Song of Slaves in the Desert - Alan Cheuse [121]
I shook my head.
“You’ve been listening to our conversations?”
“Everybody talks in front of us. Sometimes it’s like we’re not there. Sometimes it is…”
“You know what my father wants to do?”
“From what I hear he wants to buy part of this plantation.”
“And I don’t want him to. I’ve decided that.”
“But you ain’t going back to New York yet. First, you said you was going.”
I shook my head, confused somewhat that I was having this intimate conversation about my life and family matters with a woman I scarcely knew—who, and I confess that I thought this, was a slave to boot.
“I’m going to town to inquire about sailing schedules.”
“I see,” she said.
“And I would like Liza to travel with me. To help me at the market. I…want to make some purchases before I leave for New York.”
“Uh…” she said. And then she added, “Huh.”
It was that look, that tone of voice—I had known it all my life growing up with Marzy in the household. African or white, our servants were our consciences, and it was important for us to notice the way we treated our consciences.
“I trust you can spare her for the day. Perhaps even overnight. We may not be able to return until tomorrow.” I paused and took a breath. “I don’t know why I am telling you this. It sounds as though I am asking your permission.”
Precious Sally sighed, and her huge chest heaved up and down in a wave of inhalation.
“You don’t have to ask my permissions,” she said. She seemed about to say more when my uncle came huffing and puffing back into the room.
“All arranged.” Turning to Precious Sally, he said, “Now where is she?”
“Right here, massa,” Liza said from the doorway. She was wearing a fresh dress and a tan straw hat that sat on her head at an angle I could only call jaunty.
“She need a pass, massa,” Precious Sally said. “They’s been trouble up the road.”
“Of course, of course,” my uncle said, “I’ll write it just now.” And he left the room while the three of us remained, the big woman, me, and Liza, silent, silent, silent, until he returned.
About half an hour later we set out, the passes in my coat pocket, my heart beating, or so it seemed to me, louder than the noise of the horse’s hooves. I held the reins and Liza sat primly alongside me. The horse—a big old gelding named Archie—seemed to know the way, and obliged only now and then to give me the opportunity to urge him along.
“How are you this morning, Liza?” I said, finding it difficult to breathe.
“Fine, massa,” she said in a voice that gave no notice of any difficulty on her part.
“Are you never going to call me Nate again?”
“Maybe later, massa,” she said.
I reached over and touched her at the knee. It was a shock to me, almost as if I had touched the tip of a candle flame, and I noticed she flinched at my touch.
“I am suddenly tired, are you?”
“Yes,” she said.
“But happy,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Liza,” I said, keeping my hand in place, “I have been thinking about you…wondering about you, I should say.”
She sat silently, giving nothing back.
“It was…” I paused, not knowing the words, and the creak and rattle of the carriage and the clomping of the horse filled the world all of a sudden. I wanted words to fill the emptiness and ward off the confusion inside me. The heat grew steadily stronger, and the road seemed long.
“Tell me about yourself, will you?” I said.
Liza touched a hand to her hat as if it might be blown away in the wind, though it was a breezeless morning, except what air we stirred as we rolled along in the carriage.
“I…was born here, at The Oaks.”
“And your parents?”
“My…family, they came over on the ships.”
“From distant Africa?”
“From across the water, yes.”
“That’s a long way. And a long time.”
“Not that long, Nate. They didn’t live that long.”
“I am sorry,” I said.
“I am sorry, too,” she said. “My mother…she died when I was born. Precious Sally helped raise me up. That’s how I come to work in the house.” She paused, and we listened together to the rumbling of the carriage wheels in the dust.
“Nate?”
“Yes, Liza?”
I took my hand from her thigh and lay