There was the seamstress Dinah, and Big and Li’l Sylvia both; there was Charlie Blacksmith and Ol’ Joel, grinning toothless, with Opal and her sweet bottom sat on his lap. There was Fannie even, who should have been asleep at her mistresses’ feet or else straining in some outbuilding somewhere else. Anna’s daddy twanged at the banjo and Sarah sang prettily but loudest, and beyond that was folks from Marse John’s plantation, and Coffey and Homer and Mary John besides, and folks Rue could not name but whose drawn faces looked familiar. And beyond all of them was Rue’s own daddy.
She caught eyes with him from across the room. He didn’t say anything but shook his head the way Red Jack had shook his head when they’d arrived.
Rue’s daddy was playing spoons, a trick she’d never known he had, and he did not stop playing when she stood dumbstruck in the doorway watching the metal flash in his hand like the anxious metallic heartbeat of the whole of them.
“S’alright,” Varina said at last over the hushed music. “Y’all carry on. We not here to stop you.”
Someone provided the white girl a stool, wiped off the dust from the seat, and bade her sit a spell. Rue settled in by Varina’s feet, which tapped along feverishly with the music. Sarah was singing again, joined in a lilting harmony by others.
Red Jack came in next, trading his post with one of the other young fine-armed boys. They didn’t need to speak to swap the sentinel but passed a jug of something swishing clear between their two hands. Red Jack leaned his head back and drank and then passed the bottle to Ol’ Joel, who thanked him with a wink of one of his clouded eyes. He released Opal, giving her three rhythmic taps on her bottom along to the music, which was fine with her. She swished her way over to the center of the cabin floor where the dancing was.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Rue said.
Varina said, “Huh,” and continued her foot tapping.
Across the room, Rue’s own daddy rested down his spoons. He took up the floor to where they danced a breakdown, their legs sawing to the beat like it was a job of work. Their whoops of laughter started out for Varina’s benefit, but surely they grew genuine as the beat deepened. Rue felt it too—there was no earthly way to deny a good beat.
Marse Charles did not altogether frown at his slaves dancing. He’d been known, especially at Christmastimes, or after a particularly bountiful harvest, to encourage it, to bring certain visiting guests of his to look upon the boundless happiness of his slaves, to even clap with them if he felt so moved by their native kind of frivolity. But it seemed different when he wasn’t there looking on. Like as if their amusement, for its own sake, was a waste. Now Varina clapped like her daddy might have clapped as the dance floor grew crowded.
Red Jack slid up to them. The close room was overwarm with so much activity, and a fine sheen of sweat was shining up his face. His eyes glittered too, and someone had passed him back the jug and this time the smell of whiskey wisped clear out when he swallowed. He smiled toothily and began to pass it back on down the line.
“Now wait.” Miss Varina snaked out her arm and took the jug from him. He didn’t resist, couldn’t really. Varina took a dainty sip, grimaced, but tipped back some more. “Go on,” she said and held it out to Rue.
Rue still held in her lap her bottle of unneeded castor oil and she hugged at it with one arm while she reached out for the proffered jug. Varina would not hand it over but motioned that Rue should tip back her head. Now Rue did so and Varina spilled into her a burning mouthful. Rue’s tongue floated, her lips burned. A trickle escaped down her cheek as she swallowed thickly. Varina returned the jug to Red Jack, and between them they seemed to share an easy amusement that made Rue’s stomach roil.