Soon Be Free Page 3

Mrs. Berk said, “Find any of Weaver’s architectural drawings stashed away in this house?”

  I shook my head. “I guess they’d be valuable if we had.”

  “Valuable?” Mrs. Berk shrugged her mighty shoulders and exhaled a cloud of stinky smoke. “No, not especially.”

  Ahn and I glanced at each other while Mrs. Berk picked lint off her broad-beam navy blue slacks. “Well, I’m turning in. The fire’s making me groggy. Too much history, I guess. You’re not light sleepers, are you? Raymond and I keep the radio on low all night.”

  “No problem,” Ahn said. “Dana’s family sleeps like a brick.”

  “A log, Ahn.”

  Mrs. Berk faked a wide yawn. She pulled her thick knees together and stood up. Whatnots rattled again. “Catch you in the morning.”

  When her wide rear end was halfway up the stairs, I whispered, “Not if we catch you first.” And we will catch her, I thought. Somehow I’d find out what the Berks knew about James Weaver, who’d scratched out awful violin tunes and sketched his first buildings within these walls—and buried Miz Lizbet behind one of them.

  I’d read a description of James Weaver in his mother’s diary. He and I shared the same copper-wire hair and blue green eyes, the same paper-pale skin, as if we were twins who, through a weird accident of birth, were separated by fifteen decades. If anyone was going to learn something new about James, it was going to be me, not Mattie Berk.

  Chapter Eight

  March 1857

  COCKLEBURS

  Pa and James washed up out back. Pa had layers of travel dirt to scrub away before Ma would let him offer the blessing for supper. After supper, James would tend to Buttermilk, who’d carried Pa all those miles. Buttermilk’s chestnut coat was matted with sweat, and the white mottled zigzag that gave her her name looked gray as wash water.

  “Long trip,” James said. He was always shy for words when he was alone with Pa. With Ma around, conversation flowed more easily, and of course, Rebecca never stopped yammering for a second.

  “I’d have run Buttermilk like a racehorse if I’d known thy ma would be waiting home.”

  “Lucky for Buttermilk thee didn’t know.” The horse flicked the first of the season’s flies off with her tail.

  Pa’s eyes darted up toward the point just under the roof of their house. “Thee got it all settled, the business over Miss Elizabeth?” His voice was tight. Why, he was afraid of Ma!

  “Yes, sir, she knows, and she knows thee knows, and she says there’ll be no more talk of dead bodies in the house.”

  Pa nodded, relieved.

  “I suspect she’ll have a few more thoughts on the subject when she gets thee alone,” James said, snickering.

  “Now that thee’s thirteen, thee’s an authority on women?”

  “Just Ma,” James replied quickly. He wiped his hands on an old flannel blanket flung over the stockade fence. Bethany Maxwell came across his mind, as she did all too often. She was as beautiful as a newborn piglet—and just as slippery. She’d gone off to California with her family and hadn’t sent back a single word. But he had Trembles, her Siamese, to remind him of Bethany’s blue eyes.

  “Well,” Pa said, rolling his sleeves back down. He buttoned them between his pale wrists and large, windburned hands. “I for one am glad to have the whole episode with the runaways behind me.”

  “Thee has cockleburs behind thee also,” James said.

  Pa patted his rear. “Ouch!” He picked them off, dusting off his trousers, and he straightened his shirt and turned his hat just so. “Reckon thy mother will find me presentable?”

  “Yes, sir.” James thought his father admirably handsome—tall and broad and full-bearded. James, with his red hair and freckled, milky skin, would grow up to look nothing like Pa. He’d look more like Grandpa Baylor, and it saddened him to remember that he’d never again share his thoughts with Grandpa Baylor.

  Growing up, he thought, you sure lose a lot of people you’d rather have around a bit longer.

  Chapter Nine

  CAUGHT!

  The radio in the Berks’ room hummed with some all-night talk show, and Mr. and Mrs. Berk talked right over it.

  “How much could they possibly have to say to each other? No one in my family talks this much,” Ahn said, with a jelly jar to the wall. “Can you make out anything?”

  “It sounds like an argument to me.” I yanked my Thoreau Middle School nightshirt over my knees. It was already stretched enough to fit a sumo wrestler.

  “You listen for a while.” Ahn handed me the jar and dropped onto the twin bed. The bed springs squealed.

  “Shh! They’re not supposed to know we’re still awake.”

  “I’m not.” Soon Ahn was snoring gently.

  I blew an errant red curl off my forehead and read Henry David Thoreau’s words spread across the hump of my knees: “To be awake is to be alive.” And under that, bold red letters said, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately… .” Was I the only one with any sense of adventure? I lay in the dark, deliberately waiting for—what?

  Wait! The Berks’ door opened with a snick. There was a light footstep in the carpeting. It had to be Mr. Berk, because Mrs. Berk would be bending floorboards. A shadow darkened the slit of hall light under my door. He stood right outside my room, not moving an inch. Listening, no doubt, to make sure I was asleep.

  I joined Ahn’s breathing rhythm. Together we sounded like a sinus infection. The shadow slid away, and the strip of light returned. Where was he going?

  “Ahn, wake up,” I whispered. “Mr. Berk’s roaming out there.” Ahn flopped over on her stomach and pulled the pillow over her head.

  I spread out on the floor with my ear to the narrow lath of light. I heard Firebird’s nightly protest—“Squawk! Squawk! Brrrrook!”—as Dad tossed the sheet over the cage to silence the beast for the night. Mom and Dad came upstairs, their footsteps like drumbeats. They closed the door to their room, and in a minute I heard the TV up loud, no doubt to drown out the Berks’ radio.

  I opened my door a crack. Now Mr. Berk was stepping into the winter wardrobe closet. It’s a walk-in, but only tall enough for a dwarf. He dropped to his knees and pulled the closet door shut behind him.

  I tiptoed down the hall until I was just outside the closet. From inside came a tap-tap-tap, as if a woodpecker were working his way along the wall. Suddenly I noticed a strip of light under the bathroom door. Mrs. Berk must be in there! When had she left her room without my hearing?

  I dashed back and hid behind my bedroom door until my heart stopped pounding and I couldn’t resist cracking the door open again.

  There was a yeowl from inside the hall closet, muffled by the winter coats. Grateful for the amber night-light in the hall, I watched as Mrs. Berk opened the bathroom door. “Raymond?” she whispered. Mr. Berk was hopping around like a man who’d been walking barefoot over hot coals. “Raymond, what’s that thing?” asked Mrs. Berk.

  Mr. Berk shook his foot around. A mousetrap dangled from his big toe. “Get it off!”

  Mrs. Berk straddled his leg as if she were shoeing a horse and fiddled with the spring. “Ignoramus!” she hissed.

  “It hurts, Mattie! Where’s your motherly compassion?”

  “I’m not your mother. Hold still, I’ve almost got it. It’s not going to help if the whole thing snaps shut on my finger. Hold still, Raymond. There.”

  Mr. Berk sat on the floor and lifted his toe to his face. “It’s already black and blue. I’ll probably lose the nail.” He popped the toe into his mouth and rocked himself.

  “Oh, Raymond, really. Well, it’s obvious we’re not going to find anything tonight while you’re suffering such toe agonies.” She led him roughly by the collar of his robe. He limped more than he needed to until they disappeared behind their door. The radio was snapped off.

  I held the jelly jar to the wall until I heard rhythmic breathing. Tomorrow, while they were out, I’d search their room. It was only fair; hadn’t Mr. Be
rk searched our hall closet? The difference was, he knew what he was looking for; I’d have to fly blind.

  Chapter Ten

  March 1857

  MIZ LIZBET’S LEGACY

  “Amen,” Pa said, and Ma began dishing out supper: hard-cooked eggs that she’d preserved in limewater before she went east; green beans and wild raspberries she’d put up last summer; and biscuits that stood two inches high and soaked up butter like the dry earth swallowed rain.

  Rebecca sat on Pa’s knee, even eating from his plate. This wasn’t something Ma approved of, but after three months’ absence, she’d let up on them a bit. “Pa, did thee know Miz Lizbet’s upstairs turning ashes to ashes, dust to dust?”

  Ma tapped Rebecca’s hand with a fork. “I remind thee, there’s to be no talk of dead bodies.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rebecca said, as though all the fun had been yanked from her evening.

  “That doesn’t prevent us from talking about live ones,” Ma said. “I refer to the ones who wait for Miss Elizabeth in Kentucky.”

  James put a rubbery bite of egg in his mouth, dreading what she’d say next.

  “Thee knows, each of thee, that Miss Elizabeth’s work is not done.”

  Pa’s beard was greasy with hot butter. “Yes, Millicent, she told us of the slaves prepared to run away. However, Mrs. Weaver, it appears they shall have to wait for another shepherd.”

  “Precisely, Mr. Weaver.” Ma dangled a green bean from her fork, lost in thought.

  She’s hatching, James told himself. Mercy. Also, it meant trouble when his parents called each other mister and missus.

  Pa moved Rebecca off his knee. “Thy mother has a plan,” he muttered, and James groaned.

  “Tell it, Ma! Is it exciting? Will there be more dead bodies upstairs?” Rebecca squirmed on the bench beside Pa.

  Ma laid the green bean down on her plate. “It is up to us to finish her work. James, has thee an idea?”

  “No, ma’am.” He held his breath. She had one, no doubt.

  “Thee gentlemen must go to Kentucky and rescue those brave Negroes.” Ma kept her eyes aimed at her plate, but James caught her studying him out of the corner of one eye.

  Pa wiped his beard and slammed his napkin down on the table. “Unthinkable, Mrs. Weaver. As a lawyer, I’m an officer of the court, and a representative of the Kansas Territory government. I’m sworn to uphold the law. Need I remind thee that it’s illegal to aid and abet runaway slaves? Look how I’ve compromised my position already, allowing that woman to live in this house.”

  “And die in this house,” Ma reminded him.

  Rebecca’s imitation of Ma’s voice was perfect: “There’s to be no more talk of dead bodies in this house.”

  Ma smiled, so Pa smiled, and James took advantage of this opportunity to shovel in two more eggs and a biscuit. The green beans could turn gray and moldy for all he cared, but those sweet, tangy raspberries …

  “Solomon Jefferson will go after them,” Ma said.

  “It’s risky, Mrs. Weaver, even with papers proving he’s a free man. Thee recalls how he was taken off by a slave catcher just last year?”

  “And returned, due to thy conscientious legal work,” Ma said, giving Pa this small peace offering. Boy, did she ever know how to butter him up! “Yes, Solomon will have to go.”

  James watched a flush of anger rise up Pa’s neck. “Millicent, thee’s been in Boston all winter. Thee’s thinking like a Yankee. But we are living in Kansas Territory, where ruffians do not always heed the law of the land.”

  “Law, piffle,” Ma said. “Does thee not recognize a higher law? Does thee not hear a still, silent voice beyond thy own, Mr. Weaver?”

  “No, I do not, Mrs. Weaver.”

  Ma tucked a towel around the two biscuits James wished were his own. Her graceful fingers lingered over the basket, a wire-thin gold ring their only adornment. James and Rebecca looked down at their plates while the angry words hung in the air. Finally Ma said, “Then thee must be silent, Caleb, to let the voice into thy head.”

  Silence, James thought, Quaker silence. Their blessing and their curse.

  After a long while, Ma said, “So, we’re agreed? Solomon Jefferson will go after those blessed souls waiting in Kentucky?”

  Pa nodded, working his tongue round inside his cheeks. James could see he was stewing.

  “And thee, James, must go along with Solomon,” Ma continued.

  “Me? Ma!”

  Pa’s words were clipped: “Mrs. Weaver, I implore thee to consider the boy’s welfare, as well as the law of the land.”

  “Mr. Weaver, thee must lift thy nose from thy law books now and again.” She squared her shoulders and turned back to James. “Well, now, is thee to hide behind thy little boy britches? Thee’s thirteen today.”

  A vein throbbed in Pa’s temple as he pushed the food around on his plate. He opened his mouth, but Ma spoke first.

  “I’ve baked a birthday cake for thee, James. We’ll each have a generous wedge.”

  Rebecca complained, “It’s a honey cake with walnuts, even though thee all know I hate walnuts.”

  “Then thy slice shall go to Solomon,” Ma snapped.

  James mashed green beans into a pulp and kept one eye on Pa, who sat at the table’s head, with his fingers locked over his lips and his eyes blazing. Surely Pa would save him from the awful venture. Why was he to be sent to guide the runaways North? He had only a sketchy idea of where Kentucky was and very little common sense. All he wanted to do was draw buildings. Buildings that flowed into the earth they grew out of, buildings framed by the blue horizon, buildings that twinkled in the black of night with lamps carefully spaced in all the windows.

  Ma had lit a thick, white candle in the middle of the cake. “Happy birthday, son.” Her mouth was soft, and her eyes glistened in the candlelight. “Caleb, make way.” Pa drew back on the bench, averting his eyes as Ma set the flaming cake down in front of James. “Tonight we celebrate awhile, before we plan thy journey.”

  James let out a sigh, and the puff of air made the candle flicker just before Rebecca blew it out, as if it were her birthday and not his.

  Pa left the table, to see about the horse, Buttermilk, he said. But James knew Pa was still mad at Ma. It wasn’t the homecoming, it wasn’t the birthday he’d been hoping for.

  Chapter Eleven

  TRAP

  The next morning we propped the swinging door open from the kitchen to check out the scene in the dining room. The Berks were gobbling half a sour cream coffee cake and a quart of giant strawberries dipped in powdered sugar. Mr. Berk guzzled freshly squeezed orange juice as if it were tap water. Mom hovered over them, pouring juice and coffee just about every time they swallowed.

  Behind me, the butter began to sizzle on the stove. Ahn chopped onions and peppers and tomatoes while I beat the eggs and poured them into the skillet. When they started growing a brown crust around the edges, I added Ahn’s veggies and a handful of cheddar shavings. The omelette was a cholesterol nightmare, but Ahn’s brother wouldn’t mind.

  From the dining room, Mom was trying to be civil as the Berks ate everything except the jonquils at the center of the table. “So, what’s on your agenda for today, folks?”

  Mrs. Berk said, “We’re off to the Watkins Museum to do a little research.”

  “Are you writing a book?” Her question was make-talk, but Mr. Berk got fired up.

  “You’re new at this bed-and-breakfast thing, aren’t you? Rulo numero uno: Don’t put your guests through the third degree.”

  “Raymond,” Mrs. Berk warned.

  Mom sounded bright and cheerful, but I heard the bark in her voice, and knew it was only a matter of time until the Mistress of Sarcasm struck. “You might consider visiting Wolcott Castle. It was designed by our own James Baylor Weaver, you know.”

  Mr. Berk said, “That so?”

  “As if he didn’t know,” I whispered to Ahn.

  “Well,” Mom said too brightly, “have a g
reat day. There’s a lovely Mexican hacienda restaurant over on Mass if you like hand-rolled tamales.”

  Their chairs scraped against the hardwood floor as they started for the stairs.

  “You have a bit of a limp this morning, Mr. Berk.” Mom couldn’t have known about the mousetrap, could she? Yet her words were sharp and pointed, piercing like darts. “Did you have an accident? Or is it rheumatism?”

  “New shoes,” he grumbled.

  “Nice joint you got here,” Mattie said, to take the heat off her husband. “Plenty old-time charm.”

  Mom said, “Yes, but you know these old houses. Sometimes you get a mouse or two. The house has been in their family for a hundred generations, and they think they’ve got squatters’ rights. I guess we ought to have a cat roaming the halls. That way we’d never have to set out a mousetrap, would we?”

  Mr. Berk sprayed a mouthful of orange juice across the table.

  Chapter Twelve

  March 1857

  DRED SCOTT

  James stacked the last of the supper dishes on the hutch, while Pa held a boot between his knees and polished it so long and hard that James thought he’d swipe the leather clean off.

  James lined up all the forks and knives in the drawer just the way Ma liked them, like fife-and-drummers marching back-to-belly, not the way he and Pa had tossed them in while she was gone. James relished the clatter of the knives that dimmed Ma’s ramblings.

  “Thee must have some clever disguise for thy trip to Kentucky,” Ma said. “Thee can’t just travel willy-nilly.”

  “If he’s to travel at all,” Pa muttered. Now that brush angrily slapped across the boot.

  The only other sound in the room was Ma mixing sarsaparilla. The grainy sugar scratched the bottom of the kettle. “Thee remembers the story Miss Elizabeth told about Ellen Craft? How she and her husband, William, escaped?”

  Oh, no. She meant for him to travel all wrapped in a smelly poultice!

  “Not me, Ma. It’ll have to be Solomon larded with the poultice and wrapped to his ears like a mummy.”