A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton - Michael R. Phillips [19]
“Wha’chu gwine do now, chil’?” she said. “Da master’d likely keep you on like he dun me.”
“You mean, stay here like before?” I asked.
“Dat’s what I mean. But not like no slave. You’d git paid fer yo work now. You could stay here in da house wiff me, an’ be a house girl an’ work wiff me.”
“What do you mean, get paid?” I asked.
“Jes’ what I mean. Dey gots ter pay us now, since we ain’t slaves. I’s be gittin’ five cents er day ter stay an’ work fer master McSimmons. I don’ know what’s ter become er me effen der young master marries dat lady what don’ seem ter like me none. But fer now I gots me my same room ter sleep in, an’ you can see wiff yo own eyes dat I ain’t sufferin’ from not havin’ enuff ter eat.”
She broke out in a chuckle that shook her huge frame. I could feel rumbling on the floor under my chair. The idea of a colored person getting paid real money was more than I could imagine.
“And … and you want to stay here?” I said.
“Where would a fat ole black woman go, chil’? I reckon I’m free, but I gots no place else t’ go. I been here all my born days, so I figure dis’ll be my home fer da rest of ’em.”
I took a bite of bread and thought about what she said.
“No … no, Josepha,” I said. “I don’t think I can stay.
And so I reckon I oughta be going.”
I stood up from the table.
“Wha’chu gwine do den, effen you don’ plan ter stay here?” she asked, looking up at me from where she sat like I was a little crazy.
“I … I don’t know exactly,” I said. “But I know I don’t belong here no more. After what I saw happen to Mama and Sammy and Grandpapa and the others, I don’t think this could ever be my home again. I’m sorry, Josepha, but I just gotta go.”
I started walking slowly to the door. Josepha stood and just watched me for a second or two, like she was really sad that I was leaving.
“Well den, chil’, jes’ a minute,” she said. I stopped and turned. “You jes’ wait dere,” she added.
She turned and trundled into another room and disappeared for a minute. When she came back she was holding something in her hand. It was a piece of white cloth. She took some more of the bread and cheese and wrapped it inside it, and gave it to me.
“Don’ open it till you’s gone,” she said. “Dis is jes’ from me ter you. I know it won’ make up fer losin’ yo mama, but maybe it’ll help some.”
Then she took me in her arms and held me for a long time. I’d forgotten that folks you’ve known a long time are important. I cried as I felt her holding me against her. I reckon Josepha was just about as close to a mama as anyone I had in the whole world anymore. And she was colored too, like me. All at once part of me thought that maybe I should just stay here with her, thinking that she’d keep me safe, and wondering if they’d take Katie in too, and then we’d both be safe. But then I remembered that Katie was white, and there’d be a lot of questions, and then likely something would happen to her house that might not be good for her and she might lose everything. And from what I knew of the master’s sons, I didn’t want Katie anywhere near them.
Slowly I stepped back, then looked up into her face.
“Thank you, Josepha,” I said. “It was real good to see you.”
“An’ God bless you, chil’,” she said, and I could see great big tears starting to drip down her face. “Now dat I knows you’s alive, I ain’t gwine be able ter keep from thinkin’ ’bout you. Anytime you want, you come back an’ see Josepha, you hear?”
I smiled. “I may do that,” I said. “I reckon you’ll see me again.”
She walked me back outside. I walked slowly down the steps from the porch, then away from the house. I glanced back one more time. Josepha was standing there sniffling and wiping her eyes with the back of one hand, her other hand half raised waving at me. I waved back, then turned and kept walking.
All of a sudden from around the side of the house, the master came walking straight toward me. He slowed as he saw me, then stopped.
I froze. My heart started beating with terror. I don’t reckon a black girl’s face can go pale when she gets scared like a white