CHAPTER 23 
Barefoot
When Isabel was born on April 20, 1855, her skin looked as fair as Hester’s, but her mannerisms and the way she held her head reminded me of Mama. Joan arrived eleven months later. She had a hint of my mama’s color and proved to be a fussy baby. I could barely work without her tied to my back. She refused to let any of the fancy girls in the shed hold her, and she never quite took to July or Abbie. Soon as Joan could hold her head up, my belly swelled again.
If I had to guess, I would say that Hester was the Jailer’s favorite. He spent most of his free time in conversation with her. By the time she was four, her mind absorbed everything, it seemed. The Jailer allowed me to read to the children, and Hester had already begun to pick up on three-letter words. She was clumsy on the piano, but I made her try her scales for at least fifteen minutes each day. She hated it, and we quarreled during every lesson. She shared her father’s likeness in that way. Stubborn as a nail. The only person she did not hassle too much was Monroe.
Those two were like two sides of the same coin, inseparable. They ran and played behind the house in the small garden, made up games, and shared toys. When I taught Hester, I sent Monroe off so that the Jailer would not suspect that I educated him too. Monroe’s learning took place in private, during the hours that I knew we would be alone. I reminded him constantly that no one could know of his lessons. Each time we studied together, I told him about the slaves who had their eyes burned out with lye when their master found out that they could read.
“Am I a slave, Mama?” he asked after our last session in the back of the stables.
I scratched my head at the difficulty of the question. “In some way, all the people who live at the jail are servants of Rubin Lapier, because he owns it.”
“Even you?”
I swallowed. “Even me.”
“But he is kind to you.” He broke a piece of straw in two. “He hates me.”
“That is not true.”
“It is. He always tickles and plays with Hester, but not me.”
I pulled Monroe to my chest. “Tickle her like this?” I started under his arms and moved down to his ribs until he fell out in a fit of giggles. I hoped his laughter would help him to forget.
The windows at the back of the house were open, and the breeze kept the children cool while they relaxed. We used the drawing room for a play area because the nursery had gotten quite crowded. Isabel slept across my lap. Joan had just begun holding her head up without support, and put everything within reach into her mouth. July had gone to the kitchen to fetch the children a midmorning snack of apples and peanuts.
Hester and Monroe were playing their favorite game of hide the puppet. Monroe had hidden the puppet and called out “warmer” or “colder” as Hester dashed about the room to find it. She was usually good at finding the puppet, but that morning she seemed frustrated and could not uncover it. Then she started to cry.
“Monty, I want the puppet.”
“You got to find it,” he teased.
“Mama, make him give it to me.”
“Find it. You are getting warmer.”
Hester stomped her foot and started wailing. Usually when she acted like that Monroe would stop the game and give her what she wanted. Today, he did not give in. It had reached the point where the noise rattled my nerves, her crying and him teasing. I had just resolved to put an end to the game when the Jailer walked through the door. His boots clunked heavily against the hardwood floor as he grabbed Monroe by the arm and dragged him across the room to the nearest chair.
“Dear,” I tried coaxing, “the children were just playing.”
He ignored me, flopped down in the wing chair, threw Monroe over his lap, and started pounding him on the backside with his large palm. Woop. Woop. Woop.
“Papa, stop!” Hester cried out.
But he kept hammering. Woop. Woop. Woop. Woop. As Monroe’s face turned from scared to horrified, I silently thanked God that I had not allowed the Jailer to keep whipping tools in the house. His hand came down on my son like a clap of thunder. Woop. Woop. Woop.
“Enough!” I called out, pushing myself from my seat.
Hester ran over to her father and forced her body under his arm. “Papa, stop hurting Monty. Stop it, please.” Tears spilled down her rosy cheeks, and her hair came undone. When he saw her distress he stopped, discarded Monroe to the floor, and swept her up in his arms.
Monroe crawled across the hardwood and found a hiding space on the other side of the table. He did not utter a sound of pain. I had taught him to be quiet when the Jailer came around. Mama always said, Less trouble finds a quiet soul, and I had instilled that in my boy.
The Jailer stood and headed for the door. As soon as it closed behind him, I reached for Monroe. Only then did he start crying.
“Told you he hated me.”
I held him tighter. “He does not hate you.”
“He does,” Monroe hiccupped.
Hester came and put her arms around him and we stayed like that until Monroe calmed down. When Hester asked him to play the game again, he declined.
The Jailer returned to the house for his supper, calling for Abbie.
“Yes, Marse.” She limped into the dining room. “Needin’ more bread?”
“Have the boy’s things moved over to the kitchen house.”
“Why?” My voice cracked.
“I will not have a nigger tormenting my child.”
“He is my son.”
“He will still be yours living in the cook’s house. ’Sides, it’s time for him to start working.”
“He is five years old.”
“If he were on a plantation he would be in the fields by now.”
“He is not on a plantation. I want him here.”
“It is final.” He slammed his fist on the table.
Abbie scooted from the room. I pushed my plate away, refusing to eat. July passed through the hall with Joan on her hip and clutching Isabel’s hand.
She paused at the door. “Afternoon, Marse. ’Scuse me, Miss Pheby, should I put the girls down for a nap?”
I nodded, then noticed his eyes take in her slim waist and rounded hips. July’s hair was so thick and long that I implored her to keep it wrapped, but she was young and busy, and often forgot. I feared for her, and tucked her away with the children as much as possible. Beauty was a curse for a slave girl.
“Go on,” I said, waving them away, “Mama will be there shortly to give you a kiss.”
He put down his fork. “I need you at the tavern. Important guests will be here within the hour. Go get ready to play.”
The Jailer was sitting at a round table with five men when I entered. The lights were low, so I concentrated on every step to the piano, careful not to misjudge my feet and fall. My mind was not on the chords or the melody that I played, but on my son. How could he move him out of the house like that? Monroe would never hurt his precious Hester. They had played that game countless times. What was Hester going to do without Monroe? What was I going to do without him?
The Jailer drank until inebriated. The entertainment girls pranced around the room in low-cut dresses and too-potent perfume. Sissy stood next to the Jailer, and though I had grown accustomed to seeing her at the tavern, my discomfort at the thought of them together had not lessened any. She had gained a little weight in the face, probably from spending her extra time around Elsie, eating the leftovers in the kitchen and sampling Elsie’s pies. Sissy did not come near the piano, and instead worked the opposite side of the room, as if there was an invisible line between us. Once I saw the men choose their girls, I slipped out.
I suspected he would not be home soon, so I walked over to the kitchen house to peep at Monroe. Elsie was bent slicing beets on the long table, and Monroe was mopping up the debris. The one thing I could rest on was that even though Elsie did not like me, she adored Monroe and acted something like a grandmother to him.
“Mama!” he called and rushed into me.
“Hey, baby.” I kissed his forehead as he tried to wrap his arms clear around my belly. I could sense Elsie watching me. Judging me.
“Get you anything, Missus?” She spit between her teeth.
“Just take care of my boy.” To him, I said, “Be good and listen to Aunt Elsie. I will just be up at the house. I will come for you when I can.”
“Why can’t I come now? Marse say I have to stay here?”
To hear Monroe call that man Marse made me cringe. “Yes, for the time being.”
“What I do?”
“It is ‘what did I do,’ ” I corrected him. I knew the more that he stayed away from me, the more common he would sound.
“Everything will be all right.” I took his hand and led him out of Elsie’s earshot. We stopped behind the Wintergreen Boxwood bush and I crouched down until we were eye to eye.
“Me and Hester always played that game.” He kicked a pebble.
“ ‘Hester and I.’ ”
“Hester and I.”
“You did not do anything wrong, son.” Then I pulled his ear to my mouth and whispered, “You his slave in name only, never in your mind, boy. You are meant to see freedom. It is my solemn promise to you.”
“Me and you both, Mama, right?”
I picked a lint ball from his cotton shirt, avoiding his eyes. Did I even dare contemplate freedom or had that dream died when Master Jacob passed away? And get buried even further with the birth of each of my daughters? Truth of the matter was, most days I only thought of liberty for my children. Particularly Monroe, because as long as I pledged my loyalty to the Jailer, our girls seemed destined to live a decent life.
Grabbing both his hands, I said, “I will always protect you. Now listen to Aunt Elsie and remember the things I have told you.”
As the days passed into weeks, I did not get to visit him daily like I wanted. He for one was busy fetching buckets full of water three times his weight, running errands, and stacking firewood. Between prepping the girls for sale and playing at the tavern, I scarcely had time to visit our daughters in the nursery. This new baby felt bigger than any I had carried. Every step I took felt like moving in slow motion. Once the child arrived, I planned to make it my last. The recipe to make this possible resided in my diary, and I planned to use it.
My head was resting on the side of the table in the shed when Basil and a new girl walked through the door.
“You all right?” she asked me.
“Yes, fine.” I forced myself up. She was pretty enough and did not seem to need much fixing. I selected a blush-colored dress for her, and as I fastened her into it, she told me that her name was Florence. I was in the middle of collecting her history so that I could scribble it into my diary when the birth pain hit me. It came hard and so fast that I doubled over. Then water gushed down my legs.
“The baby.” I could not help but bear down.
“Want me to get someone?”
My teeth started chattering. Florence stood in the door and screamed, “Needin’ some help. Somebody, help.”
I felt the baby slip down. I held onto the table and squatted.
“No time,” I gritted between my teeth. “Have you… done this before?”
Florence nodded. She took off my dress and removed my bloomers. By the time she crouched down on the floor, the head had started crowning.
“This baby ready to see mama,” she said, and then reached down and caught it. “It’s a boy.” She held him up for me to see.
He did not cry out like the other children.
Florence cut the cord with my shears, then wrapped the baby in a soft piece of material. I eased down onto the floor, feeling cold and wet. As Florence covered me up I thought, A boy. His first son.
May God show him favor.