Handful
Mauma pretended a limp, and I got the real one. I used her old wood cane,
but it came up to my chest—more like a crutch than a cane.
One day when the rain poured and Goodis couldn’t work the garden, he
said to me, “Gimme that cane.”
“What for?”
“Just give it here,” he said, so I did.
The rest of the day, he sat in the stable and whittled. When he came
back, he had the cane clasped behind his back. He said, “I sure hope you
like rabbits.”
Not only had the man trimmed off the bottom end to make it the right
size, he’d carved the handle into a rabbit head. It had a round, speckled
nose, big eyes, and two long ears going straight back. He’d even notched
the wood to look like fur.
I said, “I like rabbits now.”
That was one of the kindliest things ever done for me. One time I asked
him how he got his name, and he said his mauma gave it to him when he
was ten cause he was the goodest one of her children.
I could travel with the cane like nobody’s business. Cindie saw me
coming to the kitchen house for supper that night and said I was springing
cross the yard like a rabbit. I had to laugh at that.
The day after Cindie praised me, they took her off somewhere and we
never saw her again. Aunt-Sister said her mind had worn out, that missus
had sent her off with Thomas to their plantation, where she’d live out her
days. Thomas, he was the one taking care of the plantation now, and sure
enough, he came back with a new maid for missus named Minta.
God help the girl.
Cindie getting sent off like that put a scare in all of us. I went back to
my sewing duties faster than you could say the word rabbit. I showed
missus how I could go up the stairs. I climbed sure and steady, and when I

got to the top, she said, “Well done, Hetty. I’m sure you know how much it
grieved me to send you to the Work House.”
I nodded to let her know what a heavy burden this must’ve been for her.
Then she said, “Sadly, these things become necessary at times, and you
do seem to have profited. As for your foot . . . well, I regret the accident, but
look at you. You’re getting about fine.”
“Yessum.” I gave her a curtsy from the top step, thinking what Mr.
Vesey said one time at church: I have one mind for the master to see. I have
another mind for what I know is me.

I heard a tap-tap on my door one afternoon late, and Sarah stood there with
her freckle face white as an eggshell. I’d been working on master Grimké’s
pants—missus had sent a slew of them down, said they were hanging off
him too big. When Sarah came in, I was hobbling round the cutting table,
spreading out a pair of britches to see what I could do. I set the shears
down.
“. . . I only want to say . . . Well, I have to go away . . . Up north. I . . . I
don’t know when I’ll be able to return.”
She was talking with the pauses back in her voice, telling me about the
doctor in Philadelphia, her having to nurse her daddy, being parted from
Nina, all the miseries of packing that waited for her. I listened and thought
to myself, White folks think you care about everything in the world that
happens to them, every time they stub their toe.
“That’s a millstone for you,” I told her, “I’m sorry,” and the minute it
left my mouth, I knew it was coming from the true mind that was me, not
the mind for the master to see. I was sorry for her. Sarah had jimmied
herself into my heart, but at the same time, I hated the eggshell color of her
face, the helpless way she looked at me all the time. She was kind to me
and she was part of everything that stole my life.
“. . . You take care of yourself while I’m gone,” she said.
Watching her walk to the door, I made up my mind. “Remember how
you asked me a while ago if I needed anything? Well, I need something.”
She turned back and her face had brightened. “Of course . . . whatever I
can do.”
“I need a signed note.”

“. . . What kind of note?”
“One that gives me permission to be on the street. In case somebody
stops me out there.”
“Oh.” That was all she said for a minute. Then, “. . . Mother doesn’t
want you going out, not for a while . . . She has designated Phoebe to do the
marketing. Besides, they closed the African church—there won’t be
anything to attend.”
I could’ve told you the church was doomed, but it was a blow to hear it.
“I still need a pass, though.”
“. . . Why? Where do you need to go? . . . It’s dangerous, Handful.”
“I spent most of my life getting and doing for you and never have asked
for a thing. I got places to go, they’re my own business.”
She raised her voice at me. The first time. “. . . And how do you propose
to get off the property?”
Looking down on us was the little window mauma used to climb
through. It was sitting high up, letting in the only light in the room. I said to
myself, If mauma can do it, I can do it. I’ll do it lame, blind, and backward,
if I have to.
I didn’t spell out my ways for her. I nodded at a piece of paper on the
shelf beside a pen and a pot of ink. I said, “If you can’t see fit to write me
this pass for safe passage, I’ll have to write it myself and sign your name.”
She took a deep breath and stared at me for a moment, then she went
over and dipped the pen in the ink.

First time I squeezed through the window and went over the wall, Sarah had
been gone a week. The worst part was when I had to flop myself over the
top of the bricks with nothing but the white oleander for cover. I had the
rabbit cane and a thick burlap bundle tied on my back that made me
cumbersome, and when I dropped to the ground, I landed on my bad foot. I
sat there till the throb wore off, then I slipped out from the trees to the
street, just one more slave doing some white person’s bidding.
I chose this day cause missus had a headache. We lived for her
headaches. When they came, she took to bed and left us to our blessed
selves. I tried not to think how I’d get back inside the yard. Mauma had
waited for dark and crawled over the back gate and that was the best

remedy, but it was summertime and dark came late, giving plenty of time
for folks to wonder where I was.
One block down East Bay, I spotted one of the Guard. He looked
straight at me and studied my limp. Walk steady. Not too fast. Not too slow.
Squeezing the ears on the rabbit, I didn’t breathe till I turned the corner.
It took me twice as long to get to 20 Bull. I stood cross the street and
stared at the house, still in need of paint. I didn’t know if Denmark Vesey
had got out of the Work House or what had happened to him. Last memory
I had from that hellhole was his voice shouting, “Help the girl down there,
help the girl.”
I hadn’t let myself think about it, but standing there on the street, the
memory came like a picture in a painting. I’m up on the treadmill, gripping
the bar with all the strength I got. Climbing the wheel, climbing the wheel.
It never will stop. Mr. Vesey is quiet, not a grunt from him, but the rest are
moaning and crying Jesus and the rawhide splits the air. My hands sweat,
sliding on the bar. The knot that lashes my wrist to it comes loose. I tell
myself don’t look side to side, keep straight ahead, keep going, but the
woman with the baby on her back is howling. The whip slashes her legs.
Then the child screams. I look. I look to the side and its little head is
bleeding. Red and wet. That’s when the edges go black. I drop, my hands
pulling free from the rope. I fall and there ain’t no wings sprouting off my
shoulders.
In the front window of his house, a woman was ironing. Her back was
to me, but I could see the shape of her, the lightness of her skin, the bright
head scarf, her arm swinging over the cloth, and it caused a hitch in my
chest.
When I got up on the porch, I heard her singing. Way down yonder in
the middle of the field, see me working at the chariot wheel. Peering in the
open window, I saw she had her hips swishing, too. Now let me fly, now let
me fly, now let me fly way up high.
I knocked and the tune broke off. She opened the door still holding the
iron, the smell of charcoal straggling behind her. Mauma always said he had
mulatto wives all over the city, but the main one lived here in the house.
She stuck out her chin, frowning, and I wondered did she think I was the
new bride.
“Who’re you?”
“I’m Handful. I came to see Denmark Vesey.”

She glared at me, then down at my twisted foot. “Well, I’m Susan, his
wife. What you want with him?”
I could feel the heat glowing off the iron. The woman had been hard
done by and I couldn’t blame her not opening the door to stray women. “All
I want is to talk to him. Is he here or not?”
“I’m here,” a voice said. He stood propped in the doorway behind her
with his arms folded on his chest like he’s God watching the world go by.
He told his wife to find something to do, and her eyes trimmed down to
little slits. “Take that iron with you,” he said. “It’s smoking up the room.”
She left with it, while he eyed me. He’d lost some fat from his face. I
could see the top rim of his cheek bones. He said, “You’re lucky you didn’t
get rot in your foot and die.”
“I made out. Looks like you did, too.”
“You didn’t come to see about my health.”
He didn’t wanna beat the bushes. Fine with me. My foot hurt from
trudging here. I took the bundle off my back and sat down in a chair. There
wasn’t a frill in the room, just cane chairs and a table with a Bible on it.
I said, “I used to come here with my mauma. Her name was Charlotte.”
The sneer he always wore slid off his face. “I knew I knew you from
somewhere. You have her eyes.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“You have her gumption, too.”
I squeezed the burlap bundle against my chest. “I wanna know what
happened to her.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Coming on seven years.”
When he kept silent, I undid the burlap and spread mauma’s story quilt
cross the table. The squares hung nearly to the floor, bright enough to set a
fire in the dark room.
People say he never smiled, but when he saw the slaves flying in the air
past the sun, he smiled. He gazed at granny-mauma and the falling stars, at
mauma leaving my daddy behind in the field, me and her laying in cut-up
pieces on the quilt frame. He studied the spirit trees and the one-legged
punishment. Didn’t ask what anything meant. He knew it was her story.
I stole a look at the last square where mauma had sewed the man with
the carpenter apron and the numbers 1884. I watched careful to see if he’d
recognize himself.

“You think that’s me, don’t you?” he said.
“I know that’s you, but I don’t know about those numbers.”
He chuckled outright. “One, eight, eight, four. That was the number on
my lottery ticket. The numbers that bought my freedom.”
The room was stifle hot. Sweat dribbled on my temples. So, that’s her
last word, then. That’s what it came to—a chance for getting free. A fancy
chance.
I folded up the quilt, wrapped it back in the burlap, and tied it on my
back. I picked up my cane. I said, “She was pregnant, you know that? When
she went missing, your baby went missing with her.”
He didn’t flinch, but I could tell he didn’t know.
I said, “Those numbers never did come up for her, did they?”