"I real sorry God, fo' lovin' them so," I whisper, hopin' that he'll believe my lie an' let them live.
But in truth, if I could take one thin' back in my life, it most definitly wouldn't be choosin' Cecile. I thought there had been only two choices, an' I figure that's still what Daddy thinks. To replace a mother, I could either pick 'em or Miss. Lizabeth. But somehow I chose neither, I chose a slave. An' in all my life- nineteen years, it was the best dang thin' I ever did.
I hear a noise comin' from above our heads, but I don't shout out cause I worried that it jus' in my imagination. When I desperate enough I can hear an' see things that aren't really there, an' I think I ain't only one. Daddy sees a soul in the Mistress, when all there real is, is a nice-lookin' shell.
"You think that's them?" Mary's voice is hot in my ear, as she clings on the noise that I guess I wasn't jus' hearin'.
"I do think so."
It definitely footsteps, many of 'em, tramplin' into the house from the storm. I can't tell jus' how many they are, but I figure that it jus' has to be 'round fifty. An' I figure that Cecile is there, alon' with Samuel- both of 'em jus' fine.
"Daddy," Mary calls, bein' real brave. Her voice ain't the politest thin' in the world. "Is that Miss. Lizabeth an' them slaves?"
With a great flash of lightin', sendin' light our way from the stairs an' open door, I see that, like me, she jus' itchin' to run up an' check on 'em. But she do kno', like me also, that it'd only help our selfish, petty want to make sure they alive.
"Probably." I surprised that daddy don't sound too upset with 'er, it mus' be the storm.
"You think Miss. Lizabeth will come down 'ere?"
"I do presume that's what I told 'er."
"Good, great."
Mary breathes out, reassured by daddy's assumption that Miss. Lizabeth alrigh'. But it does nothin' fo' me. I won't kno' if they save 'till the storm passes ab' I can see 'em with my own eyes. I'd ask Miss. Lizabeth, or Mista Johnston- who I hope knows to come down 'ere, cause I never told 'em too- but they'd probably not know. An' even if they did, they'd ask why I even care. Each slave worth 'round the same 'mount of profit, Samuel less with 'is lousy arm and Cecile less cause she a woman, an' not too youn'.
But in truth, if I could take one thin' back in my life, it most definitly wouldn't be choosin' Cecile. I thought there had been only two choices, an' I figure that's still what Daddy thinks. To replace a mother, I could either pick 'em or Miss. Lizabeth. But somehow I chose neither, I chose a slave. An' in all my life- nineteen years, it was the best dang thin' I ever did.
I hear a noise comin' from above our heads, but I don't shout out cause I worried that it jus' in my imagination. When I desperate enough I can hear an' see things that aren't really there, an' I think I ain't only one. Daddy sees a soul in the Mistress, when all there real is, is a nice-lookin' shell.
"You think that's them?" Mary's voice is hot in my ear, as she clings on the noise that I guess I wasn't jus' hearin'.
"I do think so."
It definitely footsteps, many of 'em, tramplin' into the house from the storm. I can't tell jus' how many they are, but I figure that it jus' has to be 'round fifty. An' I figure that Cecile is there, alon' with Samuel- both of 'em jus' fine.
"Daddy," Mary calls, bein' real brave. Her voice ain't the politest thin' in the world. "Is that Miss. Lizabeth an' them slaves?"
With a great flash of lightin', sendin' light our way from the stairs an' open door, I see that, like me, she jus' itchin' to run up an' check on 'em. But she do kno', like me also, that it'd only help our selfish, petty want to make sure they alive.
"Probably." I surprised that daddy don't sound too upset with 'er, it mus' be the storm.
"You think Miss. Lizabeth will come down 'ere?"
"I do presume that's what I told 'er."
"Good, great."
Mary breathes out, reassured by daddy's assumption that Miss. Lizabeth alrigh'. But it does nothin' fo' me. I won't kno' if they save 'till the storm passes ab' I can see 'em with my own eyes. I'd ask Miss. Lizabeth, or Mista Johnston- who I hope knows to come down 'ere, cause I never told 'em too- but they'd probably not know. An' even if they did, they'd ask why I even care. Each slave worth 'round the same 'mount of profit, Samuel less with 'is lousy arm and Cecile less cause she a woman, an' not too youn'.
