Free A Woman so Bold by L.S. Young Page A

young black woman named Mabel. She scolded us for running off with the boys and ruining our hair and clothes, but in time we were forgiven and sent upstairs to play with her daughter Tansy, a beautiful child with caramel skin and a cloud of dark, curly hair.
    At home, I had a rag doll Mama had sewn and several cornhusk dolls, but I was floored when I saw that Ida had at least two dozen, all with painted china faces and beautiful silk or calico dresses. They were so lovely I was afraid to touch them. Finally, I took one, cradling it in my arms. When Tansy made no move to touch any of the others, I offered mine to her, but Ida snatched it.
    “That girl don’t get to touch my things,” she snapped. I gave Tansy an apologetic glance, and she glared at me in stony silence. Mama had always taught me to be kind to Negroes. “You live in a man’s world, Landra,” she would tell me, “where men rule. Women do as they’re bid, and for the colored folks, it’s even worse, even if they are supposed to be free. You must treat them with kindness.”
    Sometime later, Mabel entered and presented us with cookies and milk then left again, taking Tansy with her. They were not the rich, earthy molasses cookies I was used to, but dainty ones made of white flour and sprinkled with sparkling grains of sugar. Ida consumed hers in a couple of bites, but I ate mine in small, careful nibbles, relishing every morsel.
    I was enchanted by the beauty and extravagance of the Monday children and their upbringing from that day forward. Their mother’s absence, their father’s obsession with his work, and the way these things increased Clyde’s cruelty and Ida’s passionate nature; all of this I observed with private interest. Ida had an unending desire for pleasure and excitement, even as she was surrounded by plenty. It took me years to realize she was the loneliest person I had ever known, even lonelier than myself, forgotten as I was by my father, unloved by my stepmother.
    Ida’s mother, Hannah, had been struck by a low-lying branch while riding her horse when Ida was barely out of diapers. She lay unconscious for two days, and when she came out of her stupor, was no longer herself. The injury gave her frequent headaches and terrible mood swings, for which her doctor prescribed a mixture of water, whiskey, and opium. By the time we were in our teens, the only thing Ida’s mother cared about was what she called her “dose.” Her glazed eyes and listless manner gave away her dependence, and she spent most of her days prostrated on the chaise lounge in her boudoir, with the shades drawn to keep the sunlight from hurting her eyes. That is, if she got out of bed at all.
    Meanwhile, Ida went about her business, selecting dress patterns from Godey Lady’s book for her tailor, defying her governess, bossing Tansy, and tagging along after Clyde so she could flirt with his friends, which included Eric. By the age of twenty, she was utterly overlooked in her own house. Her mother was a shade, and her father amused himself with his horses and his whores to escape the sepulcher of their once lively house. Ida was left to her private amusements: fashion, finery, and beaux, all of which she had a plenty.
    She was known throughout our county and the next for being fast, yet even more renowned than her appetite for love was her beauty. She held men in sway like a siren of the ancient Greek sea. Even I was entranced by her, and my entrancement outweighed my jealousy, although I disliked my snarling curls and peasant girl face, and envied her. Dimples did not dare to degrade the perfection of Ida’s physiognomy, nor did freckles.
    Her skin was not the alabaster pale that was the fashion in our day. She tanned easily, burnished golden by the ruthless Florida sun in summer, but in winter her complexion lightened to a rich peaches and cream. She had a pert celestial nose, a sweet chin, and two lovingly placed beauty marks, one above her delicate mouth, and