Free Zeely by Virginia Hamilton Page B

much summer.”
    “Did you have hogs there, too?” Geeder asked. She entwined her fingers, eager to talk.
    “We always have hogs,” Zeely said. “We sell the best. We eat the meat of those that are left.” She looked away from Geeder. “It’s by them that we live.”
    The way Zeely spoke about the hogs made Geeder feel she had said something wrong. She grew uneasy. “Well,” she said, “I just thought it was maybe Tallahassee you came from. I remember someone told me that.”
    “The same someone who says I am a queen?” Zeely asked. Her eyes held to Geeder’s.
    Geeder’s hands flew to her face. “I didn’t mean anything bad!” she cried. “Miss Zeely? Here!” She fumbled in her blouse and her hand shook as she gave Zeely the photograph of the Watutsi woman.
    Zeely looked at the photograph. She smiled, vaguely, as though she didn’t know she smiled. Finally, she gave the picture back to Geeder. She sat stiff and still. She could have been carved out of the trees, so dark was she seated there. Then, the rigid mask of her face melted, as if it were made of wax. A smile parted her lips. From deep in her throat came a warm, sweet giggle. She threw back her head and laughed and laughed. It was to Geeder a delicious, soft sound.
    Geeder was so happy, she began to laugh, too, and got up to sit next to Zeely. All at once, they were side by side, just the way Geeder had dreamed it.
    “You are very much the way I was at your age,” Zeely said.
    “You were like me? ” Geeder said. “Were you just like me?”
    Zeely smiled. “I mean that because you found this picture, you were able to make up a good story about me. I once made up a story about myself, too.”
    “Miss Zeely!” Geeder said. “I wouldn’t have told a soul if I hadn’t found that picture. The picture is proof!”
    Carefully, Zeely ran her long fingers over her robe. “My mother’s people were Watutsi people out of Africa a long time ago,” she said quietly.
    “Just like the lady in the picture!” Geeder said.
    “Yes,” said Zeely, “and I believed that through my veins ran the blood of kings and queens! So it was that my mother came to make this robe for me,” Zeely said. “I had asked her many questions about her people—I talked of nothing else for quite a while. She made this robe exactly like the ones they wore.” Then she added, “I put it on today because wearing it, I can be more the way I was. You may touch it, if you like.”
    And very gently, Geeder touched it.
    “It’s just the most pretty thing,” Geeder whispered, “it’s the most pretty dress in the world!”
    Zeely laughed. It was a quick, dry sound. Ever so slowly, the pleasure faded from her. A sadness came over her. Geeder sensed Zeely moving away to a place within herself.
    “When I was your age,” Zeely said, “my mother died.”
    “Oh!” Geeder said, “I’m awfully sorry, Miss Zeely.”
    Zeely didn’t say anything for a time. Then, she began again. “I was tall,” she said. “The children laughed at my skinny arms and my long legs. I wore my robe all the time, for I thought it beautiful and I wanted the children to believe about me what you have come to believe.”
    “But you are a Watutsi,” Geeder said.
    “Yes,” said Zeely, “but wait . . .”
    “You just said you came from Africa,” Geeder said.
    “Wait!” Zeely said. “We all came out of Africa—what of it?”
    Geeder was quiet. She wasn’t sure what was happening and she wished, suddenly, for Toeboy.
    “I remember,” Zeely began, “some time before my mother died, I wore my robe every day. My mother didn’t like that. She would say, ‘Zeely, you must wear clothes like other children, you must play and be like other children!’ I would say, ‘No, mama. No!’ and one day she sat me down and told me a story.”
    “A story?” Geeder said.
    “Yes,” said Zeely. “One day, when my mother was very sick, she called me to her. She had this story to tell me. I remember she