Read Online Whiter Than Snow by Sandra Dallas - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sandra Dallas
Ads: Link
Maybe that was why he was good with mechanical things. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix, and Orange encouraged him to get a job working with the blacksmith. But Joe wouldn’t do it. He wanted to be as far away as possible from white people.
When he was in his early twenties, Joe married Orange, and they set to housekeeping in an old slave cabin on the farm on Hogpen Lane that Joe worked with his father. It was a one-room shack fit up with a door and a single glassless window with a heavy wooden shutter to keep out the cold and rain, but they treasured it up, and for the first time since he was eight years old, Joe knew real happiness. At night, as they looked out a hole in the roof at the stars, Joe satisfied himself with his wife’s smoky body, and in the first year of their marriage, Orange gave birth to a little girl. They named her Jane. She was a sweet child, obedient, and pretty, which caused a confusion in Joe’s breast. He was proud of his daughter’s fine looks, but he knew they would be a burden to her when she was older and white boys came sniffing around. He would not borrow trouble, however, not in the early years of his child’s life. So he gloried in the little girl. And when Orange became pregnant again when Jane was five, Joe looked at his wife’s protruding belly with gladness.
Orange had given birth the first time with so little trouble that Joe did not worry. Her labor had lasted only an hour or two, barely enough time for him to fetch his mother, who had grannied many of the birthings in the neighborhood. So when Orange went into labor with their second child late one afternoon, Joe sent Jane across the fields to fetch Ada, instead of going himself. He feared the baby might come before his mother arrived and he’d be needed.
Orange was still in labor when Jane returned with her grandmother, Ada, Joe’s father coming behind them. Ada went into the house while Joe sat in the shade with his father, thinking he ought to have a nice bottle of whiskey to celebrate after the baby was born. It would be good to share the bottle with the men who’d stop by, and to brag a little about the fine baby boy he’d produced—for it would be a son this time. Or so he hoped, because he didn’t believe he could love another little girl as fiercely as he did Jane. The two men sat on a bench that Joe had fashioned from a log and talked about crops and weather, stopping when they heard Orange’s cries. Joe wrung his hands at each moan, the sweat dripping down his face. “Don’t worry,” his father told him. That was the way it was with women in childbirth, paying for Eve’s sin, as they must. Every so often, Joe went to the door and looked in at his wife writhing on the bed, but then his mother would wave him away.
After several hours, when the baby did not come, Ada went outside and said she didn’t like the looks of things and asked Joe to go after an old lady down the road, the oldest liver in the area, who’d seen more childbirth than anyone.
Joe fetched her, and the two women worked with Orange through the night. From time to time, one of the old women came out of the shack and asked Joe to go to the creek for water. Or she’d rest a minute on the bench in the cool night air, her head against the rough boards of the cabin. When Joe asked to see Orange, he was told to stay away, although the old granny woman cackled once and said, “Might be a good idea you see the hurting you brought on your woman by pleasuring yourself.”
On the following morning, Ada leaned against the outside cabin wall, her head resting in her hand. “She’s got a hard time of it. The baby’s turned,” the woman explained. “It’s tearing up her insides, and she might not bear again. Some women are not meant to have but so many babies.”
“I don’t care about babies. You save Orange,” Joe told his mother, who nodded. She went back inside, and Orange cried out. But the cries grew softer, weaker during the
When he was in his early twenties, Joe married Orange, and they set to housekeeping in an old slave cabin on the farm on Hogpen Lane that Joe worked with his father. It was a one-room shack fit up with a door and a single glassless window with a heavy wooden shutter to keep out the cold and rain, but they treasured it up, and for the first time since he was eight years old, Joe knew real happiness. At night, as they looked out a hole in the roof at the stars, Joe satisfied himself with his wife’s smoky body, and in the first year of their marriage, Orange gave birth to a little girl. They named her Jane. She was a sweet child, obedient, and pretty, which caused a confusion in Joe’s breast. He was proud of his daughter’s fine looks, but he knew they would be a burden to her when she was older and white boys came sniffing around. He would not borrow trouble, however, not in the early years of his child’s life. So he gloried in the little girl. And when Orange became pregnant again when Jane was five, Joe looked at his wife’s protruding belly with gladness.
Orange had given birth the first time with so little trouble that Joe did not worry. Her labor had lasted only an hour or two, barely enough time for him to fetch his mother, who had grannied many of the birthings in the neighborhood. So when Orange went into labor with their second child late one afternoon, Joe sent Jane across the fields to fetch Ada, instead of going himself. He feared the baby might come before his mother arrived and he’d be needed.
Orange was still in labor when Jane returned with her grandmother, Ada, Joe’s father coming behind them. Ada went into the house while Joe sat in the shade with his father, thinking he ought to have a nice bottle of whiskey to celebrate after the baby was born. It would be good to share the bottle with the men who’d stop by, and to brag a little about the fine baby boy he’d produced—for it would be a son this time. Or so he hoped, because he didn’t believe he could love another little girl as fiercely as he did Jane. The two men sat on a bench that Joe had fashioned from a log and talked about crops and weather, stopping when they heard Orange’s cries. Joe wrung his hands at each moan, the sweat dripping down his face. “Don’t worry,” his father told him. That was the way it was with women in childbirth, paying for Eve’s sin, as they must. Every so often, Joe went to the door and looked in at his wife writhing on the bed, but then his mother would wave him away.
After several hours, when the baby did not come, Ada went outside and said she didn’t like the looks of things and asked Joe to go after an old lady down the road, the oldest liver in the area, who’d seen more childbirth than anyone.
Joe fetched her, and the two women worked with Orange through the night. From time to time, one of the old women came out of the shack and asked Joe to go to the creek for water. Or she’d rest a minute on the bench in the cool night air, her head against the rough boards of the cabin. When Joe asked to see Orange, he was told to stay away, although the old granny woman cackled once and said, “Might be a good idea you see the hurting you brought on your woman by pleasuring yourself.”
On the following morning, Ada leaned against the outside cabin wall, her head resting in her hand. “She’s got a hard time of it. The baby’s turned,” the woman explained. “It’s tearing up her insides, and she might not bear again. Some women are not meant to have but so many babies.”
“I don’t care about babies. You save Orange,” Joe told his mother, who nodded. She went back inside, and Orange cried out. But the cries grew softer, weaker during the
Similar Books
