yourself while I’m gone,” she said.
Watching her walk to the door, I made up my mind. “Remember how you asked me a while ago if I needed anything? Well, I need something.”
She turned back and her face had brightened. “Of course . . . whatever I can do.”
“I need a signed note.”
“. . . What kind of note?”
“One that gives me permission to be on the street. In case somebody stops me out there.”
“Oh.” That was all she said for a minute. Then, “. . . Mother doesn’t want you going out, not for a while . . . She has designated Phoebe to do the marketing. Besides, they closed the African church—there won’t be anything to attend.”
I could’ve told you the church was doomed, but it was a blow to hear it. “I still need a pass, though.”
“. . . Why? Where do you need to go? . . . It’s dangerous, Handful.”
“I spent most of my life getting and doing for you and never have asked for a thing. I got places to go, they’re my own business.”
She raised her voice at me. The first time. “. . . And how do you propose to get off the property?”
Looking down on us was the little window mauma used to climb through. It was sitting high up, letting in the only light in the room. I said to myself, If mauma can do it, I can do it. I’ll do it lame, blind, and backward, if I have to.
I didn’t spell out my ways for her. I nodded at a piece of paper on the shelf beside a pen and a pot of ink. I said, “If you can’t see fit to write me this pass for safe passage, I’ll have to write it myself and sign your name.”
She took a deep breath and stared at me for a moment, then she went over and dipped the pen in the ink.
First time I squeezed through the window and went over the wall, Sarah had been gone a week. The worst part was when I had to flop myself over the top of the bricks with nothing but the white oleander for cover. I had the rabbit cane and a thick burlap bundle tied on my back that made me cumbersome, and when I dropped to the ground, I landed on my bad foot. I sat there till the throb wore off, then I slipped out from the trees to the street, just one more slave doing some white person’s bidding.
I chose this day cause missus had a headache. We lived for her headaches. When they came, she took to bed and left us to our blessed selves. I tried not to think how I’d get back inside the yard. Mauma had waited for dark and crawled over the back gate and that was the best remedy, but it was summertime and dark came late, giving plenty of time for folks to wonder where I was.
One block down East Bay, I spotted one of the Guard. He looked straight at me and studied my limp. Walk steady. Not too fast. Not too slow. Squeezing the ears on the rabbit, I didn’t breathe till I turned the corner.
It took me twice as long to get to 20 Bull. I stood cross the street and stared at the house, still in need of paint. I didn’t know if Denmark Vesey had got out of the Work House or what had happened to him. Last memory I had from that hellhole was his voice shouting, “Help the girl down there, help the girl.”
I hadn’t let myself think about it, but standing there on the street, the memory came like a picture in a painting. I’m up on the treadmill, gripping the bar with all the strength I got. Climbing the wheel, climbing the wheel. It never will stop. Mr. Vesey is quiet, not a grunt from him, but the rest are moaning and crying Jesus and the rawhide splits the air. My hands sweat, sliding on the bar. The knot that lashes my wrist to it comes loose. I tell myself don’t look side to side, keep straight ahead, keep going, but the woman with the baby on her back is howling. The whip slashes her legs. Then the child screams. I look. I look to the side and its little head is bleeding. Red and wet. That’s when the edges go black. I drop, my hands pulling free from the rope. I