The boy clapped his hands. “Make him talk again!”
His interest in the bird reminded me of myself as a child, and I decided to give him an opportunity. “I’ll tell you what. You have Robert send you to me every day at this time, and I will teach you how to take care of him. Then you can hear him speak every day.”
“You sayin’ you let me help you out with this bird?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Won’t be no work for me!” he said. “But Robert don’t want me foolin’ ’round the house outside a the kitchen, ’less he say so.”
“I’ll speak with Robert,” I promised.
IT WASN’T LONG before Pan was supplying Malcolm with the sycamore and dogwood branches that the bird loved to gnaw, and after the boy discovered how to keep Malcolm occupied, I often found the bird happily nipping at a swinging ear of corn or pecking at a carrot that hung above his perch.
Pan continued to surprise me with his quick mind, and because of his keen desire to learn, in time I began to teach him to read and write. One late afternoon, less than a year after his arrival, he stood beside my desk while once again I attempted to correct his use of the English language. As I was doing so, he leaned over to catch my eye. “Mr. Burton, why you doin’ this for me?” he asked.
“Why are you doing this for me?” I corrected.
“Yes, Mr. Burton. You right. Why are you doing this for me?” he repeated my correction.
“You are right,” I corrected again.
“I know I’s right,” he said. Then he repeated himself again: “I say, ‘Why are you doing this for me?’?”
“Can you be more explicit?” I asked. When I saw the confusion on his face, I worded the question another way. “What do you mean to ask when you say, ‘Why are you doing this for me?’ What do you think that I am doing for you?”
“You a white man helpin’ out a nigga chil’. You teachin’ me how to talk white like you. Why you doin’ this? Why you foolin’ with me?”
His earnest gaze touched me, and I was stung by his honest question. I turned away and felt for my handkerchief, then blew my nose. After folding my handkerchief, I was about to replace it when, without asking, Pan took it from me.
He leaned forward. “Look at me,” he said, and with his small hand, he reached over and pulled my chin to face him. Then, with supreme care, he used the cloth to dab away a droplet of water that had slipped from under my eye patch. “That eye weepin’,” he said. I was so touched that I rose and went to stand before a shelf of books, feigning interest while I composed myself.
He waited until I was seated again. “That eye hurt you much?” he asked.
“Does your eye pain you?” I corrected.
He gave a deep sigh. “Mr. Burton. You keep stoppin’ me, tellin’ me how to talk, I don’ ever get a chance to hear what you got to say,” he protested, then looked puzzled when I chuckled.
AS TIME PASSED, Pan continued to help Robert around the house and Molly in the kitchen—Molly’s only complaint now was his constant correction of her grammar—but increasingly, I called on him to assist me with my many projects. In his eagerness to understand, he was filled with questions and freely shared his observations. His carefree countenance broke through my guarded reserve, and over the next five years I came to care deeply for the boy.
But now he was missing! Could it be that he was stolen for a slave? It was a constant fear among the Negroes of Philadelphia, for it happened often. I imagined how desperate Henry must feel, as I recalled his own terror at being taken again for a slave. The thought of Pan meeting with this fate filled me with dread. He was quick-witted but had always been frail and surely could not survive the hard life of a slave.
If he had been stolen, he must be retrieved. And since I was traveling south for my work, could I not do so? Yet, the thought of it—the idea of deliberately exposing myself to people who bought and sold Negroes—terrified me. I had worked hard for the last fifteen years to move away from my past toward safety, and now the leaden ball of fear, one that had receded but had never truly left me, began again to grow.
CHAPTER TWO
1825
Pan
AFTER MY MAMA PASS, my daddy got no place for me to go, so one Sunday he brings me to Mr. Burton’s house. How my daddy knows this white man, he never say, he just tell me to keep my mouth shut while he do the talkin’. We go ’round to the back door, where a black man, dressed slick, name’s Robert, comes to the kitchen and takes us to what he calls the study. That place—I never seen nothing like it—is full of books and dead birds. While we’s waitin’, I take hold my daddy’s hand to stop it from shakin’, but I know him good enough not to say nothin’.
Soon as Mr. Burton walks in, I see he don’t want nothin’ to do with us.
My daddy push me ahead. “Mr. Burton,” my daddy say, “this here Pan.”
Mr. Burton looks down at me, then looks back up at my daddy like he don’t know what to say.
“I never ask you for nothin’, but now I’s askin’ you to take in my boy,” says my daddy.
“Henry, you know I am indebted to you, but he’s too young, and I don’t have need of more help. I would be happy to give you a purse, if that would help you out.”
“I’m not here for no money! I’m here ’cause my boy need work and a place to stay. His mama die las’ week and now she gone, he got nobody . . .” My daddy’s voice start to shake and I grab hold a his hand. He still can’t talk about my mama leavin’ us without cryin’. He holds tight to my hand and starts talkin’ again. “My boy can’t stay in town by hisself, and I’s still working outta town like before, so he can’t stay with me.”
Mr. Burton looks down at me. “How old are you?”
I’m guessin’ this man only got one good eye, ’cause he got a black patch coverin’ up the other one, but with the look he gives me, he only need the one.
“Tell him, boy,” Daddy says, bumpin’ my shoulder.
“I’s eight years old,” I say loud, knowin’ my daddy count on me to speak up.
“You appear small for eight years,” Mr. Burton says.
I don’t wait for Daddy to poke me again. “Not too small to carry in wood,” I say. “Carry in water, too, you needs it.”
Mr. Burton look up at my daddy. “Isn’t he too young to stay here on his own?”
My daddy talks quick. “He old enough to stay. He work hard, don’ need nothin’ but a place to sleep, somethin’ to eat, and somebody to show him what to do. I come get him every Sunday mornin’, see he get back by Sunday evenin’, no need for me to come in the house.” Then he looks down at me. “You ready to stay here an’ work, isn’t you, Pan?”
“I is,” I say real loud, makin’ my daddy nod to Mr. Burton.
Nobody say nothin’ for a while, then Mr. Burton say, “Henry, I owe you. We’ll give it a try, but if by next Sunday the boy doesn’t work out, you must take him back with you, and I will give you a purse.”
My daddy don’ t say nothing but turns and goes and leaves me standin’ there. Him goin’ like that makes it look like he don’t care, but I know better. He jus’ no good at sayin’ goodbye.
Mr. Burton calls Robert in. They both stand there looking my way, like they’s tryin’ to figure me out.
I don’t like it that quiet. “Where’s the work?” I say. They look at each other, then Mr. Burton smile, like I say something funny.
“Can you find some simple tasks to keep him occupied?” Mr. Burton asks Robert.
“I’ll have to give it some thought,” says Robert, the slick man. “He’s too young to be capable of much.”
What he know! I been takin’ care a my mama right through the week, till when my daddy gets back in town every Sunday. “My mama say I’s real handy to have around,” I say.
“But don’t you want to stay with your father?” Mr. Burton asked.
“He try takin’ me with him to the tavern, but they say he got to get rid a me or he’s out a job,” I say.
“And won’t you miss him?” Mr. Burton asked.
“He come see me every Sunday, jus’ like he do when Mama still here.”