The Invention of Wings

Handful

Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel?” Denmark Vesey shouted.
The whole church answered, “Now he’s coming for me.”

Must’ve been two hundred of us packed in there. I was sitting in the back, in the usual spot. Folks had started leaving it free for me, saying, “That’s Handful’s place.” Four months I’d been sitting there and hadn’t learned a thing about mauma, but I knew more than missus about the people God had delivered.

Abraham, Moses, Samson, Peter, Paul—Mr. Vesey went down the list, chanting their names. Everybody was on their feet, clapping, and waving in the air, shouting, “Now he’s coming for me,” and I was smack-dab in the middle of them, doing the little hopping dance I used to do in the alcove when I was a girl singing to the water.

Our reverend was a free black man named Morris Brown, and he said when we got worked up like this, it was the Holy Ghost that had got into us. Mr. Vesey, who was one of his four main helpers, said it wasn’t the Holy Ghost, it was hope. Whatever it was, it could burn a hole in your chest.
The heat in the church was awful. While we shouted, sweat drenched our faces and clothes, and some of the men got up and opened all the windows. The fresh air flowed in and the shouting flowed out.

When Mr. Vesey ran out of people in the Bible for God to deliver, he went along the benches calling names.

Let my Lord deliver Rolla. Let my Lord deliver Nancy. Let my Lord deliver Ned.

If he called your name, you felt like it would fly straight to heaven and hit God between the eyes. Reverend Brown said, be careful, heaven would be whatever you picture it. His picture was Africa before the slaving—all the food and freedom you wanted and not a white person to blight it. If mauma was dead, she would have a big fine house somewhere and missus for her maid.
Mr. Vesey, though, he didn’t like any kind of talk about heaven. He said that was the coward’s way, pining for life in the hereafter, acting like this one didn’t mean a thing. I had to side with him on that.

Even when I was singing and hopping like this, part of me stayed small and quiet, noticing everything he said and did. I was the bird watching the cat circle the tree. Mr. Vesey had white wooly nubs in his hair now, but beside that, he looked like before. Wore the same scowl, had the same knife blades in his eyes. His arms were still thick and his chest big as a rain barrel.
I hadn’t mustered the nerve to talk to him. People feared Denmark Vesey. I’d started telling myself the joke was on me—maybe I’d come to the African church for the Lord, after all. What’d I think I could learn about mauma anyway?

Nobody heard the horses outside. Mr. Vesey had a new chant going— Joshua fought the battle of Jericho, and the walls came tumbling down. Gullah Jack, his right-hand man, was beating a drum, and we were stomping the floor. Jericho. Jericho.

Then the doors busted open, and Gullah Jack’s hands stopped pounding, and the song died away. We looked round, confused, while the City Guard spread along the walls and in the aisle, one at every window, four barring the door.

The head guard marched down front with a paper in one hand and a musket gun in the other. Denmark Vesey said with his booming voice, “What’s the meaning of this? This is the house of the


Lord, you have no business here.”

The guard looked like he couldn’t believe his luck. He took the butt of the gun and rammed it in Mr. Vesey’s face. A minute ago, he’d been shouting Jericho, and now he was on the floor with a shirt full of blood.

People started screaming. One of the guards fired into the rafters, sending wood crumbs and smoke swirling down. The inside of my ears pounded, and when the head man read the warrant, he sounded like he was at the bottom of a dry well. He said the neighbors round the church found us a nuisance. We were charged with disorderly conduct.

He stuffed the paper in his pocket. “You’ll be removed to the Guard House and sentenced in the morning with due and proper punishment.”

A sob drifted from a woman on the far side, and the place came alive with fear and murmuring. We knew about the Guard House—it was where they held the lawbreakers, black and white, till they figured out what to do with them. The whites ones stayed till their hearings, and the black ones till their owners paid the fine. You just prayed to God you didn’t have a stingy master, cause if he refused to pay, you went to the Work House to work off the debt.

Outside, the moon looked weak in the sky. They gathered us in four herds and marched us down the street. A slave sang, Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel? and a guard told him to hush up. It was quiet from then on except for the clopping horses and a little baby tied on its mother’s back that whimpered like a kitten. I craned my neck for Mr. Vesey, but he wasn’t anywhere to see. Then I noticed the dark wet spatter-drops on the ground, and I knew he was on up ahead.

We spent the night on the floor in a room filled with jail cells, men and women crammed in together, all of us having to pee in the same bucket in the corner. One woman coughed half through the night and two men got in a shove-fight, but mostly we sat in the dark and stared with flat eyes and dozed in and out. One time, I came awake, hearing that same little baby mewing.

At first light, a guard with hair scruffing his shoulders brought a pail of water with a dipper and we took turns drinking while our stomachs rumbled for food. After that, we were left to wonder what was coming. One man in our cell had been picked up by the Guard six times and he told us the facts and figures. The fine was five dollars, and if your master didn’t pay, you got twelve lashes at the Work House, or worse, you got the treadmill. I didn’t know what the treadmill was and he didn’t say, just told us to beg for the whip. Then he lifted his shirt, and his back was grooved like the hide of an alligator. The sight brought bile to my throat. “My massa never pay,” he said.
The morning stretched out and we waited, and then waited some more. All I could think about was the man’s back, where they’d put Mr. Vesey, how his bashed face was holding up. Heat cooked the air and the smell turned sour and the baby started bawling again. Somebody said, “Why don’t you feed the child?”

“I can’t raise no milk,” its mauma said, and another woman with stains on her dress front said, “Here, give me the baby. Mine’s back home and all this milk with nobody to suck it.” She pulled out her brown bosom, clear milk leaking from the nipple, and the baby latched on.
When the long-hair guard came back, he said, “Listen for your name. If I call it out, you’re free to leave and go home to whatever awaits you.”

We all got to our feet. I said to myself, Never has been a Grimké slave sent to the Work House.


Never has.

“Seth Ball, Ben Pringle, Tinnie Alston, Jane Brewton, Apollo Rutledge . . .” He read the names till it was just me and the scarred man and the mauma with the baby and a handful of others. “If you’re still here,” he said, “your owner has decided the Work House will put you in a wholesome frame of mind.”

A man said, “I’m a free black, I don’t have an owner.”

“If you’ve got the papers that say that, then you can pay the fine yourself,” the guard told him. “If you can’t pay it on the spot, then you’re going to the Work House with the rest.”
I felt genuine confused. I said, “Mister. Mister? You left off my name. It’s Hetty. Hetty Grimké.” He answered me with the thud of the door.

treadmill was chomping and grinding its teeth—you could hear it before you got in the room. The Work House man led twelve of us to the upper gallery, poking us along with a stick. Denmark Vesey came behind me with the side of his face swollen so bad his eye was shut. He was the only one of us with shackles on his hands and feet. He took shuffle-steps, and the chain dragged and rattled.
When he tripped on the stairs, I said over my shoulder, “Be careful now.” Then I whispered, “How come you didn’t pay the fine? Ain’t you supposed to have money?”
“Whatever they do to the least of them, they do it unto me,” he said.

I thought to myself, Mr. Vesey fancies himself like Jesus carrying the cross, and that’s probably cause he doesn’t have five dollars on him for the fine . Knowing him, though, he could’ve been throwing his lot with the rest of us. The man was big-headed and proud, but he had a heart.
When we got to the gallery and looked over the rail at the torment waiting for us, we just folded up and sat down on the floor.

One of the overseers fastened Mr. Vesey’s chain to an iron ring and told us to watch the wheel careful so we’d know what to do. The mauma with the baby on her back said to him, “Who gon watch my baby while I down there?”

He said, “You think we got people to tend your baby?”

I had to turn from her, the way her head dropped, the baby looking wide-eye over her shoulder. The treadmill was a spinning drum, twice as tall as a man, with steps on it. Twelve scrambling
people were climbing it fast as they could go, making the wheel turn. They clung to a handrail over the top of it, their wrists lashed to it in case their grip slipped. The mill groaned and the corn cracked underneath. Two black-skin overseers paced with cowhides—cat o’nine tails, they called them—and when the wheel slowed, they hit the backs and legs of those poor people till you saw pink flesh ripple.
Mr. Vesey’s good eye studied me. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“From the church.”

“No, somewhere else.”

I could’ve spit the truth out, but we were both in Daniel’s lion’s den, and God had left us to it. I said, “Where’s all that delivering God’s supposed to do?”

He snorted. “You’re right, the only deliverance is the one we get for ourselves. The Lord doesn’t have any hands and feet but ours.”

“That doesn’t say much for the Lord.” “It doesn’t say much for us, either.”

A bell rang down below and the jaws on the wheel stopped chewing. The overseers loosed the people’s wrists and they climbed down a ladder to the floor. Some of them were so used-up they had to be dragged off.

The overseer unlocked Mr. Vesey from the floor ring. “Get on your feet. It’s your turn.”


Sarah

Handful’s mangled foot was propped on a pillow, and Aunt-Sister was laying a plantain leaf across the wound. From the smell that drifted in the air, I knew her injury had been freshly plastered with potash and vinegar.

“Miss Sarah’s here now,” Aunt-Sister said. Handful’s head rolled side to side on the mattress, but her eyes stayed closed. She’d been heavily sedated with laudanum, the apothecary already come and gone.

I blinked to keep tears away—it was the sight of her lying there maimed, but some of my anguish came from guilt. I didn’t know she’d been arrested, that Mother had decided to let her suffer the consequences in the Work House. I hadn’t even missed Handful’s presence. This would never have happened if I hadn’t returned Handful’s ownership to Mother. I’d known Handful would be worse off with her, and I’d given her back anyway. That awful self-righteousness of mine.
Sabe had brought Handful home in the carriage while I’d been away at Bible study. Bible study. I felt shame to think of myself, probing verses in the thirteenth chapter of Corinthians—Though I have all knowledge and all faith, and have not charity, I am nothing.

I forced myself to look across the bed at Aunt-Sister. “How bad is it?”

She answered by peeling back the green leaf so I could see for myself. Handful’s foot was twisted inward at an unnatural angle and there was a gash running from her ankle to the small toe, exposing raw flesh. A row of bright blood beaded through the poultice. Aunt-Sister dabbed it with a towel before smoothing the leaf back in position.

“How did this happen?” I asked.

“They put her on the treadmill, say she fell off and her foot went under the wheel.” A sketch of the newly installed monstrosity had appeared in the Mercury recently with the
caption, A More Resourceful Reprimand . The article speculated it would earn five hundred dollars profit for the city the first year.

“The apothecary say the foot ain’t broken,” Aunt-Sister said. “The cords that hold the bones are torn up, and she gon be cripple now, I can tell from looking at it.”

Handful moaned, then muttered something that came out slurred and indistinguishable. I took her hand in mine, startled by how slight it felt, wondering how her foot hadn’t crumbled to dust. She looked small lying there, but she was no longer childlike. Her hair was cut ragged an inch from her head. Little sags drooped beneath her eyes. Her forehead was pleated with frown-lines. She’d aged into a tiny crone.

Her lids fluttered, but didn’t open, as she attempted again to speak. I bent close to her lips. “Go away,” she hissed. “Go. Away.”

Later I would tell myself her mind was addled with opiates. She couldn’t have known what she was saying. Or perhaps she’d been referring to her own desire to go away.

Handful didn’t leave her room for ten days. Aunt-Sister and Phoebe carried her meals and tended her foot, and Goodis always seemed to linger by the back steps, waiting for news, but I stayed away,

fearing her words had been for me after all.

The ban on Father’s study had never been lifted and I rarely set foot there, but while Handful convalesced, I slipped in and took two books—Pilgrim’s Progress  by Bunyan and Shakespeare’s The Tempest, a sea adventure I thought she would especially like—and left them at her door, knocking and hurrying away.

On the morning Handful emerged, we Grimkés were having breakfast in the dining room. There were only four children who hadn’t yet married or gone off to school: Charles, Henry, Nina, and of course myself, the red-headed maiden aunt of the family. Mother was seated at the head of the table with the hinged silk screen directly behind her, its hand-painted jasmine all but haloing her head. She turned to the window, and I saw her mouth part in surprise. There was Handful. She was crossing the work yard toward the oak, using a wooden cane too tall for her. She maneuvered awkwardly, thrusting herself forward, dragging her right foot.

“She’s walking!” cried Nina.

I pushed back my chair and left the table with Nina chasing after me. “You’re not excused!” Mother called.

We didn’t so much as turn our heads in her direction.

Handful stood beneath the budding tree on a patch of emerald moss. There were drag marks in the dirt  from  her  foot,  and  I  found  myself  stepping  over  them  as  if  they  were  sacrosanct. As  we approached, she began to wind fresh red thread around the trunk. I couldn’t imagine what this odd practice meant. It’d been going on, though, for years.

Nina and I waited while she pulled a pair of shears from her pocket and cut away the faded old thread. Several pink strands clung to the bark, and as she plucked at them, her cane slipped and she grabbed the tree to catch herself.

Nina picked up the cane and handed it to her. “Does it hurt?” Handful looked past Nina at me. “Not all that much now.”

Nina squatted unselfconsciously to inspect the way Handful’s foot pigeoned inward, the odd hump that had formed across the top of it, how she’d fitted a shoe over it by trimming the opening and leaving off the lace.

“I’m sorry for what happened,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“I read what I could of the books you brought. They gave me something to do beside lay there.” “Can I touch your foot?” Nina asked.

“Nina,” I said, then suddenly understood—here was the nightmare she’d dreamed about since she was a child, here was the hidden horror of the Work House.

Maybe Handful understood, too, her need to confront it. “I don’t mind,” she said. Nina traced her finger along a crusting scar that flamed across Handful’s skin. Silence jelled
around us, and I looked up at the leaves feathering on the branches like little ferns. I could feel Handful looking at me.

“Is there anything you need?” I asked.

She laughed. “There anything I need? Well, let’s see now.” Her eyes were hard as glass, burning yellow.

She’d borne a cruelty I couldn’t imagine, and she’d come through it scathed, the scar much deeper than her disfigured foot. What I’d heard in her ruthless laugh was a kind of radicalizing. She seemed  suddenly  dangerous,  the  way  her  mother  had  been  dangerous.  But  Handful  was  more considering and methodical than her mother ever was, and warier, too, which made it more worrying. A wave of prescience washed over me, a hint of darkness coming, and then it was gone. I said to her, “I just meant—”

“I know what it is you meant,” she said, and her tone had mellowed. The anger in her face left,


and I thought for a moment she might cry, a sight I’d never witnessed, not even when her mother disappeared.

Instead, she turned and made her way toward the kitchen house, her body listing heavily to the left. The determination in her pained me almost as much as her lameness, and it wasn’t until Nina wrapped her arm around my waist and tugged that I realized I was listing with her.

Some days later, Cindie knocked at my door with a note, ordering me to the first-floor piazza, where Mother retreated most  afternoons to catch the breezes. It  was unusual  for her to write out  her summons, but Cindie had grown abnormally forgetful, wandering into rooms unable to recall why she was there, bringing Mother a hairbrush instead of a pillow, an array of queer errors that I knew would soon convince Mother to replace her with someone younger.

As I made my way down the stairs, it occurred to me for the first time she might also replace Handful, whose resourcefulness and ability to walk to the market for fabric and supplies was now in question. I paused on the landing, the portrait of the Fates leering, as always, and my stomach gave a lurch of dread. Could this be the reason Mother had summoned me?

Though it was early in May, the heat had moved in with its soaking humidity. Mother sat in the swing and tried to cool herself with her ivory fan. She didn’t wait for me to sit. “We’ve seen no progress in your father’s condition for over a year. His tremors are growing worse by the day and there’s no more that can be done for him here.”

“What are you telling me? Is he—”

“No, just listen. I’ve spoken with Dr. Geddings and we’re in agreement—the only course left is to take him to Philadelphia. There’s a surgeon there of renown, a Dr. Philip Physick. I wrote to him recently and he has agreed to see your father.”

I lowered myself into a porch chair.

“He will go by ship,” she said. “It will be an exacting trip for him, and it’s likely he’ll have to remain up north through the summer, or as long as it takes to find a cure, but the plan has brought him hope.”

I nodded. “Well, yes, of course. He should do everything possible.” “I’m pleased you feel that way. You’ll be the one to accompany him.”

I leapt to me feet. “Me? Surely you can’t mean I’m to take Father to Philadelphia by myself. What about Thomas or John?”

“Be reasonable, Sarah. They cannot leave their professions and families so easily.” “And I can?”

“Do I need to point out you have no profession or family to care for? You live under your father’s roof. Your duty is to him.”

Caring for Father week after week, possibly for months, all alone in a faraway place—I felt the life drain out of me.

“But I can’t leave—” I was going to say, I can’t leave Nina, but thought better of it. “I will see to Nina, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

She smiled, such a rare thing. The memory of being in the drawing room with the rector swept back to me: Mother’s cold stare as I defended Nina’s right to follow her conscience. I hadn’t taken her warning seriously enough: As long as the two of you are under the same roof, there is little hope for

Angelina. . . . It hadn’t been Nina whom Mother meant to remove. It had been I.
“You leave in three days,” she said.



Handful

Mauma pretended a limp, and I got the real one. I used her old wood cane, but it came up to my chest —more like a crutch than a cane.

One day when the rain poured and Goodis couldn’t work the garden, he said to me, “Gimme that cane.”

“What for?”

“Just give it here,” he said, so I did.

The rest of the day, he sat in the stable and whittled. When he came back, he had the cane clasped behind his back. He said, “I sure hope you like rabbits.”

Not only had the man trimmed off the bottom end to make it the right size, he’d carved the handle into a rabbit head. It had a round, speckled nose, big eyes, and two long ears going straight back. He’d even notched the wood to look like fur.

I said, “I like rabbits now.”

That was one of the kindliest things ever done for me. One time I asked him how he got his name, and he said his mauma gave it to him when he was ten cause he was the goodest one of her children.
I could travel with the cane like nobody’s business. Cindie saw me coming to the kitchen house for supper that night and said I was springing cross the yard like a rabbit. I had to laugh at that.
The day after Cindie praised me, they took her off somewhere and we never saw her again. AuntSister said her mind had worn out, that missus had sent her off with Thomas to their plantation, where she’d live out her days. Thomas, he was the one taking care of the plantation now, and sure enough, he came back with a new maid for missus named Minta.

God help the girl.

Cindie getting sent off like that put a scare in all of us. I went back to my sewing duties faster than you could say the word rabbit. I showed missus how I could go up the stairs. I climbed sure and steady, and when I got to the top, she said, “Well done, Hetty. I’m sure you know how much it grieved me to send you to the Work House.”

I nodded to let her know what a heavy burden this must’ve been for her.

Then she said, “Sadly, these things become necessary at times, and you do seem to have profited. As for your foot . . . well, I regret the accident, but look at you. You’re getting about fine.”
“Yessum.” I gave her a curtsy from the top step, thinking what Mr. Vesey said one time at church: I have one mind for the master to see. I have another mind for what I know is me.

I heard a tap-tap on my door one afternoon late, and Sarah stood there with her freckle face white as an eggshell. I’d been working on master Grimké’s pants—missus had sent a slew of them down, said they were hanging off him too big. When Sarah came in, I was hobbling round the cutting table, spreading out a pair of britches to see what I could do. I set the shears down.

“. . . I only want to say . . . Well, I have to go away . . . Up north. I . . . I don’t know when I’ll be able to return.”

She was talking with the pauses back in her voice, telling me about the doctor in Philadelphia, her


having to nurse her daddy, being parted from Nina, all the miseries of packing that waited for her. I listened and thought to myself, White folks think you care about everything in the world that happens to them, every time they stub their toe.

“That’s a millstone for you,” I told her, “I’m sorry,” and the minute it left my mouth, I knew it was coming from the true mind that was me, not the mind for the master to see. I was sorry for her. Sarah had jimmied herself into my heart, but at the same time, I hated the eggshell color of her face, the helpless way she looked at me all the time. She was kind to me and she was part of everything that stole my life.

“. . . You take care of yourself while I’m gone,” she said.

Watching her walk to the door, I made up my mind. “Remember how you asked me a while ago if I needed anything? Well, I need something.”

She turned back and her face had brightened. “Of course . . . whatever I can do.” “I need a signed note.”

“. . . What kind of note?”

“One that gives me permission to be on the street. In case somebody stops me out there.” “Oh.” That was all she said for a minute. Then, “. . . Mother doesn’t want you going out, not for a
while . . . She has designated Phoebe to do the marketing. Besides, they closed the African church— there won’t be anything to attend.”

I could’ve told you the church was doomed, but it was a blow to hear it. “I still need a pass, though.”

“. . . Why? Where do you need to go? . . . It’s dangerous, Handful.”

“I spent most of my life getting and doing for you and never have asked for a thing. I got places to go, they’re my own business.”

She raised her voice at me. The first time. “. . . And how do you propose to get off the property?” Looking down on us was the little window mauma used to climb through. It was sitting high up,
letting in the only light in the room. I said to myself, If mauma can do it, I can do it. I’ll do it lame, blind, and backward, if I have to.

I didn’t spell out my ways for her. I nodded at a piece of paper on the shelf beside a pen and a pot of ink. I said, “If you can’t see fit to write me this pass for safe passage, I’ll have to write it myself and sign your name.”

She took a deep breath and stared at me for a moment, then she went over and dipped the pen in the ink.

time I squeezed through the window and went over the wall, Sarah had been gone a week. The worst part was when I had to flop myself over the top of the bricks with nothing but the white oleander for cover. I had the rabbit cane and a thick burlap bundle tied on my back that made me cumbersome, and when I dropped to the ground, I landed on my bad foot. I sat there till the throb wore off, then I slipped out from the trees to the street, just one more slave doing some white person’s bidding.
I chose this day cause missus had a headache. We lived for her headaches. When they came, she took to bed and left us to our blessed selves. I tried not to think how I’d get back inside the yard. Mauma had waited for dark and crawled over the back gate and that was the best remedy, but it was summertime and dark came late, giving plenty of time for folks to wonder where I was.

One block down East Bay, I spotted one of the Guard. He looked straight at me and studied my limp. Walk steady. Not too fast. Not too slow. Squeezing the ears on the rabbit, I didn’t breathe till I turned the corner.

It took me twice as long to get to 20 Bull. I stood cross the street and stared at the house, still in need of paint. I didn’t know if Denmark Vesey had got out of the Work House or what had happened to him. Last memory I had from that hellhole was his voice shouting, “Help the girl down there, help the girl.”

I hadn’t let myself think about it, but standing there on the street, the memory came like a picture in a painting. I’m up on the treadmill, gripping the bar with all the strength I got. Climbing the wheel, climbing the wheel. It never will stop. Mr. Vesey is quiet, not a grunt from him, but the rest are moaning and crying Jesus and the rawhide splits the air. My hands sweat, sliding on the bar. The knot that lashes my wrist to it comes loose. I tell myself don’t look side to side, keep straight ahead, keep going, but the woman with the baby on her back is howling. The whip slashes her legs. Then the child screams. I look. I look to the side and its little head is bleeding. Red and wet. That’s when the edges go black. I drop, my hands pulling free from the rope. I fall and there ain’t no wings sprouting off my shoulders.

In the front window of his house, a woman was ironing. Her back was to me, but I could see the shape of her, the lightness of her skin, the bright head scarf, her arm swinging over the cloth, and it caused a hitch in my chest.

When I got up on the porch, I heard her singing. Way down yonder in the middle of the field, see me working at the chariot wheel. Peering in the open window, I saw she had her hips swishing, too. Now let me fly, now let me fly, now let me fly way up high.

I knocked and the tune broke off. She opened the door still holding the iron, the smell of charcoal straggling behind her. Mauma always said he had mulatto wives all over the city, but the main one lived here in the house. She stuck out her chin, frowning, and I wondered did she think I was the new bride.

“Who’re you?”

“I’m Handful. I came to see Denmark Vesey.”

She glared at me, then down at my twisted foot. “Well, I’m Susan, his wife. What you want with him?”

I could feel the heat glowing off the iron. The woman had been hard done by and I couldn’t blame her not opening the door to stray women. “All I want is to talk to him. Is he here or not?”
“I’m here,” a voice said. He stood propped in the doorway behind her with his arms folded on his chest like he’s God watching the world go by. He told his wife to find something to do, and her eyes trimmed down to little slits. “Take that iron with you,” he said. “It’s smoking up the room.”
She left with it, while he eyed me. He’d lost some fat from his face. I could see the top rim of his cheek bones. He said, “You’re lucky you didn’t get rot in your foot and die.”
“I made out. Looks like you did, too.”

“You didn’t come to see about my health.”

He didn’t wanna beat the bushes. Fine with me. My foot hurt from trudging here. I took the bundle off my back and sat down in a chair. There wasn’t a frill in the room, just cane chairs and a table with a Bible on it.

I said, “I used to come here with my mauma. Her name was Charlotte.”

The sneer he always wore slid off his face. “I knew I knew you from somewhere. You have her eyes.”

“That’s what they tell me.” “You have her gumption, too.”

I squeezed the burlap bundle against my chest. “I wanna know what happened to her.” “That was a long time ago.”

“Coming on seven years.”

When he kept silent, I undid the burlap and spread mauma’s story quilt cross the table. The squares hung nearly to the floor, bright enough to set a fire in the dark room.
People say he never smiled, but when he saw the slaves flying in the air past the sun, he smiled. He gazed at granny-mauma and the falling stars, at mauma leaving my daddy behind in the field, me and her laying in cut-up pieces on the quilt frame. He studied the spirit trees and the one-legged punishment. Didn’t ask what anything meant. He knew it was her story.

I stole a look at the last square where mauma had sewed the man with the carpenter apron and the numbers 1884. I watched careful to see if he’d recognize himself.

“You think that’s me, don’t you?” he said.

“I know that’s you, but I don’t know about those numbers.”

He chuckled outright. “One, eight, eight, four. That was the number on my lottery ticket. The numbers that bought my freedom.”

The room was stifle hot. Sweat dribbled on my temples. So, that’s her last word, then. That’s what it came to—a chance for getting free. A fancy chance.

I folded up the quilt, wrapped it back in the burlap, and tied it on my back. I picked up my cane. I said, “She was pregnant, you know that? When she went missing, your baby went missing with her.”
He didn’t flinch, but I could tell he didn’t know.

I said, “Those numbers never did come up for her, did they?”