I took no time to think about it. Clutching my purse and journal, I climbed into the chest and Nellie closed the lid. I had to fold myself in two to fit. I heard muffled voices from somewhere in the house and then I heard what I was certain was Nellie’s door opening.
“Hey, girlie,” a male voice said. It wasn’t Karl’s voice. I thought of the roly-poly policeman who’d come with Karl to the warehouse that one time. Was it him? He asked Nellie if she’d seen a “white gal” around the farm. Nellie answered, oh so politely, that “no, sir, I ain’t seen no white gal.”
There were a few noises. The scuff of shoes on the wood floor, maybe. Inside the chest, I could hear myself breathing.
“You’re a messy little child, ain’t you?” the policeman said. “Your mama let you throw your clothes and such all over the room like this?”
Nellie said something about cleaning the room up real soon.
I heard heavy footsteps coming closer. I felt a pressure against the chest and pictured Nellie leaning protectively against the lid. Don’t be too obvious, Nellie, I thought to myself.
“What you got on under that pretty little dress of yours?” he asked.
I was horrified! My hands tightened around my journal.
“Bloomers,” Nellie said, calm as you please. “And you better git.”
“Oh, I better git, huh? Or what? What do you think you could do to me?” I was certain it was Roly-Poly now. I hated him. I had my hands on the lid ready to break out of the chest if that boor laid a finger on Nellie. I could have sworn I heard her rapid breathing above me.
But just then, another male voice called out for “Barney,” which I guess is Roly-Poly’s first name. Was it Karl? I couldn’t tell. But he said that I wasn’t there and to “quit horsing around with that nigger” and come downstairs.
I heard the footsteps recede, then the bedroom door slammed shut.
“They gone, Miss Anna!” Nellie raised the lid. “They—”
I quickly hushed her, looking toward the closed bedroom door, praying they hadn’t heard her.
“They gone,” she whispered this time. “You safe.”
I stepped out of the chest and pulled her to me. Hugged her tight. I told her what an incredibly brave girl she was. I thanked her for saving my life. I believe she truly did.
Monday, May 27, 1940
At lunch today, I asked how I could help out around the house while I’m staying on the Williams farm. They call lunch “dinner.” I’ve come to realize that if I have a question to ask anyone in the family, “dinner” is the best time to ask it. In the three days I’ve been here, I’ve eaten breakfast alone, unable to get up at the crack of dawn like everyone else. At the first sign of light, they are up and out, gathering eggs and feeding animals and doing whatever else needs to be done out there. This was Jesse’s life. There is a void here without him and no one says it to me, but I imagine everyone has to work much harder without him here. I worry they blame me. Why shouldn’t they? There is no one else to blame.
The first night here, I weepily told them everything. I said how sorry I was for putting them in danger. I offered to turn myself in, and I meant it. They are taking such a risk and I wanted to give them a chance to back out of helping me. They are not happy about having me here—well, except for Nellie, whose ignorance of what is truly going on helps maintain her sunny disposition—but they all know Jesse is in grave danger and they conspire to keep me hidden in the hope I will never be questioned by the police and that will somehow keep Jesse safe. Only Jesse’s father is not really in agreement, but the women—Jesse’s mother and Aunt Jewel and nineteen-year-old Dodie—override him. Only Aunt Jewel treats me warmly, though. I can tell that Jesse’s mother and Dodie think I’m the cause of his problems. Of course, they are right.
Aunt Jewel is very kind, but I think she sees me as a project. I am a project for her. I won’t be having this baby at a hospital, that is for certain. She’ll have to deliver it here. And then what? I can’t live here with my baby. She says it’s too early to worry about it, so I’m taking her advice and trying to put the baby at the back of my mind for now.
Mr. and Mrs. Williams exchanged a look when I asked how I could help. So far, I have done little other than clean up after myself and try to help a bit with cooking, although to be honest, I feel lost in their kitchen. I’m accustomed to getting my groceries at the market. I have never killed a chicken, butchered a hog, ground meat, canned a single vegetable, picked lettuce from a garden, and God knows, I’ll never know how to cook those stinky collards that seem to be on the stove all day long.
Mr. Williams said it would be too dangerous for me to do anything outside where I could be seen, so I offered to clean the house, nearly giggling at the thought, wondering just how many colored families had a white maid. I suggested I do the sweeping and dusting and bed making. The wringer-washer is out in the open on the porch, so doing the laundry is probably unwise. I offered to wash the dishes. “Whatever needs doing, I’m happy to do it,” I said.
Mrs. Williams asked me if I can stitch. I wasn’t quite sure what she meant.
“Sew,” she said impatiently. I’m not sure if her impatience comes from my presence or if this is the way she always is.
I told her I can sew, that I’ve made many of my own clothes, and she said they have plenty of mending to keep me busy.
So, this afternoon I swept the downstairs rooms and dusted furniture, waiting for my first sewing assignment. It’s not much, but it feels good to be paying something back to these people.
Saturday, June 22, 1940
Four weeks have passed since Jesse and I fled the warehouse, and for the first time, there is no mention of us in the Chowan Herald. Mr. Williams picks up the newspaper each Saturday when he goes into town to sell his eggs and melons and I don’t know what else, and I’ve gotten in the habit of reading the paper the moment he returns to the house. Since the paper comes out on Thursday, the news is always a bit stale, but it’s all we have to go on. Mr. Williams doesn’t read, and I feel touched when Mrs. Williams reads him the Bible lesson and the other articles that might interest him. At first I wondered what it would be like to have a husband so uneducated that he can’t read, but he is such a hard worker and good provider, that I don’t think Mrs. Williams cares a bit.
The first week, an article about Jesse and me was on the front page of the paper. The speculation was that we were illicit lovers who had killed Martin Drapple in a sordid triangle gone sour. (I once again had to assure Jesse’s parents that this was not the truth. I’ve since learned that some of their church friends have turned their backs on them, but they still seem to have many people to lean on). To escape the police, the paper said, we ran off together and haven’t been found despite a multistate search. It hadn’t occurred to me that the police think we are together. In a way, I wish we were. I miss Jesse and wonder if I’ll ever see him again. I was very happy to learn, though, that—at least as of this past Thursday—they hadn’t yet found him.
I’m hopeful that Mrs. Williams either skipped over this article when she read the paper to her husband, or that she doctored it a bit to tame it down.