Mary was sent to fetch me, tuggin' at my arm 'till I moved from the open door. She don't bother shuttin' it against the heavy winds, knowin' there ain't no way she can do it, not against a storm so heavy like this one. Beside, a parade of colored folk will soon be crossin' through it. Cecile bein' one of them fifty faces. An' Samuel.
"C'mon Corinne." Her face is heavy, pleadin' an' I feel bad for given some resistance. It ain't her fault that she so naive to follow daddy's every word. It ain't her fault that she don't get that I wanna stay. In a way- she protectin' me- bein' so close to the wrath of God ain't real safe. But I don't wanna be protected, I wanna see Cecile cross the threshold. I wanna see her alive- before I worry myself. But even if I were to say this out loud and tell Mary, she wouldn't get it. There ain't no slave that real important to her. She don't got Cecile.
But even with all this reasonin', with all this guilt, I jus' can't leave. "I wanna stay, don't you wanna see if them alrigh'?"
"I don't care fo' no slaves," she says, still tuggin' at my arm, "An' neither do you. Now c'mon daddy wants us ta hurry."
I blink away a tear, too embarrassed to cry in front of Mary. And cryin' won't do nothin' anyways, cause there ain't no use in it. But that tear still comes, and I turn away, shameful. I don't let no one neva see me cry.
"Miss. Lizabeth ain't a slave- an' she out there."
In the stray part of my mind, I am worried fo' them two as well. If they, alon' with Cecile was in here by my side, I'd go with Mary. Maybe I'd still be worried fo' Samuel a bit- but he big an' can take care of himself. And unlike Cecile, I don't owe him nothin'. He hasn't helped me keep my sanity.
"Miss. Lizabeth'll be alrigh'." She don't even believe herself, I can tell the way her voice real shaky but she kno' she gotta listen to daddy. He don't visit her at nigh', so she much more likely to get a beatin'. 'Specially with the Mistress ugrin' 'em on.
"Nah- she might not."
To my surprise, Mary lets go of me and slumps 'gainst the wall. My eyes roam away from the dark of the nigh' to her face an' I see the pain etched inta each of her features. She look more tired than I ever seen 'er, even more tired than the time I saw her cry.
It don't matter neither way," she finally says, more to herself, "Sittin' 'ere won't make her live."
"C'mon Corinne." Her face is heavy, pleadin' an' I feel bad for given some resistance. It ain't her fault that she so naive to follow daddy's every word. It ain't her fault that she don't get that I wanna stay. In a way- she protectin' me- bein' so close to the wrath of God ain't real safe. But I don't wanna be protected, I wanna see Cecile cross the threshold. I wanna see her alive- before I worry myself. But even if I were to say this out loud and tell Mary, she wouldn't get it. There ain't no slave that real important to her. She don't got Cecile.
But even with all this reasonin', with all this guilt, I jus' can't leave. "I wanna stay, don't you wanna see if them alrigh'?"
"I don't care fo' no slaves," she says, still tuggin' at my arm, "An' neither do you. Now c'mon daddy wants us ta hurry."
I blink away a tear, too embarrassed to cry in front of Mary. And cryin' won't do nothin' anyways, cause there ain't no use in it. But that tear still comes, and I turn away, shameful. I don't let no one neva see me cry.
"Miss. Lizabeth ain't a slave- an' she out there."
In the stray part of my mind, I am worried fo' them two as well. If they, alon' with Cecile was in here by my side, I'd go with Mary. Maybe I'd still be worried fo' Samuel a bit- but he big an' can take care of himself. And unlike Cecile, I don't owe him nothin'. He hasn't helped me keep my sanity.
"Miss. Lizabeth'll be alrigh'." She don't even believe herself, I can tell the way her voice real shaky but she kno' she gotta listen to daddy. He don't visit her at nigh', so she much more likely to get a beatin'. 'Specially with the Mistress ugrin' 'em on.
"Nah- she might not."
To my surprise, Mary lets go of me and slumps 'gainst the wall. My eyes roam away from the dark of the nigh' to her face an' I see the pain etched inta each of her features. She look more tired than I ever seen 'er, even more tired than the time I saw her cry.
It don't matter neither way," she finally says, more to herself, "Sittin' 'ere won't make her live."
