A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton - Michael R. Phillips [40]
“There isn’t another one. I found this out in the barn just now, under the straw where Emma was laying when she had William.”
“So it is Emma’s, like she says?”
“No, Miss Katie,” I said. “This used to belong to my mama. She had it for years.”
“It’s mine!” Emma said again. “I brought it wiff me when I ran away.”
Katie looked back and forth between the two of us, more bewildered than ever.
“What do the letters stand for, Mayme?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “All my mama would tell me is that they meant ‘teardrop.’ ”
“Maybe this one of Emma’s is the other one,” she suggested. “There are always two.”
“My mama only had one,” I said. “How could Emma have gotten the other one.—If it’s yours, Emma,” I said, turning to her, still a little riled, “where’d you get it?”
“Neber min’ where I got it. I got it, dat’s all.”
“It had to come from someplace, Emma,” said Katie gently. “Won’t you tell me where?”
“I foun’ it.”
“Found it … where?”
“I foun’ it in a place when dere weren’t nobody aroun’ … an’ it wuz dere an’ it was pretty an’ it din’t belong to nobody, so I jes’ took it.”
Suddenly I remembered something Emma had said about the time she’d run away from her plantation, about going down to the colored town after everyone was dead. A chill swept through me. Why hadn’t I thought of it before—William McSimmons was one of the McSimmons boys! And the instant the name came to my mind, with it came back the memory of the man Katie and I had seen asking about Emma in Mrs. Hammond’s store.
It had been him!
“Was that before they killed the black folks, Emma?” I asked.
“Yes, dat was before den, but dey was all out workin’.”
“All the slaves, you mean?”
“All da field slaves. I was a slave too, but I stayed at da house.”
“But you went down to the colored village that day, when everyone was gone, and you found it then?”
“Yes’m, an’ when I went inter da house, I saw it—
” All at once Emma realized I’d found her out, and she shut her mouth up tight.
“You saw it and you stole it—is that what you were about to say?”
Emma did not reply.
“You found it in one of the slave houses, didn’t you?” I persisted. “The slaves were out working and you went in and saw it and took it?”
Still she remained silent.
“That was my house, Emma. And that cuff link was my mama’s!”
Emma glanced away. I think her anger at me was starting to turn to embarrassment, though I think she was still mad that I’d found out her secret.
“What were their names, Emma?” I said. “When you were telling us about what happened to you—what was your master called?”
Still Emma wouldn’t answer.
“Emma, answer Mayme’s question,” said Katie. Her voice was insistent, like she was Emma’s mistress.
“Master McSimmons,” Emma finally whimpered.
“So it did come from my mama!” I cried. “You took it from our house!”
“I still don’t understand, Mayme,” said Katie, now glancing toward me.
“Now we know why the baby’s name is William, Miss Katie,” I said. “I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before.”
“What do you mean?”
“Me and Emma came from the same place!” I said. “The father of her baby is William McSimmons, the son of my own master, who has about as bad a reputation as a man can have about what he does to women. I’ve heard talk about him and slave girls, and Emma’s baby is obviously his doing. He’s who was asking Mrs. Hammond about her that day.”
“What dat you say?” shrieked Emma. “He been ax’ing ’bout me! Oh no … no!” she wailed and then started crying.
“But why didn’t you know each other?” asked Katie, for the moment ignoring Emma’s ruckus.
“I don’t know, Miss Katie,” I said. “I can’t figure that out either. I don’t know why I didn’t see her at the plantation. I’d figured the McSimmons were all dead till just a few days ago.”
Again I turned to Emma.
“How long had you been at the McSimmons place?” I asked.
“I don’ know,” whimpered Emma, “maybe a year. I wuz always gettin’ bought an’ sold. Da master hadn’t bought me too much before dat, I reckon. I’m sorry, Miz Mayme. I din’t know it wuz yer mama’s. I din’t mean ter steal it. It wuz jes’ so