Free Grace by Natashia Deon Page A

Annie Graham patters her foot below the hem of her blue satin gown making the fabric bounce and the light reflect off of its sewn-on silver flakes, spitting sparkle. The flakes follow the dress’s neckline and make a trail down her shoulder and her crossed arms, where the white dots of light cast freckles on her angry face. Annie looks broken and old even though she ain’t more than twenty-nine.
    â€œBessie,” Annie calls to a dark-skinned field negro she’s trying to train to be light. Light, ’cause most housework’s done by the offspring of the raped: mixed-raced and birthed out of broken wombs. “Bessie,” Annie say again, this time with her voice raised. She steps in front of Bessie and puts her hand near Bessie’s neck. The touching makes Bessie shiver like a wet dog, drenched—a common condition for older slaves that Annie buys new. They must have never been shown mercy.
    â€œHow many times must I tell you?” Annie say. “Your collar needs to be pressed down. The ends are intended to remain straight throughout the day. Properly ironed and cared for. Not curled up in this fashion.”
    â€œYes’m, Missus Annie.” Bessie starts crying.
    â€œThere’s a particular way to do everything. A right way,” Annie say. “Do you understand me?”
    â€œYes’m.”
    â€œWhy are you crying?” Annie say, stepping away. “Am I harsh in my instruction?”
    Bessie puts her head down, shakes it slowly, “No, ma’am.”
    â€œWhen you do it right the first time, there’s never a need to cry. Never a regret. It’s either right or it’s wrong. The sooner you learn that, the better. This will be what’s required of you if you are to remain in this household. Do you understand me?”
    â€œYes’m, Miss Annie.”
    Annie snaps a loose thread from the second buttonhole of Bessie’s blouse. “Everything in its right order.” She puts the string in Bessie’s hand. “Discard it properly,” she tells her.
    â€œYes’m.”
    â€œAnd I don’t mean for you to drop it along the way.”
    â€œYes’m, Miss Annie.”
    Next to the bed, water trickles into a basin as a light-skinned slave twists a wet rag in it. When the rag stops dripping, she slides away the mosquito netting that surrounds the bed and lays the rag on Josey’s forehead. Her body is drowned in covers, her head sunk into the pillow. Only the tip of her nose and her cracked pink lips show. She breathes lightly.
    A lanky old white man, a doctor, sits down on the bed next to us and puts his big head on Josey’s chest, listening. He sits up and puts his fingertips on the center of her ribcage, massaging around in little circles. He say, “It’s not my intention to call to question your methods, Missus Graham, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that it is highly irregular for this child to be in this house.”
    â€œIs her chest clear?” Annie say.
    He lowers his head back down and listens just as Bessie comes back through the door carrying a cup of black coffee. “Place it there,” Annie tells her, and Bessie sets it next to the basin.
    Annie say, “Have you met Bessie, Doctor? She was trained by Mrs. Durand herself. Her coffee would stand against all challengers in these parts. Tea, especially.”
    â€œTraining is one thing, Annie. But this gal in the bed . . .”
    â€œShe is my property, Doctor. I’ll do what’s best to see she’s cared for.”
    â€œI urge you not to be so giving. This room . . . your good coffee. If Richard were here . . .”
    â€œBessie, try to wake her,” Annie say. “Have her drink the coffee. It’ll loosen her chest.”
    â€œYes’m,” Bessie say.
    Bessie puts her hand behind Josey’s head to lift her up to sitting, waking her for coffee. Josey takes a few sleepy swallows.
    â€œI . . .