CHAPTER 1 — Conversations
I must soon tell John the truth—that I liberated Judith, giving her papers to go forth in a free state. But I had not thought it out.
I can only put it off so long. My husband is getting suspicious of the reason I gave him for Judith’s absence, that she stayed in Connecticut to help my friend Lilah for a while. My husband is stating she must return, or we need to work out a lease agreement.
Though Connecticut does not permit slavery generally, exceptions allow existing owners to keep their slaves until death. It is murky how that applies to absentee owners wishing to lease out their property. And regardless, John wants her back because, as I know too well, Judith was pledged as collateral on his business loans and he is concerned his creditors will not appreciate her absence from Alabama.
Though my sweetheart deserves an answer, meanwhile there is another pressing matter at home in Greensboro. I have been paying close attention to our son Rufus respecting Black Judith’s daughter, Ellen. The way they gaze at each other with affection makes me question if Georgie could be his offspring. I see traces of my son in the three year old’s features and complexion. With this thought weighing on my mind, I knew it was time to summon him to the library.
“Rufus,” I began, attempting to keep my voice steady while hiding my inner turmoil, “we must discuss your relationship with Ellen.”
He sat slumped in the wing chair, avoiding my gaze. His fingers fidgeted.
“Mother,” he replied softly, looking up from the Belgian carpet, “you know she has been my friend since childhood. She has been more like a playmate than… something else.”
I have heard this excuse before.
“Can you not see how much Georgie resembles you?” I gestured, trying to make him understand.
Rufus picked at the frayed threads of the worn wing chair and remained silent, perhaps hoping I would drop the subject. He again fixed his eyes on the rug.
But I could not let it go.
“This cannot continue,” I insisted sternly, sitting stiffly on the settee and crossing my arms. “You must understand that relationships between masters and slaves are forbidden. I will not tolerate such behavior.”
I could see the conflict in his eyes, but I couldn’t let my own emotions falter. This conversation needed to happen, no matter how uncomfortable it made us both feel.
My son surprised me with his response.
Looking me in the eye, he held a mix of defiance and vulnerability in his expression.
“But sometimes…love is involved.”
My mind raced to comprehend the implications. For years, I observed the affection that passed between Rufus and the enslaved girl, but I dismissed it as a simple childhood friendship. Now, his admission forced me to reevaluate my assumptions.
Shifting uncomfortably, I sought solace in the view outside the window. The midday sun cast a warm glow on the peaceful surroundings, distracting me from the weighty conversation. Glancing at the clock on the mantlepiece, I noted it was half-past one, the time slipping away as we navigated this delicate terrain.
Turning my attention back to my son but changing the subject, I acknowledged his diligent work at the dental office and his assistance to his father. These responsibilities, along with his occasional tutoring at Mr. Tutwiler’s school at Green Springs, keep him occupied. However, I know deep down these pursuits are not enough to give him the opportunities he deserves.
“While the school provides some financial support, it no longer suffices to avoid pursuing a higher education. Your father believes you should follow the lead of your contemporaries and attend a prestigious institution such as the University of Virginia or one of the esteemed Methodist colleges.”
I paused, taking a deep breath.
“He suggests if you do not go away to school, you must assist him at the shop, even though you have never shown an interest in cotton gin making.”
He remained silent.
“Rufus, you are no longer a child, and it is time for you to put away childish things.”
Unlike my sister, I rarely quote or even allude to scripture to make a point. But this once, I felt it necessary.
#
Later, as the moon cast a soft golden glow through the parlor windows, I summoned John to join me. While seated at the recently purchased mahogany table, I watched as he wandered the room.
I began, my voice gentle yet firm, “About Rufus…” But I stopped as my husband picked up a book from the shelf and flipped through its pages. Sensing the need for his undivided attention, I implored him to set the book aside and join me on the settee. His pat on my hand, spoke volumes of his understanding and support.
Anticipating the conversation, he offered, “I agree it is overdue for our son to embark on a path of serious studies.” The mention of Rufus’s lackluster performance in his current endeavors tugged at my heart.
As we delved into the discussion, the room seemed to shrink around us. I voiced my concerns about the distance and the potential pitfalls that awaited Rufus in unfamiliar territory. I did not mention Ellen or Rufus’ stated feelings about her. That discussion can wait until I think of the right words, as I believe John is oblivious to the depth of the relationship.
John’s comforting embrace, his arm around my shoulders drawing me close, offered solace amid uncertainty. Tears welled in my eyes, a silent testament to my tumult of emotions, but I knew that bold action was needed to secure Rufus’s future. Finding a suitable wife for him adds a layer of complexity to our discussion.
And yet, in the quiet of the library, bathed in the soft glow of the flickering oil lamp and the waning fire, we found other ways to communicate. It began as a mezzo piano serenade, a soft touch on my shoulder, a nuzzle into John’s open shirt. But then the crescendo brought us to mezzo forte.
Nothing can compare to the rapture felt when Beethoven’s sonatas resonate in my head. From the hint and promise of pianissimos to the climactic fortissimo, nothing ever is as rapturous as what begins in my mind and culminates in my body. Time and place fade, and I imagine floating down a gentle stream, gazing at the stars.
Oh, if only the unforgiving nature of the floor had not reminded us of the infirmities visited upon us these five decades, plus one or two.
Comments
Post a Comment