Mostly White. Alison Hart

hide and seek.

      At dinner a tall dark man enters, takes off his hat, wipes his brow with a kerchief and sits down at the head of the table. Aunt Julia embraces him and fetches him a cool drink of water.

      “How were the horses today, Isaiah?”

      “As they always are, Julia. Mucked plenty of stalls and rode plenty of horses. I see we got company.” He nods at me and Mama.

      “Yes, yes, this is Emma and her daughter Deliah.”

      Mama says nothing and wipes her hands on her apron. She places a bowl of stew and corn bread in front of him.

      “Isn’t it enough we have the grandkids and took in Henry?” Isaiah stabs at the stew and swallows a big spoonful.

      “Wasn’t your nephew’s fault he died on the street without no doctor’s care.” Aunt Julia shakes her head. “I’m not turning family away. Emma is family.”

      “Everyone is family to you.” Isaiah takes a swig of water.

      “That’s right, honey, and the good Lord would want it that way.” Aunt Julia flashes her smile at him. He finishes his meal, gets up slowly and smokes his pipe on the porch.

      After dinner, Aunt Julia gathers us all in front of the fire for story time. She sits in the grand rocking chair and we all sit on the floor staring at her with obedient eyes. Mama is busy cleaning up the supper dishes.

      “Now children, I am an old woman, but I used to be youngins like y’all. I come from a big family, the Freemans, yes, free mans cause we born free. My sister Mary, Emma’s mother, was born free too, but she die of coughing disease. Not everyone was born free back then; no, they slaves, born slaves just like my great-grandpa Paul Freeman. You all remember his name cause that is why you here in Maine. He was a big man, born a slave in Massachusetts, that’s where your mama is, Henry, working for them white folks. But she free—he wasn’t free. He had a family—they’s wasn’t free neither. Then there was this war, you see, white folks fighting each other, the white folks that live here in America wanted their freedom. Ain’t that something? White folks wasn’t free from other white folks, but black folks not free from white folks. Anyhow, white folks in America wanted freedom from them other British white folks, so there was a war. And my great-grandpa Paul, he was smart. He saw an opportunity to get free, and he fought in that white people’s war and the white Americans won, they got their freedom, so Great-grandpa Paul, you know what he’d done?” All of our eyes are open wide and you can’t hear a sound but the fire crackling. “He done got his freedom from fighting in that white people’s war, and he took his family to Brunswick and that’s how I came and that’s how you all came. So children, you are somebody, you free, you come from Freeman. Now wash up and get to bed.” Everyone gets up except Henry, he sits in front of the rocking chair with his brows knit together.

      “Aunt Julia?”

      “Yes, Henry.”

      “What about Granduncle Isaiah, he a Freeman?”

      “Your granduncle, no, but he a fighter too.”

      “How?”

      “I met your granduncle Isaiah when my brother Augustus came back from the war that freed the slaves. He brought Isaiah home with him. Isaiah fought alongside Augustus with the colored soldiers so he fought for his freedom too, yes he did. Augustus lost an arm, but Isaiah you see intact. My family took him in. That’s what we did, took people in, made them our own. Now we together, I loved him first time I seen him.”

      “What stories you telling, Julia?” Isaiah puts his hands on her shoulders.

      “I’m telling him you is a fighter.” Julia rocks in her chair.

      “Come here, boy,” Isaiah orders Henry. Henry quickly gets up and stands in front of Isaiah. “Yes, I am, fought for everything I got, still fighting, son. Don’t you ever give up. You come from warriors.”

      “Yes sir, I won’t forget.”

      Isaiah pats Henry’s head. “Now go on to bed now with the others.”

      Henry leaves carrying himself a little higher with his chest puffed up and pride in his eyes. He finds a spot on the bed with the other boys and goes to sleep.

      We stayed at Aunt Julia’s until the Indian man came to visit. Granduncle Isaiah brought him: his name was Charles. He ate with us and Mama served him. He spoke the old language with Mama and she spoke back.

      The rooster crows. Mama shakes my legs and tells me to pack my bag. I throw my blanket off; the floor is cold underneath my bare feet. I slide my cotton dress over my head and put on my coat. I pack my one nice dress, blanket and Papa’s bible in my bag. I wait for Mama on the porch. Henry, sullen as usual, strolls over to me.

      “Where you going?”

      “Don’t know.”

      “Well, ain’t you leaving?”

      “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m going back home,” I say, squeezing the bag against my chest.

      Quick as a flash Henry kisses my cheek. “I’m gonna marry you one day.” And he runs off into the yard. I quickly wipe the wet mark his lips imprinted on my cheek. We left that day, the Indian man Charles came with a horse and a cart. Mama picked me up and placed me in the cart and climbed in next to me. We waved goodbye to Aunt Julia who flashed her brilliant smile, and the boys ran alongside the cart as far as they could. Henry stayed behind leaning against the front door; those big eyes I would see again, yes, I would.

       BEAR SPIRIT

      I called him Papa Charles. We had a small place, close to the town. We lived near lots of other Indian families. People came to Papa Charles and asked him for help. They brought him food and other gifts and Papa Charles would light sage and talk in the old language. It was mysterious. I never knew what they were saying though I felt something deep. Mama grew potatoes and began making moonshine—I helped. Papa Charles hunted deer and fished, still at times we went hungry. I liked going down to the bay where Papa Charles fished in his canoe. Sometimes he’d catch a seal, or fish using nets. Every day the water called me and I’d say a prayer for my papa. Once a great blue heron swooped above me and I was sure it was Papa sending me a good luck message.

      Beatrice was born. I was a big girl, eight years old. I cared for her even though Mama didn’t ask me to. I sang her to sleep like Papa did for me. My baby Beah, that’s what I called her. As she started to walk, she’d follow me around as I pulled weeds, fetched water, and helped Mama with the still. Mama kept having babies, one after the other. By the time Beah was eight there was Mary, seven, Eleanor, six, and Samuel Joe, four. Samuel Joe was Mama’s favorite, she made sure I kept an eye on him. Mama beat all of us except him, wouldn’t lay a hand on him. Papa Charles never hit us, but Mama, when she was in one of her moods, we would clear out of her way.

      I’d walk with Mama to town and we’d sell moonshine to the speakeasies. I loved the music; I’d come home humming songs. I was excited to enter the world of music and pretty women. I wanted to be one of those women; I studied them and practiced their faces at home.

      * * *

      Everything changed the day the agents came. Papa Charles had gone fishing. I was helping Mama peel potatoes to boil. They barged in without knocking, walking in like they owned the place, like they owned us—

      Samuel Joe hid in Mama’s skirts. Beah, Mary, and Eleanor ran to me. The agent’s black boots clicked as he walked. “We got a full house here … four children school age.” His partner made notes in a small book. The agent with the black boots pointed his stick at me. “How old are you?”

      Mama’s face froze with rage. “You can’t come here!” She charged after him and he held her wrists effortlessly. Mama kicked him. “Get out! Get out of here!”

      “Ma’am, if you continue like this we will have to arrest you. This is a Federal Ordinance, all Indian children must be sent to residential school, which