Free Lazaretto by Diane Mckinney-Whetstone

and then he asked her if her maid was treating her well today. She, thinking it a joke, laughed.
    â€œIsn’t the colored lady you are with your maid?” he said and stooped so that he was looking in her eyes.
    â€œShe is my cousin. Sylvia. I do not have a maid,” she said, as if he were a silly boy who needed correcting.
    â€œYou do not? Well, a pretty lass like you deserves her own maid, you could come home with me and have a maid and a pony, and you could swim in the lake every morning because my house sits right on the lake.”
    â€œWhere do you live?”
    â€œI live in a place called Poughkeepsie.”
    Vergie giggled at the sound of the name.
    â€œSo what do you say? Would you like to visit Poughkeepsie? We could teach you to swim.” He stood and held out his hand.
    Vergie stared up at the man. Her father had already taught her to swim when he’d take her on fishing trips from the time she could walk. He had complimented her on her swimming just last week, complimented her generally on how proud he was of how smart she was getting. He’d said he admired how she was learning to call on her good senses, and that as she got older, and started moving around in the world without Sylvia or Maze or him to guide her, she would find times when she wouldn’t knowfor sure which direction to tell her feet to carry her. When that day comes, he said, you just say, “Come on, good sense, show me the way.” Vergie had laughed at the prospect of literally calling on her good sense like that, though she thought that’s what she should do in that moment as the man whispered for her to take his hand so that they could sneak out of the side door. But then her good sense was clouded when he mentioned the pony again, and she asked him what was the pony’s name.
    â€œWell, of course it doesn’t have a name; it’s waiting for you to give it a name when it belongs to only you. You may take it for walks and feed it blocks of sugar and brush its back and it will go ‘Neigh, neigh, thank you, Vergie.’”
    She gushed at the thought as he told her that the pony was right outside. “Do you want to meet it?” he asked. She looked down at the other end of the block-long store where Sylvia was awaiting her turn in line. “Your cousin will not even know you are gone,” he said as Vergie allowed him to take her hand and pull her into the shock of the outside light. A carriage waited, and at first Vergie thought that it was the same carriage she and Sylvia had taken to get there. The horses were stamping their hooves as if saying “Hurry, we’re past ready to run,” and then Vergie realized that this wasn’t her carriage, and she heard her good sense tell her to yank her hand away from this man and run back into the store. But it was too late as she felt herself swooped up into the air. She yelled and kicked, and people passing by stopped and turned in the direction of the commotion, but with the way Vergie was dressed this morning, in her high-society outfit, she appeared perfectly suited for this carriage, for this prosperously appointed man handing her over to a woman who opened the door to the carriage and stretched her hands out and grabbed Vergie, a woman in a wide-brimmed hat with pink feathers and a veil that seemed to match the pink fringes on Vergie’s petticoat. The few people whohad turned in the directions of Vergie’s screams resumed their activities, counting Vergie as just another indulged little rich white girl resorting to her usual tactics to get her way and her parents were getting the response they deserved.
    The husband was up on the box and the horses answered his commands and clopped away. The woman held on to Vergie with desperate arms as she pressed the little girl’s head against her chest so hard and close that Vergie could smell the vanilla rising off her skin. “I am your mother now,” she yelled