“Seven years to pay back yo’ indenture ain’t bad,” Teenie pointed out. “You is young and got plenty o’ time to make you a place in this here world. White women with indentures got it easy—eventually, you can fit in.” Polly glanced over at Teenie, surprised at the emotion in her voice. Teenie poked furiously at the coals in the hearth.
“I must pay back fourteen years,” Polly told her. “I must pay my own plus what was left of my parents’ indentures. Mr. Derby says I should be glad he was willing to take on all that debt. I suppose I should be thankful. But I’m fifteen years old. By the time I pay him back, I’ll be almost thirty—a wrinkled, old woman.” She stared for a long time at the blazing embers in Teenie’s fireplace.
“Thirty ain’t so old,” Teenie said quietly. “That’s close to how old I be, far as I can tell.” She gazed out the door of the small kitchen house and looked dreamily down the path that led away from the plantation.
Polly watched as Amari moved close to Teenie and touched her hand. Something seemed to pass between them—a look of understanding, perhaps. Amari whispered a few words in her own language.
Teenie moved away abruptly and returned to her brisk command of the room. “Go on now, you two gals get outta here. It be almost dark, and I ’spect you both at dawn. Tidbit, go fetch me some wood for my fire! And take that dog with you,” she yelled, although she didn’t seem angry. The boy disappeared into the yard.
Amari and Polly headed slowly back to the little cabin. Polly watched, amazed, as Amari rushed to grab the mat on the floor, shook it out, then curled up on it quickly.
“Why are you laying on the floor?”
Amari covered her head with her arms.
“You don’t want to sleep in the bed?”
Again the slave girl ignored her.
Polly shrugged and climbed onto the narrow cot. The strawfilled mattress was lumpy and smelled of moldy vegetables, but it was better than anything she had felt in a long time. She slept.
The knock on the door startled Polly awake. It was Tidbit, looking like a tiny night spirit. He was shivering, and so was his dog. “Massa Clay say he want his birthday present now. I’m to take her there.”
Polly gasped with realization and reached over to shake Amari awake. Amari sat up and looked from Polly to the trembling child. Her face was a question. Polly said slowly and with genuine sorrow, “You must go with Tidbit. Master Clay is asking for you.”
Amari looked at Polly, then the child, and suddenly seeming to understand, she groaned. “No! No! No!” she begged.
Polly touched her arm but couldn’t think how to help her.
Tidbit stood silently, shifting from foot to foot, looking very uncomfortable.
Amari finally took a deep breath, stood up without a word, and followed the child out of the door. The night was very dark.
PART THREE
AMARI
17. AMARI AND ADJUSTMENTS
THE NEXT THREE MONTHS WERE HOT, CONFUSING, and miserable as Amari tried to assimilate into the culture of plantation life. Dawn always came too quickly, and she woke each morning with a start as she heard the roosters announce the day.
Amari and Polly chopped and gathered wood for Teenie’s fire, learned to set it, stoke it, and keep it blazing, and were taught how to hang the heavy pots so food would cook as Teenie commanded. Teenie showed them the stones that had been dug into the side of the fireplace where bread was baked and the iron grills where food was fried.
Amari still wasn’t sure of how she felt about Polly, who at first seemed to be indignant that she wasn’t working in the big house. Amari snorted with disdain at Polly’s resentment. The white girl, she gradually learned, had the chance to be free one day. Amari knew too well that she would never taste freedom again.
Gradually, as they fell into a daily routine, Polly seemed to relax, but Amari could see she still felt somewhat superior to the slaves around her. She wouldn’t touch any of them, not even to give Tidbit a hug. And she looked with longing at the main house all the time. Amari figured she was waiting for her opportunity to work there instead of in the kitchen with the slaves. The two girls merely tolerated each other.
Tidbit scurried everywhere with Amari and Polly, showing them how to turn the meat on the spit, the secrets of gathering eggs from the chickens without getting pecked, and what ingredients were needed to make the dough for the bread. For such a small child, he knew as much about the running of the kitchen as his mother, Amari thought, impressed. She thought sadly of how she used to try to avoid chores. How she wished she could help her mother once more!
Amari slowly learned how to cook and eat foods she never could have imagined. Sometimes they had squirrel or venison, which Amari learned was the meat of one of the many deer she saw around the place. The animal would be skinned and gutted, then the flesh was cut into long strips and hung in the smokehouse to dry over hot, smoked wood. Hams, mutton, even wild turkey hung there in the darkness of the smokehouse, waiting to be used in the winter, when food was not so plentiful. Teenie told Amari that it was the only building on the plantation that was kept locked at all times. Not even Teenie had a key.
Fresh fish was brought in by slaves every day, and Teenie taught both Amari and Polly how to clean it and fry it. Amari also showed Teenie how to make fish stew like her mother had made. It was on those days that she closed her eyes and dreamily imagined herself back, just for a moment, in the smoky hut of her parents.
One day, when Teenie brought in a basket of yams from the garden, Amari babbled in excitement—half in English, half in her native language—unable to make Teenie understand at first that Amari’s mother had grown yams just like these in her own garden.
“You talkin’ ’bout how yams grow in Africa?” Teenie finally asked when Amari had calmed down.
Amari took a deep breath and grabbed a yam from Teenie’s basket. “My mama,” she began, then tears filled her eyes and she gave up trying to explain. She closed her eyes and sniffed it. She could almost smell her mother’s boiled chicken and yams.
“You know, my mama come from Africa too,” Teenie told her. “She teached me what she knew ’bout Africa food. Long as you remember, chile, it ain’t never gone.”
Amari nodded in appreciation.
Tidbit’s constant laughter made the long workdays seem a bit easier. He laughed when Amari dropped food in the fire and when the rooster chased Polly and pecked her arm. Hushpuppy shadowed the child’s every move, running with Tidbit in the sunshine, and Amari knew the dog slept curled up with him at night.
Tidbit jabbered all the time, asking questions, making little jokes, playing tricks on his mother and the two girls. Amari learned quite a bit of English from the boy, who seemed to know intuitively what she needed to know. She also liked the way Polly talked to her constantly, making sure she knew the words for each food or task they encountered. Although she was proud that her command of the language was growing, it bothered Amari that she still spoke it so poorly. She knew she sounded stupid, and she didn’t like it. She got mixed up on verbs like “come” and “came,” as well as on plurals of words like “house” and “mouse.” Why would these people say “houses” but not “mouses”? Why “mice” and not “hice”?
Amari understood much more than she let anyone know, however. Most of what was said around her she could figure out, but she knew the value of keeping her mouth shut and acting ignorant. An occasional slight nod from Teenie told her she was doing the right thing.
In the evening both she and Polly fell asleep exhausted, with Amari praying that she would not be called to the big house. But at least twice a week Tidbit stole quietly through the darkness to fetch Amari to come to the bedroom of Clay Derby. Each time, she forced her mind to go back to the dust of her childhood, to soft rain showers, to warm sunshine over her village—anything to help her endure, to help her forget his smell, his greasy hair, his damp hands.
But the worst was when he felt like talking—these were times she really h
ated because she was forced to stay in his room much longer.
“You ever talk to that cow my father married?” Clay asked her one night.
“Oh, no, suh,” Amari had replied quickly. “I have no call to speak to the missus.”
“She doesn’t belong here,” Clay said angrily, almost to himself. “And now she’s having a child, and my father acts as if it is the next Messiah!” He ground his fist into the sheet.
Amari had no answer; she just wanted him to say she could leave.
He lifted his head off his pillow then and spoke directly in her face. His breath smelled of spoiled food, and Amari had to force herself not to gag. “You like me, don’t you?” The question was sudden and abrupt.
Shocked at the question, Amari swallowed hard. If she said no, he might get angry. If she said yes, he might manage to misunderstand her hatred of him. So she pretended she didn’t know what he meant.
“I asked you a question. I know you understand much more than you let on. You do like me, don’t you?” he implored quietly. To Amari, his voice sounded a little plaintive, almost as if he needed her to say she liked him.
“Yassuh,” Amari whispered, cringing.
Amari was amazed to hear him breathe a sigh of relief. “I had a feeling you cared about me,” Clay said, assurance creeping back into his voice. “Did Teenie give you the extra blanket I left for you?” he asked, sounding concerned.
“Yassuh. Thank you, suh.” What she didn’t tell him was that she couldn’t bear to touch the thing, so she had given the blanket to Sara Jane, a slave who had recently given birth.
“I think I’ll let you come back tomorrow night,” Clay said to Amari through the darkness. “I’m looking forward to it. Go on back to your place now.”
“Thank you, suh,” Amari whispered miserably. She crept out of his bed, down the back steps, and over the path through the darkness back to her cabin. She shivered uncontrollably and could not sleep. Morning always came harshly.
18. ROOTS AND DIRT
ONE AFTERNOON WHILE POLLY AND TIDBIT HAD gone to pick berries for a pie, Amari and Teenie were in a small garden Teenie had planted behind the kitchen.
“If you dig this yellow root here—it be called fever grass—then boil it,” Teenie was telling her, “you can get rid of stomach cramps. And tea made from the bark of that tree yonder will stop a headache.”
Ordinarily, Amari enjoyed these sessions with Teenie. It reminded her of times her mother had tried to teach her about herbs and roots and teas, but she had been too full of herself to pay much attention. But this day Amari was unusually quiet, having been compelled to spend the previous night with Clay, and he had forced her to do things that made her shiver with shame.
“The old folks calls this purple blossom buzzard root—it be good for female problems,” Teenie told Amari quietly. When Amari didn’t answer, Teenie looked into her face. “You look as low as a toad in a dry well, chile.”
“You got root that kill?” Amari asked glumly.
To Amari’s surprise, Teenie replied quietly, “Yes, chile, I reckon I do. But death is not for me to give.” She continued to dig furiously, her head down.
“Show me!” Amari implored, her heart beating faster.
“Not today,” Teenie answered with a firm shake of her head. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do right now, chile.” Teenie paused, then said, “For me, it was the overseer, Willie Badgett. Eventually, they gets tired of you and moves on—but the terribleness of it just goes to another slave woman.” She reached over and touched Amari on the shoulder. She left her hand there a long time.
Grateful for the touch, Amari told Teenie, “I want die.” She blinked back tears.
“No, chile, you was brought here for some reason—Lawd knows what it is, though.” Teenie’s voice was so sympathetic, Amari pressed her head into Teenie’s chest.
“How long you be this place?” Amari asked after a moment, pulling away from her.
“I was borned here, chile. I tolt you my mama was a African like you be, but they sold her off when I was ’bout your age.”
“Oh no—so very, very bad.” Amari knew how deeply that must hurt.
Teenie’s facial expression softened. “My mama be a strong Africa lady—Ashanti, she told me. She tell me how the thunder of the drums be echoin’ ’cross the valleys, how the sun look at sunset—like a big old copper pot hangin’ in the sky—and stories ’bout the antelope and the giraffe, ’bout the monkey and the spider. I tells Tidbit all I can remember.”
“You telled me once that long as you ’member, nothin’ ain’t really gone,” Amari reminded Teenie.
“I remembers it all,” Teenie said softly. She reached into a pocket of her apron then and pulled out a small, faded scrap of multicolored fabric. Amari put her hand to her mouth with wonder. It was a tiny piece of woven kente cloth.
“Oh!” Amari whispered. It took her back to her father’s loom.
“My mama give me this,” Teenie explained. “When they snatched her away screaming from her mother, she grabbed on to her mother’s head wrap. It ripped, and this little piece of it came off in her hand. She clutched it all the way ’cross the big water, even kept it in her mouth when she had to. When she got to this place, she buried it not far from that tree yonder, just to keep it safe. Just before they sold her, she give it to me, and she whisper to me that I never forget.” Teenie sighed. “This be my little piece of my mother, my little breath of Africa. It’s all I got.” She carefully tucked it back into her pocket.
The two said nothing for a few moments while they let the memories come in. Teenie cleared her throat then, looked up at the sky, and said, “Prob’ly be rain tomorrow.”
“S’pose so,” Amari muttered. Needing to change the subject, she asked, “How you get to be cook here?”
“’Fore she died, the first Miz Derby put me in charge of the kitchen. That was right after Daisy the cook got sold because she tried to poison Massa Derby. Not too many folks willin’ to challenge what old Miz Derby say. I been cookin’ ever since.”
Amari looked up with surprise at the mention of a first wife of Mr. Derby. “Other Miz Derby be dead?”
“Yeah, chile, she died givin’ birth to that suck-egg mule, Clay. Maybe that why he be so evil—he ain’t never had no mama to love him.”
Amari thought about that for a moment and wondered how his first wife’s death had affected the master of the house. But she didn’t have all the words she needed to express it. So she asked, “Massa Derby miss first wife?”
“I ’spect so. She was shapely, black-haired, and good-looking for a white woman, plus she kept his house perfect, and he loved that. He used to act all addlepated when he was round her, like she was honey and he was the buzzin’ bee. But she had a sharp tongue and would beat a slave for next to nothin’.”
“What Massa Derby do when she die?” Amari asked.
“Massa like to die hisself—couldn’t eat nor sleep. He wouldn’t even look at that baby. Paid no ’tention at all to that chile till he be ’bout six year old. Clay grewed up alone in that big house with a bunch of nannies from ’cross the water.”
“Why Massa marry up with Miz Isabelle?” Amari ventured.
“Why do white folks do anything?” Teenie answered with a laugh, holding her arms up to the sky. “All’s I know is she had to come here to a cold ol’ fish like Massa Derby, put up with his awful son and paintings of the dead wife, and be cut off from all her friends and family.”
Teenie went back to digging for roots and plucking tomatoes then, not willing to discuss it any further. Amari returned to the kitchen. She picked up a broom made of branches and began to sweep the dusty floor. The harder she swept, the thicker the dust became—dirt swirled everywhere. She saw nothing but dirt in her own future.
19. PEACHES AND MEMORIES
ONE DUSTY AFTERNOON ABOUT A WEEK LATER Teenie called to Tidbit, “Go fetch me some peaches for my pie, boy. And take these two gals with you. Y’all look like you could us
e some fresh air.”
Tidbit jumped at the opportunity to stop shelling peas and motioned to the girls to hurry before Teenie changed her mind. Apples, peaches, and plums grew abundantly on the plantation, as well as dozens of vegetables that Amari had never seen. Amari followed the boy down the path, looked up at the same coppery hot sun that used to warm her in her homeland, and breathed in the fresh air thankfully.
Tidbit climbed high into the branches of the first peach tree he came to. It was thick with sweet fruit. His job was to toss the fruit down to Amari and Polly, who carried baskets. But instead of gently handing it down, he laughed and threw the peaches like weapons, smashing the soft fruit against their heads. Hushpuppy barked crazily at the bottom of the tree, chasing the peaches and even eating some of them.
“Stop, Tidbit!” Polly cried with laughter. “Your mama’s gonna get you for wasting food.”
“Polly, Polly Peach Pie!” Tidbit chanted from the tree.
Amari had grown to love having the boy around. It was almost like Kwasi’s spirit had found her in this strange new world. “Climb down from the tall tree, my little one,” she said in her own language.
Tidbit shimmied to the ground, a peach in each hand, and looked at her strangely. “That Africa talk?” he asked.
Amari nodded.
“My mama be tellin’ me stories ’bout Africa all the time, but she do it when ain’t nobody else listenin’. Where Africa be?” the boy wanted to know.
“Far away. Over ocean. Under sky,” she replied in English.
“What does it look like?” Polly asked.
“It look like bright colors, like happy. Sunshine. Family. Chickens and goats. Not need much.” Amari smiled softly, thinking back to the green seas of grass that she and Tirza ran through as girls, the red and green screaming jacana birds that awakened her, the annoying little monkey that would whisk into the village and steal papayas when her mother turned her back, the smell of the wood fire in front of their hut. She wanted to explain how right everything felt in a place where she was surrounded by mischievous children, overbearing cousins, and doddering elders who were all a part of her. The storytellers who had absorbed her history, the villagers who breathed the same air and dreamed the same memories—all of them were black. She did not have the words to express the depth of her loss. “Everybody black. Feel good,” was all she said.