Family by J. California Cooper

here. Your pappy and your mammy was raised here … died here. At any rate, this has always been your home. You have been well fed and cared for. You are young and strong. You have been taught to do all kinds of work that will help you get along in the world and please your new owners. You are … not … pretty, but that is not necessary in your life and I don’t think you need to be very smart to do the work you will do. Simply do what you are told to do, as well as you possibly can, as we have tried to teach you. Are you a virgin?” She knew she had no sons, but slaves were savages no matter how meek they looked. She also thought of her husband and disease.
    Always nodded.
    The Mistress continued. “Good! Now, I have told your new owner you are very good in the kitchen and laundry and you sew … some.”
    Always still thought of Plum. “And I takes careof my little sister, Plum, mam. I can get her ready.”
    Young Mistress stood and said firmly, “I told you, we will take care of that.”
    Always thought she meant they would get ole Miz Elliz to get Plum ready. After all, they knew Plum was sickly, and all she had. Surely they would not separate them. She left.
    As she went down the steps to the path runnin through the tall trees to the slave quarters, she hated the Master and Mistress with a full heart. But it was a useless hate, like a raindrop hatin a tornado, just worthless and useless to itself even. When she got to her shack she stood on the dirt floor in a blur of tears … and fear. Useless.
    She had shared that shack with two others, but they were not there now. One sold last month, one in the field somewhere. She stopped dead still, heavin her breath, hands at her side, feelin the thump, hearin the beat, of her heart. She looked round the shack … her home. Now, now, there was things she loved in it.
    She finally went and rolled her few nothins in a old rag. Her main piece was a head scarf she hadmade out of scraps left over from sewin for Loretta and Virginia and some of the slave things at Christmas. It only took a minute to get her things.
    Then, she moved in the dead silence to the square cut out in the wall for air. There she had stood many times lookin out toward where freedom might be. Where Sun might be. Where peace might be. The day was already hot with the late morning sun, when the heat thickens, grows heavy, and everything is caught in it. Through her tears and the hole-window, everything looked like it was burnt in the minute, like time was standin still. Trees, bushes, vines could be seen through that hole back of the shack. A bush with flower buds grew up and through the crooked-cut window-hole, comin between some of the loose boards of the wall.
    Always’s eyes filled with tears. Silent hard tears that did not roll nor move. She put out her arm and her hand sought a leaf, a little flower bud and pressed it to her nose. The smell was free. It moved gently from her nose down through her whole body—she felt hollow. Then … then her tearsmoved, flowed, and the trees and bushes, buds, seemed to wave and drown like in a dream. Everything ran together. A bird my baby threw crumbs to, from her own crumbs, flew up and landed in that budded bush. He chirped for his crumbs. There was none.
    Always lifted the crushed flower bud in her hand, said, “I don’t have no food to give you today, but I’ll give you some love, little bird,” and dropped the young petals down to the free bird. “Take good care yoself.” Then she turned, picked up her rags, left her home of sixteen years. Sobs now findin their way out, tears droppin all over that shack’s dirt floor, runnin through whatever there is of me, leavin pain everywhere I am, into the still, hot air, lingerin in the dust that floated in the rays of hot sunlight. The bird turned his head sideways, so to see better, and watched her go through the door for the last time, out into the world. And she didn’t know a bit more bout where