“TAKE THAT GOURD and dip it in the water for me,” Mama said as
she massaged herbs into her hair.
That was a dangerous thing because Mama was wearing her
prettiest clothes. I was laughing at the other girls the whole time and
missed her hair with half the water. It splashed down her clothes and
she rose up, dripping wet, with her hands on her hips.
“Stand where you are!” she ordered, and I fully expected a
good whipping. She dipped the gourd into the water and stretched it
toward me so that I could do a better job splashing her hair (and not
just her clothes) this time. As I reached for the gourd, she gave a smile
and splashed me with all the water it contained. Back and forth we
went.

She with the gourd, and I with my two hands, knee deep in
water, face full of giggles.

I stayed wrapped in the warmth of those memories from the
summer of 1761, until the sound of my own breathing took me to the
rise and fall of a storm-tossed ship. I pressed my eyes in the driving
rain, and the cold boards of the ship creaked back and forth as a large
white hand came around and sealed my screaming lips.
When I opened my eyes, I had leaped forward ninety years to
Alabama and saw Jassie, a young woman from nearby in the quarters
who often tended to me whenever a spell of fever came over me. She
placed a wet towel on my swollen forehead. An hour or two passed
before I told her to go home and leave an old woman alone for a
while. Although I coveted Jassie’s company and loved her dearly, I
needed my privacy at that moment.

“I needs to cook for you, Miss Sadie,” she says. “Ain’t goin
nowhere till you is full of the best fatback in Ropers Valley.”
Jassie could tell I had the fire of the Spirit in me when I gave her
that look. She backed away like a skittish horse when I spoke in a
slow, firm tone: “That fatback can wait till morning. You gonna leave
NOW!”

She knew from all my sermons what kind of preacher woman
she was facing as she said, “Yes, Ma’am,” and went out the door.
I moved a couple of loose boards from my wall, pulled out
a large book and opened it up beside a single candle burning on the
table. As I scribbled on the page, I thought about the Apostle Paul
and how he could only see large letters when he went blind. My brittle
hands could somehow still move a pen across a page.

Sarah, my mistress, imposes without knocking as I slide the
book beneath my table. Although she knows I can write, she will not
like what I write and would not take kindly to intentionally omitting
“Miss” from her name on its pages. I use it only when directly addressing
her to avoid the unpleasantness of her haughty response, and
I grow tired of clinching my fists to contain my own rage. Sarah insists
that I rest and come springtime, she’ll ask me to cook her vittles
again. She speaks like the devil’s own mouth. “Where’s my sweet girl
been today?” she asks. “You know Jassie can’t cook a proper breakfast
to save her life.” Then she leans over and looks into my hollow eyes.
It scares her. I cringe as she moves her shaking hand to my forehead
and asks, “You are sick, aren’t you?”

“Just a little fever, Miss Sarah.” I answer as flatly as possible.
Her eyes scan every part of my face, as though she’s just
found a fresh wrinkle. I give her a sidelong look. She straightens up
like a springboard and gently primps her hair, looking away from me
like a woman without a care in the world.

“I even hear that you cut your sermons short. What a shame!
It does my soul good to hear Negroes praise the Lord.”
My stomach churns to hear Sarah’s endless chatter. I summon
all my strength to hold my tongue without reminding her, again, that
my people were Christian long before hers even reached these shores.
The Lord is blessed more by a clucking chicken than her crackled

singing. Sarah’s hands are far too bloody to rise in praise of a loving
God.

“Ain’t got a choice these days, Ma’am.”
Sarah glances toward me with fleeting concern before fidgeting
with her ruffled dress. “Sadie, there is always choice in every
circumstance. My mama used to tell me so. I’ll expect you back in
front of your congregation come Sunday. Heaven knows what will
become of those people without a fresh dose of the Lord each week,
and I have to admit you set a good example for the others.”
I squint to hear her babble on and on, but she keeps going
like a strong bout of dysentery.

“The past few years have been hard for you, my dear. I know.
I share in your grief. I understand your sadness at losing your granddaughter.
But we must both work to forgive her in all Christian charity.”
I choose not to blink at her as she sets the pot of soup on my
little table. I just look at her with the flattest smile my lips can manage,
praying for the moment to end soon. Silence always stabs Sarah
hard. Finally, the Lord gives me a blessing.

“Well, goodness me! The day is passing, and I am still in the
quarters!” She kisses the air on either side of my cheeks and quickly
departs my company. “Eat your soup, dear! It’ll keep you warm,
Sadie!” she shouts back toward me.

I slowly return to my secret place and fetch the book again,
leaving her rotten soup to fester in its bowl. There’s too much to
tell for me to sleep away what’s left of my nights. I’ll tell you, Gentle
Reader, in my words, whatever form they take. For I can speak
with the best of them. Most of my life, thanks to my sweet Auntie, I
learned how to read the shining words of Shakespeare and the sacred
words of Jesus. But I do not speak with haughty words. I speak to love
my people. God knows, they’ve bled enough to sponge away any arrogance,
and a slave woman who’s lived a hundred years knows when to
keep her fine words to herself.

I tried to stay awake to write but dozed off after a few minutes.
When I woke up, I heard a young woman screaming. It took
all my might to get out of that chair, leaning on my cane. The room
started to spin, but I made it to the door and stayed propped up
between the cane and the doorpost. A light drizzle had settled in with
another gray day and I saw two little baby boys on the back of a wagon
screaming for their mama. An overseer on horseback held them

down. The woman tugged at the boys’ feet, but the overseer kicked
her away and rode off fast. Two more babies being sold for what? A
new table. A gala ball at the mansion where Sarah can flatter her rich
guests. More paintings on walls that can barely hold what’s already
there. Sarah’s good mood now made sense. As my eyes focused, I saw
they were one of the new families, bought only last month by Sarah.

“Lord forgive me, but with all my heart, I damn Sarah Stoner
to Hell,” I say under my breath. “She don’t care nothin for blood.” The
young woman crumbles and wails to heaven as Jassie runs to fetch the
trembling girl to me. We’ll pray for the Lord’s blessing on her and her
babies, hoping against everything I’d seen to this point in my life that
he’ll find a loving touch in the world. We’ll tell her that her boys will
likely return as soon as Sarah finds another good use for them. “Very
likely,” I’ll declare, “you’ll see your baby boys before Christmas.”

Sarah Stoner sees only our hands. Hands to fetch this or that.
Hands to lower a plate of food. Hands to break under a whip or a
falling boulder or a shard at the furnaces. All of Alabama could choke
with the smoke and stench of pig iron.

“The Lawd always work out things in the end,” I’ll tell the
grieving mother.

As always, Jassie and I remain by her side all night, closing
her hands inside ours, laying our hands to her head in blessing, smiling
to heal the girl in some small way. But our hearts will bleed with
hers. I’ll move my slow hand to her ebony cheeks to collect her tears
in a cloth. Later, I’ll offer those tears and a few of my own to the Lord
for remembrance.