Jeffrey, chattel No. 319, marked as a “prime cotton hand,” aged 23 years, was put up. Jeffrey being a likely lad, the competition was high. The first bid was $1,100, and he was finally sold for $1,310. Jeffrey was sold alone; he had no encumbrance in the shape of an aged father or mother, who must necessarily be sold with him; nor had he any children, for Jeffrey was not married. But Jeffrey, chattel No. 319, being human in his affections, had dared to cherish a love for Dorcas, chattel No. 278; and Dorcas, not having the fear of her master before her eyes, had given her heart to Jeffrey. Whether what followed was a just retribution on Jeffrey and Dorcas, for daring to take such liberties with their master’s property as to exchange hearts, or whether it only goes to prove that with black as with white the saying holds, that “the course of true love never did run smooth,” cannot now be told. Certain it is that these two lovers were not to realize to consummation of their hopes in happy wedlock. Jeffrey and Dorcas had told their loves, had exchanged their simple vows, and were betrothed, each to the other as dear, and each by the other as fondly beloved as though their skins had been of fairer color. And who shall say that, in the sight of Heaven and all holy angels, these two humble hearts were not as closely wedded as any two of the prouder race that call them slaves?
Be that as it may, Jeffrey was sold. He finds out his new-master; and hat in hand, the big tears standing in his eyes, and his voice trembling with emotion, he stands before that master and tells his simple story, praying that his betrothed may be bought with him. . . .
On my drive back to Chicasetta, I stopped at the Cluck-Cluck Hut and bought a family-size bucket of chicken with biscuits, and three orders of fries. Uncle Root didn’t fuss at me when I ate too much at supper. He only laughed, saying I sure was going to sleep well with all that food in my system. I was so hungry that I ate until my stomach hurt. As the old man had predicted, I went to bed early.
In an hour, I awoke, heart jumping. I felt my stomach roil. I ran to the bathroom, closed the door, and quickly stepped out of my pajama pants. I didn’t want to piss on them when the vomiting started. The next wave of nausea came over me, and then another, and when I kneeled in front of the toilet, the air rushed out with a high sound. Another wave, and a scream hit, before I hurriedly covered my mouth.
I don’t know how long I stayed on the floor, waiting for vomiting that never came. Rocking and patting my arms. I don’t know what time it was when I called Dr. Oludara.
“I know it’s late, but something’s wrong—”
“—you didn’t shower and pray, did you, Ailey?”
“No, ma’am.”
“But I told you to do that.”
“I know, Dr. Oludara. I’m so sorry.”
She told me, no need to apologize. But go ahead and take that shower now, and if I had some light-colored pajamas, put them on. She’d hold the line. She promised she wouldn’t hang up. Then we’d pray together.
You Can Be Proud
In late July, Dr. Oludara asked, did I want to take a road trip? It was her last week of freedom before she had to start prepping for classes. She’d visited the site before but wanted to hear my impressions.
When I hung up the phone, I pretended to Uncle Root that I was annoyed by the intrusion on my free time, but I was excited. I went through my clothes and found Dear Pearl’s old yellow-and-white dress but left her heels in my trunk. I found some white flats, dusting them inside with baby powder. Then I called Miss Rose’s and asked for Mama, who had come back down that summer. Could she come to town and stay with the old man, in case I was held up overnight? I had to take a business trip. I felt so much satisfaction as Mama repeated that phrase, raising her voice in a question: Business trip?
It was a three-hour drive in Dr. Oludara’s car from campus to the plantation, one that had housed three enslaved women who had been sold at the weeping time auction. The highway narrowed as we drove away from campus. We wouldn’t be taking the interstate, Dr. Oludara told me. We’d have to take the back roads.
About an hour into our journey, she stopped to get gas and returned with a packet of peanuts and two grease-stained packs. Did I want a fried pie? She had no intention of starving me, she said. We’d eat on the way back, but there were some sandwiches she’d made in the cooler. She reached in the back seat into the small cooler and pulled out a bottle of cola. Before she opened the door of the car, she told me, don’t judge her, please. Then she held the cola out of the door and dropped half of the peanuts into the bottle. The liquid bubbled up, and she slurped at it.