Charleston, South Carolina 1857
“I never rode on a boat before,” Kitty said with a nervous laugh. She felt giddy with excitement and more than a little scared as the steamer chugged down the Edisto River toward Charleston. All the familiar sights of Great Oak Plantation—the only home Kitty had ever known—disappeared as the ship rounded a bend. “The floor sure is wobbly, ain’t it, Missy Claire?”
“It’s called a deck, not a floor,” Missy replied. She seemed bored with their journey to Charleston and impatient to arrive. But, then, Missy had been to the city before; Kitty hadn’t.
Kitty leaned over the rail as far as she dared and peered down. The gray water looked angry and bottomless. The boat bobbed up and down, rocking like a runaway wagon. The motion made her stomach feel queasy. She closed her eyes for a moment until the feeling passed.
“I think I like riding in a carriage a lot better,” she said.
Missy made a face. “Don’t be such a baby. A steamboat will get us there much faster.” She strode away from Kitty as if she was tired of her and joined a group of white people standing at the stern.
Kitty decided to watch the scenery drift past along the shore and ignore the churning river. They passed through thick, green woods, buzzing with insects. Then the woods gave way to marshes
and creeks, where alligators drifted like fallen logs and herons and other waterfowl waded near the bank. Every now and then they passed a plantation, the rice and cotton crops newly harvested. As Kitty gradually grew used to the motion of the ship and the churning water, she began to relax, enjoying the chance to rest and do nothing. It was the first rest she’d had after the week-long flurry of packing.
Missy Claire and her family made the trip to their town house in Charleston twice a year—during the hottest summer days to enjoy the city’s sea breezes, and again in the winter when the city’s social season was in full swing. Kitty and the other house slaves had to pack everything the family would need into hatboxes, satchels, steamer trunks, and bureaus with handles that could be easily transported. Massa Goodman even had a clever traveling desk that folded all up with his important papers still inside, so he could carry it back and forth between Charleston and the plantation. Twice a year, Kitty had helped the other servants get ready, but she had always stayed behind at the plantation. This year, Kitty had finally been promoted from mammy’s helper to chambermaid, and she’d been allowed to make the journey for the first time.
“Your mama, Lucindy, was a chambermaid, too,” Mammy Bertha told Kitty. “Missus Goodman only wants pretty gals up in the Big House where white folks might see them. It’s lucky you’re real pretty, like your mama.”
“Yours is a very important job,” Missy’s mother had warned when Kitty’s training had begun, “so no more of your silliness. We’ll see if you can learn to behave properly and wait on a lady.”
That’s what Claire was, now—a lady. She’d had five birthday parties since Kitty had lived with her in the Big House, and at fifteen, Claire was old enough to dress like a grown-up in longsleeved dresses and hoop skirts, old enough to wear her pale brown hair pinned up on her head. Her figure had changed, too—to that of a woman. Kitty envied her, but Missy had pointed to Kitty’s tiny bosom one morning and said, “You’ll have a woman’s figure, too, in a year or two.”
One of Missus Goodman’s maids was teaching Kitty how to dress Missy’s hair. She had to be careful and not pull too hard when combing out the snarls or Missy would slap her. But Kitty loved colorful things, and she loved choosing the perfect hair ribbon or jeweled comb to make Missy look pretty.
She had been brushing Missy’s hair last night before bed when Missus Goodman came into the room to talk to Claire. “This is your first winter season as a young lady,” she’d said, “so it will be a very important one for you. You’re old enough to begin courting a husband, and that’s what you must think about during all the parties and dinners and balls and receptions you’ll attend. These are golden opportunities to be seen by the right sort of people and to make a favorable impression. Your future depends on it.”
Kitty had wanted to ask Missy Claire how she felt about being paraded all around Charleston like an item for sale, and how she felt about getting married and going off to live with a husband. They used to talk and giggle about all sorts of things back when Missy would let Kitty climb on her bed and sleep down by her feet. But Claire behaved very differently now that she was all grown up. It was as if she and Kitty had never laughed and played together at all or pretended that Kitty was a cat. She was Claire’s slave, not her friend. If she dawdled or made a mistake or did something to displease Missy, she would earn a smack and a reprimand, just like any other slave.
Missy Claire had grown too old for dolls and games, too sophisticated to have a slave play with her and entertain her. Kitty dusted and cleaned Missy’s room, emptied her slops, made her bed, mended and brushed and cared for her clothes. Meanwhile, Missy Claire studied lessons with a governess every day, reading and writing and studying history, arithmetic, and French. She was also learning the womanly arts of needlework and watercolors. Kitty loved to gaze at the beautiful strands of wool in Missy’s sewing basket, a rainbow of soft colors that Missy would stitch into pretty designs. But Kitty was never happier than on those days when she hauled Missy’s easel and watercolors outside for her and stood beside her to fan away the bugs while Missy tried to paint the Great Oak Tree or a river scene.
Missy Claire was not a very good artist. She couldn’t seem to judge shapes and sizes and colors the way that Kitty could, and she lacked the patience to practice until she got better. The first time Claire had tossed her paintbrush onto the ground in frustration, Kitty had scooped it right up.
“It ain’t so bad, Missy Claire. All you need to do is add a little more color here … and here… .” She had dabbed paint on to the picture as if it was the most natural thing in the world to clean up Missy’s pictures the way she cleaned up everything else for her. And from that very first time, Kitty had fallen in love with the feel of the paintbrush as it slid across the page, leaving a trail of color.
Missy let Kitty fix all her pictures, after that. And the tutor praised Missy’s work, never guessing that an ignorant slave had painted most of it. Kitty didn’t care. When she found a half-used folio of paper that Claire had thrown into the trash, she felt as though she’d discovered gold. “Can I have this old paper, Missy Claire?” she begged. “Please … please?”
“I don’t care,” she said with a shrug. Then, in a rare moment of kindness, she added, “Here … you may as well have a pencil, too.” Kitty carried the treasures all around with her, sketching late at night when her work was all done. She longed to sketch the scenes she was seeing from the riverboat, but her satchel of belongings had been stowed below with the rest of the luggage. She had to be content to soak it all in, hoping that she could remember and recapture the scenes someday.
A few hours later, dozens of fishing boats and heavier river traffic told Kitty that they were approaching the city. By the time they finally docked in Charleston, her heart pounded so wildly with excitement she was afraid it might burst. She wished she had a hundred eyes so she could look at a hundred things in a hundred directions at once. Everything seemed to move faster in Charleston, as if the days and nights had speeded up. Everything was louder, too, and there was more of everything—more ships, more houses, more people, and certainly more horses and carriages than Kitty had ever seen in her life. She followed Missy off the ship and down the pier, gazing all around, trying to take it all in.
“Stop dawdling,” Claire ordered, “or we’ll leave you behind.”
“Sorry, Missy Claire.” But she couldn’t help gawking. There was so much to see in Charleston.
A carriage arrived to meet them, and Missy Claire and her family climbed onboard. Massa Goodman had hired a wagon to transport their luggage, and Kitty watched as slave porters unloaded all their goods from the ship, hauling the cargo down the pier on their backs. She and the dozen other servants who had come from the plantation rode on the wagon with the luggage, sitting on top of it as they bumped down the lumpy cobblestones. So many carriages and horses jammed the streets that Kitty wondered how they would ever make any progress. She savored her first impressions of Charleston, inhaling the scent of tobacco and horses and a bakery.
The buildings downtown looked enormous to her: mountainous structures of brick and tabby and glass, with church steeples so tall she had to tilt her head way back to see the tops. They passed stately public buildings with pillars and statues and fancy carving, and tiny green parks with palmetto trees and neat flower beds. Best of all, Kitty saw color everywhere she looked—on the ladies’ dresses and flowered hats, on the canvas awnings that shaded the shops, on the brightly lettered signs that hung above the storefronts. She couldn’t read any of the signs, but most of them had pictures painted on them to show what was sold inside.
The traffic gradually thinned as they left the downtown area and drove through residential streets. The houses looked as big as Missy’s plantation house, but instead of being surrounded by fields and trees and grass, the city houses were crowded close together on small patches of land. One row of homes was painted a rainbow of colors with contrasting shutters and trim. Kitty itched to get out her paper and pencil—better still, Missy’s box of watercolors—and try to capture all of these wonderful sights.
The wagon finally reached the Goodmans’ town house and drove around to the courtyard at the rear. The house sat at the very edge of the city, overlooking the water, with broad piazzas that wrapped around the front and side of the house to catch the ocean breezes. The bay across the street looked bigger and wider than any river Kitty had ever seen. She longed to explore the mansion from top to bottom, but there wasn’t time. She had to follow Missy’s luggage upstairs to her bedroom and unpack all Missy’s things so she could get settled into her room. It was late at night before Kitty even saw her own quarters.
The slaves slept dormitory-style in a long, drab, two-story building behind the house. The kitchen and washhouse were downstairs, the slaves’ rooms upstairs. Bessie, her husband, Alfred, and a third slave stayed year-round to take care of the house. The remainder of the slaves—a dozen or more—traveled with the Goodmans from the plantation each time: the butler, cook, footmen, parlor maids, scullery maids, and chambermaids like Kitty.
The room Kitty shared with three other chambermaids had little more than a fireplace, a shuttered window, and two wooden beds. By the end of that long first day, Kitty was so tired from the fresh air, the excitement, and all the hard work, that she climbed in beside her bedmate and fell sound asleep.
Missy Claire spent the first few days that they were in Charleston shopping. She begged her mother to bring Kitty along with them. “She has a good eye for pretty things, Mother,” Missy Claire insisted. “And she always knows which colors go best together.” Kitty gladly followed Claire and Missus Goodman from one store to the next as they bought hats, shoes, jewelry, combs, and ribbons for Missy’s hair, and bolts of colorful fabric for new dresses. Charleston had a store for anything you wanted to buy, and Kitty shopped until her feet ached, savoring every minute of it. She loved choosing beautiful things for Missy, even if she would never wear any of them herself.
One afternoon, Missy Claire and her mother stopped for refreshments at a tearoom. Kitty stayed outside with Alfred, the coachman, riding beside him high on the driver’s seat. As they drove around the block, looking for a place to park the carriage, Kitty heard a strange jangling sound like broken bells. Trudging toward her from a side street was a long line of slaves, all chained together in two long rows. Shackles bound their wrists and feet, and they were forced to shuffle awkwardly, barely able to walk as the short, heavy chains that were fastened to their ankles dragged across the cobblestones. The slaves walked with their heads down, their backs bowed, passing through a gated entrance and into a grim building made of tabby.
“Is that a jail?” she asked Alfred.
“No, it’s the slave mart.” He spoke in a hushed voice, as if they were driving through a cemetery. He suddenly seemed in a big hurry to drive past the building, and he didn’t relax again until they had turned the corner.
“What’s a slave mart?” Kitty asked. She spoke as softly as he had.
“Them slaves is for sale,” he said with a sigh. “White folks are buying and selling them in that building, just like they buy and sell other things.”
Kitty had seen the endless variety of goods in the stores in Charleston, but she had never imagined that there would be a store for slaves, too. All of the slaves she knew had been born on Great Oak Plantation, starting out as little babies, just as she had. But Bertha said that Kitty’s mama had been sold after she’d tried to run away. Kitty tugged on Alfred’s sleeve to get his attention.
“If Massa Goodman was to sell one of us,” she asked, “would we go to a store like that, do you think?”
“I reckon so. Why?”
“He sold my mama when I was a little girl. Think she might still be in there?”
“No, they don’t stay there very long,” he said gruffly. “Slave trader comes along and buys her, he could be taking her anywhere… . That’s just the way it is.”
“Oh.”
Kitty had no choice but to accept this sad truth and give up the notion of ever seeing her mama again. It had seemed to her like such a long, long way to Charleston from the plantation, and she knew from the pictures in some of Missy Claire’s books that the world was an even bigger place than she could ever imagine. No telling where her mama went after she was sold.
For the next few minutes, Alfred was too busy maneuvering through the traffic and searching for a place to park the carriage to talk to Kitty. When he finally found a place within sight of the tearoom, he pulled the carriage to a stop, hitched the horses to the post, then climbed back up on the seat beside her to wait. A chilly breeze blew from the nearby river and Kitty hugged her shawl tightly around her, wishing she had white skin so she could sit inside the carriage, out of the wind—or better still, sit at a table inside the cozy tearoom.
“If you work real hard and do whatever Massa say,” Alfred said softly, “you never have to worry about being sold.”
Kitty was a little surprised to learn that he’d been thinking about the slave mart all this time—but then, so had she.
“I don’t even remember what my mama looked like,” she said.
Alfred gazed silently into the distance and nodded, his face somber. Kitty wondered if her own face looked as sad as his did. Then, worried that it did—and that Missy might see her—she forced all thoughts of her mother from her mind and tried to smile as she watched the door of the tearoom for her mistress.
“May I be excused from this luncheon, Mother? Please?” Missy Claire begged a few days later. “I don’t feel well. I have cramps.”
Kitty thought her mistress’s pale skin did look whiter than usual as she lay burrowed in her bed beneath the rumpled comforter. Missus Goodman pondered the request for a moment, and Kitty found herself hoping that she would give in and excuse Claire. Kitty was just as exhausted as Missy was from the endless round of social gatherings and parties. But unlike her mistress, Kitty wasn’t allowed to remain in bed until noon after a late night out, no matter how ill she felt.
Ever since they’d arrived in Charleston, Missy Claire had been attending countless dinners and teas and dances. Last night she’d gone to a lavish ball at the Citadel, where she had waltzed with so many young cadets that Kitty had to pull off Missy’s slippers and massage her aching feet. They’d driven home late at night beneath twinkling stars and gaslights, with carriages full of other partygoers rumbling past.
As Missy’s chambermaid, Kitty was required to attend every function with her, waiting nearby in case Missy required assistance for any reason, perhaps repairing Missy’s hair or her gown, if needed. The slaves often gathered together to socialize with each other while they waited, sometimes having quiet little parties of their own. Kitty was aware of several romances flourishing between her fellow servants, and she’d even seen couples kissing in the shadows and climbing into their masters’ empty carriages. But she was much too shy to make friends with any of the other slaves. Instead, she was content to watch Missy Claire and the other white folks from afar, smelling the food, listening to the distant music and laughter. She accepted her life the way it was. Her skin was black. Parties and balls and tables piled with luscious food were for white people.
So was sleeping until noon as Missy had done. Kitty watched, waiting for her orders as Claire’s mother stood appraising her daughter. “No, your father really wants you at this dinner today, Claire,” she finally replied. “Roger Fuller is a friend of his, and the Fullers are one of our state’s leading families.”
“I don’t care,” Missy groaned, pulling the covers over her head.
“Well, you should care. Mr. Fuller has an enormous cotton plantation near Pocotaligo and a lovely town house in Beaufort.”
“Is he as rich as Father?” Claire asked from beneath the sheets.
“No,” Missus Goodman replied with a sly smile, “I believe Mr. Fuller is even wealthier. He has two sons, and all three men are here in town because the older son is thinking of attending the Citadel.”
“Then he’s too young to hunt for a wife,” Claire mumbled. “I’ll have dinner with them next year.”
Missus Goodman strode across the room and jerked the covers all the way down to the bottom of the bed. “Roger Fuller’s wife died six months ago. That makes three eligible gentlemen, Claire, all coming to our home for dinner today. Surely you can manage to impress one of them with your charm? Few families are wealthier than the Fullers.” She turned toward Kitty, gesturing to the heavily draped windows. “Open those curtains and get to work, girl. You have a little over an hour to make Claire presentable.”
Missy groaned. “But what about my cramps?”
“Take some laudanum.”
“I took laudanum last night, Mother. That’s why I still feel so groggy.”
“Then maybe a cup of warm milk will help. Kitty!” Missus Goodman shouted. “Don’t just stand there, move! Make her beautiful!” “Yes, ma’am.” Kitty quickly opened the drapes, then grabbed the pitcher and ran downstairs to fetch warm water for Missy’s washbasin. After Missy’s sponge bath, Kitty began the arduous task of dressing her in layer after layer of clothes—chemise, drawers, corset, stockings, hoops, crinolines and petticoats. She helped Missy into one of her beautiful new gowns, spending long minutes fastening the endless rows of fussy hooks and eyes. Then the delicate job of fixing Missy’s hair began. It was spider-web thin and difficult to style. It also tangled easily, and knowing the mood Missy was in today, Kitty braced herself for the inevitable slaps she would receive for hurting her. By the time the Fullers’ carriage arrived, the only remaining task was to help Claire choose her jewelry and accessories—parasol, handkerchief, hat, purse, cloak and reticule. Kitty was thankful that the dinner was being held here in the Goodmans’ home and the accessories would be kept to a minimum. Missy Claire had been known to take hours to make these final choices.
“Stay close by, Kitty,” Missy ordered as she prepared to sweep down the stairs to greet her guests. “I may need you.”
“Yes, Missy Claire.” Kitty tried to sound willing and cheerful, but she groaned inside at the thought of standing rigidly in place for the next two or three hours while her mistress dined on the multi-course meal. She found a spot in the hallway outside the dining room and watched the waiters carry in platters of food—oysters, broiled fish, buttery potatoes and vegetables, glazed ham. Everything looked delicious, but it was the aroma of roast turkey and gravy that made Kitty’s mouth water. She closed her eyes and imagined pouring creamy golden gravy over Cook’s buttermilk biscuits. Kitty’s stomach rumbled at the thought.
Hours passed, and Missy Claire left more food on her plate than she ate, pushing it around delicately with her fork while she chatted. Kitty watched the waiter whisk Claire’s still-laden plate away after the meal and longed to snatch it from his hand and eat the leftovers. She would have a chance to taste the remnants of the meal later, in the kitchen, but that could be hours from now, when Missy was in bed.
Kitty decided to study the dinner guests to help take her mind off her hunger. She was surprised to see how young Mr. Fuller’s two sons were—no older than Missy Claire. Surely they wouldn’t be making marriage arrangements at their age, would they? And Mr. Fuller looked too old for Missy, nearly the same age as her father. Mr. Fuller had an interesting face, though, with a broad forehead, pointed chin, and a brush-like mustache. His pale eyes were deep-set and a little too far apart, but he looked very kind. Kitty would have loved to sketch him.
By the time dessert was served, Kitty’s back and legs ached. She wondered how long she’d been standing. It felt like days. She was running out of ways to distract herself, and decided to inch closer so she could eavesdrop on the dinner conversation.
“What did you think of the Dred Scott case?” she heard Mr. Fuller ask.
Massa Goodman smiled broadly. “I think Chief Justice Taney and the Supreme Court made an excellent decision.” He turned to Fuller’s younger son who was stifling a yawn and said, “You young men may not realize, now, how important their ruling was, but you’ll appreciate it in the future.”
“What was it all about, Father?” the older son asked.
Fuller pushed his half-finished dessert away and pulled his coffee cup closer. “A slave named Dred Scott sued the court for his freedom, claiming that he had lived on free soil in the Missouri Territory for several years. The Supreme Court denied his claim, saying that since the Negro race is so far inferior to ours, they have no rights. Therefore, the court was not bound to consider the issue of Negro rights. Scott will remain a slave.”
“Of course, we knew that Negroes were inferior to us all along,” Massa Goodman added. “Anyone who works with them knows that they are. Without us, the entire race would be unable to fend for themselves. Slavery has helped Negroes learn a measure of civilized behavior, but by no means will they ever be equal to whites. We’re doing them a favor by teaching them skills and giving them food and clothing. They would never survive on their own.”
His words made Kitty want to shrink very small and hide somewhere. But as she fought the urge to disappear in shame, she saw Missy Claire beckoning to her from across the room. Kitty felt as though all eyes were on her as she tiptoed into the room and leaned close so Missy could whisper in her ear.
“I don’t feel well. Fetch me a cup of warm milk from the kitchen.”
Kitty hurried outside to the kitchen, relieved for the chance to flee from the conversation and the humiliating stares. She found Bessie and Cook and some of the other house slaves seated around the pine table, eating the remnants of the meal they’d worked so hard to prepare. In the middle of them all, sat the little old storyteller named Delia, who had visited along with the Fullers once before.
“Excuse me,” Kitty said. Her voice sounded louder than she’d planned. The conversation stopped as everyone looked up at her. “Missy Claire’s needing a cup of warm milk,” she said meekly.
“Missy Claire’s spoilt rotten,” Cook grumbled as she labored to her feet. “Five-course meal ain’t enough for her?”
Kitty didn’t reply. She couldn’t take her eyes off the storyteller. “Excuse me,” she said again, “but I once heard you telling about a land with all black people. You said they had villages and families and everything else without no white folks helping them. Is that true?”
“It’s true,” Delia replied. “And don’t you ever forget it, honey.”
“But I heard them talking at dinner just now, and Massa says we’d never be able to get by without white folks. Don’t he know about that land?”
“Oh, he knows all right,” Delia replied. “He has to lie about it because he also knows that they stole us away from there and forced us to be their slaves.”
Kitty still couldn’t forget the shame she’d felt at Massa’s words. “He’s saying we ain’t as good as white folks are. He says we’re an inferior race.”
“Lies!” Delia banged her fist on the table making the plates jump. “We’re no different than they are! We’re all God’s children, no matter what color skin we have. Don’t you know we all come from the same mother and father—from Adam and Eve?”
“N-no, ma’am.”
“Don’t you go to church? Didn’t anyone ever teach you the Gospel, honey?” Something about the little woman’s gaze seemed to hold Kitty captive, against her will. She was sorry she had ever asked the question in the first place, sorry she had eavesdropped on Massa’s conversation.
“No, ma’am,” she replied, taking a step backward. “Missy Claire and them go to church every Sunday, but they say religion ain’t for colored folks. She say we don’t have souls.”
Delia exhaled and closed her eyes briefly. But when she spoke to Kitty her voice was kind. “You have a heart and a soul and a mind just like your missy. There ain’t no difference at all between the two of you.”
Her words shocked Kitty. She quickly glanced around at the others, worried that she might get into trouble for listening to Delia’s outrageous ideas. “But there is a difference,” Kitty said. “Missy can read and write, and her daddy owns a plantation and a house in town—”
“That don’t matter one bit,” Delia said, interrupting. “Underneath our skin, we’re all the same. And we ain’t inferior. The white folks believe it, and they want us to believe it, but it ain’t true.”
Kitty shook her head as if she could shake off Delia’s words. They couldn’t be true. If she was the same as Claire on the inside, then why did Claire eat rich food, wear beautiful clothes, and sleep in a feather bed? Why did Kitty have to empty Claire’s slops and sleep on cornshucks and do whatever Claire said, no matter how much she hated it? No, it couldn’t be true. She was Missy’s slave. There must be a good reason why. She glanced at the pan of milk warming on the coals. She wanted to grab it and run.
“Listen to me, honey,” Delia said. She stood and walked around the table toward her. The tiny woman had the commanding presence of a loaded cannon, aimed straight at Kitty. She paid attention.
“I’m going to tell you another true story,” Delia began. “Long time ago, God made the first man and woman, Adam and Eve. They lived with God, as His children, but one day they sinned and God had to send them away. This old world’s been filled with suffering ever since that day. And wouldn’t you know, the first two children ever born couldn’t get along with each other? The one boy starts fighting with the other one and acting jealous, and the next thing you know, he’s killing his own brother. Been like that ever since—brother fighting against brother, hating and killing each other. Right now our white brothers and sisters is hating their black-skinned brothers and sisters, and they’re forcing us to be their slaves. But God’s gonna put a stop to it. Oh yes. He’s gonna help us get free from them white folks one of these days.”
“Hush, now!” Bessie said sharply.
Her husband, Alfred, scrambled to his feet as if ready to run somewhere. “Better watch what you say, Delia,” he whispered.
Kitty glanced around and saw a frightened look on everyone’s face.
“Lord Jesus is gonna set us all free,” Delia repeated firmly. “He loves all His children, black and white. In Jesus’ eyes, honey, you and me ain’t no different from our massa. Just the color of our skin’s different, that’s all.”
“Then why does God let them treat us this way?” Cook asked. The others around the table tried to shush her but she said, “No, hear me, now. If God’s loving us all the same, why don’t He help us? Why’s He standing back and watching us suffer? Don’t tell me He loves us, Delia. God loves the white folk. He’s their God, not ours.”
“You’re wrong,” Delia said. “God’s skin ain’t no color at all. And Jesus knows what it’s like to suffer the way we do. He felt the lash on His back, same as us. If we pray and believe, then in His own time, in His own way, the Lord Jesus is gonna help us.”
The memory of her daddy’s voice suddenly came to Kitty. She remembered him murmuring softly, “Help us, Lord Jesus… . Help us… .” as if he were talking to someone.
“Who’s Jesus?” Kitty asked. Everyone stared at her. “When I was little, my papa used to ask him for help all the time,” she explained.
Delia smiled. “Jesus is God’s Son, come down to earth to save us. Your papa surely must have known Him, if he called on Him for help.”
“I guess Jesus didn’t hear him,” Kitty said, “because he never did come to help us. The white men came, instead, with dogs and guns. They hung my papa on the Great Oak Tree and sold my mama to a slave trader.”
She hadn’t meant to blurt out her story but the words had flown out of her mouth before she could stop them. The kitchen fell so utterly silent that Kitty could hear the milk hissing in the pan. She saw tears in Delia’s eyes. But when Kitty felt them welling up in her own, she forced them back, knowing she must never let Missy see her cry.
“Plenty of things I don’t understand,” Delia said. “But the moment the breath left your papa’s body, he was in paradise with Jesus, and all his suffering was over. They can kill his body, but his soul belongs to God, and no one can ever snatch it away. Devil may try and separate us from God, and when bad things happen he’s telling us God don’t love us and can’t hear our cries. But—”
“Then why didn’t Jesus help her folks get away?” Cook asked as she poured the warm milk into a cup.
Delia sighed. “We ain’t gonna know this side of heaven. But those white men will have to face God’s judgment someday and answer for what they did to her mama and papa.” She seemed about to say more, but Kitty interrupted.
“Excuse me, but Missy’s waiting for her milk. She hates it when I dawdle.”
“God loves you, honey,” Delia said softly. Kitty froze at the intensity of her stare. The little woman’s words frightened her, yet there was a power in them that Kitty couldn’t resist. “You’re His child,” Delia insisted. “You and your missy are both the same to Him.”
“That can’t be,” Kitty whispered. She wanted to believe it but couldn’t. There were no stores in Charleston that sold white people, all chained together. She carefully took the cup of milk from Cook’s hand and hurried past Delia and into the house.