Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
ZINNIE
I followed her about the makeshift marketplace without her knowing I existed.
From beneath lowered lids I watched furtively but with unbridled interest—marveling, wondering what it was like to be a free woman.
Seeing her interactions with vendors, with people who may have been neighbors or friends, I determined she was well-liked.
Respected. People smiled at her approach, and sent warm wishes when she left, a basket swinging from her arm, brimming with abundance.
She was kind. Dignified. Her voice was a melody. This was Missus Coraline Allen.
She’d fascinated me since the day she rolled away on her wagon—her husband beside her—the patrons of a peddler.
When the next few weeks passed without another sighting, Ella and I decided we’d suffered travelers’ hallucinations.
Pulling handcarts from Salt Lake to San Bernardino across the Mojave Desert in the height of summer had clearly fried our faculties.
She was nothing more than an angelic invitation to the realm of possibilities.
“Go to the market and do not dilly-dally. I made an account with the grocers so there’s no need for money.”
Three weeks after that angel sighting, Miss Norene dictated a long list of what she needed, expecting Ella and me to remember it—thereby sparing herself being mocked as she’d been in Mississippi for misspelled words and barely legible penmanship.
We went gladly, grateful for a reprieve from readying their Mormon community for winter.
Real houses were being built, not simple log cabins.
Corrals were needed for livestock, particularly the Tollivers’ increased herd of cattle.
The school. Erecting a church. Gardens wouldn’t be planted until spring, but they required plotting.
There was nothing new about our weary work.
Only the terrain had changed and differed from anything I’d ever witnessed.
San Bernardino was dense thickets of cottonwoods, willows, and sycamore trees.
Hillsides. And creeks. Thirty-five-thousand of its acres were purchased by the Mormons for their fortified community.
Its bustling growth surrounded me when I encountered Coraline Allen that day Miss Norene sent us to the market.
“Zinnie, it’s the wagon lady!”
Ella need not have pinched me so hard when the woman from the wagon already had my attention. Her hat and dress were less lavish than before, but she was just as splendid. She wasn’t accompanied by the same man, but two younger men a few years older than Lovie’s July who were identical in visage.
“Ella, they might as well be the same person. They must be twins.” We watched the trio until that earth angel happened to glance in our direction.
I immediately hurried away, pulling Ella with me, reminding us that we were there for Miss Norene’s shopping.
Not for gawking. Moments later when we simultaneously wound up at the same produce stall, I nearly forgot I possessed the skill of speech.
“Good day, ladies. I’ve never seen you here before. Are you new to the region? If so, welcome! I’m Coraline Allen.” Her hand felt silky when I shook it awkwardly. “These are my sons, Bayard and Beltram.”
Their greetings and her way of speaking were so polite I wanted to curtsy.
“If you ever need a place of worship, we’d love you to join us on Sundays. We gather at the boardinghouse because we don’t have an edifice. I hope that’s not off-putting.”
Someone across the way called her name before I could answer. When she excused herself momentarily, I grabbed Ella and high-tailed it out of there, feeling drab and unworthy in the glow of her glory.
That night, Ella and I whispered made-up stories as the children slept, fantasizing what life for a free Negro woman truly meant.
At least, her being free was our assumption.
Her voice was well-measured, her manner elegant.
Her hands were too soft to have ever picked cotton.
We fantasized that she slept past daybreak, and if she rose before dawn it was of her own volition.
She cooked what she wanted. Did she knit or crochet and sell her products at the market?
Did she lay down at night without waiting for a weekly prayer meeting to steal away with her husband?
We were infatuated with Coraline Allen, the new goddess of our imagination.
Two weeks after that chance introduction I worked up the nerve to ask Master Ryland’s permission to attend the boardinghouse service. Having Sundays off had been reinstated back in Salt Lake. He didn’t object provided there was no “nonsense about freedom or heathenish loudness.”
Buck had to calm my nerves that first Sunday we walked to the boardinghouse. We had nothing in the way of finery, and I worried about being out of place. Our Mississippi hush arbors weren’t the same as congregating in a bona fide place of worship.
“If they can’t accept us as is then this ain’t for us.”
I clutched my husband’s wisdom and his hand as we walked into that nameless church, only to discover Coraline Allen wasn’t a rarity, but one within a small, free Negro community.
Not all boasted fine clothing like the Allens.
Still, something in their carriage and mannerisms whispered slavery’s boot had been lifted from their backs, and they were no longer in bondage.
Free Negroes. Former bondsmen. Persons yet enslaved.
They comprised that small congregation that welcomed us.
Certainly, not all were effusive. Still, the fellowship opened a door to our putting down roots and being part of a Negro community in ways I’d never experienced.
I felt less like a vagabond being pulled hither and yon and came to imagine California as home.
All wasn’t bliss. Being enslaved in a free state hurt worse than a little bit. California’s Constitution prohibiting slavery was no better than that Declaration of Independence claiming all were created equal. It was another lie that didn’t apply to dark humans.
“It ain’t right for plantation people who was here before this place became a state to keep their slaves!
” Six months had passed since meeting the Allens and becoming part of San Bernardino’s small Negro community.
We’d enjoyed a mild winter and had entered spring with its ladybugs and lovely flowers.
But oddly, I missed the song of Mississippi’s katydids.
“I agree, Zinnie. It isn’t, but most are considered indentured servants now,” Coraline corrected. “They’re allowed to work off their debt.”
“What debt? Being born in Negro skin?” I snorted. “They get paid for their labor?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then indentured ain’t nothing but a fancy scam. They’re still slaves. Same as me.”
Miss Coraline smiled as gently as she did most things. “It’s a bit different. The servitude is for a designated period. For example, five, maybe seven years after which the person is freed.”
I pulled a tray of biscuits from her toasty, potbelly oven and placed it atop its flat surface, marveling that this home, this lovely kitchen, belonged to a free Negro woman.
“I don’t see anything right about that. The laws of the new state should apply to all persons.
Don’t matter if they were here before or not. ”
Wasn’t nothing new about my argument or this discussion.
I’d been tangling and tussling with it since my love first told me about our coming to California.
“And what about us?” I pointed at Ella and myself.
“Buck. Our children. We shoulda been emancipated the second our feet crossed the state line if this really is a free state.”
“Again, Zinnie, I agree. And, yes, some have been freed upon entry but Tolliver, like most of his ilk, sees the freedom part of California’s constitution as unenforceable.”
“Because they can,” Ella opined as she placed the biscuits I’d slathered with freshly churned butter into a breadbasket.
“Precisely! Unfortunately, I’ve seen the law side with them,” our new friend explained. “A few months before you all arrived, a gentleman in Los Angeles County had assistance filing a lawsuit against his owner. He sued for his freedom.”
“Did he win?” I asked quietly as if doing so could change probable outcomes.
Coraline shook her head. “Not only did he not win, but the owner sold his wife to a house of ill repute in Louisiana as punishment for going against him.”
“Dear Jesus!” I pressed a hand to my heart and closed my eyes.
“That poor woman. I can’t imagine what she—” My words trailed off.
I would never know her exact experiences, but I knew the horrors of being used by plantation men.
Thankfully I hadn’t been to Mister Peterson’s liking, and he’d never come for me after the one time I was given to him during our voyage from Mississippi.
Ryland Tolliver’s attention was loathsome enough. I couldn’t imagine anyone else.
“Maybe one day there’ll be justice and freedom for all in this state if not this country.
Now, no more sadness.” Coraline clapped merrily.
“This is a happy day of fellowshipping with friends.” She smiled at Ella and me before perusing her kitchen.
“I’m a terrible hostess for letting you help fix today’s supper, but I’m glad I did.
It’s so much nicer with the two of you, and it’s a rare blessing when we have time to chat. ”