night breeze of August whipped through his shirt as he crept across the fields, the thin cotton billowing around him though tucked into his faded work trousers. Every few feet, he gripped the handle of the trowel in his back pocket and shoved it further from view.
He searched ahead and looked behind him. If he was caught without a pass, he could face a punishment he didn’t want to remember. He would never forget the sting of rope around his wrist, the strike against his back, would always recall how he struggled to break free, but the grip was too tight. Not this time. He was careful, smarter, prepared. He was certain no matter what life brought, no grip would ever hold him again.
Crossing over the tobacco field, he slipped between large green leaves that pressed the musky odor of nicotine into his pores.
Working on the row each day, he would reek of the scent for hours. Only after a hard lye soap scrubbing could he cleanse himself from the smell that caused Lydia to crinkle her nose.
At the edge of the field, John slipped through the trees into the forest, safer from the ropes of catchers, the guns of hunters, if he could remain quiet. The rustling of leaves dangling around him, and the ones crunching underfoot, could give him away, could
ensure overseers of his exact whereabouts.
He was parched after several miles but the thirst ceased when he saw it. He stopped and caught his breath. It was beautiful, as beautiful as the first time he discovered it and decided it was the perfect place.
John walked toward the tree. The silver maple towered over him, made him feel like a child beneath strong, dark branches raised like arms of Africa to the heavens. He stood under the rounded crown of leaves and exhaled. It was the perfect place.
On his knees, he looked around before removing the flat, metal blade he’d swiped from Kelly’s storehouse. He pushed the debris of dry twigs and pebbles away with the palms of his hands until the earth was cleared and smooth, soft, and damp to the touch. He looked around before jabbing the tool into the ground. The soil crumbled with ease as he dug, hollowing out the special spot. For a moment, the thought of his hope being swiped sent a shot of fear through him, but his heart steadied when metal tapped against metal. He scraped the dirt away with the tip of the instrument, paused when the moonlight shone on his treasure.
John forced his fingers into the ground around the box and yanked it free from its grave. Reverently, he lifted it to his heart, to his lips.
She should not have come.
Lydia pulled strands of hair over her scar and stared at Jackson and Andrew across the oblong, formal table she was used to serving. Lizzy sat at her side, oohing and ahhing, grinning and nodding at every statement the two uttered. She would never have agreed to dinner had she known it was to be just the four of them.
A great candelabra sprawled like a spider with crystal legs over them, shone against wine-stained walls, casting a rose tint on White faces. Seemed the men suspected nothing, though Jackson’s constant staring was beginning to tickle icicles down her spine again. She pressed against the back of the mahogany chair, shivered when she encountered the house slaves.
James, the butler, a short, sandy-haired man, gazed over her once and then strode swiftly to the back of the room. She didn’t even notice when he slipped out, but Annie, a lanky maple-colored girl her age, kept her almond-shaped eyes on Lydia. When she set a plate of roast, steaming potatoes and carrots in front of her, she lingered. Lydia could hear her breathing over her, looking, staring at what? The tight wave of her hair at the crown of her head? The tremor in a hand that served the same meals, wiped the same tears, hid the same scars?
“Wine?” Jackson asked.
Lizzy lifted her glass. “We sure appreciate your hospitality, Jackson. It was perfect timing. We’re leaving in a month for Richmond.”
“You and
He searched ahead and looked behind him. If he was caught without a pass, he could face a punishment he didn’t want to remember. He would never forget the sting of rope around his wrist, the strike against his back, would always recall how he struggled to break free, but the grip was too tight. Not this time. He was careful, smarter, prepared. He was certain no matter what life brought, no grip would ever hold him again.
Crossing over the tobacco field, he slipped between large green leaves that pressed the musky odor of nicotine into his pores.
Working on the row each day, he would reek of the scent for hours. Only after a hard lye soap scrubbing could he cleanse himself from the smell that caused Lydia to crinkle her nose.
At the edge of the field, John slipped through the trees into the forest, safer from the ropes of catchers, the guns of hunters, if he could remain quiet. The rustling of leaves dangling around him, and the ones crunching underfoot, could give him away, could
ensure overseers of his exact whereabouts.
He was parched after several miles but the thirst ceased when he saw it. He stopped and caught his breath. It was beautiful, as beautiful as the first time he discovered it and decided it was the perfect place.
John walked toward the tree. The silver maple towered over him, made him feel like a child beneath strong, dark branches raised like arms of Africa to the heavens. He stood under the rounded crown of leaves and exhaled. It was the perfect place.
On his knees, he looked around before removing the flat, metal blade he’d swiped from Kelly’s storehouse. He pushed the debris of dry twigs and pebbles away with the palms of his hands until the earth was cleared and smooth, soft, and damp to the touch. He looked around before jabbing the tool into the ground. The soil crumbled with ease as he dug, hollowing out the special spot. For a moment, the thought of his hope being swiped sent a shot of fear through him, but his heart steadied when metal tapped against metal. He scraped the dirt away with the tip of the instrument, paused when the moonlight shone on his treasure.
John forced his fingers into the ground around the box and yanked it free from its grave. Reverently, he lifted it to his heart, to his lips.
She should not have come.
Lydia pulled strands of hair over her scar and stared at Jackson and Andrew across the oblong, formal table she was used to serving. Lizzy sat at her side, oohing and ahhing, grinning and nodding at every statement the two uttered. She would never have agreed to dinner had she known it was to be just the four of them.
A great candelabra sprawled like a spider with crystal legs over them, shone against wine-stained walls, casting a rose tint on White faces. Seemed the men suspected nothing, though Jackson’s constant staring was beginning to tickle icicles down her spine again. She pressed against the back of the mahogany chair, shivered when she encountered the house slaves.
James, the butler, a short, sandy-haired man, gazed over her once and then strode swiftly to the back of the room. She didn’t even notice when he slipped out, but Annie, a lanky maple-colored girl her age, kept her almond-shaped eyes on Lydia. When she set a plate of roast, steaming potatoes and carrots in front of her, she lingered. Lydia could hear her breathing over her, looking, staring at what? The tight wave of her hair at the crown of her head? The tremor in a hand that served the same meals, wiped the same tears, hid the same scars?
“Wine?” Jackson asked.
Lizzy lifted her glass. “We sure appreciate your hospitality, Jackson. It was perfect timing. We’re leaving in a month for Richmond.”
“You and
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