CHAPTER 36 
Falling
Grief rose like a wall around me. Everything that had happened was my fault. July being sold. Monroe not returning home. Essex withering away in the prison cell. The guilt of failing them all suffocated me until my bones felt heavy and exhausted. I took to my bed early without dinner, but the next morning I still overslept. Abbie had to rouse and remind me that July was gone. “I tried gettin’ them dressed, but they wantin’ July.”
When I opened the door to the nursery, they ran to me.
“Mother, Abbie said July was gone. When shall she return?” Hester wrangled with her hair.
“She promised to play dolls with me today,” Isabel pouted.
I stumbled, then collapsed into the rocking chair. “Girls, July went away.”
“For how long?”
“When will she return, Mama?” Joan clutched my hands.
“She is not coming back. She has been called to do another job.”
Isabel wailed. “She is my best friend.”
I moved to comfort her, but she screamed, “I do not want you. I want July!”
I pulled my robe tighter against my chest.
“Me too, I want July!” hollered Joan. “Who will rub my back?”
“Me.”
“No! You will not do it right.”
With me working in the shed and playing in the tavern, the girls relied on July for their every need. They were more accustomed to her than they were me. Isabel threw herself on the floor and started kicking her feet. I pulled her up in my arms and rocked her.
“Girls, it will be okay.”
“Feels like I have swallowed a rock,” said Joan. “My belly hurts.”
I brought her into my lap too. Hester rested her head on my knee.
“We will get through this, I promise.”
When the older three finally settled down, I held Birdie and read them each the book of their choice. Then we colored pictures.
“For July, when she comes home,” said Joan, her eyes big and hopeful. I patted her head as Abbie shuffled in.
“Marse wantin’ to see you in the parlor.”
It was early for him to be home for supper. Even earlier for him to fancy a drink. I handed Birdie to Abbie and then made my way to the parlor. I wore my simple work dress, with even less attention given to my hair.
The Jailer’s mouth creased. “We are going for a carriage ride. You look as if you could use some fresh air.”
“But the girls? With July gone, who will care for them?”
“Sissy will arrive shortly. Dress in something presentable. We leave directly.”
I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth, even though I wanted to scream. I returned in a summer calico dress with a lace-front bonnet and gloves to match. The August high-noon sun made my head sweat, but the wide brim concealed my displeasure at leaving the girls behind. The Jailer’s new driver, Hamp, extended his hand to me so that I could rise into the carriage. Hamp was a big man, copper-colored, with thick lips and an arrow-shaped scar in the middle of his forehead.
“Ready, Marse?”
The Jailer nodded his head. Hamp stepped into the coach box and commanded the horses by clicking his tongue.
Once we rode past the city limits the landscape changed. The cluster of houses and buildings were replaced by vast green fields and rolling hills. The air smelled fresh and crisp. I had grown so accustomed to the odorous jail. The dewy air started to reset my brain. For a few moments, even my sadness took a reprieve. I had brought a ball of yarn with me and knitted mindlessly. I willed myself to just be.
We traveled for half the day before Hamp turned the carriage onto a long dirt road. My hand flew to the carriage handle as we hit a bump. The horses began kicking up dust, and as I lowered back the curtains a large house came into focus.
“Do you love him?” It was the first words that the Jailer spoke to me on the drive.
“I realize you came from the same plantation. Make sense that you would want to help him. Do you love him?” He eyed me.
I parted my lips, with the intention of looking sincere. “No.”
He turned back to his papers, stuffing them into his briefcase. Hamp stopped the carriage. The house was a brick Georgian-style mansion with Palladian-inspired side wings, and white shutters. It loomed larger than our house at the Lapier jail, but appeared about half the size of the one in which I had grown up. I did not know where we were or why, but I hoped with every fiber in my body that Monroe was near. A short, wide man with silver hair and a hearty smile greeted us at the door of the home. Two black-and-white dogs wagged their tails at his feet. A young brown girl stood waving a fan to keep him cool.
“Welcome, Rubin. Wonderful to see you, old pal.”
“This is Pheby Delores Brown, mistress of the Lapier jail.”
“I am Henry O’Keefe.” He kissed my hand and led the way through the front door into the foyer. The ceilings were high and the space cool.
Henry called out, “Polly.”
A thickset woman descended the sweeping stairs, sliding her hand along the wrought-iron banister. She wore her blonde hair in a bun, and her cheeks were sprinkled with girlish freckles. Her attire was plain, a simple skirt with a small hoop, a blouse, and no jewelry. My dress had wrinkled from being in the carriage for so long, yet hers still paled in comparison to mine.
Rubin kissed Polly’s hand. “Lovely to see you again.”
“Likewise,” she said to him, but she had not taken her eyes off me.
“This is Pheby,” her husband introduced.
“Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“Dear, take Pheby into the sitting room for tea. Rubin and I will be back in time for dinner.”
Polly’s hand went to her throat, and she swallowed for several seconds before leading the way. The sitting room was a square space off the entrance to the house. The curtains were drawn over the large windows, and I could see the Jailer and Henry stroll toward a small outhouse that I assumed to be Henry’s office. A molasses-colored woman stood clutching a platter with a teapot, cups, and saucers. Once we were seated on opposite settees, she placed the tray in front of us and poured.
“Where are you from?” Polly’s saucer shook in her hand.
“Charles City.”
“How did you come to be with Rubin?” Her gaze met mine over the rim of her teacup. The nervousness in her eyes betrayed her intention. She wanted to know whether I was a nigra or white. Whether he owned me or if I was his wife. I sipped my tea, then took my knitting from my bag and resumed my stitching.
When my shoulders relaxed back in place I responded, “You have a beautiful home.”
She pursed her lips and nodded her thanks. It would have pleased me to chat like friends, but Polly abandoned her attempt at conversation when I refused her question. We sat in silence. I knitted while she stared out the window. Finally, the dinner bell rang.
“Betty,” she called to the woman who had served tea. “Show Pheby where she can wash up.”
“This way.”
Betty led me to a small room adjacent to the kitchen prep area, and my stomach growled at the smell of savory meat. We had missed lunch, and I’d only picked at my breakfast. As I rinsed my hands up to my elbows, I heard Polly’s voice through the thin wall.
“I do not want any nigras sleeping under my roof ’less they work for me.”
“Quiet your complaints.”
“And for them to sleep together. A white man and his nigra? I will not have that sin in my house, Henry.”
“Stand down, Polly. Rubin is our guest and you will do as I say. Now, pull yourself together and be a good hostess.”
Dinner tasted delicious, and after we’d had orange pudding for dessert I feigned exhaustion and retired to the guest quarters. It was an adequate room with a bed and dressing table. As I changed into my sleeping gown provided by our hosts, I could hear the Jailer’s boisterous laugh drift from the back porch. No doubt the whiskey flowed, and he pulled heavily from his pipe. Where was my son? I strained to pick up the men’s conversation, but I could not make out the words over the constant calls of the cicadas. The moment I found rest, the Jailer opened the bedroom door. He undressed gauchely and slipped in next to me. When he reached for my gown, I hoped it would be over quickly.
The next morning, Henry O’Keefe offered to give us a tour of his plantation.
“Nice to stretch your legs before the long ride back.”
I followed the men. On our walk, I noticed Polly disappear into the kitchen house. If she was like Missus Delphina, she would be going over the menu for the day. Henry pointed out his various outhouses, and I faked interest. Then he showed us to his stables.
“This here is Gold Charm.” Henry pointed to a horse with a dark, velvety coat. Henry’s chest poked out with pride over his prized steed. When I moved in closer, down on the ground kneeling before the horse was Monroe. I bit my tongue to keep from calling out at the sight of my son.
“Your boy has been the biggest help. Sure you don’t want to sell him to me? For such a young fella, he is mighty gifted with my horses.”
Monroe looked up, but he did not dare run to me or even acknowledge our connection. He wore the breeches I’d sewed for him, but had on a rough burlap shirt that I did not recognize.
The Jailer looped his arm through mine. “I am not going to sell him today, but that could change. I will keep your offer in mind. Come along, boy,” he summoned.
Monroe dusted off his knees, then followed us out of the stables trailing a few feet behind, the way a boy would walk behind his master. When we arrived at the carriage, Hamp helped us in, and then Monroe climbed into the carriage box alongside him. Betty appeared carrying two baskets. She handed one to Hamp and the other to me.
“Miss Polly wish you a safe journey.”
“Please pass on my appreciation.”
Hamp clicked his tongue, and the horses pulled away.
Relieved to have Monroe back, I still worried over what he’d endured on that plantation. I wished I could hold him in the carriage with me and rock away his confusion but babying him would not help his situation. By the time we reached the jail, the sun had slumped down behind the buildings and the journey had provided me with a clearer look at our future.
When we came to a rest in the courtyard, the Jailer lifted my hand to his mouth and eyed me. “Consider this a fresh start. No more middle-of-the-night missions. If you disobey me again, I will sell that boy to the highest bidder.”
“Thank you for showing him favor,” I responded, not for one second doubting the validity of his words. But I also knew that I would not honor his request.