Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [241]
“Gal! Is you payin’ me ’tention?”
“Yes’m,” she replied quickly. Miss Malizy’s frown eased. “Well, I specks you better, since I’se ’quaintin’ you wid where you is!”
Briefly she studied Kizzy. “Where you come from, anyhow?” Kizzy said from Spotsylvania County, Virginia. “Ain’t never heared of it! Anyhow, dis here’s Caswell County in North Ca’liny.” Kizzy’s expression showed that she had no idea where that was, though she had often heard of North Carolina, and she had the impression that it was somewhere near Virginia.
“Looka here, does you even know massa’s name?” asked Miss Malizy. Kizzy looked blank. “Him’s Massa Tom Lea—” She reflected a moment. “Reckon now dat make you Kizzy Lea.”
“My name Kizzy Waller!” Kizzy exclaimed in protest. Then, with a flash, she remembered that all of this had happened to her at the hands of Massa Waller, whose name she bore, and she began weeping. “Don’t take on so, honey!” exclaimed Miss Malizy. “You sho’ knows niggers takes whoever’s dey massa’s name. Nigger names don’t make no difference nohow, jes’ sump’n to call’ em—”
Kizzy said, “My pappy real name Kunta Kinte. He a African.”
“You don’t say!” Miss Malizy appeared taken aback. “I’se heared my great-gran’daddy was one dem Africans, too. My mammy say her mammy told her he was blacker’n tar, wid scars zigzaggin’ down both cheeks. But my mammy never said his name—” Miss Malizy paused. “You know yo’ mammy, too?”
“’Cose I does. My mammy name Bell. She a big-house cook like you is. An’ my pappy drive de massa’s buggy—leas’ he did.”
“You jes’ come from bein’ wid yo’ mammy an’ pappy both?” Miss Malizy couldn’t believe it. “Lawd, ain’t many us gits to know both our folks fo’ somebody git sol’ away!”
Sensing that Miss Malizy was preparing to leave, suddenly dreading being left alone again, Kizzy sought a way to extend the conversation. “You talks a whole lot like my mammy,” she offered. Miss Malizy seemed startled, then very pleased. “I specks she a good Christian woman like I is.” Hesitantly, Kizzy asked something that had crossed her mind. “What kin’ of work dey gwine have me doin’ here, Miss Malizy?”
Miss Malizy seemed astounded at the question. “What you gon’ do?” she demanded. “Massa ain’t tol’ you how many niggers here?” Kizzy shook her head. “Honeychile, you makin’ zactly five! An’ dat’s countin’ Mingo, de ol’ nigger dat live down ’mongst de chickens. So it’s me cookin’, washin’, an’ housekeepin’, an’ Sister Sarah an’ Uncle Pompey workin’ in de fiel’, where you sho’ gwine go too—dat you is!”
Miss Malizy’s brows lifted at the dismay on Kizzy’s face. “What work you done where you was?”
“Cleanin’ in de big house, an’ helpin’ my mammy in de kitchen,” Kizzy answered in a faltering voice.
“Figgered sump’n like dat when I seen dem soft hands of your’n! Well, you sho’ better git ready for some callouses an’ corns soon’s massa git back!” Miss Malizy then seemed to feel that she should soften a bit. “Po’ thing! Listen here to me, you been used to one dem rich massa’s places. But dis here one dem po’ crackers what scrabbled an’ scraped till he got holt a l’il lan’ an’ built a house dat ain’t nothin’ but a big front to make ’em look better off dan dey is. Plenty crackers like dat roun’ here. Dey got a sayin’, ‘Farm a hunnud acres wid fo’ niggers.’ Well, he too tight to buy even dat many. ’Cose, he ain’t got but eighty-some acres, an’ farmin’ jes’ ’nough of dat to lay claim to bein’ a massa. His big thing is his hunnud an’ some fightin’ chickens dat Mingo nigger helpin’ him raise an’ train to bet on in fights. Only thing massa spen’ any money on is dem chickens. He always swearin’ to missy one day dem chickens gwine see ’em rich. He git drunk an’ tell ’er one dese days he gwine buil’ her a house so big it have six columns crost de front, an’ be two stories tall, an’ even finer’n de houses o’ dese real rich massas hereabouts what snubs ’em so bad, like dey still de po’