Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [243]
She remembered her mammy’s proud boast, “Ain’t nothin’ but black niggers here on massa’s place.” And she tried not to think about “sasso-borro,” the name her ebony-black father—his mouth curled in scorn—used to call those with mulatto skin. She was grateful that they weren’t there to see—and share—her shame. But she knew that she’d never be able to hold her head up again even if they never saw the child, for all anyone had to do was compare her color and the baby’s to know what had happened—and with whom. She thought of Noah and felt even more ashamed. “Dis our las’ chance fo’ I leaves, baby, how come you can’t?” she heard him say again. She wished desperately that she had, that this was Noah’s baby; at least it would be black.
“Gal, what’s de matter you ain’t happy, great big ol’ fine chile like dat!” said Miss Malizy one morning, noticing how sad Kizzy looked and how awkwardly she was holding the baby, almost at her side, as if she found it hard even to look at her child. In a rush of understanding, Miss Malizy blurted, “Honey, what you lettin’ bother you ain’t no need to worry ’bout. Don’t make no difference,’cause des days an’ times don’t nobody care, ain’t even pay no ’tention. It gittin’ to be near ’bout many mulattoes as it is black niggers like us. It’s jes’ de way things is, dat’s all—” Miss Malizy’s eyes were pleading with Kizzy. “An’ you can be sho’ massa ain’t never gwine claim de chile, not no way atall. He jes’ see a young’un he glad he ain’t had to pay for, dat he gwine stick out in de fields same as you is. So de only thing for you to feel is dat big, fine baby’s your’n, honey—dat’s all it is to it!”
That way of seeing things helped Kizzy to collect herself, at least somewhat. “But what gwine happen,” she asked, “when sometime or ’nother missis sho’ catch sight dis chile, Miss Malizy?”
“She know he ain’t no good! I wisht I had a penny for every white woman knows dey husbands got chilluns by niggers. Main thing, I speck missis be jealous ’cause seem like she ain’t able to have none.”
The next night Massa Lea came to the cabin—about a month after the baby was born—he bent over the bed and held his candle close to the face of the sleeping baby. “Hmmmm. Ain’t bad-looking. Good-sized, too.” With his forefinger, he jiggled one of the clenched, tiny fists and said, turning to Kizzy, “All right. This weekend will make enough time off. Monday you go back to the field.”
“But Massa, I ought to stay to nuss ’im!” she said foolishly.
His rage exploded in her ears. “Shut up and do as you’re told! You’re through being pampered by some fancy Virginia blueblood! Take that pickaninny with you to the field, or I’ll keep that baby and sell you out of here so quick your head swims!”
Scared silly, Kizzy burst into weeping at even the thought of being sold away from her child. “Yassuh, Massa!” she cried, cringing. Seeing her crushed submission, his anger quickly abated, but then Kizzy began to sense—with disbelief—that he had actually come intending to use her again, even now, with the baby sleeping right beside them.
“Massa, Massa, it too soon,” she pleaded tearfully. “I ain’t healed up right yet, Massa!” But when he simply ignored her, she struggled only long enough to put out the candle, after which she endured the ordeal quietly, terrified that the baby would awaken. She was relieved that he still seemed to be sleeping even when the massa spent himself, and then was clambering up, preparing to go. In the darkness, as he snapped his suspenders onto his shoulders, he said, “Well, got to call him something—” Kizzy lay with her breath sucked in. After another moment, he said, “Call him George—that’s after the hardest-working nigger I ever saw.” After another pause, the massa continued, as if talking to himself, “George. Yeah.