The day was bitter cold. Snow was falling. I was returning from the office of the Boston Gazette and Country Journal. They were going to publish my poem on the death of the Reverend John Moorhead, Scipio’s master. I had taken up my poetry writing again, though I had not much time for it.
“What’s this?” Sulie stood in the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon at the crate.
In the middle of the floor was a large wooden crate. It was addressed to me. I threw off my cloak. “It’s my books! Arrived from London.”
“Well, get ’em outa my kitchen. Now.”
“I can’t move the crate. Where’s Bristol?”
“He’s got better things to do. Master’s got friends comin’ for supper. An’ I got enuf to do without worryin’ ’bout trippin’ over that box. Move ’em or I’ll set ’em out in the snow myself.”
At that moment the door knocker sounded. I opened it. A nigra man stood there, grinning at me. He had the whitest teeth I had ever seen. And his eyes were kind. I wasn’t above noticing the broadness of his shoulders, either.
“Yes?” I asked.
“You Phillis Wheatley?”
“I am.”
He pulled off his hat. “I’m John Peters,” he said. And he handed me a package.
I took it and invited him in. Gingerly he stepped over the threshold. “I couldn’t help hearing”—and he gave Sulie a quizzical glance—“I’ll move the crate if you like. Just tell me where to put it”
“Oh, I couldn’t prevail on you,” I said.
Sulie laughed. “Prevail on him. Just get it outa here. Hello, John. You ain’t never delivered any groceries for me.”
“Hello, Sulie. This is different.”
“Why?”
“Cary May sent me.”
Sulie hmphed.
Peters gave me a little bow. “I’m honored,” he said, picking up the crate, “just to be handling the books of the famous Phillis Wheatley.”
For a moment I stared. Then I came to life. “Bring them right in here,” I said. And I led him into the back parlor.
He set the books down, then took a knife from his pocket and pried open the crate.
There they were. My books. My name on them. Handsomely bound.
John Peters picked one up, opened it. “Your likeness,” he said.
“Yes.”
He stood up, book in hand, and walked over to the window for more light. He read. Then he looked at me. “You know what they call you in the street?”
“No.”
“The little Ethiopian poetess.”
“I didn’t mind that they called me anything.”
“Oh yes. We should celebrate.”
“‘We’?”
He smiled and there were those even white teeth again. And that gleam in his eye. At once familiar and sassy. His hair was short and kinky. His face was round and strong. “You got someone else to celebrate with?”
“No.”
“I feel as if I know you. I do know you. Heard enough about you from Cary May.”
“You’re the one who gave her the fresh oranges for Aunt Cumsee.”
“Yes, and she sent me with the package.”
“Oh! The package! I forgot. How rude of me.” I set down my book and grabbed up the package, opened it, and exclaimed, “Tea! Oh, tea.” I opened the lid and sniffed. “Good Bohea. Oh, thank you. My mistress will love it. But where did you get it?” I was babbling and he knew it. He was watching me with a warm gaze, taking my measure.
“I have my connections. And I can get more for your mistress. Also”—he lowered his voice and crossed the room to close the door—“you should tell Mr. Wheatley to have the groceries delivered directly to the house. And let you pay for them.”
I did not take his meaning. “Why?”
He gestured his head toward the door. “She’s cheating him.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s my business to know.”
“But who would deliver them?” I asked.
He grinned. “Me.”
“Will your master permit it?”
“I’ve got no master, Miss Ethiopian poetess,” he said. “I’m free.”
And so it was that that nice John Peters came to our house three times a week with the groceries. And Mr. Wheatley, on hearing my reasoning, gave me the responsibility of ordering them and paying.
Sulie rebelled, of course. But there was naught she could do. Mr. Wheatley might be old and addled, but he could conjure up his old firmness when the occasion warranted.
John came of an evening, after he closed his stall. One cold night in February when he delivered our vittles, I was distracted. I spilled hot cider while pouring some for him in the kitchen. I overpaid him.
“Things weigh heavy on your mind,” he said as he put two shillings back in my palm.
I flushed. “My mistress is getting worse. And then there are the books. I must sell them myself, if I am to make a living. And I don’t know how.”
“Then why not ask someone who does?”
“You?”
“I sell things all the time.”
“Books aren’t sides of bacon.”
“It’s the same thing. You have a product the public wants, you must get the product out where the public sees it.”
I was less than enamored, having him compare my books to three hundred sides of bacon, but I listened.
“I know Mr. Cox of Cox and Berry. Likely he’ll take ten volumes. What do they sell for?”
“Mr. Bell sold them for two shillings in London.”
“Ask three shillings fourpence.”
My eyes went wide. “That much?”
“You’ll get it. People have money to spend now. Wait for the war and they won’t.”
“What war?”
There was that insolent grin again. “The war that Sam Adams and the rest of the Sons are pushing for. Where you been keeping yourself, Miss Ethiopian poetess? Don’t you know what’s going on out there? The Crown is angered about the tea. There’s talk Boston has to pay for it. You think they will? I heard there’s five hundred barrels of gunpowder stored in Boston and Charlestown right now.”
“Talk,” I said. “There will be no war.”
“The House of Representatives is going to impeach Chief Justice Peter Oliver for high crimes and misdemeanors against the people of Massachusetts Bay.”
“You know a grievous lot for a grocer.”
“People talk when they buy; I listen. Some of them work in the houses of important men. What plans do you have for the rest of your books?”
“None.”
“What friends do you have outside of Boston?”
I thought for a moment. “Obour Tanner in Newport.”
He pondered. “There are about twelve nigras who can read in that town. Anybody else?”
“Reverend Occom in New London, Connecticut And Reverend Sam Hopkins in Princeton, New Jersey. But he hates poetry.”
“Isn’t he the one who’s raising funds to educate two African slaves?”
“Yes.”
“Write to him. He is soon going to develop an inordinate fondness for poetry.”
“How so?”
“He needs your name.”
“My name?”
“Yes”—and he grinned again. “You were a slave. Look what you accomplished with some education. Write to him.”
“You playin’ wif fire, cozyin’ up to him.”
I turned from the back door, having just let John out.
Sulie stood there in the shadows. I felt a shiver. And it was not from the cold draft of February air the door had let in. “If you have anything to say, Sulie, say it plain.”
“I gots nuthin’ to say to you. You wouldn’t listen anyways, Miss Fancy.”
“Say it! Or keep a silent tongue in your head.”
She poured herself some cider. “All right I’ll say it He’s a ne’er-do-well. A bounder.”
“How dare you?”
“Full of charm. Especially wif the women. But there’s nuthin’ behind it.”
“He’s hardworking. And he has intelligence.”
She sipped her cider. She drained the mug dry, then set it down and sashayed away. “Knew you wouldn’t listen. Only warnin’ you, though doan know why I should. You’ll learn.”
Then she was gone. I stood in the empty kitchen. The fire flickered low on the hearth. She’s jealous because John has such charm, I thought. And Bristol is so morose. And she’s still angry because we found out she was cheating Mr. Wheatley.