“Your mother recently died?”
“No, she don’t die, she jus’ release herself from her earthly body, jus’ like she keep tellin’ me she got to do. But she with me right now. We jus’ can’t see her.”
The two men look at each other again. Mr. Burton take in air and let it out real slow. “Robert, take him in to Molly. Ask her to give him a room and set him up with a few light chores.”
“I suppose you could learn to polish silver?” the slick man says, takin’ hold a my shoulder and steerin’ me downstairs.
THIS HOUSE SO big, I don’t know how I ever gon’ find my way ’round. The room off the kitchen that Molly puts me in to sleep is bigger than the room that I was livin’ in with my mama. After Molly says to get to sleep and then closes the door on me, I start cryin’. I miss my daddy, but most, I miss the way my mama always kiss my face good night—smoochin’ on me until I tell her to stop. I just want to feel her kissin’ me one more time. I’m scared here by myself. This big house is too quiet. I’s used to hearin’ noise at night, those my age out runnin’ the streets shoutin’ each other down, men drinkin’, gamblin’, laughin’ with each other, and women, too, that fool with the mens. Some nights they get to fightin’ an’ I get afraid they’re comin’ in, so after Mama throws the bolt she takes her chair an’ sits in front of the door, tellin’ me that anybody come in, they got to first get past her. Then I can sleep. My mama never was too big, but she got plenty of fight in her when it comes to lookin’ out for me.
“Why don’t we tell Daddy he got to stay with us?” I ask at those times.
“He doin’ the bes’ he can do,” she always say.
“But why don’t he stay?” I ask.
“Chil’, he bring us his half dollar every Sunday that pays the rent. We got nothin’ to complain about.”
“He brings us the money, then why you got to take in all that sewin’ the way you do?” I ask.
“How you think we gon’ eat? How we pay for that wood to cook up the grits and to make us a fire when it get cold? You look ’round you. How many does you see shiverin’ when it snowin’ outside and they don’ got the clothes to cover up? Don’ you members las’ winter, when we go over to see to Mr. Woods and he—”
“Don’t, Mama,” I say, “don’t talk ’bout that.” I don’t like to think of that man we found layin’ on the dirt floor of his room with nothing but a small rag covering his dead self and his woman sittin’ there cryin’ ’bout what she gon’ do now.
“There lots a people out there like Mr. Woods,” she said. “Your daddy always make sure we got a good room with a fire and a roof over our head.”
“But why don’t he live with us?” I keep askin’, till one day she sits me down.
“Nex’ time your daddy here, you watch the way he keeps on his feet. You ever see him sit? No, you don’, and I gon’ tell you why. He always be ready to go. He run from bein’ a slave, and he still think they comin’ to take him back. He got work outside a Phil’delphia at the tavern where all the coaches stop. By watchin’ out who comin’ into town, he think that he gon’ see if anybody come lookin’ for him. Here in town your daddy always afraid somebody gon’ see him and send word to his old masta.”
“So why don’t we go live with him?” I ask.
“Out in the woods Henry keeps movin’ ’round ’case somebody get wind a him. An’ he don’ want us there if he get picked up. He ’fraid they get us, too. Sell us for slaves.”
“An’ we don’t wan’ be no slaves, like Daddy. Sheila say slaves is low-down.”
“Son! I don’ wanna hear you say that no more! The word ‘slave’ don’ mean somebody’s bad. Plenty of folks ’round here come from bein’ a slave. It mean that somebody got hold a you and you don’ have no say. Your daddy can’t help once bein’ a slave. There no shame in that. There only shame in the man who use him like that.”
THAT FIRST NIGHT in Mr. Burton’s house, I’m wonderin’ where my daddy is, but I go to sleep crying for my mama.
The next morning I wake up, sun’s coming in the small window that sits over my bed. Real quick, I pull my clothes on and get myself out into the kitchen, but Molly’s already working at the stove.
“You shoulda woke me up so I can get to my work,” I say, afraid Mr. Burton will find out and send me back.
“Come over here and get yourself somethin’ to eat,” Molly says, and sits me down at the table, then sets a plate of two eggs with a big slice a ham in front of me. I sit quiet and wait for her to come back and take out what she gonna eat. She looks over at me. “Go ahead,” she says, nodding at the plate.
“How much a this do I get to eat?” I say.
“That is all for you.”
“I got to eat all this? What you goin’ to eat? What Robert goin’ to eat?”
“Chil’,” she says, “we already got our food. You go ahead now and eat up. I give you some milk when you finish.”
I dig in with the spoon, but when I lift the meat with my fingers, Molly comes over.
“Here,” she says, “this is how we work it in this house.” She cuts the meat with a knife, then gives me a fork to spear it.
I never do see two eggs on a plate like this before. Eggs is hard to come by, an’ even though some folks keep chickens, they don’t stay for long ’cause they get eat up.
I’m done eating, my stomach all puffed out, when Robert comes in. Quick, I get off my chair to show him I’s ready to work. He looks me over, then goes over to a hook on the wall and takes down a big green apron that he ties around hisself.
“We have our work cut out for us,” he says. “I’ve found some suitable clothes, but first we must get you scrubbed clean.”
“But you washed me last night,” I say to Robert.
“And today you shall have a full bath,” he says.
I ask if I should start to carry in the water. Like he don’t hear me, Robert jus’ goes over and turns on a inside spigot that’s right there in the kitchen, and water starts pourin’ out! He puts it in two big kettles, and while he’s waitin’ for it to get hot he has me stand on a stool so he can cut my hair. I keep lookin’ at that spigot. I’m glad if this means I don’t have to carry in water, ’cause it gets heavy.
After Mama got sick and she couldn’t lift no more, I carried the water in from the outside spigot that everybody get to use. The water for washing was always cold, and we didn’t waste the wood just to heat it up, except for in the winter, when the fire was already going.
Carryin’ in the water was heavy, so I brought in just a half bucket every time I made the trip, and Mama always said that was enough. Even though she’d stand at the door and watch for me, I didn’t like to go out in the alley, past the heaps of dirt piled up and the rats big as cats digging in everybody’s slop. The winters wasn’t as bad, ’cause the piles was froze and the smell wasn’t so strong. But when it got to warmin’ up, the folks like Mr. Woods, who lived out there in the rooms close to the outhouse, they had a stink.
“Why you got to cut my hair?” I ask Robert.
“Because you’ve got hair that makes you look like a wild dog,” he says.
“I do?” I say. “What kind a wild dog?” But he don’t say nothin’ and just keeps cuttin’. When he’s done, I tell him my ears feels cold, but I don’t know that he hears me, ’cause he’s busy pourin’ the hot water from the stove into a big washtub and then tells me to get in.
“You tellin’ me to step in there?” I ask, watchin’ the steam lift up.
“Remove your clothes,” he says, so I take off my shirt real slow, not liking this one bit. “Now your pants,” he say, and I look over at Molly. It don’t seem like she’s looking my way, so I get out of my pants and jump in the water, quick, but it’s too hot to sit.
“Sit down,” Robert says.
“I’m gonna cook,” I say, tryin’ not to yell out when he pushes me down.