Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [286]
Another time he had heard that “de white folks threatenin’ de Indians ’bout takin’ in so many niggers on dey reservations. Plenty dem Creeks and Seminoles done married niggers. It’s even some nigger Indian chiefs! But I hears dem Chocktaws, Chickasaws, an’ Cherokees hates niggers even worse’n white folks does.”
He would be asked far fewer questions than they really wanted to know the answers to, and soon, making polite excuses, Kizzy, Miss Malizy, Sister Sarah, and Uncle Pompey would disappear into their cabins to let him and Matilda be alone.
“Done tol’ myself you never gwine hear me wid no whole lot of complainin’, George,” she told him one such night as they lay in bed, “but I sho’ do feel like I ain’t hardly got no husban’ a lot o’ times.”
“Knows what you means, honey, I sho’ does,” he said easily. “Out dere travelin’ wid massa, or sometime me and Uncle Mingo up all night wid some dem sick chickens, I be’s jes’ thinkin’ ’bout you an’ de young’un.”
Matilda bit her tongue, choosing not to voice her doubts, even her suspicions about some of the things he said. Instead she asked, “You figger it’s ever gwine git any better, George?”
“Ever git massa rich enough! So he be willin’ to stay home hisself. But look, it ain’t hurtin’ us none, baby! Look how we’s savin’ if I can keep bringin’ in winnin’s like I is.”
“Money ain’t you!” said Matilda flatly, and then she made her tone softer. “An’ we’d save a lot mo’ if you jes’ ease up buyin’ presents for ever’body! We all ’preciates ’em, you knows dat! But George, where I ever gwine wear sich as dat fine silk dress I specks better’n any missy got!”
“Baby you can jes’ put dat dress on right in here, den pull it off fo’ me!”
“You’s terrible!”
He was the most exciting man—beyond anyone she had even dreamed of knowing, at least in that way. And he certainly was a fine provider. But she didn’t really trust him, and she couldn’t help wondering whether he loved her and their baby as much as he did traveling with the massa. Was there anything in the Scriptures about chickens? Vaguely she recalled something—in Matthew, if she wasn’t mistaken—about “a hen gathereth her chickens beneath her wings ...” I must look that up, she told herself.
When she did have a husband at home, though, Matilda submerged her doubts and disappointments and tried to be the best wife she knew how. If she knew he was coming, a big meal was waiting; if he came unexpectedly, she prepared one right away, day or night. After a while she quit trying to get him to bless a meal, simply saying a short grace herself, then delighting in watching him eat while he held the gurgling Virgil in his lap. Then afterward, with the boy put to bed, examining George’s face, she pinched out blackheads; or heating water to half fill the tin tub, she would wash his hair and his back; and if he arrived complaining of aching feet, she would rub them with a warm paste of roasted onions and homemade soap. Finally, whenever the candles were blown out and they were again between her fresh sheets, Chicken George would make up for his absences to the utmost. About the time Virgil began to walk, Matilda was great with child again; she was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.
With another child on the way, Gran’mammy Kizzy decided the time had come to take her son aside and tell him a thing or two that had been on her mind for a long time. He arrived home from a trip one Sunday morning to find her minding Virgil while Matilda was up in the big house helping Miss Malizy prepare dinner for guests who were soon to arrive.
“You set down right dere!” she said, wasting no time. He did, eyebrows risen. “I don’t care if you’s grown now, I still brought you in dis worl’, an’ you gwine listen! God done give you a real