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

she was ever free, she’d spend all day in silk and she’d paint her face pretty. I wish she was still alive to see it. She knew what she would do with freedom. It wasn’t man’s work she’d do with freedom. Not like your mama. She knew better than that.”

Then he stopped, and was silent, and seemed to have gone away to another world, too. Not the one where Mama went to figure out how to make a body work right, but somewhere else, probably with his Daisy in her silks. But in the moment, I decided to apply Mama’s new lesson for me and not ask questions.

“This it?” Mr. Ben said.

Sampson Lane had reached the crossroads, where the main road stretched to downtown and the waterfront—the journey most people who lived here made every dawn and dusk for their livelihood. In the other direction, the road stretched deeper into Kings County, to the farms some of us worked. The final fork spread south. Around us was some of the land cleared for fields, the cabins and houses built close together so that neighbors could share gardens and animals and conversation.

There was the schoolhouse, which was empty now, because it was spring and most children were working. It would start up classes again in a few weeks, when they returned, and I would sit there, too, away from Mama.

There was the low, rambling building that was Mr. Culver’s pharmacy. His son, John, was regularly running from Mama’s to here, passing messages between the two of them. Out front sat six glass vials, filled to the brim with blue and green and red liquid remedies—the sign to all, even those of us who did not know our letters, that Culver’s was a place for medicine. I knew the front room well. Culver’s also was our general store, where we could buy seed and burlap and thread from a welcoming face, not the begrudging white ones downtown who sold the same, at two times the price for colored people.

And finally, there was the church, the building everyone was proudest of. It had been the first one built, after our grandfathers bought land here, and it stood back, next to a little glen of trees we took turns pruning to keep pretty, and the graveyard shaded lower on the hill, protected from any passerby.

Mr. Ben looked around. “This it, then?” he repeated.

“We play over there,” I said, pointing to the other side of the churchyard, where in the summertime a meadow always sprang up, which I and the other children liked to run through. In this new spring, it was bare, but I tried to explain it to him, what the future glory would look like. “We run so hard there you feel like you’re bursting.”

His face was unmoved.

“But I guess it’s all just mud now,” I said, trailing off.

A crow called above us, wheeled in the sky, and settled on the branch of the nearest tree, shaking a too-new blossom loose.

Mr. Ben said, “I couldn’t see what this place looked like on the way in. I could only hear what this town was like, when I was in that box.”

“What was it like?” I said. “In there.”

“Awful, gal. What kind of a question is that? What you think it like, to be shut up in the dark with nothing but yourself all around you?”

He made another turn, looked up at the sky again, which seemed too white and was closing in around us.

I was seized with the wild desire for him to love our home as much as I did. He had said he was lonely for his Daisy, but maybe he was lonely because of being in the box, of having been so close to her in death but then being snatched away to rise up. I knew part of making a guest feel comfortable was to introduce them to those they might have something in common with. That is what they taught us girls in deportment at the Sunday school, anyways. And he seemed to enjoy talking about the dead. I pointed to the churchyard again.

“That’s where my daddy is,” I said. “Mama’s sister, too. They’re dead like your Daisy. Like you were. ’Cept Mama couldn’t bring them back. She did that for you, though.”

He looked at me from the corner of his eye and smiled slightly. “They all in there, then?” he said.

“Yeah.” I thought about it for a minute. “Not all of ’em, though. Mama’s sister’s hair, it lives in the glass jar in the parlor. But all of my daddy’s in there.”

Mr. Ben nodded. He was quiet for a moment, and then he spit in disgust on the ground. “I don’t even know Daisy’s resting place.”

He limped to the middle of the crossroads, turning first in one direction, then the other. He looked up above him again, at the sky. Then he said, “Let’s go back to your mother’s.” And so we did.

He allowed me, though, the kindness of slipping my hand in his as we walked back home.

Dinner was eaten in near silence. Mr. Ben seemed to be thinking still of our trip to town, and Mama, she ate not for pleasure but for utility. She often said that if it was not for Lenore, I would not know good cookery at all. She seemed to notice that there was a sadness around Mr. Ben, because she said, at the end of a meal where the sole talk was between our tin spoons scraping our plates, “Is everything all right, then?”

He looked up at her, hard, for a minute. So hard Mama startled.

Then he looked back down at his plate and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

It was my job to clear the table, to take everything to the basin of water Lenore always left, her last duty before the end of the day. So I did not hear how it started between them, only how it ended.

I had taken our plates and come back for the pitcher