“Really, Missy Josephine? I sure would like that. It’s fun being a teacher. Before the school burned down, Miss Hunt used to let Cissy and me teach the younger kids, and she said I could be a teacher someday if I wanted to. Do you think that could ever happen, Missy Jo? Do you think I could be a teacher like Miss Hunt?”
Josephine didn’t know what to think. She had been raised with the same prejudices as Mother, believing slaves were fit only for manual labor. Of course she knew it wasn’t true, but could the world change fast enough to allow Negroes to be accepted as teachers? Jo thought it was ironic that while the war had forced her to do slaves’ work, it allowed the former slaves to dream of doing white men’s work. Once again she thought of Alexander’s question, “What do you want for your life . . . for your future?”
“I think you would make a wonderful teacher, Roselle.”
“Really, Missy Jo?” She beamed at Josephine, and for the first time Jo realized what a pretty girl she was, with features as fine and delicate as her sister Mary’s, as fine as any white woman’s. “Miss Hunt said that up north where she comes from, Negroes do all sorts of jobs and live in nice houses and everything. Is that true, Missy Jo?”
“I don’t know, Roselle. I’ve never been there.” She would ask Alexander about it when she saw him tomorrow. Tomorrow! She had agreed to meet him beneath the tree house early in the morning before the Freedmen’s Bureau office opened, before Mother and Mary noticed she was gone.
Jo awoke the next morning as soon as the rooster crowed and climbed out of bed. Her room seemed very dark as she tiptoed around, dressing quietly, and she realized it was raining again. The clouds seemed to touch the barn roof and looked like smoke among the trees as she stepped outside into a light drizzle. She had wrapped a shawl around her shoulders against the chill, and she lifted it over her head as she hurried down the path to the tree house as fast as her torn shoe would allow.
Alexander Chandler was already waiting for her beneath the tree, his horse grazing nearby. He held his saddlebag in his hands, and he broke into a smile when he saw her. She ran to join him beneath the tree house, which acted as a roof to block the rain.
“I’m glad you came, Josephine.” She noticed his voice was no longer hoarse.
“Yes . . . me too.” It was an awkward moment. Neither of them seemed to know how to begin. Rain pattered on the floor of the tree house above them and dripped from the leaves. Alexander broke the silence first.
“I brought you something. Here, have a look.” He opened the mouth of his saddlebag, and she saw it was filled with shoes. She couldn’t speak. “It was my fault you tore your shoe because you were running away from me,” he said, “so I brought you some new ones. Well, they aren’t actually new; they’re secondhand. I hope that isn’t insulting to you.”
“Where did they come from?”
“They were collected by my church up north and donated to the Freedmen’s Bureau for needy families. I didn’t know your size, so I put several sizes in here. Maybe someone else in your family needs shoes, too?”
“My mother would never allow us to accept charity.”
“She doesn’t have to know.”
“She isn’t blind, Alexander. She’s sure to notice me wearing different shoes.”
“But you need them. Would she rather you go barefoot than to swallow her pride and accept charity?”
Yes, Josephine thought. She probably would.
“Please, try on a pair. Take more than one pair, if you’d like.”
Jo looked into the bag and saw that although the shoes were used, they were obviously well made and in good condition. And she did need them. She was desperate, in fact. She selected a pair that looked to be her size and leaned against the damp tree trunk as she slid one of them onto her foot. It fit comfortably. So did its mate. They would keep her feet warm and dry.
“I’ll think of something to tell my mother,” she said. “Thank you, Alexander. I appreciate your kindness.” He relaxed and smiled with relief. “And just so you know,” she continued, “I don’t blame you for my torn shoe that day. They were old and wearing out. It was my own fault running away so gracelessly. But thank you.”
“You’re welcome to take more than one pair.”
“Not for me. But if I may, I’ll take a pair for my sister, Mary.” She rummaged through the bag and chose a pair of slim, dark shoes that appeared to be Mary’s size.
“I can bring you other things, too. The churches up north are eager to help the South rebuild—”
“No, please don’t. It will be too hard to explain. I think it’s best to keep our meetings and our friendship a secret.” There was another awkward silence. This time Josephine broke it, desperate to change the subject. “How are the repairs to the school coming along?”
“I’m afraid they’ve become mired in bureaucratic problems. I’m forced to wait for funds for the building materials, and the wheels of government move very slowly. They’ve promised to send more schoolbooks right away, but they haven’t arrived yet.”
“I’ve started a school of sorts on our plantation. We have three new children at White Oak besides Lizzie’s three, and I promised to give them lessons in return for their help with some yard work. We started yesterday and it was fun. They are so eager to learn. And very bright, too.”
“Hey! Why not come into town and teach all the children?”
“You said the school wasn’t finished.”
“Not yet. But once the new books arrive, you could hold classes outside the bureau office.”
“My mother would never allow it. She doesn’t know I’m teaching White Oak’s children as it is. But Roselle told me that she would like to become a teacher someday. Do you think that’s possible? Would I be wrong to encourage her?”
“Not at all. I’ve heard of Negro teachers in other bureau schools down here.”
“Good. I’ll encourage her, then.” She looked up at Alexander, and the way he was gazing at her made her forget everything she had planned to say.
“I’m glad you came today, Josephine. I was afraid you might not because of the rain.”
She looked away, suddenly self-conscious. “I only agreed to meet with you because you raised so many questions the last few times we spoke, and you still haven’t answered them all.”
“I don’t know all the answers myself,” he said with a laugh. “But go ahead and ask. I’ll give it a try.”
She dared another glance at him and saw that he was smiling. Josephine thought he was a nice-looking man, not as handsome as her father had been, but then few men were. But what made Alexander attractive to her weren’t his looks, but the quiet inner strength he seemed to possess, and a maturity beyond his years.
“Well,” she began, “I have been thinking about your comments on why God never answered my prayers. You said we could talk about it after I had time to think, remember?”
“Of course. Aren’t you tired of standing, Josephine? Shall we sit down?”
“No, thank you. The ground is much too wet.” And it made her heart beat in a funny way to think of squeezing close to him in the cramped space beneath the tree house. “Anyway, you said that God couldn’t answer my prayers because He wanted to set the slaves free—”
“Not only the slaves. What if God wanted to set you free, as well?”
“What do you mean? I am free. I always have been.”
He shook his head, impatient with her. “What do you suppose your life would have been like if the South had won the war? If your father hadn’t died?”
“My mother was just talking about this the other day when she was discussing her dance. She and my father would have made sure I was courted by suitors from proper, respectable families. I would have married one of them and become a wife and mother. I might have moved to my husband’s plantation, perhaps lived with my in-laws for a time. Eventually I would have become the mistress of my own plantation.”
“How do you feel about that? Are you sorry it didn’t ha
ppen that way?”
“To be honest, I feel relieved. I told Mother the old way of courting and arranging marriages seems so artificial now. But I wouldn’t have questioned it if we hadn’t lost the war and everything else.”
“The war stripped away all those expectations. The old demands are gone and you—and the former slaves—are free to do what God created you to do, not what everyone tells you to do.”
“But God created women to be wives and mothers.”
“True, but women can fill additional roles, too. The Quakers believe in education for men and women. My two married sisters did some public speaking for the abolition movement. What if the war was about your emancipation as well as the slaves’?”
That was the other question he had raised, the one that haunted her. What did she want for her life, for her future? Jo realized she didn’t know the answer because she had never been free to ask it. All the important decisions had been made for her, and she’d been expected to trust her parents’ choices. She had never sampled another way of life.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” she finally said. “I would have been content to marry my father’s choice and now I’m content not to marry. I realize I’m too different from other girls, too plain—”
“You aren’t plain!”
She laid her hand on his damp jacket sleeve to silence him. “Please don’t. I wasn’t fishing for a compliment. I-I need to go. Mother will wonder where I’ve been and why my hair and clothes are wet. Thank you again for the shoes.”
“But . . . we didn’t finish talking. When will I see you again?”
She wanted to say never, knowing she shouldn’t have come in the first place and shouldn’t be talking to him at all. “A week from today,” she said.
“The same time?”
“Yes, the same time and place.” She hurried away into the cold morning rain.
24
Every time Josephine talked to Alexander Chandler she would spend the rest of the day thinking about his words. He always challenged the things she had been taught, challenged her to think differently. It was the same this time, his words shadowing her as if Alexander himself was following her through the house.
It rained all day, frustrating her. She and the children couldn’t work on the terrace, nor could Jo find an excuse to sneak away to the kitchen to teach them another lesson. She had nothing to do all day but think about Alexander.
She waited until the following day to show the shoes to Mary, trying to dream up an explanation for them—and failing. “Come upstairs to the bedroom with me,” she said after breakfast. “You need to try on your dress so I can pin the hem.” Josephine waited until Mary had buttoned on the unfinished dress, then handed her the shoes. “Here, I thought you could use a pair of shoes to wear to the dance with your new dress.”
“Josephine! Where did these come from?”
“Try them on. See if they fit.”
Mary sat down on the bed and slipped the shoes onto her feet. “Where did you get them?”
“They’re a gift from someone who saw that we needed them. I have a new pair, too. See?” She lifted the hem of her dress to show Mary her shoes.
“You shouldn’t have accepted them. Mother won’t like us taking charity.” Her soft voice was little more than a whisper.
“But we need them, don’t we? Do they fit you?”
“Yes. Very well, in fact.”
“Good. Mine do, too. Let’s just wear the shoes and enjoy them for now. We can deal with Mother once she notices them.”
Mary looked doubtful, as if afraid to go against their mother’s rigid code of rules. She had been a mere child, eleven years old, when the war began to dismantle their comfortable life, and Josephine could see the lasting effects it had left on Mary. “Do you remember the old days, Mary, when we took things like shoes and new dresses for granted instead of considering them luxuries?”
“Yes . . . I never had to worry about outgrowing my shoes or my dresses or wonder what I would do if I did. But things just keep getting worse and worse until it seems like every day we lose something else.” She started to take off the shoes, but Josephine stopped her.
“No, leave them on and climb up on that chair so I can measure the hem. How does the dress feel? Does it fit you?”
“Yes. Perfectly. How did you ever learn to sew like this?”
“It isn’t difficult. You—” She started to say, You could do it, too, but changed her mind. “You would be surprised how easy it is.”
She helped Mary climb up, then sat cross-legged on the floor below her with a cushion of dress pins as she started to work. She remembered her sister’s terror as she’d huddled at Aunt Olivia’s house in Richmond. Mary was a beautiful girl with porcelain skin like their mother’s, her delicate cheeks still rosy and childlike. But she was so fearful, talking softly, walking softly, as if afraid she might do something to trigger the next disaster. What would her future be? Josephine stopped pinning for a moment and looked up at her.
“Someone asked me, not long ago, what I wanted for myself, my future. How would you answer that question, Mary?”
“I want the same things every woman does: marriage, a home of my own, children. What else is there?”
Josephine didn’t know the answer herself. “Would you ever marry a man for love?”
“What do you mean?”
“Suppose you fell in love with a man who Mother thought unsuitable? Someone who couldn’t afford to hire servants, and you had to do all the cleaning and cooking and everything that Lizzie does. Would you marry him anyway?”
“I don’t even want to imagine such a thing! It won’t happen. I know that people around here don’t have much right now because the Yankees stole it all, but Mother says that by the time I’m old enough to marry, we’ll have everything back again. We already have some of our slaves back, don’t we?”
“They aren’t slaves, Mary.”
“You know what I mean. Mother says she’s going to train Roselle to be my lady’s maid and teach her how to fix my hair and get dressed in the morning. She said Roselle could even move with me and be my maid after I marry.”
Roselle, who dreamed of being a schoolteacher. Josephine sighed, realizing the hopelessness of trying to change her sister’s way of thinking—the way Alexander Chandler was changing hers. “Stand still so I can pin the hem.”
“Will my dress be done after you finish the hem?”
“I’m afraid not. The side seams are just basted. I wanted to be sure it fit you first. I’ll need to re-sew them with a backstitch before you can wear it, or you’ll rip them all out the first time a gentleman whirls you around the dance floor.”
Josephine was nearly finished when Mother walked into the room. “That dress looks lovely on you, Mary. Josephine, must you sit on the floor? I’m sure there’s a footstool you can use. Anyway, I’ve come to tell you girls that we’re going to visit the Blakes today. I’ve asked Willy to bring the carriage around.”
That meant visiting Harrison. Josephine hadn’t thought of him in days and certainly hadn’t missed seeing him—although she did miss talking to Mrs. Blake. Mary stepped down from the chair to change her dress. “She didn’t notice our shoes,” she whispered to Jo after their mother left.
When they arrived at the Blakes’ plantation, Josephine was surprised to see Harrison sitting on the front porch in his new wheelchair. “Hasn’t he made wonderful progress?” Priscilla whispered to Jo after she greeted her. “He can wheel himself all around now, in and out of the house.”
“I’m so glad,” Josephine said.
While Mother and Mary went inside to visit with Priscilla, Josephine stayed on the porch to talk with Harrison for a moment, leaning against the railing. It had begun to rain again, drumming on the porch roof, dripping from the eaves, reminding her of her visit with Alexander beneath the tree house.
“I’m glad we’re getting rain, aren’t you, Harrison? It will be so good for your crops.”
“It won’t matter if it rains or not. Those Negroes will never make a profit from cotton.”
“Well, I see you’re still your same old cheerful self. I also see you’ve had a haircut and trimmed your beard. You look much better.”
“And you look like Eugenia Weatherly’s daughter today and not like the scrub maid.”
Her face went hot with embarrassment. “That was unkind.”
“I meant it to be unkind.”
“Why? Why do you enjoy insulting me and hurting my feelings? Does it make you feel better to speak to me that way? More like a man?”
“Shut up, Josephine. Just . . . shut up.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. You have no right.” It made her tremble from head to toe to talk to him this way, but it also felt good to speak her mind. Hadn’t Dr. Hunter encouraged her to argue with Harrison? And if her friendship with Alexander had taught her anything, it was to ask questions, to say what she thought, to speak up for herself.
Alexander. She would see him again next Tuesday. It seemed like a long time to wait. “Do you believe in God, Harrison,” she asked suddenly, “and that He answers prayer?”
“What?”
She stopped leaning against the railing and took a step toward him. “I asked if you still believed in God after everything that happened.”
“Of course I do. I’m not a heathen.”
“Do you believe He answers prayer?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Josephine decided to tell him the truth. “Because I no longer believe He does, and I wondered if we had something in common. Heaven knows, we don’t agree on anything else.”
Harrison laughed out loud. He actually laughed! In all the weeks she had lived with him, all the hours she’d spent with him, Jo had never once heard him laugh. She expected his mother to come running out to the porch to see what that unfamiliar sound was or who the jolly visitor could be. Surely it couldn’t be Harrison who was laughing. But it was.
“You are something else!” he said, shaking his head.
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“Sure. I’ll answer it. Unfortunately I still believe in God. I believe He allowed the Yankees to blow my leg off as payment for my sins. He turned me into a mangled, grotesque cripple to torment and punish me.”