The irony of a white woman selling her white baby to a black “manager” had been lost on her mother, or it had at least been ignored in favor of the opportunity to remain in the high-class establishment. If Candace had wondered over the years about why she was treated differently from the other girls, many of whom were only young teenagers themselves when they’d arrived, she hadn’t thought to question it. The Manager had always scared her a bit, in spite of his well-dressed, soft-spoken, polite appearance, if only because all the women in the house obviously feared him. Still, shouldn’t she have questioned the clothes? The comportment and music coaching? The exercise regiment? The schooling?
Of course, I should have, she realized now, when it was too late. Though in a different way, I was as much a fool as my mother.
This time when she shivered there was more than the cold behind it. She would never forget that last conversation with her mother. Had it been only this morning? Her mother had come to her at dawn to tell Candace she had to get ready. She would turn eighteen at midnight, and the Manager would be coming for her.
Why, Mama, why?
Because he owns you, baby.
How could you do this to me?
Because he owns me, too.
The deal had been struck the night the Manager had found out about her mother’s pregnancy, but he’d become even more interested when he’d learned Candace’s mother was carrying a girl child. He’d paid for everything over the years—her education, her health, her physical training, her musical training, her dance lessons—everything that would make her a prize worth a great deal of money to a certain kind of man who would be willing to pay top dollar for such a commodity: a genteel young lady, all packaged in a beautiful, untouched body. Candace had begged and pleaded with her mother, but in the end, she had been locked in her room. The sound of a bolt sliding home on the outside of her door had left Candace paralyzed with fear, knowing there was nothing for her to do but run, if she could only find a way out.
A quick search had uncovered the fact that most of the windows in her room had long been painted shut, but she had found one chance. There was a very small hexagonal window in her bathroom, high in the wall across from the vanity, that could still be opened for ventilation. It was doubtful anyone would have considered the possibility that Candace could fit through it, or would even try, since her room was on the fourth floor, but desperation had lent her both strength and courage. She’d had to wait until after dark, and she hadn’t been able to take anything with her other than the clothes on her back, but thanks to rigorous physical training—which she now realized had been intended to keep her physically attractive—she’d had the strength and agility to squeeze through the tight window and climb down the side of the building. The old Victorian house had had plenty of dormer roofs and decorative trim to hold onto, and her light weight, slender hips, and yoga practice made it physically possible. She’d dropped lightly to the ground just as the neighborhood church bell tower had rung the hour at eleven p.m.
Ten minutes later, she’d been safely away, but the heavens had opened, leaving her drenched to the skin and wishing she had thought to shove a coat out the window in front of her. She hadn’t dared, of course, because someone might have seen it fall or it might have caught on something on the way down, leaving evidence of her flight behind, but as she shivered in her cold corner of the alley, she wished she’d taken the chance. Could someone die of exposure in the middle of a bustling city? She’d read climate analyses of Nashville as a part of her science studies. Situated where it was, the temperatures were usually relatively mild, even in winter. But Candace was for the first time realizing that “relatively” was a tricky word, when you were worried about more than a higher-than-normal power bill.
She managed to pull the top piece of cardboard out from under her, leaving her sitting on a slightly less soggy surface. She then wrapped it around herself, and though it was soggy wet, it still managed to block out the worst of the stiff breeze coming down the alley. She crossed her arms and curled into the tightest ball she could manage.
Now I lay me down to sleep… The words one of the maids had taught her when she was a little girl suddenly appeared in her mind. I pray the Lord my soul to keep; if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Not for the first time, Candace wondered if she had a “soul to keep,” and if she did, was there a God who cared? Shivering in the darkness, she prayed it was so.
22
“Got her!”
Candace cried out when a big hand grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. With her mind befuddled with sleep and the cold, it took her a moment to realize what was happening. Then she panicked and began kicking and scratching, fighting for her life.
“Knock it off, ya little whore!” the man holding her shouted.
He gripped her upper arm painfully with one hand and had his other forearm firmly pressed across her chest. Without thinking, she bit down hard on the part of his wrist exposed between the end of his sleeve and the beginning of his glove.
The man cursed viciously and pulled back his fist to strike her, but a second man grabbed the first man’s arm, holding him back.
“Don’t hit ’er, idiot! You heard the man! She comes back marked up, we don’t get paid!”
“The little bitch bit me!”