Chapter 5

Ella’s neck is stiff but she won’t rub it. What’s five more minutes of discomfort compared to what other folks have to bear? Has it been five minutes yet? Time doesn’t seem to be moving. If it wasn’t for the sound of grinding and scraping and now the smell of fresh baked bread, Ella would swear time wasn’t passing at all. Maybe not swear. She leans forward on her crate at the end of the row of West Philadelphia’s Third Baptist Church wondering if the sermon would have been over already if she had gone over to East Philadelphia’s. With her head still bowed, she peeks. All she can see is a row of shoes, some spit-shined, some lightly dusted, some rooted to the floor, others tapping. None seem to be itching like hers to run.

“God loves even the slaves,” the preacher says. His voice fills the small store/pharmacy/church, one of the few places they can speak freely. “Their suffering and pain has paved their way to the Heavenly Gates. Their earthly burdens will be replaced, their souls restored, and they will suffer out of love for our Lord.”

Ella shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “By the time service ends today, we’ll all be meeting the Lord,” she mumbles.

Sister Adelaide, the oldest woman Ella has ever seen, whispers hot and spitty in her ear, “Hushhhhh.”

“The life of the heathen is full of despair,” the preacher continues, “until our slave brothers and sisters let loose their shackles and embrace the Lord.” He pauses and throws off his thin sweater. With the windows shut and the congregation of thirty-five free men and women held captive until service ends, the preacher launches into last Sunday’s service. “Won’t none of us be free till we all free. Can I get an amen?”

“Amen!” the congregation yells.

One hour later, after slipping the thin pamphlet, The Price of Freedom: The Guide to the Young Christian Woman’s Role in Saving the Heathen, the Slave, and the Less Fortunate, into the fold of her frock, Ella turns to leave. She has just enough time to get home before supper. Sister Adelaide starts twitching. Unless Ella can stop her, in a few minutes the twitch will reach her bones and her eighty-seven-year-old body will spring off of the hard bench and dance up the aisle for near an hour.

“My God is an awesome God,” Ella sings out. Her voice is soft and clear like her mother’s. “He’s truly amazing. My God gave his Son for me. With my voice I praise him …”

“He laid down his life for me,” a deep voice takes up the refrain.

Within minutes the entire congregation rocks and sways to the familiar song of benediction. The collection plate passes around. Folks hoping for an extra blessing surround the preacher. A nickel later, Ella slips out the back.

It’s near dark. Mama will skin her alive if she’s late again. Now, the only way to get home before sunset is to cut through the woods. The path is short: a thin trail, thick trees. She can cut right through and be almost home. She’ll just have to run the rest of the way. If someone sees her she’ll be in trouble for sure. Mama’s told her not to cut through the woods near a thousand times. Almost as many times as she’s told her to say her prayers, set the table, sit like a lady, and act like she had some common sense and home training.

Ella slips into the woods. The path is worn down by feet. Her leather soles barely leave a print. The thin trail is riddled with weeds. In the spring, lush patches of bright colored bluebells, honeysuckles, and cherry blossoms carpet the wood; it would be near impossible to find the path. But today, a breezy mid-fall evening, the brown grass, crisp leaves, and thin branches bow and crunch. Before long the wood thins, the weeds part. Ella can just about see the dirt road. The sky is still light. She can make it. She slips out the wood, shaking leaves and dirt from her clothes.

“What you doing in them woods?” He’s not from around here. Thin shoes instead of work boots, the words scattering slow enough to pick them up if she wants to. His mouth twists like he tastes something rotten. He’s a stranger, a white one. Trouble.

“Walking,” Ella says. She stares at a slippery puddle of chewed tobacco at his feet. His toes seem about to burst through the thin leather.

“Walking, what?”

“Like this.” She takes one large step, followed by a larger one, then another.

“Don’t walk away while I’m talking to you!”

“I’m just trying to explain what I’m doing,” she says. “I’m taking the shortcut from church so I get home in time for supper. Mama gets mad something fierce if I’m late.” Ella looks around. Nothing but a lonely wagon stacked with chicken cages, a bureau, and some thick mattresses tied to two horses. Any other time a neighbor or two would be in a garden pulling vegetables for supper, out back taking clothes off the line, walking down the street on the way home from work. Seems like everybody in Philadelphia is shut behind locked doors and here she is talking to some strange white man all alone. Papa will have a fit.

“You supposed to be walking through the woods like that?”

“Like what?” Ella’s right eye twitches. Run.

“What’s the matter with your eye?”

“Tainted,” she whispers. Words seem stuck in her throat. She can’t get enough air.

“Damned my luck. First a bushel of broken ones back home and now this. Why me?”

The too-close man’s hot breath wrinkles Ella’s nose. She steps backward.

“Walker,” a familiar voice calls from the other side of the wagon, “will you come on? I got to get back home before it gets too dark.”

“Mr. Thompson?” Ella calls. “I’m sure glad to see you!” The words tumble fast, in time with her heart. She catches herself before running to hug him. The last thing she needs is Mama to come round the bend and see her arms wrapped around Mr. Thompson.

“Ella? What you doing out here all by yourself? Your pa know where you at?”

“No, sir.”

“You ain’t been sneaking round with no boy, have you?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t seem like your pa to let you go running around town by yourself. It seems like you’re always up under your mama’s skirts or running behind one of your brothers.”

“Yes, sir, I’m just on my way home now.”

“Through the woods?”

“I was taking a shortcut. It seemed like the fastest way to get home. You know how my mama gets if I miss supper.”

Thompson smiles. “You should get on home then.”

Ella turns to go. She will have to run to make up the time. Won’t Mama be tickled when she tells her what a fright she had on the way home? Overreacting, that’s all. Just plain imagining. “I’ll tell Pa I saw you and Ma that you asked after her.”

“Hold still, Negra,” Walker demands.

Run. Run. Run. The birds chirp, chickens cluck, wind whispers it. Ella keeps walking. Her heart beats so loudly that she can barely make out Mr. Thompson’s words behind her. Walker catches up and grips her shoulder tight.

“Walker, let that gal go!” Thompson yells out. “Get on home, child.”

Walker tightens his grip. His thick fingernails dig into Ella’s shoulder. “You said if I did a few jobs for you, you’d help me catch one. Well, I caught one. First Negro we seen alone in miles. Must be some sort of sign. Now help me get her in the wagon.”

“The Lord is my shepherd …” Ella prays. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

“I didn’t mean a tamed one. I meant one running around. One I don’t know.”

“Well, she’s one I don’t know,” Walker says. He pulls Ella toward the wagon. She digs her heels into the dirt. He drags her. Her leather shoes, the ones Mama cured, stitched, dyed instead of buying the ready-made ones in the shop, scrunch and slide off Ella’s feet. She fights. She flails and twists her arms, contorts her back. He clamps an arm around her neck, wrestles to pick her up.

“Wait a minute!” Thompson says. “I don’t want no trouble with her pa. He’s good people.”

“For a colored.” Walker spits the words with a clump of chewing tobacco on the ground. “Soon you be talking ’bout they just like us.”

“Just pick another one.” Thompson blocks the way to the wagon.

“Look here, Thompson. You good people. You work hard. Got a piece of land. Do right by your missus. Got yourself a reputation here. You gonna let this fool of a girl ruin all you building up? Don’t you care about your family? I care about mine, I do. I don’t know what kind of man that makes me, but I can’t go home without this gal. I can’t do that to the missus. I ain’t told you before now but my place is bad off. You know how long it’s been since we had a young’un? Something ain’t right there. Need to start over. Build from the dirt up. Need a gal like this to break the curse.”

Thompson laughs. “A curse? You talking just like them. There’s no such thing as a curse.”

“No? Then there’s no harm in taking this gal, is there?” Thompson stares at Ella, wriggling in Walker’s grasp. “Ain’t nothing wrong with what we doing,” Walker continues. “What you think gonna happen to her if she keep running around with her uppity ways? Talking to folk any ol’ kind of way? You want her pa to have to bury her cuz she don’t know how to talk to white folk? And her ma, you want her ma to be chasing round trying to make her do right? Won’t be long before some boy’s in her skirts. She won’t bring nothing but shame.”

Walker’s hands fumble over Ella’s body as he tries to haul her into the wagon. Her pamphlet falls to the ground. She kicks hard like her brothers taught her and runs without turning to watch him double over.

“Call the law! Call the law!” Walker yells. “You seen it. She attacked me!”

Ella’s arms and legs pump as she runs down the road. Just a few strides more and she will be at the bend. Behind her someone stumbles, the earth crunches beneath the weight of too-tight shoes. A slippery hand tugs at the back of her dress. Thompson.

Wheezing, he grips a handful of cloth and hefts her off her feet. “Stupid fool,” he whispers. “Wouldn’t none of this have happened if it weren’t for you.”

She’s dying. The high neckline Grandmother had sworn by and insisted upon clings to her neck like stingy hands. Between the biting lace, Thompson shaking her so that her head rattles and her lungs refusing to breathe, Ella’s world turns black. She almost doesn’t feel it when Walker hits her in the head with the side of a pistol.

It’s dark when she comes to. Her head throbs. Her heart hurts. Her arms and legs, tied, are sore. Her throat is dry. Her tongue’s thick. The drying vomit under her nose, around her mouth, covering her chin, suffocates her. Her head thumps against wood planks each time the wagon bumps, swerves. I want my mama. She lays on her side in the back of the wagon tied hands to feet under a thick row of scratchy blankets and smelly chicken crates. The squawking and scratching of the chickens muffles her screams. The wagon bounces for hours. Days. It is dawn when it finally stops. Shuffling feet, hushed voices and then Walker’s voice, angry and short.

“Just tend the horses and unload the chickens. I’ll get the rest.”

Ella screams.

A sharp bang on the side of the wagon is the only response. The horses are unhitched. The crates unloaded. The blankets lifted. A flash of light. Fresh air, dark-brown eyes staring into hers. Ella jumps.

Quickly a brown hand releases the blankets. Darkness.

Ella’s heart pounds. Her clothes stick to her skin. Her skin sticks to the wooden wagon bottom. The ropes cut into her wrists and ankles.

Hours later she’s dragged across the wagon floor, dumped to the ground. She stares up into an older version of Walker.

Walker joins them. He spits near her face.

“Sir, there’s been some mistake,” Ella says. Don’t look them in the eye. Lower your voice. Be respectful. Her throat is hoarse. “If you would just cut me loose, I can get back home.”

“What’s she talking about?”

“Damned if I know,” Walker Junior says.

“Would you shut her up so we can get down to business?”

Ella closes her eyes in time to see the sole of Junior’s shoe before he kicks her in the face.