Sarah
Spring turned to summer, and when Madame Ruffin suspended classes until
the fall, I asked Thomas to expand our private lessons on the piazza.
“I’m afraid we have to stop them altogether,” he said. “I have my own
studies to consider. Father has ordered me to undertake a systematic study
of his law books in preparation for Yale.”
“I could help you!” I cried.
“Sarah, Sarah, quite contra-rah.” It was the phrase he used when his
refusal was foregone and final.
He had no idea the extent I’d enmeshed him in my plans. There was a
string of barrister firms on Broad Street, from the Exchange to St.
Michael’s, and I pictured the two of us partnered in one of them with a
signboard out front, Grimké and Grimké. Of course, there would be an outand-out skirmish with the rank and file, but with Thomas at my side and
Father at my back, nothing would prevent it.
I bore down on Father’s law books every afternoon myself.
In the mornings, I read aloud to Hetty in my room with the door bolted.
When the air cooked to unbearable degrees, we escaped to the piazza, and
there, sitting side by side in the swing, we sang songs that Hetty composed,
most of them about traveling across water by boat or whale. Her legs swung
back and forth like little batons. Sometimes we sat before the windows in
the second-floor alcove and played Lace the String. Hetty always seemed to
have a stash of red thread in her dress pocket and we spent hours passing it
through our upstretched fingers, creating intricate, bloodshot mazes in the
air.
Such occupations are what girls do together, but it was the first occasion
for either of us, and we carried them out as covertly as possible to avoid
Mother putting an end to them. We were crossing a dangerous line, Hetty
and I.

One morning while Charleston turned miserably on the brazier of summer,
Hetty and I lay flat on our stomachs on the rug in my room while I read
aloud from Don Quixote. The week before, Mother had ordered the
mosquito nettings out of storage and affixed above the beds in anticipation
of the bloodsucking season, but having no such protection, the slaves were
already scratching and clawing at their skin. They rubbed themselves with
lard and molasses to draw out the itch and trailed its eau de cologne through
the house.
Hetty dug at an inflamed mosquito bite on her forearm and frowned at
the book pages as if they were some kind of irresolvable code. I wanted her
to listen to the exploits of the knight and Sancho Panza, but she interrupted
me repeatedly, placing her finger on some word or other, asking, “What
does that one say?” and I would have to break off the story to tell her. She’d
done the same thing recently as we read The Life and Strange Surprizing
Adventures of Robinson Crusoe of York, and I wondered if, perhaps, she
was merely bored with the antics of men, from the shipwrecked to the
chivalrous.
As I sent my voice into dramatic lilts and accents, trying to lure her
back into the tale, the room grew dark, tinctured with an approaching storm.
Wind blew through the open window, coming thick with the smell of rain
and oleander, swirling the veils of the mosquito net. I stopped reading, as
thunder broke and rain splatted across the sill.
Hetty and I leapt up in unison and drew down the pane, and there,
swooping low in the yellow gloom, was the young owl that Charlotte and
Hetty had fed faithfully through the spring. It had grown out of its fledgling
ways, but it had not vacated its residence in the woodpile.
I watched it fly straight toward us, arcing across George Street and
gliding over the work yard wall, its comical barn owl face strikingly visible.
As the bird disappeared, Hetty went to light the lamp, but I was fixed there.
What came to me was the day at the woodpile when Charlotte first showed
me the bird, and I remembered the oath I’d made to help Hetty become free,
a promise impossible to fulfill and one that continued to cause me no end of
guilt, but it suddenly rang clear in me for the first time: Charlotte said I
should help Hetty get free any way I could.
Turning, I watched her carry the lantern to my dressing table, light
swilling about her feet. When she set it down, I said, “Hetty, shall I teach
you to read?”

Equipped with an elementary primer, two blue-back spellers, a slate board,
and lump of chalk, we began daily lessons in my room. Not only did I lock
the door, I screened the keyhole. Our tutorials went on throughout the
morning for two or more hours. When we ended them, I wrapped the
materials in a swath of coarse cloth, known as Negro cloth, and tucked the
bundle beneath my bed.
I’d never taught anyone to read, but I’d been tutored in copious amounts
of Latin by Thomas and subjected to enough of Madame to devise a
reasonable scheme. As it turned out, Hetty had a knack. Within a week, she
could write and recite the alphabet. Within two, she was sounding out
words in the spellers. I’ll never forget the moment when she made the
magical connection in her mind and the letters and sounds passed from
nonsense into meaning. After that, she read through the primer with
growing proficiency.
By page forty, she had a vocabulary of eighty-six words. I recorded and
numbered each one she mastered on a sheaf of paper. “When you reach a
hundred words,” I promised her, “we’ll celebrate with a tea.”
She began to decipher words on apothecary labels and food jars. “How
do you spell Hetty?” she wanted to know. “How do you spell water?” Her
appetite to learn was voracious.
Once, I glimpsed her in the work yard writing in the dirt with a stick
and I raced into the yard to stop her. She’d scrawled W-A-T-E-R with exact
penmanship for the entire world to see.
“What are you doing?” I said, rubbing the letters away with my foot.
“Someone will see.”
She was equally exasperated with me. “Don’t you think I got my own
foot to rub out letters, if somebody comes along?”
She conquered her hundredth word on the thirteenth of July.

We held her celebratory tea the next day on the hipped roof of the house,
hoping to catch sight of the Bastille Day festivities. We had a sizeable
French population from St. Domingo, a French theatre, and a French
finishing school on every corner. A French hair-dresser frizzed and

powdered Mother and her friends, regaling them with accounts of the
guillotining of Marie Antoinette, which he claimed to have witnessed.
Charleston was British to the soles of its feet, but it observed the destruction
of the Bastille with as much zeal as our own independence.
We climbed into the attic with two china cups and a jar of black tea
spiked with hyssop and honey. From there, we mounted a ladder that led to
a hatch in the roof. Thomas had discovered the secret opening at thirteen
and taken me up to wander among the chimneys. Snow spotted us as he
drove Mother home from one of her charity missions, and without a word to
her, he’d climbed up and retrieved us. I’d not ventured here since.
Hetty and I nestled into one of the gullies on the south side with our
backs against a slope. She claimed never to have drunk from a china cup
and gulped quickly, while I sipped slowly and stared at the hard blue pane
over our heads. When the populace marched in procession along Broad
Street, they were too far away for us to see, but we heard them singing the
Hymne des Marseillois. The bells of St. Philip’s chimed and there was a
salute of thirteen guns.
Birds had been loitering on the roof, and scatterings of feathers were
here and there. Hetty tucked them into her pockets, and something about
this created a feeling of tenderness in me. Perhaps I was a little drunk on
hyssop and honey, on the novelty of being girls together on the roof.
Whatever it was, I began telling Hetty confidences I’d kept only with
myself.
I told her I was accomplished at eavesdropping, that I’d stood outside
Charlotte’s room the night she was punished and heard the story she told.
“I know,” she said. “You not so good at snooping as you think.”
I spilled every possible secret. My sister Mary despised me. Thomas
had been my only friend. I’d been dismissed as an unfit teacher of slave
children, but she shouldn’t worry, it was not due to incompetence.
As I went on, my revelations turned grave. “I saw Rosetta being
whipped one time,” I told her. “I was four. That was when the trouble with
my speech began.”
“It seems like you’re talking all right now.”
“It comes and goes.”
“Was Rosetta hurt bad?”
“I think it was very bad.”
“What’d she do wrong?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask—I couldn’t speak afterward, not for weeks.”
We turned taciturn, leaning back and gazing at the crenulated clouds.
Talk of Rosetta had sobered us more than I’d intended, far too much for a
tea celebrating a hundred-word vocabulary.
Hoping to restore the mood, I said, “I’m going to be a lawyer like my
father.” I was surprised to hear myself blurt this out, the crown jewel of
secrets, and feeling suddenly exposed, I added, “But you can’t tell anyone.”
“I don’t have nobody to tell. Just mauma.”
“Well, you can’t even tell her. Promise me.”
She nodded.
Satisfied, I thought of the lava box and my silver button. “Do you know
how an object can stand for something entirely different than its purpose?”
She looked at me blankly, while I tried to think of a way to explain. “You
know my mother’s cane, for instance—how it’s meant to help her walk, but
we all know what it stands for.”
“Whacking heads.” After a pause, she added, “A triangle on a quilt
stands for a blackbird wing.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Well, I have a stone box in my dresser with a
button inside. A button is meant for fastening clothes, but this one is
beautiful, just plain uncommon, so I decided to let it stand for my desire to
be a lawyer.”
“I know about the button. I didn’t touch it, I just opened the box and
looked at it.”
“I don’t mind if you hold it,” I told her.
“I have a thimble and it stands for pushing a needle and keeping my
fingertip from turning sore, but I could let that stand for something else.”
When I asked her what, she said, “I don’t know, ’cept I wanna sew like
mauma.”
Hetty got into the spirit. She retold the entire story I’d overheard her
mother tell that night about her grandmother coming from Africa,
appliquéing quilts with the triangles. When Hetty talked about the spirit
tree, her voice took on a reverential tone.
Before we went back down the hatch, Hetty said, “I took a spool of
thread from your room. It was laying in your drawer no use to anybody. I’m
sorry, I can bring it back.”
“Oh. Well, go ahead and keep it, but please Hetty, don’t steal anymore,
even little things. You could land in terrible trouble.”

As we descended the ladder, she said, “My real name is Handful.”