Beaufort, South Carolina 1857
Grady stood beside Massa Coop’s chair, fanning him with a palmetto branch. His arms ached, and his eyes burned and watered from the strong cigars that the men were smoking. Massa had spent the past three hours in this private salon in the bay-front inn in Beaufort, drinking and gambling with a group of wealthy planters, but he showed no signs of quitting. Grady was so tired he could scarcely stand, much less wave his arms. It was past midnight and he longed for sleep, his feet burning with fatigue, but he didn’t dare complain.
“Pour me another drink, Joe,” Coop growled.
Grady quickly laid aside the fan and picked up the bottle of bourbon. He poured slowly and carefully, not daring to spill a single drop. Massa Coop took a sip then nodded to his opponents across the table.
“Want him to fill yours, Fuller?”
Grady hurried around the table with the bottle, ready to pour. But Mr. Fuller covered his empty glass with one hand. “No more for me, thanks.”
“You sure?” Coop asked. “How about you, Jackson?”
Mr. Jackson shook his head as he shuffled the cards. “I’m good.”
Grady had traveled with the slave trader for four years, growing taller and stronger each year. Like William, he’d become familiar with all of the hotels in all of the port cities that they visited regularly, from Charleston to Savannah to Jacksonville, all the way to New Orleans and back to Richmond again. And Grady’s hatred for Massa Coop—for all white men—had grown stronger each year, as well.
He’d attended enough poker games with Coop over the years to know that his master was losing badly tonight—and he hated to lose. The pile of money that Coop had started out with had grown steadily smaller, while Mr. Fuller’s pile, across the table, had grown steadily larger. Now only three men remained. The others had all gone home when their money ran out. But Coop would stay to the bitter end, trying to win at least some of his money back. And if he didn’t, he would vent his anger on one of his slaves—most likely Grady.
“I’ll see you and raise you fifty dollars,” Fuller said. He was an elegantly dressed gentleman in his mid-thirties, a wealthy planter who sometimes purchased slaves from Coop. His wavy hair and eyebrows were the color of wet sand, his bristly mustache a darker shade of brown. His heart-shaped face had a wide brow that narrowed to a pointy chin. He seemed to be a shrewd gambler, yet there was a gentleness in his features, even after a night of drinking, that Massa Coop’s face never wore even when he was sober. Fuller’s pale blue eyes, bloodshot from too much bourbon and cigar smoke, still looked kind.
Coop counted his remaining coins and cursed. “I don’t have fifty. Hey, Joe. Who’s left in the slave pen to barter with? Any females?”
“Yes, Massa Coop. There’s a few.” Grady had a sudden, desperate idea. He bent close to Coop’s ear so that the other two men couldn’t hear what he said. “But you know them gals is worth more than fifty dollars each. How about betting me? Save you the bother of going out to the pen. Looks like you got a good hand.” Grady had no idea if the cards in Coop’s hand were good ones or not. He waited, holding his breath, while his master decided.
“All right,” Coop said after a moment. “Tell you what, Fuller. I’m going to wager my boy, Joe. He’s worth at least fifty dollars. Plays the fiddle, too.”
Grady watched Fuller’s face, not daring to hope. When Fuller began shaking his head, Grady felt a stab of disappointment.
“Sorry. I don’t need any more slaves.”
“Sell him to somebody else, then,” Coop grunted. “He’ll fetch twice that, easily. Besides, you don’t have to worry about getting stuck with him because you can’t beat my hand.”
Mr. Fuller studied the cards in his own hand again then met Coop’s gaze. “All right,” he said, smiling slightly. “I’ll call.”
Coop grinned as he spread out his cards. “Full house. Queens and nines.”
Fuller paused for a long moment, then laid down his own cards. “Sorry, Coop. Royal flush.”
Massa Coop’s smile faded. He paled slightly, and when the color did return, his face turned as red as the hearts and diamonds that dotted his cards. He’d lost. Grady had encouraged his master to bet everything, and he’d lost.
Grady could scarcely breathe. His gaze darted from one man to the other, watching their expressions, afraid to hope that Mr. Fuller was going to be his new master. Fuller had said he didn’t want another slave, and Grady knew that if Fuller refused to accept him in payment, Grady would have to go home with Coop and bear the brunt of his rage.
Coop stood abruptly, upsetting his chair. Grady’s skin prickled with terror. He quickly bent to straighten the chair.
“Good night, Fuller,” Coop said coldly. “It’s been a pleasure.”
He staggered to the door and jerked it open. Grady scooped up the bourbon bottle, ready to follow him to his hotel room, but Coop whirled around and pushed Grady backward, nearly knocking him down.
“Stay here, you stupid fool! You belong to him now!” Coop stomped out of the salon.
Grady’s heart pounded loudly in his ears. He was free from Coop! But what if William was right and life with a new master turned out to be even worse? Grady had watched Coop gamble and lose; now he wondered if he had just lost the biggest gamble of his life.
Mr. Fuller broke into a smile after Coop left. “I guess this was my lucky night,” he said to Mr. Jackson. Grady watched his new master warily. Fuller’s movements were graceful and unhurried. He pulled out a drawstring bag and scooped all his money into it while the other man gathered up the cards. Fuller had none of the mean-eyed edginess of Coop, who’d always been coiled like a rattlesnake, ready to strike. “I can’t recall ever having a run of luck like this one,” Fuller said as he pulled the drawstrings closed.
Mr. Jackson chuckled. “I’ll say. Looks like you even got yourself a new slave.”
Fuller made a face. “I’d sooner have the fifty dollars. What am I supposed to do with him? You want to buy him? I’ll let you have him for thirty.”
“No thanks, I’m broke,” Jackson said, shaking his head. “But don’t worry, Coop will probably show up in the morning when he’s sober and offer to buy him back.”
Grady’s hope abruptly died. Jackson was right; Coop would never sell him.
Fuller stood, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. He was very tall and lean. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, lifting his jacket from the back of his chair. “I just hope Coop comes early. I’m heading back to the plantation tomorrow.”
Jackson smiled wryly. “If I were you, I’d make Coop pay you more than fifty dollars. Didn’t he say the boy was worth twice that? Give the dirty so-and-so a taste of his own medicine for once. Drive as hard of a bargain as he always does.”
“You mean out trade a slave trader? That’ll be the day!” Fuller laughed. “I’ve dealt with Coop before.”
“You beat him at poker tonight.”
Fuller smiled. “Yes, I guess I did.” He ambled over to the door where Grady stood and examined him for the first time. Grady dropped his gaze. If he’d learned anything at all in his years with Massa Coop, it was never to look a white person in the eye.
“What did Coop say your name was?” Fuller asked.
Grady wondered if his new master was trying to trick him, or if he really didn’t remember that Coop had called him Joe. He decided that even if it was a trap, even if Fuller beat Grady the way Coop had, it would be worth it for the brief moment that he’d reclaimed his dignity, his identity. They could never take away his real name.
“My name is Grady,” he said. The words came out more forcefully than he’d planned. He saw from the corner of his eye that his new master looked taken aback.
“Scrappy little beggar, aren’t you?”
Grady stared at his feet, fighting the urge to lift his chin in pride. “No, sir,” he said meekly.
“Very well. Come with me, Grady.”
He felt a sliver of hope, the first he could recall feeling in four years. He followed Mr. Fuller out of the smoky salon, out of the hotel and down the front steps to the street. As soon as he stepped outside, the hot, humid air clung to Grady’s skin like a wet cloth. The city of Beaufort seemed peaceful at this late hour, the treelined streets nearly deserted. Fuller found his coach parked outside the hotel and woke the old, gray-haired driver who sat dozing on the seat.
“You ride up there with Jesse,” Fuller told Grady. The old slave wore a question on his face as he appraised him. “I won him in a poker game,” Fuller said, smiling slightly. He seemed proud of it.
“Let’s go home.”
Grady felt as though he’d been set free as they drove through the streets of Beaufort to Fuller’s house. He inhaled the humid night air, savoring the exhilaration of riding high on the carriage seat with the warm river breeze in his face, the sense of release in being somewhere new after years of smoky hotel rooms, crowded slave pens, and the dark holds of ships. Most of all, he reveled in his freedom from Coop. He would no longer have to live in suspense every minute of his life, terrified of doing something wrong and angering a master who looked for any excuse to punish him.
They drove away from the center of town, down a tree-lined street that followed the curve of the bay. Large, stately homes loomed in the darkness, adorned with porches and pillars. When the carriage turned up a side street, away from the water, the oak trees formed a canopy overhead, with dangling, silvery moss waving gently in the moonlight. Grady wondered if the city of Beaufort had always been this pretty or if it only seemed that way now that he was free from Coop.
Much too soon, they pulled to a halt at the front steps of Fuller’s house, a large, two-story home with graceful white pillars and wrap-around piazzas. Grady looked up at the elegant façade with its wide porches and rustling, moss-draped oak trees, and his stomach tightened. His freedom from Coop would never last. Fuller didn’t want another slave. He’d already offered to sell him to Mr. Jackson for thirty dollars. Besides, Grady was worth far too much to Coop for him to let him go for a mere fifty-dollar bet. Hadn’t William always insisted that Coop would never sell either one of them?
Mr. Jackson had been right. Massa would come here tomorrow morning with cash. He would offer to buy Grady back, and of course Fuller would agree. By noon, Grady would be lying in the hold of a steamship heading to Savannah, bruised and bleeding at the very least, his punishment for encouraging Coop to place that last bet. The knowledge that Coop had beaten his last slave to death made Grady sick with fear.
As soon as the carriage halted, he scrambled down from his seat beside the driver and opened the carriage door for his new master. He watched Massa Fuller step out, tipsy with drink. He didn’t look like the kind of master who would beat a slave to death. If only Grady could stay with him.
“Better lock the boy up for the night,” Fuller told Jesse, “so he doesn’t run off.”
“I won’t run off, Massa, I swear,” Grady said.
Fuller’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”
“I won’t! Only please don’t sell me back to Massa Coop tomorrow! Please!” Grady dropped to his knees in front of Fuller, desperate enough to beg for his life. He didn’t care if this white man saw his tears. “I’ll do anything you want, Massa. But please don’t make me go back to him!”
Fuller frowned slightly. Then he turned away and climbed the front steps, striding across the porch, and disappeared into the house. Grady slumped to the ground, weeping with rage and humiliation. He had groveled and belittled himself for nothing. He should have known that a white man would never show pity.
“Come on, boy. It’s late.” The coachman motioned for him to climb on board for the short drive around back to the carriage house. Grady obeyed, the last of his strength and hope gone. As soon as they reached the stable, Jesse sent Grady up to the hayloft and took away the ladder.
“You’d probably break both legs if you try and jump down,” Jesse said. “Maybe break that scrawny neck of yours, too.”
Grady examined every inch of the windowless loft, searching for a way to escape, while the coachman finished bedding down the horses. He saw none. The old man must have heard him pacing around because he came to the opening with a lantern and peered up at Grady.
“Massa Fuller’s treating us okay,” he said gently. “If you mind what he say, and work hard, you ain’t got nothing to worry about.”
Grady remembered William telling him the same thing about Massa Coop. He had learned differently.
Then Jesse snuffed out the lantern, plunging Grady into darkness. He had no choice but to lay down in the hay and try to sleep. He wished he could pray, wished he still believed in Eli’s Jesus and the promise of help. He closed his eyes, exhausted. The familiar smells and soft snorts of the animals made him dream of Eli, dreaming that he was home in Richmond again. But fear of what would happen tomorrow made for a restless night.
Grady awoke to bright sunshine and the oppressive heat and humidity of a July morning in South Carolina. Jesse was hard at work in the stable below him, getting the carriage and horses ready to go. He let Grady down from the loft and offered him some breakfast, but Grady was too frightened to eat. Every time he heard horses and carriage wheels outside on the busy street he held his breath, waiting to see if they stopped, waiting for Massa Coop to appear and reclaim him.
Just when Grady thought he might be sick from the anxiety, one of the house slaves came outside to announce that Massa Fuller was ready to leave. Jesse pulled the carriage up to the door, and Grady helped load Massa’s baggage onboard, silently begging everyone to hurry. He spent another two hours sweating in terror as Jesse drove Massa Fuller all around Beaufort on errands, with Grady seated high on the driver’s seat where Coop couldn’t fail to see him. Grady wondered if Fuller was going to deliver him to Coop’s hotel or perhaps to the docks. But at last Jesse steered the carriage away from the bay and out of the city. The farther they traveled from town, the freer Grady felt from Coop. Maybe he really was safe! He stared at the passing countryside without seeing it, his vision blurred by tears of relief.
After a while they reached the Coosaw River, and Jesse told him they would have to wait for the Beaufort ferry to take them across to the mainland. Once they were on the other side, Grady finally began to gaze around at the scenery. He’d lived in the city of Richmond until Coop had bought him, and the only sights he’d seen since then were slave pens, hotel rooms, city docks, and ships’ holds. Now that he was out in the countryside for the first time in his life, he couldn’t get enough of it.
The road, paved with crushed oyster shells, crackled beneath their wagon wheels and sometimes ran parallel to a set of railroad tracks, visible through the trees. It meandered through forests of tall pine trees, moss-draped oaks, and dense underbrush. Then the scenery changed, the forest giving way to a maze of marshy creeks, swamps, and inlets. Grady gazed up at the blue sky and feathery clouds and felt as free as the birds circling overhead. The air smelled of pine and salt marsh.
As the miles lengthened, they passed more and more stately plantation homes with acres of cultivated rice and cotton fields. Grady saw hundreds of slaves laboring beneath the blazing sun, their backs bent, and wondered if he would soon be joining them.
The old driver had barely spoken a word to Grady, but he seemed kind enough. The gentle way he handled Massa Fuller’s horses reminded Grady of his friend Eli, back home in Richmond, only Jesse looked much older than Eli. Grady thought of all the gray heads that he’d been forced to disguise with boot blacking, and he wondered what had become of all those poor old souls.
Later that afternoon they reached the Fuller Plantation. Flower gardens and moss-draped oak trees surrounded the imposing brick house, making Grady’s new home seem immeasurably peaceful and serene after his years of hectic city life. He couldn’t believe that slaving on a plantation would be any worse than slaving for Massa Coop.
“Get Massa’s bags,” Jesse said as the carriage pulled to a halt in the yard. Grady scrambled to do what he was told, jumping down the moment the wheels stopped rolling. Several servants hurried out of the house to greet Massa Fuller, led by a short, muscular Negro who was obviously in charge of all the others. Fuller climbed from the carriage looking hot and tired and rumpled.
“Welcome home, Massa Fuller,” the head slave said, smiling broadly.
“Thank you, Martin. It’s good to be home. How are things?”
“They fine, sir. Everything’s running smoothly while you gone.”
“Very good.”
Grady studied the house servants’ faces as they hurried to help with the luggage. Having experienced terror every day when he belonged to Coop, Grady could easily spot fear in other slaves. But while Fuller’s slaves seemed eager to please him, and wary of the butler, Martin, no one cowered in dread the way Grady had been forced to do.
The front door opened again and two white teenagers ran outside, followed by a tiny, wrinkled slave in a calico dress. Grady guessed that she was their mammy. Gray curls poked from beneath the kerchief on her head as she chased after them, scolding them.
“John! Ellis! You come back here! Don’t you be pestering your daddy, now. He had a long, hot trip.”
They ignored her, running to Massa Fuller and shouting, “Father! You’re finally home! We’ve been waiting all day.”
He patted their shoulders and grinned. The younger boy was about Grady’s age, the other a year or two older. Grady watched the reunion from a distance, then quickly looked down at his feet, avoiding eye contact when Fuller’s younger son suddenly turned to stare at him.
“Who’s that boy, Father?”
“That’s a new slave I acquired in town.”
“He’s a slave?”
“Yes, of course he is.”
“But he doesn’t look very black.”
“Look at his hair,” the older boy said. “Can’t you see he’s got kinky Negro hair?”
Grady felt them studying him for a moment longer, then the younger boy asked, “Did you bring us anything, Father?”
Fuller laughed. “Yes, of course—in that bag. Fetch it here.” They forgot all about Grady as Massa Fuller opened the satchel and pulled out sweets and books and a new set of dominoes. The affection between father and sons seemed genuine as the three of them walked toward the house together.
“What are you wanting us to do with the new boy, Massa Fuller?” the head servant asked.
Fuller glanced back at Grady as he climbed the front steps. “Find out what he can do and put him to work.” He disappeared into the Big House with his sons.
Martin strode over to Grady with a slight swagger in his step. Grady quickly took his measure and felt an instant dislike for the Negro butler. Their master had entrusted him with a great deal of power, and he looked as though he enjoyed flaunting it, feeling superior. He would likely take sides with the white folks rather than with his fellow slaves, just as William had done.
“You do anything useful, boy?” Martin asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?” he said impatiently. “Speak up! What kind of work did you do for your last massa?”
For a moment Grady could only recall his fear. “I … um … I shined his boots and waited on him when he’s eating, poured his drinks—I done whatever he ask.” The butler looked unimpressed, as if waiting to hear more. “And I was helping take care of his other slaves, cleaning up and stuff,” Grady added.
“That all?”
“I-I play the fiddle… .”
Martin gave a short, derisive laugh. “That’s what I thought—you’re useless. Massa Fuller ain’t needing another boot boy or manservant. Guess it’s gonna be the cotton fields for you. You’re sturdy enough. Wait here and someone will take you down to find the overseer.” He turned to go.
Grady felt desperate. He didn’t think he would survive the hard, hot work in the cotton fields with the lash falling across his back all day. “Wait!” he shouted. “Back h—” He stopped himself from saying “home” just in time. “Back when I was living with my first massa, I was helping take care of his horses, feeding them and rubbing them down and everything. I know how to grease a carriage wheel and oil the harnesses, too.”
Jesse still hadn’t driven the carriage away so Grady reached out to stroke the big gelding’s flank. The horse’s back stood taller than Grady’s head.
“You ain’t afraid of horses?” Jesse asked, looking down at him from the high seat.
“No, sir. Eli taught me how to talk to them to make them calm and all. They do anything I tell them. Ain’t none of them ever kicking me, neither.” He stepped up to the horse’s head and rubbed his neck to make friends.
Jesse turned in the driver’s seat to face Martin. “I could use some more help,” he said. “Them other two stable boys you give me is useless.”
Martin crossed his arms, confronting Grady. “Tell me something, boy. Why’d that first massa get rid of you if you was so good with horses?”
After four years with Coop, Grady knew what the best answer to that question always was. “Massa’s needing the money,” he said. “Had to sell a whole bunch of us.”
Martin took his time answering. “All right, Jesse. Take him, then,” he finally said. “But don’t you be thinking about running off, boy. The swamps around here are chock full of ’gators and snakes. They’ll be eating you in one bite.” He strode up the front steps and into the house.
Grady knew he had just been granted an enormous favor. He looked up at Jesse, wondering why, not daring to ask. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
“Yeah, well, I’m expecting you to help me, you know,” Jesse said gruffly. He twitched the reins and the carriage started forward. Grady jogged alongside as Jesse drove slowly down the long drive to the stable, mindful of raising too much dust.
“I will help you! I’m telling the truth about them horses,” Grady said. “You’ll see. I been mucking straw out of slave pens for a long time, and I can shovel out a stable, too.”
He offered Jesse a hand as the old man climbed down from the driver’s seat, and the two of them set to work. Grady felt very much at home among the familiar sounds and smells of the carriage house. They rubbed the horses down, fed and watered them, then cleaned the mud and dust off the carriage. It seemed to Grady that a hundred years had passed since last night’s poker game—with a hundred years’ worth of worry and anxiety to go along with it. He only hoped that this wasn’t a dream.
When they finished, Jesse sank onto a wooden chair near the stable door. “Come here, boy,” he said, motioning to him. Grady set aside the rag he was using to polish the brass carriage fixtures and obeyed. Jesse studied him for a long moment. “Your old massa come to see Massa Fuller this morning,” he said quietly. “He try to buy you back.”
Grady stared. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. For some reason, his heart began pounding so hard it was as if he faced Massa Coop, not Jesse.
“The man offer Massa Fuller a lot of money,” Jesse continued. “Said he’d trade you for any other slave if Massa want—even a pretty slave gal. Got all heated up when Massa Fuller refuse to sell you.” He nodded, as if to emphasize the truth of his words, then added, “Just thought you’d be wanting to know.”
Grady sank down on a bale of hay, weak-kneed. He felt breathless and queasy, as if he’d been pulled out of deep water and narrowly escaped drowning. Why had Massa Fuller done it? If he didn’t need another slave, why hadn’t he sold him back to Coop? As hard as Grady tried, he couldn’t think of a sensible reason. He understood injustice and cruelty, but not undeserved kindness.
Before Grady’s strength had a chance to return, the stable door opened and the little gray-haired mammy appeared in the doorway. She stood for a moment, watching them.
“What you needing, Delia?” Jesse asked when he saw her.
“Where’d this new boy come from?” she asked.
“Massa Fuller say he won him in a poker game.”
“Who from?”
“Nobody round here. Fella was a slave trader, passing through on business, I guess.”
“Is that so?” she asked Grady.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My name’s Delia,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“Grady.” It felt good to say his real name.
“You been slaving for a ‘soul trader’ all your life?” she asked as she took a few steps toward him.
Something in her voice and in her eyes made it hard for Grady to answer, hard to hold back his tears. She was looking at him with an expression of pity and understanding—and he was still overwhelmed by the unexplained mercy his new master had shown.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and waited until he was sure he could speak in a steady voice.
“No, ma’am. I belong to Massa Fletcher back in Richmond, Virginia, first of all. He sell me to Massa Coop about four years ago. I been traveling all over with him ever since, while he’s buying and selling slaves.”
He glanced up and saw compassion in her eyes, something he hadn’t seen in a very long time. He quickly looked away. No one had shown any concern for him at all in a long, long time.
“You got room for him to sleep in here with you, Jesse?” she asked.
“I dunno. Why?”
“Because I was thinking he could stay with me if you don’t have a place. I can send him back to help you in the daytime.”
“Take him, Delia. I don’t care none.”
Grady wondered what she wanted him for, and he realized that he was afraid to trust anyone. Massa Coop had made him come to his room every night and wait on him for every little thing, until Grady was so tired he wanted to drop. Coop had scrutinized his every move, too, waiting for him to make the smallest mistake so he’d have an excuse to beat him.
“Go on, take him,” Jesse said again. “We all done working for 117 now.”
Delia motioned for Grady to follow her. She was a small woman, her head barely reaching his chin, but she looked strong and sturdily built. She walked so briskly he had to hurry to keep up as she led him out of the stable and across the yard to a tiny cabin that looked as though it might have been a shed at one time. It was neat and clean inside, but very hot, even with the windows open. The two rooms were simply furnished with a brick fireplace, shelves of dishes and crocks, and a table with two chairs in one room, a rope bed with a cornshuck mattress in the other. Delia left him standing in the middle of the first room while she bustled around, closing the door, drawing shut the scraps of muslin that served as curtains, talking all the while.
“I been working here on the Fuller place all my life,” she said, “and I seen a lot of slaves coming and going, bought and sold. But I never did see one taken from his home as young as you. Did you have to leave your mama?”
Grady nodded, staring straight ahead at the whitewashed wall. He would not cry. But it upset him to realize that the memory of his mother’s face seemed faded and blurred after all this time, and he could no longer recall it clearly. But he did remember her gentle hands, and how she would hold him tightly in her arms. He hunched his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest, shivering as if he was cold. But the coldness he felt was deep inside him, not in the stifling cabin.
Delia rested her hand on his arm, startling him. When he looked at her he saw tears in her eyes. “It’s a hard thing for a boy as young as you to be leaving his mama, especially to go and live with a soul trader.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He swallowed.
“We’re all alone, Grady,” she said softly. “No one’s gonna see you cry.” She opened her arms to him.
Grady went to her and she pulled him close, holding him tightly, rocking him. How long had it been since anyone had held him this way? Esther had been the last person to hug him—on that last terrible morning. He’d been pushed and jammed into slave pens and ships’ holds, poked and prodded and beaten, but never held. The warmth of Delia’s body, the softness of her, slowly melted the hard lump of hatred in his chest. And as it melted into grief, he began to cry.
“You go ahead and cry for all the times you couldn’t, honey,” she said.
Grady wept for the terror, for the pain and unfairness of the beatings. He cried for all the anguish he’d seen, the families who’d been cruelly torn apart, as he’d been torn from his family. He cried for the memory of green grass beneath his bare feet back home in Richmond; for his friend Caroline, with skin as white as the blossoms on the magnolia tree they’d climbed. He cried for the cold rain that had soaked him on the day he’d been snatched away, and for the coldness in Massa Fletcher’s face as he’d watched him go. Most of all, Grady cried for his mother, the beloved face he could no longer clearly recall.
“No one’s ever gonna know about this but you and me, Grady,” Delia murmured. She rubbed his back to soothe him. He remembered his mama doing the same thing, and he sobbed.
A long time later, Grady’s tears were finally spent. He realized that he was sitting on the rope bed beside Delia, her warm arms still wrapped tightly around him. “Tell me about your home, Grady. Tell me what you remember.”
He began to talk, and a flood of memories poured out—haltingly at first, then with the words tumbling all over each other. “I use to live in the kitchen behind the Big House with Esther and Eli and the others. I never been inside the Big House, but Mama was always staying there and taking care of Missy Caroline because Missy’s mama was sick all the time. Mama love me more than Missy Caroline, but she can’t let Missy know that or Missy be feeling bad. Mama said I had beautiful brown skin, but Missy’s skin’s ugly, with no color in it at all, so we have to be extra nice to her to make up for it. Esther and Eli and all the others was taking good care of me when Mama can’t. They’re always working hard, but Eli says he don’t mind because he’s serving the Lord. And Massa Fletcher’s never yelling or beating anybody… .” He swallowed hard, remembering Massa Coop.
“Missy Caroline was my best friend. We use to play in the yard every day and climb that old magnolia tree and talk to Eli while he’s working. Missy do her lessons every morning and I do my chores, but then we played when we was all finished. Sometimes we use to sit on Eli’s lap and he’d tell stories about Massa Jesus—”
Grady stopped abruptly, the memory sharp and painful. Eli had said that Jesus was always with him, taking good care of him, but it wasn’t true.
“Bless you, child,” Delia murmured, “you didn’t know what slavery’s all about, did you?” She sighed, then added, “I reckon you know now.”
“Massa Fletcher sold me for no reason!” His mother’s face may have faded, but Grady clearly recalled Massa Fletcher’s face and the way he stood in the rain with his arms folded. “He sold me for no reason at all!”
“There’s a reason, honey. There’s always a reason—just something you ain’t knowing about.”
Grady drew a shuddering breath. “The wagon carry me to the auction house and Amos say to forget about home. He say I ain’t never going back again, never gonna see my mama.”
“It’s the truth, Grady. I know it’s hard, but it’s the truth. You’re a long, long way from Virginia. Once folks is sold, ain’t no way back.”
Grady’s tears began falling again. Delia had made him relive that terrible day, and now he relived the loss, as well, the feeling of being all alone in a world that was so large, so uncaring.
“Was Eli your daddy, Grady?” she asked softly.
The question surprised him. “No … Eli is Esther’s husband.”
“Did you know your daddy?”
“I don’t have one. I asked Mama one time why Caroline has a daddy and I don’t. She say slaves don’t have daddies.”
“Now, you know that can’t be true,” Delia said. “The only baby born on this earth without a flesh-and-bone daddy was the Lord Jesus—and you sure ain’t Him.”
Grady stiffened at the name. Eli had told him that Jesus had God for His daddy instead of having a daddy here on earth. But Grady didn’t want to think about Massa Jesus anymore.
“What color skin did your mama have?” Delia asked. “Dark as mine or light as yours?”
“Like yours.” He remembered now. Mama’s skin was a rich, warm brown, as dark and smooth as the molasses cookies Esther used to bake.
He was struggling to bring his mother’s face into focus when Delia said, “Your daddy’s a white man.”
The words stunned Grady like a slap in the face. He twisted out of her arms shouting, “That’s a lie!”
He hated white men—all of them. They had carried him away and locked him in a filthy cell and made him stand on the auction block without his clothes. Massa Coop was a white man, and he had beaten Grady unmercifully. White men bought and sold Negroes, stealing them from their homes and their families without an ounce of compassion for them. The only white man he’d known back home in Richmond was Massa Fletcher, and Grady hated him most of all. He was not his father!
“Maybe Gilbert’s my daddy or … or somebody else,” he said with cold fury, “but he sure ain’t no white man!”
“It happens all the time,” Delia said matter-of-factly. “Truth is, most black gals are a whole lot prettier than white women. Massa sees a beautiful Negro gal and he can’t resist. He don’t have to. She’s his slave, so he can do whatever he wants.”
Grady knew that his mama was beautiful, more beautiful than the slave women Coop used to sell to the brothels in New Orleans. Grady had learned what brothels were. He knew very well what Delia was saying. He felt heat rush to his face, but he was too angry, too outraged to speak.
“I may not look it now,” Delia continued, “but I used to be pretty, long time ago. Plantation had a white overseer and he decide he can use me that way anytime he wants. I had me a little girl baby from that white man. She’s as light-skinned as you are, honey. Could pass for white if you didn’t hear her calling me Mama. Massa Fuller was just a baby himself, back then, so they brought me up to the Big House and I nursed him alongside my own baby. The two of them just as white as each other. Couldn’t tell no difference.”
Grady didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to think about this. He glanced around the tiny cabin but saw only one bed. “Your daughter living here with you?” he asked.
“No, she’s gone now,” Delia said sadly. “Her grave is up in the cemetery with all the other slaves who’ve gone to be with Jesus. My little girl only five years old when she left me. I see you climbing down from that carriage today, and you’re reminding me of her. Her skin’s just as light as yours.”
“That don’t mean I had a white daddy,” he said angrily.
“Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of.”
“But it ain’t true!” Only one white man lived in that house in Richmond. Mama had cried and pleaded with him as they’d dragged Grady away, and he hadn’t even cared.
Delia tried to pull Grady into her arms again, but he twisted away. He stood, fists clenched, his body rigid with hatred. She touched his arm. “Listen, Grady—”
“I ain’t got nothing to do with no white man!” he yelled. “Don’t you ever say that to me again!”