Read Online A Million Nightingales by Susan Straight - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Straight
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mother's skirt, near my face when I was small, a bleach spot like a cloud in black sky. Shiny pink scar on her forearm from a burn. Cast-iron pots, with craters like healed skin. Clothespins lined up to dance in the sand. Washboard silver but veins of rust like washboard blood.
Even the sweet olive bush seemed to watch me, and the cane was taller than the sky. When I was small, our clearing was my mother's own earth, no one else's, and as long as I could touch her skirt every now and then, I never wanted to leave.
She came in the morning with the clean ironed clothes in the cart, and I met her in the shade. “Mamère.”
She lifted her chin. She couldn't dismiss me. We had just started. “Dorm bien?” I whispered.
Her lips were held tight like a grain of rice was between them.
“I asked Madame if I could bring the clothes down to our place. But she said I have to dress Céphaline now.”
Mamère took the basket of dirty linens. Fifteen coffee beanswere inside the napkin blotted with remoulade. I had hidden them there, but I couldn't tell her that.
Her eyes swam with light, and she turned away.
“Even their conveyance is impractical,” Céphaline said, looking out her window, and her mother frowned.
“The new carriages are like that,” Madame said.
I tied the ribbon close to Céphaline's forehead.
Downstairs, I helped Tretite clear the table from the huge company breakfast. The Lemoyne woman had gone back to New Orleans, and the husband stayed here, to help with the slaves at Petit Clair. I took coffee to the office, where Msieu and the husband opened the ledgers.
“Why does he keep those grisly things in there?”
“He's a doctor,” Msieu said. “They study the body. Me, I don't want to know what is inside. Just my stomach feels well, I'm happy.”
“He's an Englishman?”
“Better than American.” Msieu ruffled more papers and said, “Lemoyne had forty-five slaves over there.”
“What if some of them run? No one's there but your driver Franz?”
I heard Msieu turn pages. “Franz is good. The sugarhouse is full speed. Nobody runs much here, as LeBrun has those dogs. Chiens de nègre, chiens de renard.”
Dogs for blacks, dogs for fox.
“Fox more fun.”
“Only bozals run—those new Africans. You can tell by the scars they came on the boat. I have only a few bozals. Mine are Creole. Mine don't run. I'll ride your place all day and send Franz over there at night.”
“It's not my place. It's hers. Until she decides.”
I measured nothing here. I moved the flat silver tool along the tablecloth scraping the crumbs. Saving the rice grains, the edges of cornbread for Tretite to take to her chickens. Conveyance. Tretite carried the food to the chickens, and then she'd kill oneand carry it back here for the pot. Coffee from beans, sugar from grass. Swallow and wait for it all to pass from your body. Take off the clothes and wash the gravy and sweat and stains from where the food passed through you and into the privé.
The armoire was filled with Madame's dishes from France. So Céphaline could live and a man could take her from here and put their money together and build a wooden house and buy dishes from France and have children who wanted dishes.
I took the crumbs outside to the kitchen, to Tretite's wooden bowl. The cane cutters were in the field just past our clearing. Mamère was not there. The cane knives flashed like whirling birds. The wagon waited for the stalks. Conveyance. Hera's girl needed a dress so she could live and a man could take her into a different house and join their tools and tables and have children who wanted dishes.
I wanted to tell her I understood what was wanted for them, but I didn't understand at all what she wanted for me. Mamère.
“Did you see the brain in his jar?” Céphaline asked me. “I heard you in there.”
“Yes,” I said. I had gone into his study to put away papers he'd left in the dining room.
“That brain belonged to a man who died
Even the sweet olive bush seemed to watch me, and the cane was taller than the sky. When I was small, our clearing was my mother's own earth, no one else's, and as long as I could touch her skirt every now and then, I never wanted to leave.
She came in the morning with the clean ironed clothes in the cart, and I met her in the shade. “Mamère.”
She lifted her chin. She couldn't dismiss me. We had just started. “Dorm bien?” I whispered.
Her lips were held tight like a grain of rice was between them.
“I asked Madame if I could bring the clothes down to our place. But she said I have to dress Céphaline now.”
Mamère took the basket of dirty linens. Fifteen coffee beanswere inside the napkin blotted with remoulade. I had hidden them there, but I couldn't tell her that.
Her eyes swam with light, and she turned away.
“Even their conveyance is impractical,” Céphaline said, looking out her window, and her mother frowned.
“The new carriages are like that,” Madame said.
I tied the ribbon close to Céphaline's forehead.
Downstairs, I helped Tretite clear the table from the huge company breakfast. The Lemoyne woman had gone back to New Orleans, and the husband stayed here, to help with the slaves at Petit Clair. I took coffee to the office, where Msieu and the husband opened the ledgers.
“Why does he keep those grisly things in there?”
“He's a doctor,” Msieu said. “They study the body. Me, I don't want to know what is inside. Just my stomach feels well, I'm happy.”
“He's an Englishman?”
“Better than American.” Msieu ruffled more papers and said, “Lemoyne had forty-five slaves over there.”
“What if some of them run? No one's there but your driver Franz?”
I heard Msieu turn pages. “Franz is good. The sugarhouse is full speed. Nobody runs much here, as LeBrun has those dogs. Chiens de nègre, chiens de renard.”
Dogs for blacks, dogs for fox.
“Fox more fun.”
“Only bozals run—those new Africans. You can tell by the scars they came on the boat. I have only a few bozals. Mine are Creole. Mine don't run. I'll ride your place all day and send Franz over there at night.”
“It's not my place. It's hers. Until she decides.”
I measured nothing here. I moved the flat silver tool along the tablecloth scraping the crumbs. Saving the rice grains, the edges of cornbread for Tretite to take to her chickens. Conveyance. Tretite carried the food to the chickens, and then she'd kill oneand carry it back here for the pot. Coffee from beans, sugar from grass. Swallow and wait for it all to pass from your body. Take off the clothes and wash the gravy and sweat and stains from where the food passed through you and into the privé.
The armoire was filled with Madame's dishes from France. So Céphaline could live and a man could take her from here and put their money together and build a wooden house and buy dishes from France and have children who wanted dishes.
I took the crumbs outside to the kitchen, to Tretite's wooden bowl. The cane cutters were in the field just past our clearing. Mamère was not there. The cane knives flashed like whirling birds. The wagon waited for the stalks. Conveyance. Hera's girl needed a dress so she could live and a man could take her into a different house and join their tools and tables and have children who wanted dishes.
I wanted to tell her I understood what was wanted for them, but I didn't understand at all what she wanted for me. Mamère.
“Did you see the brain in his jar?” Céphaline asked me. “I heard you in there.”
“Yes,” I said. I had gone into his study to put away papers he'd left in the dining room.
“That brain belonged to a man who died
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