A Perilous Proposal (5 page)

His mother's heart sank. Her son's words were so painful that she felt like a knife had plunged into her heart. Tears rose in her eyes.

“Jake, Jake,” she said in a sad, almost pleading, voice, “w'en you gwine stop blamin' yer daddy fo everythin' you don' like in life? Dere comes a time w'en folks gotter grow up an' take a look inside theirselves 'stead er heapin' dere own problems on sumbody else. Looks ter me like dat time's 'bout come fer you. You got a heart full er resentment dat's nobody's fault but yer own. Yer daddy wuz a fine man dat honored da Lawd Jesus in everythin' he said an' dun. He tried ter honor da Lawd tards you too, an' you's got da wrong grip on it. You's lookin' at what he wuz an' what he dun tards you all backwards. Looks ter me like da devil's got hold ob yer heart 'stead er da Lawd himsel'.”

“My heart's my own biz'ness!” spat Jake rudely. “I don't need you preachin' at me neither, not 'bout Papa or Jesus or nobody else. I reckon I can take care of mysel' wiffout either ob dem!”

He turned again and stomped angrily away.

His mother watched his back till he was out of sight, then began to cry in earnest. It broke her heart to hear him talk so. But it would break her heart even more for him to be whipped for disobeying, or, worse, to be sold as a troublemaker. Right now she couldn't afford the luxury of sinking into the grief she felt. Whatever cruel words he had spoken, she had to protect them both from the consequences of his irresponsibility.

She wiped back her tears, then picked up the satchel that still lay on the floor. If she delivered it herself, maybe the master wouldn't find out that Jake hadn't done what he'd told
him. That wouldn't be lying like what she'd said to Jake, but just making sure the job got done. At least that's the way it seemed at the moment.

The argument with her son was her fault anyway. She shouldn't have pushed Jake so hard. If he did find out, that's what she would tell the master. Hopefully whatever punishment fell would come to her instead of him.

J
AKE
'
S
M
AMA

6

I
T WAS A CURSE FOR A BLACK WOMAN TO BE PRETTY IN
those days, and Jake's mama was. Every day she lived in fear that the master would make her marry someone she didn't want to, or bed her down with one of his men. She was even afraid that one of the whites around the place would appear at her doorstep one day and order her onto the pad that was her bed. But Master Winegaard wasn't cruel like Master Clarkson. Though he worked his slaves hard, he didn't allow things like that to happen if he could help it.

But he couldn't be everywhere at once. A couple of the new men had been looking at her in ways that made her uncomfortable. With poor whites like them, you could never tell what might happen.

Jake's mama didn't know where Jake had stormed off to, but as she crossed the bridge over the stream she knew well enough from the pounding echo of a hammer where he'd been supposed to take the satchel. She walked toward the sound.

As she emerged into the clearing from where the sound was coming, she stopped abruptly. There stood a man she recognized as one of the new hands who had been around the plantation about a week. Beside him on the ground, along with his jacket, she saw what looked to be a bottle of whiskey.
He saw the movement of her approach and turned.

“Massa sent you down a supply er staples,” she said. “I's set 'em right here.”

She put the leather satchel she had been carrying on the ground, then quickly turned and began to walk away.

“Hey, wait just a minute, missy,” the man called after her. “Where you off to in such an all-fired hurry?”

Not wanting to anger him, she stopped, but stood facing the opposite direction.

“I'm talking to you, missy,” said the man. “You turn around when a white man's talking to you.”

Slowly she turned. His eyes roamed up and down her body.

“Anyone come down here with you?” he asked.

“No, suh.”

“You alone?”

“Yes, suh,” she replied, her heart beginning to pound.

Slowly an evil grin spread across his face.

“Ain't no one nearby,” he said, tossing down his hammer and walking toward her. “Why don't you and I go over there and lay down in that nice soft grass and have us some fun. You'd like that, wouldn't you, missy?”

“No, suh . . . I don't think so, suh,” she said. She took a few steps backward.

“You refusing me, missy?”

“No, suh. It's jes' dat I gots ter git back so dey—”

“You're lyin', missy,” he interrupted as he began to unbutton his shirt. His voice contained more than a hint of anger. “There ain't no one expecting you for nothing, is there? Ten minutes for a little fun . . . ain't nobody gonna know but you and me. Now you come here, missy, and get that dress off,” he said, throwing his shirt on the ground.

In panic she turned and ran. But it was the wrong thing to do. More than half drunk and running clumsily, he was still able to overtake her. She felt the strong grip of his hand
on her shoulder as he grabbed her and yanked her back, pulling her dress down. She stumbled with a little cry and fell to the ground.

“Now you didn't need to go running off like that, missy,” he said. “You didn't need to make Tavish mad.” He stooped to one knee and began to lie down on top of her.

With a sudden strength that took him completely by surprise, she shoved him away. He fell on his back as she jumped to her feet. She pulled her dress up to her waist and bolted toward the bridge. Incensed with rage, he struggled up, yelling terrible curses after her, and tried to run. He stumbled, found his feet, and hurried after her. She made it farther this time, but again she was no match for his younger legs. When he caught her this time, his fury unleashed itself and he beat violently at her face and shoulders.

Terrified for her life, she screamed as loud as she could and called desperately for help. Her cries enraged him all the more. He whacked with a clenched fist at her mouth to silence her, then continued beating at her head as if he had been fighting a man. A terrible blow to the side of her jaw stunned her with a sharp bolt of pain to the back of her skull. Wobbling dizzily, she staggered and fell limp to the ground. Her head thudded dully to the hard-packed dirt of the path.

Even as he had left the shack, his mother staring at his back and his own heated words ringing in his ears, Jake knew how wrong he had been. Whatever he might feel about his father, he had never before raised his voice to his mother. His heart stung him for what he had said. The argument had also brought to the surface the overseer's cruel and painful words from years before. True or not, they were the kind of words a boy never forgets. They had hurt him so deeply that he could never escape them. How much of his present anger was an attempt to fight back against the pain of such rejection, who could say.

“
He couldn't stand the sight of you no more . . . Dat boy ob mine's jes' too ugly . . . I can't stan' sight er him no mo
.”

Over and over the overseer's words repeated themselves.
Jes' too ugly . . . can't stan' sight er him . . . too ugly . . . too ugly
.

All Jake wanted to do was erase the terrible words from his mind. But that was the one thing he could never do.

He had to settle down. His temper had got the better of him a time or two with Master Winegaard's overseer. He had tasted the man's whip as a result. But now that his temper had erupted against his own mother, Jake suddenly saw that the demon inside him had grown larger than he had realized. But he kept walking away.

He was too proud to admit it immediately. But it didn't take long before he knew what he had to do.

Jake walked sheepishly back into the house about five minutes later, cooled off and embarrassed. Already he was rehearsing in his mind the apology to his mother he knew he had to make. The house was still and quiet. He glanced around. His eyes fell on the floor where he had dumped the leather satchel.

It was gone.

Immediately he suspected the truth. The same instant a wave of panic surged through him. He had seen the same leering looks on Tavish's face that his mother had. He knew well enough the cause of them.

The next moment he was sprinting out of the house and running toward the creek.

Jake heard the screams he knew were his mother's well before he reached the bridge. When they went silent he increased his pace. He pounded across the footbridge, then slowed. He listened intently for any sound, then made for the field where he thought Tavish had been working.

Halfway between the bridge and the clearing, he saw Tavish ahead. He had just unbuttoned his trousers, knelt down,
and begun to rip at Jake's mother's dress. Jake flew the remaining distance and leaped at the man, hitting him in full flight and knocking him flat on his back. Even half drunk, Tavish had been able to overpower Jake's mother. But he was no match for the son. His alcohol-soaked brain had no more begun trying to make sense of what had happened, and his eyes attempted to focus on the sky and treetops above him, than the fists and booted feet of what seemed like a dozen men began pummeling him with a frenzy that soon lost all sense of reason.

Two or three minutes later, Jake was dragging the limp form off the path into the nearby underbrush. Behind him he heard his mother moaning in pain.

Jake hurried back, glanced about, then ran ahead to the clearing, picked up the man's shirt and jacket, ran back, and threw them into the brush out of sight. Now first he saw the color on his hands. But the horror of what he had done had not yet fully dawned on him. He ran to the creek to wash. As he did, it was the creek that gave him the idea of how to get rid of Tavish for good.

A few minutes later he hurried back to his mother, who was struggling to come to herself.

“Mama, Mama,” he said, stooping down beside her. “Oh, Mama, I's sorry . . . I's sorry for all da things I said.”

“Jake . . . Jake,” she moaned feebly, “dat be you?”

“Yes, Mama. It's me. I's here now.”

“Where dat terrible man?”

“He's gone, Mama. I run him off. He's gone now.”

“He hit me, Jake . . . he hit me bad.”

“He's gone, Mama . . . he won't hurt you no mo.”

“My head . . . it's painin' me sumfin dreadful.”

“I'll git you home, Mama,” said Jake, gently slipping his hands beneath her shoulders and knees and lifting her as he stood.

Ten minutes later his mother was resting on her own bed
pad while Jake wiped her face and forehead and arms with a damp cloth. Already welts and bruises were beginning to show color around her eyes and across her cheeks. But the blows to her jaw and back of her head were more serious than the rest. Young Jake was not physician enough to recognize that she was feverish, nor to know the danger of allowing her to drift off to sleep so soon after hurting her head.

Once she was asleep, the reality of his own plight began to press itself upon him.

What should he do?

He had to get help for his mother. That was the first thing. But if it was discovered that he had attacked a white man, even fair-minded Master Winegaard would mete out the white man's justice swiftly and harshly. Whatever form that justice took, it would not be favorable for young Jake Patterson. And he knew it.

First he would find the rest of the women where they were working in the garden. He would get old Mammy Jenks to sit with his mother. Then he would go back to the master with whatever story he could devise to account for the length of his absence.

F
AREWELL

7

T
HERE WAS NO MISTAKING THAT MASTER WINEGAARD
 was growing perturbed by Jake's delay. But before a tongue-lashing could erupt, Jake ran up saying his mother had had a bad fall, had hit her head, and that he had helped see her to bed and had sat with her for a while. The obvious panic on Jake's face confirmed that he was not making the story up.