Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [301]
“Ain’t but seb’n!” said Matilda.
“Dat new one you say started in yo’ belly ag’in make eight!”
“Oh!” she said, smiling. She figured at length. “Dat make twenty-fo’ hunnud—”
“Jes’ for chilluns?” His tone mingled doubt with outrage. Matilda refigured. “Eight threes is twenty-fo’. Plus de eight hunnud fo’ me, dat make ’zactly thirty hunnud—dat’s same as three thousan’.”
“Wheeeew!”
“Don’t carry on so yet! De big one you!” She looked at him. “How much you figger fo’ you?”
Serious as it was, he couldn’t resist asking, “What you think I’se worth?”
“If I’d o’ knowed, I’d o’ tried to buy you from massa myself.” They both laughed. “George, I don’ even know how come we’s talkin’ sich as dis, nohow. You know good an’ well massa ain’t gwine never sell you!”
He didn’t answer right away. But then he said, “’Tilda, I ain’t never mentioned dis, reckon since I know you don’t hardly even like to hear massa’s name called. But I betcha twenty-five different times, one or ’nother, he done talk to me ’bout whenever he git ’nough together to buil’ de fine big house he want, wid six columns crost de front, he say him an’ missis could live off’n what de crops make, an’ he ’speck he be gittin’ out’n de chicken-fightin’ business, he say he steady gittin’ too ol’ to keep puttin’ up wid all de worries.”
“I have to see dat to b’lieve it, George. Him or you neither ain’t gwine never give up messin’ wid chickens!”
“I’m tellin’ you what he say! If you can listen! Looka here, Uncle Pompey say massa ’bout sixty-three years ol’ right now. Give ’im another five, six years—it ain’t easy fo’ no real ol’ man to keep runnin’ here an’ yonder fightin’ no birds! I didn’t pay ’im much ’tention neither till I kept thinkin’ dat, yeah, he really might let us buy ourselves, an ’specially if we be payin’ him ’nough would he’p ’im buil’ dat big house he want.”
“Hmph,” Matilda grunted without conviction. “Awright, let’s talk ’bout it. What you reckon he’d want for you?”
“Well—” His expression seemed to mingle pride in one way and pain in another at what he was about to say. “Well—nigger buggy driver o’ dat rich Massa Jewett done swo.’ up an’ down to me one time dat he overheard his massa tellin’ somebody he’d offered Massa Lea fo’ thousan’ dollars fo’ me—”
“Whooooooee!” Matilda was flabbergasted.
“See, you ain’t never knowed de valuable nigger you sleeps wid!” But quickly he was serious again. “I don’t really b’lieve dat nigger. I’speck he jes’ made up dat lie tryin’ to see if I’d be fool ’nough to swallow it. Anyhow, I go by what’s gittin’ paid nowdays for niggers wid de bes’ trades, like de carpenters an’ blacksmiths, sich as dem. Dey’s sellin’ twix two-three thousan’, I knows dat fo’ a fac’—” He paused, peering at her waiting pencil. “Put down three thousan’—” He paused again. “How much dat be?”
Matilda figured. She said then that the total estimated cost to buy their family would be sixty-two hundred dollars. “But what’bout Mammy Kizzy?”
“I git to Mammy!” he said impatiently. He thought. “Mammy gittin’ pretty ol’ now, dat he’p her cost less—”
“Dis year she turnin’ fifty,” said Matilda.
“Put down six hunnud dollars.” He watched the pencil move. “Now what dat?”
Matilda’s face strained with concentration. “Now it’s sixty-eight hunnud dollars.”
“Whew! Sho’ make you start to see niggers is money to white folks.” George spoke very slowly. “But I ’clare I b’lieves I can hackfight an’ do it. ’Cose, gon’ mean waitin’ an’ savin’ up a long time—” He noticed that Matilda seemed discomfited. “I knows right what’s on yo’ mind,” he said. “Miss Malizy, Sister Sarah, an’ Uncle Pompey.”
Matilda looked grateful that he knew. He said, “Dey’s family to me even fo’ dey was to you—”
“Lawd, George!” she exclaimed, “jes’ don’t see how jes’ one man s’posed to be tryin’ to buy ever’body, but I sho’ jes’ couldn’t walk off an’ leave dem!”
“We got plenty time, ’Tilda. Let’s us jes’ cross