Free The Healing by Jonathan Odell Page B
Authors: Jonathan Odell
daddy got his name on the deed, the master won’t go against her. One word from her, daft or not, her daddy could turn Master Ben into a regular Mr. Ben. He knows it and she knows it. They at a draw and you in the middle.”
Sylvie had been right about busy hands. As the thick slabs of side meat began to sizzle, giving off its aroma, and the house servants, the only family Granada had ever known, ambled into the kitchen, taking their usual places around the big pine table, Granada’s spirits began to rise.
By the time she returned from the cistern with a bucket of water,Chester had already made himself the center of attention. He caught Granada’s eye and winked, like he was saying, Watch this!
Granada went about her work minding the pots and putting the food on platters, but she kept an eye on Chester so as not to miss his latest caper.
“Now just the other day I rode the master by the banker’s house in Delphi. While I stayed back in the buggy, I heard the master tell that banker to draw out a draft for five thousand dollars.”
“That ain’t no big secret,” Pomp groused as he sat down to join them at the table. “That banker keeps the master’s money. To get his money, he naturally got to go where the money is kept.”
“But what you ain’t guessed is what that money is going to buy. See, I’m telling you I got some answers none of y’all can guess.” Chester smiled and waited.
“Well, I suspect it’s probably for some sheep or some cows,” Aunt Sylvie ventured. “Nothing special about that.”
“Maybe a new horse,” Granada guessed, taken up in the show Chester was putting on.
“Listen to that girl,” Chester laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t matter what the question is, she’s all the time guessing the answer is a horse.”
Aunt Sylvie frowned at Granada, letting her know this was her time to work, not to guess. Granada grabbed a kitchen rag and pulled a skillet of corn pone from the rack.
“Could be a boatload of near about anything,” Pomp said. “Molasses, spirits, a hundred barrels full of brogan shoes. This don’t sound like a big secret to me.”
Satisfied he had stumped them, Chester leaned in over the table and whispered, “He says he was going to market and buy him a slave!”
“Naw!” snorted Pomp, the saddle of red freckles across his nose bunching up when he scowled. “Five thousand dollars for just one head? You bound to misheard. Ain’t no slave costs that much. And the master don’t buy slaves off the plantation no way. He was braggingabout that yesterday to his company, how he can raise as many as he needs.”
“I ain’t lying!” Chester exclaimed. “And you should of been there to hear that pink-faced banker squeal! Sounded like a stuck pig.” Chester squeaked in his highest register, imitating the banker. “ ‘Mr. Satterfield! That’s enough for four good niggers or a wagonload of used-up ones. What’s so special about this one?’ ”
Granada set out the tin plates. The talk about buying slaves was new to her. She believed everybody on the plantation was like her, born and raised on the place. She figured slaves were just something that came with the land, like trees and swamps and white-tailed deer.
But whatever the answer, Granada could tell that Chester was enjoying himself, savoring the fact that he knew something the others were dying to be let in on. The only person making any sound was half-blind Silas slurping hot coffee from his saucer.
Pomp, whose buttermilk cheeks were always the first to redden, finally blurted, “Go on and finish what you started, Chester. What did the master say? What so special about this one?”
Chester leaned in over the table again and whispered, “That was the queerest thing of all. Master Ben, he don’t say
nothing
to explain himself. All he said was it’ll be something like nobody in these parts has ever seen before. Then he told that banker to make a draft written out to a broker in North
Sylvie had been right about busy hands. As the thick slabs of side meat began to sizzle, giving off its aroma, and the house servants, the only family Granada had ever known, ambled into the kitchen, taking their usual places around the big pine table, Granada’s spirits began to rise.
By the time she returned from the cistern with a bucket of water,Chester had already made himself the center of attention. He caught Granada’s eye and winked, like he was saying, Watch this!
Granada went about her work minding the pots and putting the food on platters, but she kept an eye on Chester so as not to miss his latest caper.
“Now just the other day I rode the master by the banker’s house in Delphi. While I stayed back in the buggy, I heard the master tell that banker to draw out a draft for five thousand dollars.”
“That ain’t no big secret,” Pomp groused as he sat down to join them at the table. “That banker keeps the master’s money. To get his money, he naturally got to go where the money is kept.”
“But what you ain’t guessed is what that money is going to buy. See, I’m telling you I got some answers none of y’all can guess.” Chester smiled and waited.
“Well, I suspect it’s probably for some sheep or some cows,” Aunt Sylvie ventured. “Nothing special about that.”
“Maybe a new horse,” Granada guessed, taken up in the show Chester was putting on.
“Listen to that girl,” Chester laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t matter what the question is, she’s all the time guessing the answer is a horse.”
Aunt Sylvie frowned at Granada, letting her know this was her time to work, not to guess. Granada grabbed a kitchen rag and pulled a skillet of corn pone from the rack.
“Could be a boatload of near about anything,” Pomp said. “Molasses, spirits, a hundred barrels full of brogan shoes. This don’t sound like a big secret to me.”
Satisfied he had stumped them, Chester leaned in over the table and whispered, “He says he was going to market and buy him a slave!”
“Naw!” snorted Pomp, the saddle of red freckles across his nose bunching up when he scowled. “Five thousand dollars for just one head? You bound to misheard. Ain’t no slave costs that much. And the master don’t buy slaves off the plantation no way. He was braggingabout that yesterday to his company, how he can raise as many as he needs.”
“I ain’t lying!” Chester exclaimed. “And you should of been there to hear that pink-faced banker squeal! Sounded like a stuck pig.” Chester squeaked in his highest register, imitating the banker. “ ‘Mr. Satterfield! That’s enough for four good niggers or a wagonload of used-up ones. What’s so special about this one?’ ”
Granada set out the tin plates. The talk about buying slaves was new to her. She believed everybody on the plantation was like her, born and raised on the place. She figured slaves were just something that came with the land, like trees and swamps and white-tailed deer.
But whatever the answer, Granada could tell that Chester was enjoying himself, savoring the fact that he knew something the others were dying to be let in on. The only person making any sound was half-blind Silas slurping hot coffee from his saucer.
Pomp, whose buttermilk cheeks were always the first to redden, finally blurted, “Go on and finish what you started, Chester. What did the master say? What so special about this one?”
Chester leaned in over the table again and whispered, “That was the queerest thing of all. Master Ben, he don’t say
nothing
to explain himself. All he said was it’ll be something like nobody in these parts has ever seen before. Then he told that banker to make a draft written out to a broker in North