum wine, and the children apple cider. After the feast, fiddlers and banjo players would start playing together, keeping the rhythm so that everyone could dance.

  When we danced, we cast our worries to the wind. All our troubles and ailments forgotten. We seized life with both hands, crushing our tribulations with the sway of our hips and the stomp of our bare feet. On the eve of Christmas, a yearly allotment of goods and clothing was distributed. Men were given one new shirt and a pair of pants, women a burlap dress, and the kids new socks. Last year Missus Delphina had surprised everyone when she gave out ribbons to all the women and girls in the fields. Master took pleasure in lining up the children and handing out new balls, wooden instruments, and small dolls, but the kids mostly looked forward to the candy.

  The next morning was my birthday. Most slaves did not know the date they were born. But Mama made sure I did. December 25, 1832. And for as long as I could remember, 1850 was to be the happiest celebration of my life. I would finally turn eighteen and receive my freedom papers.

  Instead I opened my eyes on that agreed-upon morning, with child, confined to the back bedroom of the Jailer’s house, and a rage opened up inside of me so hot I grabbed the glass water pitcher from the side of my bed and slammed it to the ground. I picked up the chair and flung it against the wall, and then tore the bed linen from the mattress until it fell into a tangled heap. I wanted my free papers like Master had pledged. How come he had not come for me yet? I had lived my life on that promise.

  July knocked.

  “Go away.”

  “Elsie prepared a Christmas breakfast.”

  “Not hungry.”

  I felt July hesitate at the door, but I urged her to go and enjoy the day without me. Not a soul at the jail knew that it was my eighteenth birthday, and I aimed to keep it that way. After hours of staring at the walls, I restored my room and then ate the cold biscuit that I found on the dining room table. I did not know where the Jailer had gone, but when July returned that evening, she told me that Elsie was mad with me for not coming to eat.

  “Said you uppity.” She folded her legs underneath her on the floor; her thick braid sat on her shoulder, tied with the pink ribbon I’d made for her. I bunched my covers over my lap.

  Things had been like icicles between Elsie and me over the past month, since I’d moved into the big house. She took to saying only what was necessary, and mostly relied on messages sent through July. I had no problem keeping my distance. I passed my time in the supply room mending clothes, bundled in layers since it had gotten cold. I had moved a few things around, and Tommy carried old rubbish out so that it felt like my cozy little nook.

  That is where July found me a week later, on New Year’s Eve, when she burst through the door like her tail had caught fire.

  “Girl, what is the matter?”

  “Marse is back.”

  “That is no cause to near break your neck.”

  “I heard ’em talking while I served drinks in the tavern. Ya old marse? He dead.”

  “What?” I dropped down on my stool, gripping my belly.

  “I heard ’em say so. Marse Jacob Bell died few weeks ago.” The air left my body. Master Jacob, gone? It could not be. I opened my mouth and out came a bloodcurdling scream. July leaned over me, rubbing my back, but I could not stop shaking. I growled, shouted, pounded the table, pull
ed things from the shelves, and hollered over my bad luck until my throat was raw.

  “It is goin’ be okay.” July rubbed my hair off my forehead. “There, there.”

  But I knew it would never be all right. With Master Jacob gone, I would be stuck in this place for the rest of my natural life.

  I pulled myself together long enough to walk over to the big house and shut myself off in my room, hoping to retire early so that the awful day would end, but when evening fell the Jailer called me to the parlor. I told Abbie to tell him that I felt ill, but she refused to disappoint him. I lifted myself from the bed and let Abbie wipe my face with a damp cloth and July brush my hair.

  “Cake?” he offered, once I sat down in my usual chair.

  I shook my head, concentrating on keeping my emotions from clouding my eyes. The room felt stuffy. I moistened my lips and asked. “May I play something for you?”

  The moment my fingers glided across the ivories I fell into a trance and played every fast, erratic-sounding song I knew. I played until the sweat poured down my bosom and I had exhausted myself with my own fury. I pounded out my angriest tunes, surrendering my whole body to the rhythm of the music until my fingers cramped and my back throbbed.

  “Simply lovely.” He clapped once I had depleted myself. “Think I might take to hiring you out.”

  I hoisted myself up from the bench, smashing my palms down on the piano. “I want to go home.”

  “This is your home.” He crossed the room. Then, before I could move, his fingers ran the length of my sweaty spine and then started massaging my collarbone. I stiffened as his hands traveled downward and cupped my buttocks.

  “Oh, Pheby.” The longing in his sigh scared me.

  “May I go?”

  Every spot he touched on me flamed hot. Then he reached for my head and brought my face so close we breathed the same air.

  “Do not be afraid of me, Pheby. I want to open up the world for you.” He forced me to look at him. His eyes were emerald green.

  “I… must lie down in my condition.” I faked a cough.

  He put his nose to my neck and inhaled my skin. “Good night, Pheby Delores Brown.”

  When he released me, I shuffled to my room and stood with my back against the door, tearing off my dress and rubbing away his touch from my skin. When I got in the bed, I tried to sleep but could not stop thinking of Elsie’s warning.

  They call this place the Devil’s Half Acre. Who you thinkin’ the devil be?

  CHAPTER 15

  Fancy

  Six months after I arrived, I watched as the snow melted into slushy puddles, knowing that it was not the last fall for the season. I waddled now instead of walking, and worried that the weather conditions would cause me to slip and hurt the baby. Most days I felt fatigued. During the night, I could not find a comfortable position because of the heaviness of my belly. The nausea never subsided and I would hang my head over a pail, trying to decide if the rumbling I felt was hunger or sickness. When I moved, my feet ached as if I had stumbled on thorns and spikes. The baby’s kicks felt as though I was being beaten from the inside. Most days tiredness followed me from sunup to sundown, but I knew my survival depended upon me proving useful.

  I was in the middle of sewing a nightshirt for the baby from leftover scraps when the Jailer appeared in the doorway with a girl. She looked younger than me by a few years, and so fair that if she had not harbored ropes around her wrists, I would have believed him if he introduced her as kin.

  “Fit her in the best dress you have. Make sure she is clean and fed. Need her at the tavern in one hour’s time.”

  I nodded and he left the girl to me. Her cobalt eyes scanned the shed like those of a cornered sheep and I knew she was trying to make sense of her new situation. I remembered the feeling well, and as soon as the Jailer closed the door to the tavern, I untied her. The ropes were just obnoxious. She would never get out of the jail anyway, unless escorted or with a pass.

  “What is your name?”

  “Charlott.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “ ’lizabeth City.” Her eyes were red rimmed, signaling little sleep, and her dress bore a gaping hole in the waistline like someone had tried to rip it off. I thumbed through my small collection of dresses and found a blue one that appeared to be the right size. Charlott stared at the ceiling, and while I tightened it to fit her figure, her gloom was obvious. I tried shaking it off by make-believing that I was preparing the sweet child for a party. I hummed and sang, but no matter how hard I pretended, the image of Matilda on the auction block, naked for all to see, clouded my head. The deafening silence got to be so painful that I could not stand it, so I peppered her with questions until she told me her story.

  “When I’s three, I’s given as a gift to Master’s first wife, Miss Sarah. Life was happy till she fell from her horse and died. Massa took a second wife. Where ’n my troubles began.”

  She went on to tell me that from the moment her new mistress laid eyes on her, she seemed set on punishment. Charlott could not please her no matter how hard she tried. Her master was adamant about not wanting his slaves scarred by the whip, so after a few paddles and kicks, her mistress turned to the punishment of the pump.

  While I had experience with a missus who did not like me no matter how hard I tried to please, I had no familiarity with a pump made to inflict pain, so while I fixed Charlott’s hair, she explained that her mistress would have her stripped naked and then lowered by cable cord down into the well. The spout of the pump was elevated and angled on top of her. At the mistress’s command, water would be released in full force.

  “The water went ice cold in a blink of the eye. Felt like bein’ struck wit’ heavy sticks in all directions. Was a game to her. How long ’fore I cried out from the sting. Then how long ’fore I fell silent from the shock.”

  Charlott told me after her last time under the pump, she was fevered for over a week. No amount of blankets could make her warm. Once she got better, she tried to run but did not make it out the neighbor’s woods before the bloodhounds caught her.

  “Next day the wagon come for me. Then I’s here.”

  I took her story in to digest later. Time ran short, so I finished by giving her my old shoes. “I am sorry for this. If there was anything that I could do for you I would. May God be with you through it all.” I squeezed her cold hands and then walked her up to the tavern. When she reached the door, she squared her shoulders but did not look back.

  I could not rid my thoughts of Charlott’s story. The more I stuffed it down, the more it bubbled up. I needed to do something. Since I knew the Jailer would be at the tavern for a while, I left my post and went to the house. I called out but no one answered, so I made my way to the library. The Jailer’s writing desk was pushed against the wall. I stood in the middle of the room, listening to make sure no one followed me. When I felt certain I occupied the house alone, I pulled on the gold handles and slid the drawer open. Inside there was a calendar, writing paper, and two dip pens. Farther back in the drawer sat a small bottle of ink. I took the pen and ink, shuffled down to my room, and retrieved the diary from my hiding space.

  When I opened my diary, the pages smelled like Mama. I flipped past her recipes until I found a blank page. Right there on the floor, I dipped the pen and jotted down everything that Charlott had told me along with a description of her and approximate age. Something about preparing her for sale had touched a vulnerable place deep inside of me. Perhaps I recognized that it could have been me, dressed and marched off. Our backgrounds were not the same but were similar enough, and I needed to do something that felt like help.

  I slipped the diary back into its hiding place and walked down the hall. When I moved into the library, the Jailer was standing next to his writing desk. I tried backing away but he turned at the sound of my footsteps.

  “Pheby. I did not know you were here.”

  “Needed hairpins from my room, sir.”

  He p
eered at me thoughtfully. “Where are your shoes?”

  I looked sheepishly at my feet tied with wood and linen, which I had used as makeshift shoes once my ankles swelled up.

  “Too small.”

  “You should have told me.”

  I kept my eyes on the floor.

  “There is work waiting for you. Run along.”

  I wobbled on. The ink and pen weighed heavily in my pocket.

  * * *

  Two nights later, the Jailer called me to the parlor. Once I sat down, Abbie brought me a paper bag tied with a silver bow.

  “What is this?”

  “Open it.” He leaned forward in his chair.

  I unraveled the bag to find a pair of royal-blue silk slippers. They were stunning, covered on the outside with a finely woven straw.

  “Thank you.”

  “Try them on.”

  Abbie knelt before me and slipped the slippers onto my feet. They fit beautifully.

  “Better.” He smiled. “Dessert, Abbie.”

  She got off the floor and limped off, returning with two plates of raspberry tart, then took her leave.

  I held my plate in my lap. “May I ask a question, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who bought Charlott?”

  He looked at me like he did not comprehend.

  “The girl you brought to me two days ago. Blue dress?”

  “An associate from Louisiana. Has a thriving business that he thought she would be perfect for.”

  “What was her sale?”

  His lips crinkled like he tasted something sweet. “Eight hundred dollars.”

  “More than a male field hand?”

  “Ah, so you have been paying attention to our talks.” He pushed his spectacles up his nose. “She will pay back that money to him in dividends.”

  “Why so much?”

  “Mulatto girls like her are a fancy breed.” He eyed me up and down and then it hit me. Missus Delphina’s last words. Take her to the Lapier jail to be a fancy girl to live out her life as a whore.