"You ain't gotta worry 'bout him, no ma'am. His bark is tougher than 'is bite," she says, "Now you asked about my husban', you still wanna know?"
I nod, though still some wary. Cecile ain't been her normal self since Samuel came. I dunno if I trust her no more. I stay standin', not darin' to go too close.
"My husban' was sold," she says, "sometime back, I dunno how long ago really."
I don't say nothin', tryin' to remember any slave bein' sold. I can't. My daddy had said no word on given' up no slave. I try to think of one bein' missin', but I can't say I noticed any one of bein' 'em gone.
I feel sad for a minute that Cecile never said nothin' 'bout no husban'. I could've stopped daddy from sellin' 'em. If she wanted to keep 'em, I could've let her.
"I didn't know right away, but he went to Mista Granger," she pauses, lookin' away from me. In her eyes are the tears I'd seen a week back.
"I had no clue Cecile," I say, "You neva told me."
She don't say a word, still fightin' the tears. The silence kills me, so I rack my head of somethin' to say.
"I could get 'em back fo' you," I offer, "I can tell daddy to get 'em back."
But before she can even respond, I know what happened. She said he had died. I ain't God, I can't bring 'em back no more. A look of understan' crosses my face, and I drop my gaze down.
"It was infection that did 'em in," she whispers, all soft and sad-like. I almos' cry with her.
"How'd you find out?"
"Samuel was at Mista Granger's fo' awhile, before he came here," she still don't look at me, "He knew 'em, was the last one with 'em when he died."
"Cecile, I feel awful. That ain't right to do that." my sympathy is true. You ain't allowed to split up no family, even if they are jus' slaves.
"Samuel was pretty mixed up after seein' that. It's why Mista Granger sent him here. But I says he lucky, he didn't see no man danglin' from a tree. That's the worst kinda death, yes sir. He's lucky he didn't see that."
I don't tell Cecile that daddy ain't think like that. He loves a good lynchin', tellin' me I should come sometime. I don't, no sir. Cecile may be colored but she's right on that. A lynchin' is the worst kinda death.
I move from my spot standin' and go sit next to her, my stretched out hand offerin' comfort.
I nod, though still some wary. Cecile ain't been her normal self since Samuel came. I dunno if I trust her no more. I stay standin', not darin' to go too close.
"My husban' was sold," she says, "sometime back, I dunno how long ago really."
I don't say nothin', tryin' to remember any slave bein' sold. I can't. My daddy had said no word on given' up no slave. I try to think of one bein' missin', but I can't say I noticed any one of bein' 'em gone.
I feel sad for a minute that Cecile never said nothin' 'bout no husban'. I could've stopped daddy from sellin' 'em. If she wanted to keep 'em, I could've let her.
"I didn't know right away, but he went to Mista Granger," she pauses, lookin' away from me. In her eyes are the tears I'd seen a week back.
"I had no clue Cecile," I say, "You neva told me."
She don't say a word, still fightin' the tears. The silence kills me, so I rack my head of somethin' to say.
"I could get 'em back fo' you," I offer, "I can tell daddy to get 'em back."
But before she can even respond, I know what happened. She said he had died. I ain't God, I can't bring 'em back no more. A look of understan' crosses my face, and I drop my gaze down.
"It was infection that did 'em in," she whispers, all soft and sad-like. I almos' cry with her.
"How'd you find out?"
"Samuel was at Mista Granger's fo' awhile, before he came here," she still don't look at me, "He knew 'em, was the last one with 'em when he died."
"Cecile, I feel awful. That ain't right to do that." my sympathy is true. You ain't allowed to split up no family, even if they are jus' slaves.
"Samuel was pretty mixed up after seein' that. It's why Mista Granger sent him here. But I says he lucky, he didn't see no man danglin' from a tree. That's the worst kinda death, yes sir. He's lucky he didn't see that."
I don't tell Cecile that daddy ain't think like that. He loves a good lynchin', tellin' me I should come sometime. I don't, no sir. Cecile may be colored but she's right on that. A lynchin' is the worst kinda death.
I move from my spot standin' and go sit next to her, my stretched out hand offerin' comfort.
