The Invention of Wings(160)

            I doubt anyone had ever spoken to her in such a manner, and she turned away from me, taken aback.

            I couldn’t explain that rising up, this coming fully to myself, the audacity and authority my life had found. It took me aback, as well, and I closed my eyes, and I blessed it. It was like arriving finally in the place I’d left, and I felt then I would never be an exile again.

            Mother lifted her hand. “This has tired me,” she said and struggled to her feet with her old gold-tip cane. She walked to the door, then turned back, leveling her eyes on mine. “I won’t sell Hetty or Sky to you, Sarah. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I will compromise.”



            In the darkness of the cellar, the sound of my knocking seemed lost and swallowed up. It was past midnight. I’d waited until now to find Handful, slipping down here when the house was asleep, still wearing my sleeping clothes. The lantern swayed in my hand, swiveling the shadows, as I rapped again on Handful’s door. Come on, Handful, wake up.

            “Who’s out there?” Her voice sounded alarmed and muffled behind the door.

            “It’s all right. It’s me, it’s Sarah.”

            She made a slit in the door, then let me inside. She held a candle that flickered beneath her chin. Her eyes appeared almost luminous.

            “I’m sorry to wake you, but we must talk.”

            Across the room, Sky was sitting up in her bed, her hair splayed out like a great dark fan. I sat the lantern down and nodded at her. Soon after my arrival, I’d seen her in the ornamental garden, down on her knees, digging with a trowel. The garden had been turned into a kind of wonderland, a cloister of colorful blooms, groomed shrubberies, and winding paths, and I’d gone out there as if to take a stroll. Sky hadn’t waited for me to approach her, but pushed to her feet and strode over to me, smelling of fresh dirt and green plants. She didn’t look like Handful, or Charlotte either for that matter. She was strapping. She looked feral and cunning to me. She said, “You Sarah?” When I said I was, she grinned. “Handful said you the best of the Grimkés.”

            “I’m not sure that’s saying a great deal,” I answered, smiling at her.

            “Maybe not,” she said, and I liked her instantly.

            I glanced about the cellar room, a little more crowded now with two beds. They’d shoved them together side by side beneath the window.

            “What is it?” Handful said, but before I could speak, I saw it dawn on her. “Your mauma won’t sell us, will she?”

            “No, I’m sorry. She refused. But—”

            “But what?”

            “She did agree to free both of you upon her death. She said she would have the paper drawn up and added to her will.”

            Handful stood with the light puddling around her and stared at me. It was not what any of us wanted, but it was something.

            “She’s seventy-four,” I said.

            “She’ll outlive the last cockroach,” Handful said. She looked at Sky. “We’ll be leaving here day after tomorrow.”

            I was relieved and terrified in the same moment. I studied the compact defiance that made up so much of who she was. I said, “Tell me how I can help.”





Handful


            The night before we were to take our leave, me and Sky scurried in the dark, collecting everything together. We stole out to the stable to get mauma’s quilt from the horse blankets, trekking cross the work yard with the stars pouring down. We climbed up to Sarah’s room from the cellar to the second floor, three trips, carrying quilts, black dresses, hats, veils, gloves, and hankies. Up and down, me and my lame foot, passing right by missus’ and little missus’ doors. We went in stocking feet, taking soft steps like the floor might sink.