13
Wreckers’ Cay
September 1839
Four months after Martin’s disappearance, September brought a ?erce dead heat, with not a puff of wind. Normally, our little island enjoyed a continual play of rippling trade winds, but in late summer and early autumn, the breezes died and we choked on the airless heat that seared our lungs. We wore the lightest of clothing during these doldrums, just enough to protect us from the sizzling rays of the sun. Even my children were happy to lie down during the hottest part of the day to rest until afternoon’s end, when we could bathe at the beach. Andrew, too, felt the need to pace himself, resting more and frequently cooling himself off in the ocean.
Martin’s absence continued to occupy my thoughts almost every waking moment. Our lives were moving on without him. And I felt sad that he was missing the changes in our family: Timothy seemed to grow every time I looked at him, Hannah was taller, and Martha marked her ninth birthday. There was also my pregnancy, of which he’d had no knowledge when he disappeared.
“Mama, why do people have slaves?” Martha asked me one afternoon. She and Timothy had just been chatting under the mahogany tree with Andrew.
The question embarrassed me. In New Orleans and Key West, owning slaves had been a fact of life—unquestioned. But here on Wreckers’ Cay, I realized, my children were growing up without such cultural perceptions. Unlike me, they were not totally desensitized to its horrors.
“To … help them with work,” I replied.
“Like Andrew does here?”
“Andrew isn’t our slave. He’s merely someone who helps us.”
She frowned. “But we don’t pay him. So doesn’t that make him a slave?”
“No, it doesn’t,” I snapped. “We give him room and board. We don’t own him. He’s free to leave at any time.” I hoped my tone made it clear that this was not a subject I wished to pursue.
Martha nodded, and I sensed that, while she saw some inequity in our arrangement, it was overshadowed by the joy she and Timothy found in Andrew’s presence.
I was sometimes ?nding the subject of slavery a di?cult one in the classroom. In the days that followed our initial conversation about slave routes, Andrew asked me to read passages of the Bible aloud to him, and while I read from the new one Captain Lee had brought, he followed the text with me in our old Bible, sounding out the words with me. I avoided passages that mentioned slaves, which was di?cult, as references to them were liberally sprinkled throughout the Scriptures—a fact I had never even considered previously.
Andrew was beginning to read well, but at sums, he was an ordinary student. Money was not a commodity he could relate to easily, as he’d never earned any. To help him understand, the children and I set up a play store with various grocery items and real money, and we would laugh at arguments that broke out over wrong change. This was also good for my children, who had never experienced the opportunity to shop in a real market.
Science—at least science as it existed around us—also interested Andrew. His questions sent me to Grandpère’s encyclopedia on an almost daily basis for the names of star constellations, the discoveries of Galileo and Copernicus, the names of different species of ?sh and birds. Sometimes this involved a walk along the beach, together with Martha and Timothy, to talk about the night sky. And curiously, in the dark, the differences in the color of our skin dissipated. On these walks, listening to his voice and his breathing beside me, I became more aware of him as a man and less as a Negro. One evening as we walked, the children running ahead, I stumbled and fell; he caught me, and I grabbed his arm instinctively to right myself. Feeling the strength of his hands, I had to admit I found the contact pleasurable—although I continued walking as if nothing had occurred. When we walked back toward the light from the tower, I turned and was almost surprised as his features—so different from Martin’s—were caught in its beam.
Andrew was very interested in herbal medicine, an art about which I was completely ignorant, but again with his prodding, we looked up entries in the encyclopedia. “What are all those herbs you have hanging in the playroom?” I asked him one day.
“They’re medicine plants,” he said. “I learned about them from a Gullah woman who practiced hoodoo.”
“You mean voodoo?”
“No, hoodoo. The Gullah lady was a black slave woman who lived near a river in South Carolina. She was sold to my massa, and brought to Georgia. Back where she’d lived, they made the medicines of African slaves from the roots of plants.”
“I’ve never heard of that. And I was around slaves a good part of my life.”
He looked at me quizzically. “You had slaves?”
I hesitated. “Well, my husband and I never owned any. But I was raised by one—Eurydice.”
“So your parents had slaves.”
My parents had owned a few house slaves. I could only remember their dusky faces, careworn or smiling, and seeing them working—always working. But I no longer knew their names; I realized I didn’t even know what became of them after my parents died. I’d never thought about it.
I decided not to mention that fact. “My grandfather had slaves to work his plantation,” I conceded. “But … well, he lost much of his money. Most of it, in fact. He and my grandmother ended up living in a smaller home in New Orleans.”
Andrew looked curiously at me, as though he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “Your granddaddy was a planter?”
“Well … yes. That was many years ago. When my sister, Dorothy, was born, my mother died. My baby sister and I moved in with my grandparents. And Eurydice looked after us.”
“She was a slave.”
“Eurydice?” I felt myself growing embarrassed. I chose my words carefully. “Yes, she was, though we never thought of her as one. She was like family to us. And she still is. She’s a quadroon from Guadeloupe.”
His voice was mocking. “Oh, a quadroon. A nice light-colored house slave.”
I ignored this. “She’s the woman who raised me, and I loved her. I still love her.”
He stared at me.
I grew ?ustered. “Eurydice was—is—a wonderful woman. And then she had a sweet little baby, and Dorothy and I just adored her, too. She named her Marie-Francine, after my grandmother. Really, they were like family.”
“Well, now,” he drawled slowly, a smile playing on his face, “maybe they were family. Have you ever thought of that?”
I sat in shocked silence for a moment as his implication sank in. Then I glared at him, bristling. “How dare you?” I gasped.
He persisted, ignoring my indignation. “Did they keep other slaves in New Orleans?”
I stood up and began to clear the table. “I don’t want to discuss this any longer.”
“Why not?”
His persistence was exasperating. But I was, of course, withholding some of the truth. The fact was, in his days as a planter, my grandfather had at one time owned as many as a hundred slaves, and would still have that number had Indian raids not destroyed his crops a couple of years running. He still owned the land but no longer went to the estate. He and my grandmother had brought only a handful of faithful slaves when they moved to New Orleans; the remaining ones had been sold off.
When I was growing up, Grandpère enjoyed recalling his planter days, and he often described his sallies into the Algiers slave auctions in New Orleans, and up in Natchez, Mississippi, at the Fork in the Road slave market. He would tell me of his shrewd deals, much like a ranch owner would brag about the purchase of strong, healthy livestock.
Andrew was clearly enjoying my discomfort. I felt myself growing angry, yet at the same time, I scolded myself silently—I had encouraged this familiarity; how could I blame him for his curiosity now?
“Miss Emily,” Andrew ?nally said, “you believe in slavery, don’t you?”
I had to think about it. I was tempted to lie again, but under his penetrating gaze, I found I simply could not.
“Andrew,” I said in a low voice, “you have to understand that if that’s the way you’re brought up … if your family has slaves, you just accept it. You don’t question the grown-ups around you. I was a child of my time and place.”
When this was greeted by silence. I added, “But I can truthfully tell you that I married a man with no money and have never owned slaves myself.”
“Until now.”
I felt color quicken in my cheeks. “Andrew!” I exclaimed angrily. “That’s not fair. You know I don’t consider you my slave.”
“Maybe not your slave. But you do think of me as a slave.”
I held my breath. I heard the children running through the garden, and the gentle spray of the ocean. Inside the house, though, the heat had somehow grown heavier over the worktable between me and Andrew.
“Andrew,” I said carefully, “you are perfectly free here. You know that. And you may leave here anytime, really.”
In actual fact, I was terri?ed he might indeed quit the island, leaving me alone with the children again. And for him to do so, he would either have to take the supply tender with Captain Lee—which was out of the question—or take one of our vessels, and I could not part with either of my boats.
But he just looked away. “They stole my freedom papers,” he said simply.
I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. “Well, then, I guess we’ll just continue until we ?nd some way around that. Perhaps, later on, if you decide to leave, I could write you some kind of letter, if I can ?gure out the correct wording.”
He nodded. Then he silently left the house, and I sat alone in the cookhouse for a long time before venturing back outside.
By early November, I was growing quite large with my pregnancy. I was due at the beginning of January, and I no longer could afford to be seen by Captain Lee and Al?e—nor by those other rare visitors, like Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who kept the lighthouse at Garden Key in the Dry Tortugas. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep up the pretense, so when the supply tender came in mid-November, I took to my bed and told Martha to tell Captain Lee and Al?e that I was resting and had a bad headache. They dropped off the supplies and the mail and left soon after, a little disgruntled at our lack of hospitality, since we offered them no refreshments.
Truthfully, I was feeling so poorly that I welcomed this ruse. The luxury of climbing back to the comfort of my bed in the middle of the day was sheer bliss, for this pregnancy—more than any of the previous ones—often left me exhausted and nauseous.
After the men left, I got up. Andrew emerged from hiding, and the household came alive again. Dusk came earlier now. I quickly began supper preparations so Andrew could get started at the light. As the food was cooking, I tore open a letter written in French from my sister:
Darling sister Emily, I am astonished by what the supply couriers have been telling us! George Lee says he ?nds you happy and well, and that the light and property are well tended. You may trust that I have mentioned your pregnancy to no one. Sugar, I have a wonderful surprise for you. I plan to book passage with the couriers on their next trip over with your supplies! I know I shall have to stay there for two weeks, until they stop at the island again, but I have plenty of help at home, and I thought it would be enjoyable to get away from Key West society and enjoy some peace and quiet for a couple of weeks. I will see you very soon. Je t’embrasse!
Your loving sister, Dorothy
I was alarmed. Much as I loved my sister, I did not want her at Wreckers’ Cay yet. She was supposed to be coming to help deliver my baby, but that would not be until early January, six weeks from now. And while I knew she would learn about Andrew then, for the moment I was still blissfully keeping my head planted in the sand. But there was no way to get word to her in time and tell her not to come for her unscheduled visit, as she would already be on the next tender. So it was time to face the problem.
I brought up the matter at supper. “My sister is coming from Key West for an unexpected visit on the next tender,” I said to Andrew without preamble. “I just received a letter from her.” This announcement caught him as he was lifting his fork to his mouth. He stopped and looked at me in surprise. Across the table, Timothy and Martha stopped eating, too.
“How long will she be here?” he asked.
“Two weeks. It sounds like she just wants to get away from Key West for a couple of weeks. She’ll be back again in January, when the baby is due.” We sat in silence for a few minutes. The children looked at each other, then watched us.
“You can’t hide me for two weeks,” said Andrew simply. “Either I’ll have to leave or she’ll have to be told.”
“Yes, she will have to be told,” I said, ignoring the ?rst option. “I’m afraid … well, I suspect you won’t like my sister very much.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She is a very sweet person, but she’s … well, she’s quite …”
“She’s a slave owner.”
When I didn’t answer, I saw the anger creep into his eyes.
“Perhaps I should leave for a while.”
Before I could protest, Martha and Timothy both ex-
claimed, “No!”
Andrew smiled at them. “So what’s the answer?” he asked me.
“No,” I repeated. “You mustn’t leave.”
He looked thoughtful. “We could tell her I’m your slave,” he said. “I’ll work at the light and in the garden, and do my other chores. I just won’t eat with you. I’ll take my food to the playhouse. I don’t think I want to get to know her nohow. Let’s tell her I came off a slave ship. It’s the truth, ain’t it?”
“Oh, Andrew,” I retorted with a ?ash of anger, “please don’t start that again. I hardly—”
He broke into a smile, and I realized he was teasing me.
“We’ll tell her the truth—that you’re a freed slave,” I said.
Although I was very excited about seeing my sister again, I was also worried by the problems her visit would create. She wouldn’t be able to sleep in the playhouse this time. That meant she’d be sleeping with me in my bed, which would inevitably intrude on my privacy and be di?cult for her, for Dorothy was used to a more luxurious life back in Key West. And since she was certainly unaccustomed to doing housework or cooking, I knew she would be standing around, chatting about the social life and gossip of Key West, while I tried to keep up with all the necessary chores around the house.
Even so, I knew I could trust my sister to keep quiet about Andrew, and that was the one bright light in this cloud of anxiety I felt.
On the day Dorothy arrived, we followed our usual supply-day routine. Andrew locked himself in the playhouse, and I again took to my bed with the pretense of a headache.
I watched discreetly from my bedroom window as the captain and Al?e hauled Dorothy’s cases onto the dock. She directed them toward the playhouse, where she would normally have stayed, but Martha and Timothy intercepted them, saying that their aunt would be staying in my room because the playhouse was not yet ready. The children took her smaller bags and headed for our main house.
Nonplussed, Dorothy cheerfully dismissed Captain George and Al?e, who subsequently left, surely now beginning to wonder why they were no longer invited to tea on their visits.
“Just look at you!” she said, after she burst into my room and gave me a lingering hug. “No wonder you’re hiding up here. I’m surprised the men haven’t guessed. You’re as big as a house.”
I was overjoyed to see her and held her hands a long time. “You look wonderful, Dorothy. Prettier than ever. You’re still the family beauty.”
“Pshaw.” She laughed dismissively. “Help me unpack! I’ve brought Christmas gifts and treats for you and the children.” Then lowering her voice, she said, “and a few gifts … from Gran.”
I was pleased, because Gran, I knew, was still angry with me. She’d written to me only sporadically since our move to Wreckers’ Cay, despite my frequent notes.
“I’m so sorry we won’t be spending Christmas together again this year,” Dorothy lamented. “Is there no way you could—”
She stopped in midsentence, staring over my shoulder. The color drained from her face. “Emily … there’s a Negro man … standing behind you!”
I turned and smiled. Andrew was standing at the door of my room, hat in hand.
“Dorothy, this is my new lighthouse assistant, Andrew Dembi Tyler. Andrew, this is my sister,” I said.
Andrew bowed politely. “Miss Dorothy.”
Dorothy was still recovering. No words escaped her lips.
“I was just wondering, Miss Emily, if we were having schooling today.”
I smiled at him. “No, Andrew. Since my sister has just arrived, I’m declaring it a school holiday.”
“In that case, I’ll go over to the tower and get an early start on the light.” Nodding courteously to Dorothy, Andrew then replaced his hat and left as quietly as he had come. My sister looked like someone who had just awakened from a peculiar dream.
“Emily!” she shrieked when she recovered. “What is this about? Who is that Negro? What is he doing here?”
I took her by the hand and led her toward the stairs. “Come, Dorothy, let’s go down to the cookhouse for tea. I have much to tell you.”
Over tea and slices of caraway-seed cake, I ?nally explained to Dorothy that I was a terrible fraud. I giggled at this, but Dorothy just looked stupe?ed. I described how Andrew had been helping tend the light since September, even though I remained the lighthouse keeper of record. And I told her how he was working in exchange for room and board, and for our lessons.
“You’re educating him?” She frowned. “Whatever for?”
“Why, because he asked me to. He’s very intelligent; he learned how to keep the light straight away. Caught on to it faster than I did.”
Dorothy stood. She looked out the window to where Andrew was picking up some gardening tools. “And he doesn’t belong to anyone?”
She made him sound like a stray pet, and it surprised me to realize I now found such an assumption offensive. “No. He’s a free Negro … from somewhere up in Georgia. He was kidnapped and forced onto an illegal slaver heading for the Caribbean—Cuba, I think. He’d been whipped and mistreated, and when he saw his chance in a storm, he escaped and came ashore.”
Dorothy continued to watch him from the cookhouse. “That’s a rather far-fetched story, Emily.”
“Well, I believe him,” I said.
That was not what Dorothy wanted to hear. She turned back to me. “Emily, I’m at a loss, I must confess. I always thought you were mad for coming out here in the ?rst place. And all the more so now that Martin is …” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “Come back to Key West with me. You and the children will have a much better life there than you ever will here. I worry about you all the time!”
I sat up straighter. Suddenly, it was becoming clear why Dorothy had planned this surprise visit. It was to convince me to leave Wreckers’ Cay.
“You want me to just drop everything and move back … to what? A settlement where I don’t even have a home anymore? With three—no, four!—children to raise? I know you mean well, darlin’, but Martin could still be found. And if so, I should be here.”
She smiled indulgently. “Poor dear Emily.” She sat down again and took my hand. “It’s been six months. You must think of yourself and your children.”
“The children are ?ne,” I said, trying to keep my temper even. “They work hard on schoolwork and practice their music, and they are very healthy, as you can see.”
“They may very well be,” she said. “But I don’t have to remind you of the Seminole raids on lighthouses. And what if a hurricane hits the island? What would you do out here alone?”
I shrugged.
“Emily, sooner or later, you’ll have to come back. Martha will need to marry. And Timothy might want to go away to university. Why not come back now?” Dorothy turned back to watching Andrew. “I’m surprised you’re not afraid of this Negro,” she murmured.
Outside, Andrew had taken off his shirt in the heat, and his skin was glistening with sweat. Since he’d been here at Wreckers’ Cay, his body had taken shape again, and as he headed down to the beach for a swim, I could see his physique was not lost on Dorothy.
“He’s young,” she said. She paused and looked over at me with a wry smile. “He’s quite handsome, actually—for a Negro. Good teeth and an excellent body … very muscular; he looks strong and healthy.”
“This is not an auction, Dorothy,” I said.
She waved this comment away. “I’m sure a man of his age would rather be in a place where he can meet women of his race and have a life of some kind. In Key West, they’re always looking for able bodies to crew on ?shing and salvaging boats.” She frowned. “Where does he sleep?”
“The playroom. Martha and Timothy gave it up for him—they adore him—so that’s why you’re staying with me upstairs.”
“He sleeps in the playroom? Where does he bathe and … use the commode?”
“He usually swims down at the beach, but when he wants to bathe, he uses our washhouse,” I said, “and I have only one outhouse here.”
She was stricken by this explanation. “I will be sharing hygienic facilities with—him?”
I had been expecting this reaction. “Believe me,” I said, patting her hand, “after the ?rst few days, you won’t even be conscious of it. It just takes a little getting used to.”
Later, when I cleared away the tea things and busied myself with tidying up my kitchen, Dorothy expressed a need to use the latrine. She looked pained for a moment, and then, taking a deep breath, she headed for our integrated outhouse.
To her credit, Dorothy spoke no more on the subject.
Later, she went with the children to the beach, pulling up her skirts and bathing her feet and legs. Timothy found some cray?sh under a rock and put them in a deep covered pail to take back to me for chowder. We ate early, as was our custom, so Andrew could have the light beaming brightly by dusk.
Dorothy offered to set the table. “Does Hannah sit with us?”
“Yes,” I said. “So set it for the three of us and all three children.”
Again, Dorothy looked uncomfortable, as she realized Andrew would be sitting at the table, too. But she merely pursed her lips in disapproval.
When Andrew came in for supper, I could see that in my sister’s honor, he had washed and changed into clean clothes. He was quieter than usual, as if he could sense her displeasure. Dorothy was also quiet, and I found myself doing most of the talking. She pointedly ignored Andrew, and barely nibbled at her food.
Martha and Timothy were oblivious to Dorothy’s discomfort. They chatted with Andrew, laughing easily, as always. At one point, Hannah knocked over her glass of juice. Andrew immediately stood up and cleaned up the mess with a rag, chatting with Hannah as though nothing had happened. I could not help thinking how different Martin’s reaction might have been; most likely, he would have slapped her hands and scolded her.
Through it all, Dorothy just remained silent.
Within a few days, Dorothy was adapting to life on Wreckers’ Cay. Her corset was off by the second day, and she sometimes waited until afternoon to get dressed and pin up her hair. By the weekend, she was even going barefoot around the island, or just wearing slippers. I noticed that instead of bothering to do her hair up, she was just tying it back with ribbons.
With each day, she appeared to relax a little more. “Don’t misunderstand me, sugar,” she said over coffee one morning, “I’d never live out here. But I have to admit it can be pleasant. It’s so restful without other people around. And it’s wonderful not to have so many mosquitoes!”
She still barely spoke to Andrew, unless it was to order him to carry out some task, but on the fourth morning she heard him singing out in the garden as he hoed. Often his songs were spirituals I had never heard, like “Wade in the Water” or “The Drinking Gourd,” but this time he was belting out a religious hymn, “Welcome Thou Victor in the Strife.” His voice was deep and velvety, and in ?ne form that day. Dorothy put her coffee cup down and ran to the window. “That’s my favorite hymn,” she said, humming along. “It’s such a beautiful piece. And how he does sing!”
Then, to my surprise, she began to sing along—softly, but even so, I knew it would carry from the cookhouse out into the garden, where Andrew would hear. They continued this duet for a few minutes, until Andrew stopped, leaned on his hoe, and cocked his ear.
Dorothy’s cheeks ?ushed, and she covered her mouth to suppress a giggle. “I can’t believe I was singing with your Negro!”
“Andrew,” I reminded her. “His name is Andrew.”
Turning back to his work, he had switched to singing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” a song well suited to his baritone, but not to Dorothy’s lighter voice.
“Why, he is quite entertaining, your Andrew!” she exclaimed. “I wish I had a Negro who could sing like that. You must have him perform for us.”
The idea of a little concert seemed like a grand one, for we could celebrate the talents of the entire household—Andrew’s voice, Martha’s piano playing, and Timothy’s facility with the violin. Hannah, no doubt, would love cheering along, as well.
I mentioned it to Andrew at our next tutorial. He agreed, but on his terms. “Tell your sister I’ll sing if she’ll sing with me,” he said. “I heard her. She sings good.”
“She sings well,” I replied, correcting him, but even as I did, I realized how infrequently I needed to correct his speech now. His language skills had greatly improved.
Wreckers’ Cay was truly weaving its magic on my sister, for luckily, Dorothy was receptive to this suggestion. “A concert would be wonderful! Of course I’ll sing with him.”
She shu?ed through my sheet music and found several hymns that I knew were dear to her heart. When she found Schubert’s “Ave Maria,” she said excitedly, “I’ll teach Andrew the Latin words to this, and we’ll sing it together.” The fact that she’d referred to him as Andrew, rather than “the Negro” or “the slave” was not lost on me. She went off to the parlor, busily humming to herself.
Having Dorothy around to enliven Wreckers’ Cay was a breath of fresh air. Martha was happy to be learning new piano pieces, as was Timothy on the violin, and it occurred to me that perhaps my own abilities to instruct their music lessons had become a little stale. Preparations for our musical evening occupied the better part of their time for over a week, after which Dorothy pronounced us ready to perform.
The evening was a splendid success. Dorothy had been singing with the church choir, and her voice had improved since I’d last heard her. Andrew’s baritone complemented hers, and when they sang together, the effect was remarkable. I lent my uncertain alto to a few of the less challenging songs, and helped Martha—who sulked in frustration at one point—at the piano. Timothy reveled in his new pieces on the violin. I could see he possessed quite a natural talent, and as I watched my son performing so intently, Dorothy’s earlier comments about the limits of his education here on the island sprang to mind. Little Hannah watched it all with rapt attention. How much she could hear, I did not know, but I delighted in how she clapped her hands gleefully and smiled whenever the music began again. Clearly, she was able to intuit some of the musical tones in her own way.
This evening produced another magic effect. The next day, Dorothy greeted Andrew at breakfast and didn’t ask him to pour her drink or remove her plate. “He really is quite remarkable,” she con?ded to me later. And I was pleased that she did not add the quali?cation “for a Negro” to her praise. She whispered, “Have you noticed his eyes? They’re a hazel color. Obviously, he’s the product of more than one generation of owners messing around in the slave shack.”
“That’s entirely possible,” I said, pretending I hadn’t noticed. But, of course, I had noted all this and more about Andrew. Dorothy was correct: He was quite handsome. His skin was a rich coffee color, and his smile, which revealed his beautiful white teeth, made you want to smile along with him, to catch the joy that glowed from his lips and eyes.
Dorothy began to go to the beach with the children, even when Andrew was there. I stayed back in the cookhouse to rest, for I was growing ever larger, and my size was weighing heavily on me. I could see from the window that they would return to the house, each holding Hannah’s hand, swinging her between them, and chatting amiably. In fact, Hannah unwittingly brought them together in other aspects of her play, asking them to help her build a castle on the sandbar, or to hold her up as she tried to swim.
When I was too ill or tired to do the schooling, Dorothy cheerfully took over with the children, and though she did not initially offer to help Andrew, she consented when Martha and Timothy asked her. She would listen to his questions and ideas, just as I had, though he was far less confrontational with her. I often heard them laughing together from my bedroom upstairs, and despite my headaches and aching back, I had to smile.
One afternoon, I awoke from a nap to the sound of loud laughter downstairs in the cookhouse. When I joined them, Andrew and Dorothy were sitting at the table, sharing an old clay pipe of Martin’s that they had packed with a sweet-smelling tobacco. “What are you doing?” I asked.
Dorothy had a bemused smile on her face. Looking more relaxed than I had ever seen her, she exclaimed, “Oh, sugar, come sit with us! Andrew has this wonderful plant. You absolutely must try it. You hang it from the rafters till it’s dry, and then”—she giggled—“you just crumble it up like tobacco and smoke it!”
Beside her, Andrew also seemed deeply content. His eyes were half-open and he was grinning broadly. He offered me a puff from his pipe, but feeling slightly nauseous, I declined.
“Let me see that tobacco,” I said. Andrew showed me a plant he had freshly cut. The leaf was rather large and had seven fronds. I had a vague recollection of seeing it growing at the far end of the island. It seemed to have a tranquilizing effect, and clearly, Dorothy had really taken to it.
She turned to Andrew. “Andrew, darlin’, you must give me some to take back to Key West!”
“I’ll do better than that,” said Andrew. “I’ll give you some seeds to plant and you can grow some in your garden.”
I had been too busy to think much about the herbs Andrew was ?nding around the property. A few weeks earlier, I had seen Hannah wearing a small pouch around her neck. When I asked her where she got it, she gestured toward the playhouse.
To me, this smacked of the voodoo dolls used on Louisiana plantations by slaves wishing to hex their masters by sticking them with pins. “What is this all about?” I asked Andrew, although not unkindly. “What is in that little gris-gris bag?”
“Just herbs to help her hear better,” he said.
I could not help but smile. It brought back memories of the freed black people back in New Orleans, performing rituals in Congo Square on their Sundays off.
“Oh, you Africans and your voodoo and mojo and juju,” I said, laughing. “Do you really think all that black magic works?”
“It’s not voodoo. It’s hoodoo. Remember? From the Gullah,” he protested. “More of a white magic, from Africa, not Haiti. The Gullah use healing herbs to make people feel better, to cure sickness. The herbs I put in her little pouch are to help improve her senses, like sight and hearing.”
To me, of course, it was all rubbish and nonsense. But it wasn’t doing her any harm. And if it made Andrew feel productive, well … I decided it was an innocuous enough amulet, no stranger than the scapular medals Dorothy and I had worn as girls at the convent. Secretly, I even wished I were not so cynical, that I, too, could believe Hannah’s problems might be so easily solved. And for Hannah, the small pouch became a thing of veritable wonder. She never went anywhere without her little herb pouch and her rag doll; I even had trouble getting her to remove it at bath time.
As Dorothy prepared for her departure, she asked Andrew to make up little gris-gris bags for her own children to ward off colds or the dreaded yellow fever over the winter.
She had, of course, failed in the purpose of her visit: to convince me to return to Key West. I was sure Gran and Captain Lee had put her up to it. Still, it had been a surprisingly pleasant visit. “I’ll be back soon, sugar,” she said with a resigned smile. “I just hope that little baby of yours doesn’t come early!”
I smiled. “I’m sure it will be ?ne.”
“Do you worry about Indians?”
I shook my head. “Not really, Dorothy. I’m well west of their territories. They’re more likely to attack Key West than Wreckers’.” But we both knew I was whistling past the graveyard.
Just before the supply tender was due to arrive, Dorothy and I enjoyed a pot of tea and some lemon pound cake, treasuring our last few moments together. With a giggle, she con?ded to me that she couldn’t wait to get home and have her gardener plant some of Andrew’s “marvelously wonderful herb” in her Key West garden.