Libertie by Kaitlyn Greenidge (best short novels .txt) 📗

a full print of all our colored heroes—there was Hiram Revels and Fredrick Douglass and John Mercer Langston, and even Martin Delany, my mother’s old friend.

“The Mystery, out of Pittsburgh, made prints for Independence Day,” I said. “Emmanuel bought it special for you, so that you could add it to your collection.”

“Ah.” Bishop Chase sighed. He looked at it from over his glasses but did not move to take it from my hands. “Yes. A thoughtful gift.” Then he turned his attention back to his plate.

I was left to stand there, all that power in my hands on that print, while Ella smiled in satisfaction at her plate and Emmanuel looked at his father, exasperated. He seemed about to open his mouth, to complain again, but I did not think I could bear it.

“I’ll leave it in the hall,” I said, “to hang.”

Back in the darkness of the foyer, I carefully folded the print and leaned it against the banister. I heard a rustling behind me and turned to see Ti Me. At her hip was a wicker basket, loaded down with linens. She stared steadily at me, holding my gaze. I smiled back at her. She did not move, did not blink, only looked into my eyes with a kind of curiosity.

I did not know what to do. But the way she stared at me, I began to think I understood. I bowed my head to her and made a short curtsy. When I raised my head, she looked at me a moment longer, then turned on her heel and was gone.

“You should touch it,” he whispered.

“I can’t,” I whispered back.

“You did on the ship, without asking.”

His voice whistled in my ear.

“We were alone then.”

“We were not alone. All around us were tens of men who watched my pretty wife walk up and down the deck—”

“Emmanuel!”

“And still I had her all for my own. But in my own house, she won’t touch it.”

“I would,” I hissed, “but they can hear every word.”

He rolled his head back on the pillow, looked at the gap in the ceiling above us.

“They are asleep.”

“I can hear them breathing.”

“I did not take you for a nervous one, Libertie.”

“I am not nervous.”

“Nerves will not do well in our life here.”

“I am not nervous.”

“I thought you had a strong temperament.”

“I do.”

“Then prove it on me. Kouche.”

He took my hand in his, guided it between his legs, where he wished it to go. I did not think I would ever get used to that. The wonder of it—rigid in my hand, not like any other organ. It was a curiosity. I had seen between the legs of more women than I could count, but this, this was strange. It was almost as if it did not belong on a body. As if it was some kind of a prank. I pulled my hand away from his, pressed hard on the end of it to see what he would do. He groaned. Why Mama hadn’t told me of this, in all her anatomy lessons, the little bit of power here, I did not know. I wished that I could discuss it with her, or with someone. I could not even write it in a letter to the Graces, I thought. They would not understand.

Beneath my hand, Emmanuel was very slowly thrashing his legs under the sheet, as if the fit itself was luxurious. He was whispering something, too, low and deep: “Bon lanmou, bon lanmou, bon jan love.”

“Emmanuel!” It was another hiss, higher than Emmanuel’s voice, that seemed to fill the whole room.

His legs immediately stilled, but he could not calm his breathing.

“Emmanuel!” That hiss again, so shrill.

He put his mouth close to my ear.

“Go to the door,” he gasped. “If you do not, she will try the lock. She won’t leave till you answer.”

“Who?”

“Just go! Hurry!”

When I opened the door, Ella was before me. In the light of the candle she held, her face was haggard and overly pale, as if the muscle beneath her skin was inlaid with lime. She did not tie her hair up for bed, like any other Negro woman would. Instead, she had set on top of the mass of it a yellowed nightcap, which threatened to slide off of it all.

She jumped back slightly when it was I who opened the door. Then she recovered.

“Is Emmanuel all right?”

“Of course, he is,” I said. “Why would you think he was not?”

“I heard strange noises. As if he was in distress.”

“He is not.”

She sighed, exasperated, then strained her neck, as if to see around me.

“Emmanuel, did the food not agree with you? You have been so long away—”

“I am fine, Ella,” he called back.

“Are you sure?”

“He is fine,” I said, and made to close the door.

“You do not know him as I do. He has a sensitive stomach. Anyone making noises like that cannot be well.”

“You could not know what those noises meant. You are not married,” I said without thinking.

She breathed in heavily at that, so much so that her candle flame shook. I looked at her, aghast at what I had said.

“Ella, I apologize …”

But she turned and made her way back down the hall. I watched the back of her, the nightshirt and the wobble of the flame as she walked. I did not want to face Emmanuel.

When I turned back around, he was still in bed but sitting up on his elbows. He was grinning.

“I knew you were the right one,” he said. “I knew you were not nervous.”

“Your sister now hates me.”

“It does her good.”

“It doesn’t do me any good to have her hate me.”

“Ignore her. She doesn’t matter.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Only we are twins, but we have not shared the same life for a very long time. Not since we were children.”

“What does that mean?”

“Come back,” he said, “and I will whisper it to you.”

I returned to bed. I pulled my knees up to my chin and turned away from him. He pressed at me