Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [240]
But soon now a new freshet of grief poured from Kizzy. She realized that the sheriff knew exactly who the slave dealer was; they would certainly have traced her by now! She felt even more desperately lost, even more totally abandoned. Later, when she had no more tears left to shed, she lay imploring God to destroy her, if He felt she deserved all this, just because she loved Noah. Feeling some slickness seeping between her upper legs, Kizzy knew that she was continuing to bleed. But the pain had subsided to a throbbing.
When the cabin’s door came creaking open again, Kizzy had sprung up and was rearing backward against the wall before she realized that it was the woman. She was carrying a steaming small pot, with a bowl and spoon, and Kizzy slumped back down onto the dirt floor as the woman put the pot on the table, then spooned some food into the bowl, which she placed down alongside Kizzy. Kizzy acted as if she saw neither the food nor the woman, who squatted beside her and began talking as matter-of-factly as if they had known each other for years.
“I’se de big-house cook. My name Malizy. What your’n?”
Finally Kizzy felt stupid not to answer. “It Kizzy, Miss Malizy.”
The woman made an approving grunt. “You sounds well-raised.” She glanced at the untouched stew in the bowl: “I reckon you know you let vittles git cold dey don’t do you no good.” Miss Malizy sounded almost like Sister Mandy or Aunt Sukey.
Hesitantly picking up the spoon, Kizzy tasted the stew, then began to eat some of it, slowly.
“How ol’ you is?” asked Miss Malizy.
“I’se sixteen, ma’am.”
“Massa boun’ for hell jes’ sho’s he born!” exclaimed Miss Malizy, half under her breath. Looking at Kizzy, she said, “Jes’ well’s to tell you massa one dem what loves nigger womens, ’specially young’uns like you is. He use to mess wid me, I ain’t but roun’ nine years older’n you, but he quit after he brung missy here an’ made me de cook, workin’ right dere in de house where she is, thanks be to Gawd!” Miss Malizy grimaced. “Speck you gwine be seein’ ’im in here regular.”
Seeing Kizzy’s hand fly to her mouth, Miss Malizy said, “Honey, you jes’ well’s realize you’s a nigger woman. De kind of white man massa is, you either gives in, or he gwine make you wish you had, one way or ’nother. An’ lemme tell you, dis massa a mean thing if you cross ’im. Fact, ain’t never knowed nobody git mad de way he do. Ever’thing can be gwine ’long jes’ fine, den let jes’ anythin’ happen dat rile ’im,” Miss Malizy snapped her fingers, “quick as dat he can fly red hot an’ ack like he done gone crazy!”
Kizzy’s thoughts were racing. Once darkness fell, before he came again, she must escape. But it was as if Miss Malizy read her mind. “Don’t you even start thinkin’ ’bout runnin’ nowhere, honey! He jes’ have you hunted down wid dem blood dogs, an’ you in a worser mess. Jes’ calm yo’self. De next fo’, five days he ain’t gon’ be here nohow. Him an’ his ol’ nigger chicken trainer already done left for one dem big chicken fights halfway crost de state.” Miss Malizy paused. “Massa don’t care ’bout nothin’ much as dem fightin’ chickens o’ his’n.”
She went on talking nonstop—about how the massa, who had grown to adulthood as a po’ cracker, bought a twenty-five-cent raffle ticket that won him a good fighting rooster, which got him started on the road to becoming one of the area’s more successful gamecock owners.
Kizzy finally interrupted. “Don’t he sleep wid his missis?”
“Sho’ he do!” said Miss Malizy. “He jes’ love womens. You won’t never see much o’ her ’cause she scairt to death o’ ’im, an’ she keep real quiet an’ stay close. She whole lot younger’n he is, she was jes’ fo’teen, same kind of po’ cracker he was, when he married ’er an’ brung ’er here. But she done foun’ out he don’t care much