"Thank you for waiting patiently for Part One | "No Bueno" of this Historical Sci-fi Series! In sharing my writing, I have discovered a lot of my strengths but also my weaknesses. I don't just want to create stories, I want to improve my writing style, grammar, and storytelling skills every time I share my writing with you, so thank you for being patient as I ensure that each part that I post is worth your reading time.
I've been reading a book entitled, "The Creative Act: A Way of Being" by Rick Rubin. This read has proven to be really inspirational and it has reminded me that my work is done when I feel that it is done. Although there is a certain timeliness to art, art doesn't get made on the clock. The pressure of unnecessary deadlines can choke out the artistry. Because of this, I have decided that I am no longer giving strict deadliness for the following parts in this series. I will release the stories in a timely fashion, but only when they are ready. I will announce either the release or the date of release once the story is completed and ready to share.
I would also like to thank my friend Yahaira who helped me create Part One | "No Bueno". She is much more to me than an editor in my work as a native and fluent Spanish speaker, she is a true friend, and I appreciate her helping me work out the character Elsa's lines."
Happy Reading,
Gabie the Author
PART ONE | "NO BUENO"
Sally blinked, attempting to open her eyes; she could hear the back-and-forth chatter between a pleading deeper voice and a pretentious authoritative feminine one. When the clouds covering her eyes cleared, and her hearing recovered, she recognized the speakers.
“And just look at my scarf! You’ve ran this girl down to the ground dirtying my scarf!” Mrs. Abigail berated.
“What did I tell you, Mr. Peterson, about dealing harshly with my things? These here slaves cost a fortune, more than you could ever afford, that’s for sure!”
Mr. Peterson. The red headed and rosy cheeked assailant had a name. Apparently, his status was beneath the woman of the house as he said nothing and kept a countenance like a sheepish little boy under Mrs. Abigails beratement.
Mrs. Abigail helped Sally to her feet and lightly brushed her clothing free of the gravel and grass with the dirtied scarf. When she noticed the gash on Sally’s head, she used the scarf to apply pressure to the wound.
“I apologize, Mrs. Abigail, I promise it won’t happen again. This nigger-girl ran from me like she had something that don’t belong to her.”
“Well, you can explain this to my husband when he returns. He’s going to want to know why his property is damaged by the very man he only recently hired to keep it intact.”
“Yes, ma’am. And when can I expect his return?”
Sally glanced at Mrs. Abigail; she was blushing.
“He won’t return until Thursday. I think it wise of you to start thinking up ways to make up for this offense, sir.”
“Yes ma’am.”
With his hat pressed to his chest, Mr. Peterson gave an obligatory bow. His red curls cascaded to his brows and shined like ruby stones underneath the sun. His stature, lean, thin, but firm. He turned to mount his horse and off he went, as if he were never a threat.
“Well, Sally, you look a mess! What have you gotten into and where are your shoes? Come inside so Elsa can tend to your wound.”
Sally was told that when she was born, Mrs. Abigail treated her like her little doll, she played dress up with her and couldn’t sleep unless Sally was also there in her bed. It went on like this until Sally was about 3 years old, and then Mrs. Abigail lost interest in playthings and became more interested in male society. Mrs. Abigail married Master William Livington when she was 15 years old, he was 32 and quite the adventurer. He would set out on his discoveries at the drop of a hat and therefore he was never home. Mrs. Abigail distracted herself with frivolities of all kinds.
Mrs. Abigail was now 17 and still treated Sally like a doll, at times. She enjoyed dressing Sally up and having her dance for her friends while they laughed and amused themselves by mocking the moves a nigger-girl could make.
Sally would try to decipher how she felt watching their expressions shift from being entertained, to being amused, to becoming disgusted, and always ending in being annoyed.
Mrs. Abigail led Sally into the foyer of the side door, almost as grand as the front entrance. Sally had only seen the front entrance from the interior; she, nor the other slaves, were allowed to enter through the front door.
One time, in defiance, a young buck tried to force his way through the front door and was shot in the back by Mr. Thomas. Sally stood on the pastel blue and beige winding stairway with her hands full of fresh white linens as she watched the beet red blood pour from his body like thick paint onto the white marble entryway.
She always felt like the house needed more color.
The side entrance didn’t have a winding stairway, but it did have the same pastel and beige theme with a smaller stairway leading directly to the rooms upstairs. This is the way Sally would enter, if Mrs. Abigail called for her.
They went upstairs to one of Mrs. Abigail’s changing rooms, and she rang the appropriate bell. Elsa’s bell. Elsa, a short and round Mexican middle-aged woman who spoke very little English, scurried into the room to receive Mrs. Abigail’s instructions and then scurried out to retrieve all the essential items.
“I’ve had such a wonderful day today and I was just thinking of taking myself for a walk. Mr. Peterson is always set on ruining my day, for sure.” Mrs. Abigail said, grinning, as she held up her cherished scarf to further inspect the damage.
She went on about Mr. Peterson and her quarrels with him. She expressed her disgust for his curly locs, porcelain skin, and stature all while maintaining a look of contentment.
“He’s a year older than me and he thinks he can boss me around. I must show him who is boss around here when my husband is away. After all, I am the lady of the house.” A passing thought stole Mrs. Abigail’s smile and then she turned to Sally.
“Sally, stay away from that Mr. Peterson. I don’t ever want to see you around him ever again, less something like this ever happens again. Mr. Thomas won’t go for it. Do you hear me?”
“Yes ma’am.” Sally said, relieved that she was now ordered to stay away from her pursuer.
Elsa scampered into the room with beads of sweat on her brow, a washing bowl, wash cloths, and bandages in tow.
Mrs. Abigail glanced in the beveled mirror sitting above a vanity, adjusted her brunette waves and brushed off her dress. She waved toward the scarf and ordered Elsa to wash it thoroughly, and then she glided out the room.
Elsa obliged then silently and aggressively tended to Sally’s wound.
Just as Elsa had wrapped the last bandage, the door flung open and revealed an excited Mrs. Abigail. Her friends from Arkansas had arrived and she would be entertaining this afternoon. Her smile disappeared when she saw the white bandage wrapped around Sally’s head.
“Oh, you look hideous! How am I supposed to entertain my friends properly? Elsa, take the bandage off and style Sally’s hair to cover the wound, in fact…”
Mrs. Abigail floated to the closet where she kept her old playthings pulling out a blue and white dress with bows, socks, and shoes to match.
“…get Sally all fixed up and put this on her. Take these nasty clothes to the wash. When she’s done, Sally, come downstairs. Do you remember the routine I taught you?”
“Yes ma’am.” Sally responded, not knowing which routine she was referring to; she had memorized all of them.
“Splendid!” Mrs. Abigail squealed as she pranced out of the room.
Sally winced as Elsa carelessly undid the bandage.
“Quítate la blusa.”
Sally did not speak Spanish, but she had learned all of Elsa’s orders, so she lifted her blouse over her head and held it out for Elsa to jerk away. Elsa never spoke to Mrs. Abigail in Spanish, and wouldn’t dare, but she felt superior to Sally and all the slaves. She was free and worked as a paid maid.
“…la falda y el delantal también.”
Sally reached for the apron strings and then remembered that the coin was in the pocket. She hesitated.
“Apurate!”
Sally began slowly untying the apron strings trying to devise a plan. She could not lose the coin. What could the coin do, exactly? How would she use it? She did not know, but all she could see was Ezekiel crouched in front of her, his eyes so desperate but reassuring.
Elsa slapped Sally away from Ezekiel and back into the room. The ringing in her ears muffled Elsa’s Spanish insults.
Elsa reached for the apron strings and untied them, yanking the apron and the skirt from Sally’s torso and dragging her into the wash basin.
Sally watched Elsa gather her dirty garments, with the apron, and place them in a linen bag. Elsa began scrubbing Sally and washing and styling her hair. While Elsa cursed and denigrated, Sally kept her eyes on the linen bag.
“Go with Mrs. Abigail.”
Now she speaks English. Sally stood to see herself in the looking glass. Blue velvet bows sat on two ponytails on the sides of her head. Bouncing curls framed her face and covered the gash on her forehead. The rest of her hair lay spiraling down her back and shoulders. The dress: blue roses printed on white silk. The knee-high white socks with lace made the blue leather shoes stand out. She smelled like rose oil and jasmine.
Sally’s trance was broken when she noticed Elsa reaching for the laundry bag. She walked over to Elsa, reaching for the bag.
“Que quieres!” Elsa asked.
“I left something in my apron, I need it.” Sally said, with perfect literacy. Mrs. Abigail had thought it was humorous to watch a nigger-girl pronounce proper English. She unwittingly taught Sally to read and enunciate properly. Because of this, Sally didn’t talk much. She knew she sounded different than the other slaves. She sounded like freedom.
“What do you have?” Elsa sneered while jerking open the laundry bag and pulling out the apron. She went through its pockets to find the coin. Elsa examined the coin’s back and then flipped it over to discover the glowing center. Her eyes widened as she held it up between her and Sally.
“Qué es eso?”
“I don’t know yet, but I found it and it’s mine, so give it back.”
“I no give back. I find it now, is mine. Go with Mrs. Abigail!”
Sally loitered towards the door, contemplating whether she would put up a fight or devise another plan. She turned to find Elsa slumped over examining the coin trying to ascertain its monetary value. She knew her 8-year-old frame stood no chance against this walrus of a woman. A plan it was.
“No bueno.” Sally said in monotone.
“No bueno? Es bueno para mi! Callate y vete!” Elsa scoffed.
Sally rolled her eyes and left the room, confident in her plan. The noise of laughter filled the air, such a contrast. As she approached the French doors to the entertaining room, the sounds of joyous banter became more distinct.
The French doors were solid oak, with gold hardware, painted white with blue flowers stenciled along its edges. Sally matched the door. She was just another part of the home’s decoration.
Through the lightly etched glass panes in the door frame, she could see the silhouettes responsible for the raucous.
A maid came holding a tray of hors d’oeuvres and Sally stepped aside allowing her to enter the room. She saw the maid speak to Mrs. Abigail, who gave a nod of approval and began readying her guests for the performance.
The maid came back through the doors and signaled for Sally to enter the room.
Let the show begin.
When Sally had completed her routines, Mrs. Abigail ordered Sally to sit in a corner of the room on a stool. The guests entertained themselves by feeding her and watching her reaction to foods she would never otherwise eat. They made her repeat after them, astonished at her ability to mimic them clearly. They asked Mrs. Abigail questions about where Sally was bred and what she would be used for once she became of childbearing age.
Sally searched the sea of foreign faces until she saw a devilish but familiar one.
Mr. Peterson. He was staring at her. Sally stared back, enticing him to pay her a visit.
Mr. Thomas, the overseer, was beside him. He was leaning up against the wall conversing with an upright man of higher status, who was too enthralled with the details of his story to be greatly disturbed by his drunken demeanor.
Mr. Peterson fell for the bait and began walking toward Sally. He knelt next to her, just as he did that night when he searched through Ezekiel’s pockets. She could smell alcohol as if it were seeping from his pores. He lifted her hair to inspect if the coils really grew from her scalp and chuckled when he realized they indeed did.
“Where is it, girl? That there is a very important piece and when Mr. Thomas comes back, he gon’ want to know what happened to it. He gon’ search and search, and I can’t promise you he’ll spare you. Now, I know you know what that thieving nigger stole. Where is it?”
“Perhaps it wasn’t a thieving nigger who stole it. Maybe it was a thieving maid.”
Mr. Peterson’s eyed widened to hear a nigger-girl speak so properly. He laughed and called after Mrs. Abigail, mocking her for teaching her niggers how to speak well and warning her of possible insurrection. Mrs. Abigail observed with jealous interest.
He turned his attention back to Sally.
“What did you say, girl?”
“I know where the coin is. Ezekiel didn’t take it.”
“Then who took it and where is it?”
“A maid.”
“What maid, girl, stop your stalling!”
“Elsa. She has it now. I saw her with it upstairs.”
“I hope you ain’t lying, girl. Pray to God you ain’t lying.”
Mr. Peterson rose with a gust of air that tossed Sally’s curls. He went to Mr. Thomas and whispered his findings in his ear. Mr. Thomas turned red and snarled something in return. He gulped down the rest of his cocktail and placed the glass on the serving tray. Mr. Thomas walked over to Mrs. Abigail and whispered in her ear. She gasped and gave permission for the two men to handle their business.
The two men left the room, and Sally waited to hear their footsteps on the stairway above the room and then she walked over to Mrs. Abigail and told her that she had to relieve herself. Mrs. Abigail told Sally to make haste out of the room and to be sure to use the slave washroom and quarters behind the garden. She wanted her to stay there tonight so that she wouldn’t dirty herself. Tomorrow, she would have another performance.
Sally exited the doors and left the giggles and gossip behind. As she turned to exit towards the garden, she saw the two men returning from upstairs. She heard the men inquire about Elsa from other maids. The maids explained that she had went to the wash house and normally would not return until dusk. The men agreed that they would wait for her to return.
Sally decided that she would wait, too.
Sally lay on the cot in the cabin behind the house. The cabin was situated amongst several other cabins belonging to slaves and maids that worked inside the estate. Sally imagined that it was her little home, a home where she was free. It overlooked a plentiful garden full of the sort of colors that spoke to her soul, the colors of home. Betsy would always describe home as a place full of greens, reds, yellows, oranges, and purples. No pale blue, white, or beige.
The garden looked so dreamy during dusk, the sun setting and casting a warm hopeful glow on the estate and the plantation. She could see the slaves gathering their tools for the following day and taking their bags of cotton to the storehouses. She could see the slave graveyard where Ezekiel lay, free.
And then there was Elsa returning from the wash house. Sally slipped on her shoes and exited the cabin, hiding herself in the vines and bushes yet to be harvested, she positioned herself behind a window and stood on her tiptoes to see inside.
The guests had all went to their guest rooms, drunk with wine and banter. Sally could see Mr. Thomas and Mr. Peterson talking with Mrs. Abigail and gesturing as if to explain a dilemma. After trying to comprehend the problem, Mrs. Abigail through her hands up as if to surrender to whatever plan the men had explained.
As she did, Elsa entered their frame holding her head down, only to be startled and stopped by the drunken and stumbling men. Mr. Thomas pointed his finger in her face as Mr. Peterson began searching through her apron pockets.
Mr. Peterson pulled out the coin and Sally could see the glowing center.
Mrs. Abigail brought her hand to her mouth, dazed by the coin’s glow. Her astonished expression turned into disgust once Elsa tried to explain herself in broken Spanish, and she turned to the drunken and barely coherent men to give them permission for what would happen next.
Elsa begged and pleaded but the men seemed to become more enraged with every word she uttered.
In their drunken violence, the men seemed to lose focus on why they had attacked her. Mr. Peterson reached into his pocket to pull out a knife, and when he did, he dropped the coin, forgetting that it was in his hand.
Sally watched the coin roll under a white cabinet with blue flowers painted on the doors. By God, she hated that print.
They dragged a screaming Elsa out the front doors and just before the doors closed, Sally saw Mr. Thomas reach for his pistol.
Funny. Sally did not feel any desire to help.
She ran through the back doors and headed for the cabinet. She crouched and looked right, then to the left, and there it was, glowing. She grabbed the coin and slid it into the bodice of her dress. It was warm, as if it had been sitting in the sun.
Sally jolted to her feet to return to the quarters. Just then she heard a crack, and following it, an explosion that pierced and silenced any other sound.
Elsa was silent.
Sally made haste toward the cabin. She flew through the garden and headed for the door. She turned the handle and stepped through. She gasped; eyes wide.
Sitting on the bed was a bloody Mr. Peterson, slouched. He raised his head and when he saw Sally, he gave a drunken grin. In his hand he bounced a coin, with a glowing center.
What do you think Sally has in the bodice of her dress?
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