Chapter 9
NINE
ZINNIE
Took all of crossing from Tennessee to Missouri for Miss Norene to stop bellyaching about the “darkie desecration” of a Bible she could barely read.
Grateful my actions spared my Annabelle possible retribution, I took the browbeating, letting Norene Tolliver’s complaints drift in one ear and out the next while feigning remorse like a dutiful penitent.
Her fellow plantation women wholeheartedly sympathized with her rehashed distress but by the time we crossed into Missouri her husband was fed up and threatened to “give that Bible to an Injun.”
For plantation people the only creature worse than a Negro was—in their vulgar words—a “bloody heathen savage.” The idea of her precious sacred text landing in the hands of a native took Norene Tolliver’s breath away and shut her up completely.
Heaven be praised for silencing a plantation woman’s complaints!
That thought melted away as gales of laughter kissed the day. Several wagon-lengths ahead children clustered in the grass bordering the trail, squealing with joy both pure and infectious. My heart warmed instantly. Still, I gave caution to their activities.
“Y’all stop tormenting those butterflies.
Leave ’em be and come on here!” Graduated to riding harnessed against my back, Hattie kicked as if cosigning my instructions.
My baby had grown so fast despite my fears for her wellness during this tenuous, tedious journey.
Plump and playful, she cooed her opinion.
“But, Mama, they’re too pretty not to chase. I’ma catch one to keep.”
I smiled at my Abigail’s exuberance and enjoyment, thankful the mustard plasters I’d applied to her chest had the desired effect. That constant cough subsided enough for her to enjoy dancing through a kaleidoscope of butterflies flitting about the children—a rainbow with wings.
“If that’s not the sweetest thing…” I paused to admire the pure delight and innocence despite my earlier caution.
Rainy days were blissfully behind us. Spring now commanded the atmosphere.
It touched the earth with bountiful fingers producing flowers and fresh grass in abundance.
In keeping with juvenile temperaments, the children resisted imposed confinement.
They were enchanted by the new season. Often, they dilly-dallied, prolonging their relief breaks, or hopped off the carts offering to help with this and that.
When required to walk prior to the stream-crossing incident, they’d complained of weariness.
Now that they were allowed to ride, getting free of those carts dominated their focus.
“I agree, Miss Zinnie. They’re some kind of lovely.”
I turned to find Alretha approaching with a shuffling gait resulting from those iron shackles about her ankles.
A cloth strip still covered one side of her face, hiding the punishment she bore for her failed escape.
A shadowy smile played about her lips as if joy warred with sadness as she gazed at the cavorting children and their humorous antics.
I joined her in watching them. “Their efforts might be useless but far be it from me to tell them they can’t catch a butterfly for keeping.”
“My little girl oughta be a year or so older than your Hattie.”
Startled, I turned to face her fully. A moment passed before I dared to speak. “Was she… taken from you?”
“No, ma’am.” She touched Hattie’s cheek, gently stroked it.
“My baby came too early and didn’t make it past birthing.
Only a miracle kept me here.” Her voice was hollow, her eyes dry and trance-like.
“Sometimes I wish that miracle woulda moseyed on by and let me die with my baby. I’d crawl a mile in hell to hold her again… ”
She fell silent and suddenly walked away as if needing distance from a painful past, leaving me to watch as she joined the children.
“If you wanna catch a butterfly, start by being quiet.” She held a finger to her lips, shushing them into silence, continuing softly when they’d quieted. “See how they’re settling down? That’s ‘cause they don’t like a bunch of ruckus.”
Shackles made her movements awkward as she sank to her knees on that carpet of verdant green, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. “Come on. Try it.”
The children did likewise. Easing down beside her, they mimicked her posture, managing to curtail their energy. For a moment.
“Miss Alretha? What we doing?”
“Yeah, and how long we doing it?”
I joined the gathering, tickled by the children’s impatience. “Don’t y’all give Miss Alretha no sass. Do like she’s doing. Pretend to be a blade of grass.”
“I don’t wanna be grass. Tessie might eat me,” my Abigail complained.
I chuckled lightly while noticing a nearby clump of wildflowers. Hattie gurgled as I bent to snap several at the stem, before returning to the children and Alretha postured as if in prayer. I rubbed those flowers above their heads so that petals and stamen dust floated down on them.
Meandering from child to child, I sprinkled each with botanical kisses that settled on their hair, their arms as if I were a preacher appointed with anointing them.
This is the blessing of being at the rear of the caravan.
Such playfulness was never tolerated on the homestead. Endless duties would’ve prevented it. Being out of sight and mind allowed an indulgence that proved a stolen but magical moment as butterflies drifted near, enticed by the sweetness of pollen.
“Mama, it tickles!”
I admired the butterfly brave enough to land on Annabelle’s hand and smiled at the simple, pure pleasure of one of God’s creations choosing the purity of another. “I can imagine.”
I twisted to tap the tiniest bit on Hattie’s nose, including her in the pollen’s magic.
“Sit down with us, Aunt Zinnie, so the butterflies’ll know you’re a friend.”
I might have responded to Lovie’s Juniper but for the phenomenon unfolding in front of me. I watched, breathless and awed, as a swarm of butterflies fluttered about Alretha’s head. Softly, they landed on her face, her arms—flocking to her, crowning her their new queen.
“Look at Miss Alretha!” Annabelle jumped to her feet, excited and amazed.
Other children followed suit and rushed towards Alretha. That and Hattie’s happy gurgles unintentionally scared the beautiful, winged insects away. The children’s disappointment was audible, interrupting the peace Alretha was experiencing.
I frowned at the sight of a solitary tear sliding down her cheek as her eyes snapped open. She looked about in search of something nonexistent.
Quickly, I shooed the children away as her tears increased, hoping to spare her added distress. “Y’all get on back on those carts. It’s nearly time for the midday meal.”
I waited for the little bits to comply before returning to where Alretha sat in the grass.
I thought to ask her to hold Hattie for me, thinking snuggling with my baby would lessen her sadness same as snuggling Hattie did for me.
But Alretha was smiling so sweetly it shocked me. Still, I questioned if she was okay.
She nodded, carefully avoiding the bandaged area when wiping tears from her face. “Yes, ma’am. It’s just that… since losing my baby it feels… like good things run the other direction when they see me coming. But not today.”
“Not today,” I agreed, following her gaze to that rainbow on wings flitting across the field in the opposite direction. The encounter had been magical albeit brief. It proved enough to touch the soul of a mother still in grief. “Those pretty things were a calling card from heaven.”
“You think so, Miss Zinnie?” she questioned as I helped her to her feet.
“That was heaven’s way of saying good things’re coming your way. Mind me checking your face?”
She elicited joyful gurgles from Hattie, tickling her before nodding.
Gently I lifted the strip serving as a bandage.
Despite what healing had occurred, I remained horrified by the brutality of a symbol branded into her cheek, marking her a runaway.
It was barbarous. Inhumane. “Wound’s coming along.
Keep on with those chamomile compresses I made you. ”
“Yes, ma’am, as much as I can. I appreciate your kindness, Miss Zinnie. If heaven’s passing out good things some’re coming for you, too.”
I made a sound short of sucking my teeth when we walked off, caught in our own thoughts as warm sun rays stroked our backs with gentle fingers that soothed our weariness and offered a promise of possibility.
My mind circled back to my long-held fantasy of freedom.
For myself, and now my sweet children. I smiled seeing a butterfly stray from its kin.
Hattie squirmed against my back as I watched that butterfly flit into the distance on wings of freedom.
Weary soul, wandering home,
Lord, show me the way,
Weary, soul wandering home,
Lord, show me the way,
Hold my hand, lead me there,
Lift my heart, take my cares,
Weary soul, wandering home,
Dear Lord, show me the way.
Our song faded on notes cloaked in hope. Longing. The day had ended. Night descended. Moonlight danced in the pillowy arms of clouds above a serenade of bullfrogs and cicadas.
By the blaze of the fire around which we sat, our night song evaporated as Buck’s began.
Playing the wooden flute carved by his own hands, he offered a slow melody saturated with tender finesse.
Every note was the embrace of a beloved, present or missing, that left me closing my eyes, drawing in its sweet melancholy until my soul overflowed.
“Young man, you play that mouth pipe like the good Lord is playing alongside you.”
My eyes fluttered open at Miss Tandy’s comment.
She sat on the opposite side of the fire rocking Hattie, who was fast asleep.
As an elder her role on the Peterson plantation would have included caring for the children.
Her interest in Hattie was genuine. Grandmotherly.
Her tenderness touched my heart as much as Buck’s playing.