A Child of Prestige

Words by Shanteé Felix 

Art by Sandra Eckert

The first woman who tried to become my Mama had warm eyes and smelled like cinnamon. But when she asked my name, I burped in her face. 

Me and Beanie are staying at the Tompkins’s Negro Orphanage of Prestige. We aren’t orphans like the rest of them. Daddy will come back for us. That doesn’t stop the social worker from introducing us to everyone who visits. I do everything I can to keep them from wanting me. I have five brothers, so I’m good at being gross. 

We arrived in the spring. Since then, I’ve managed six burps and three bouts of retching. I try to avoid visitors, but they must showcase everyone—real orphans and fake. Beanie thinks Daddy is gone for good, so he wants to get adopted. He just won’t leave without me. And I won’t until Daddy pushes through the front door and shouts, Ree-Ree, get down here and gimme some sugar. He’ll be here in three weeks, based on his last letter. 

A few days ago, Beanie was working in town when the social worker brought in a country couple. They wanted strong farm boys, the husband said, then stopped in front of me. They could settle for a girl, one who worked hard and stayed in her place, he said. They looked like they slept in overalls and spent their days milking cows and killing pigs. He limped, and she had a bruise under her eye. Lincoln ain’t die for me to live like that.   

He laughed at my burp. He said it showed I was eating well. Thankfully, I’d just had collard greens. I closed my eyes and summoned a loud, smelly fart. He covered his nose, then grabbed my arm and shook. “You nasty pickaninny. Where your manners at? I got to teach you some?”

Then everything changed. A woman wearing dark glasses and carrying a gray cat jumped in front of me and roared. She told him to stand down, or he’d be sorry. He let me go. She was taller than me, but only came up to his shoulder. Still, she wagged her finger at him and told him never to return. They left. 

“I hope y’all saw that,” the woman said to the remaining parents. “These are my children. My Children of Prestige. Hurt them and answer to me. Understand?”

Everyone was quiet. She left as quietly as she entered, the gray cat strutting behind her. 

And that’s how I became Madame’s pet.

* * *

Her real name is Paris Tompkins, Mrs. Tompkins to be exact. Her husband, Dr. Tompkins, died right before Beanie and I arrived at the orphanage. She’s been running it in his place. Everyone calls her Madame. 

She has been known to collect certain students, “pets”, for special work around the orphanage. They’re the ones who painted OF PRESTIGE onto the front sign. I don’t know what makes someone special enough to catch Madame’s eye. She only latched onto me because of the country couple. 

My work has been anonymous. The teacher interrupts class to send me to Madame. In her office, there’s a note about the day’s chores. I dust her bookshelves, sweep, or sort the mail and newspapers. I also handle the cat, Betty Lou, or Big Bette, for short. 

Madame is a mystery. Before the country couple, I’d only seen her from afar. I have heard a lot about her. The staff—the teacher, social worker, headmaster and headmistress—are not pleased with her work. Some say she is too young and too whimsical for such a big job. Others say she is right for it because she’s young and whimsical. They whisper about her delicate condition, her husband and everything else. 

“She’s outta her mind. He coulda sent her little ass flying.” 

That’s the boys’ headmaster. It is lunchtime and he’s eating with the staff in the classroom. Beanie and the orphans are outside. I’m nibbling cornbread in the mudroom, which shares a wall with the classroom. No one knows I’m here, and that’s fine. I don’t mean to eavesdrop. That’s just my way.  

This time, they are talking about how Madame rescued me. The story has reached legend status, especially among the orphans. Someone said Madame hit him with a chair. Another said Madame wrestled a knife away from him. No one asks me what happened, except Beanie. He would’ve hunted the man down if I hadn’t told him the truth. He still wants to hurt him.  

“My Lord, the child musta been scared,” the headmistress says. “Somebody had to save her. You didn’t help.”

“That’s my point, sis. He was too big for me. So, why’d she do all that?”

“And Myree isn’t innocent,” the social worker says. “Someone was bound to pop her. She’s ornery.”

“We’re here to protect them, ornery or not,” the teacher says. “Madame is brave.”

The headmistress chuckles. “Or stupid. Maybe both. I don’t know.”

“Brave and stupid,” the headmaster says. “Great leadership qualities.”

I look around the mudroom. There are two wooden benches and hooks for caps and cloaks. A window overlooks the swings and seesaw in the courtyard. 

Back home, I had a small, tidy area just like this. We didn’t have bedrooms, so Mama hung sheets to section off areas for us. The three oldest, the twins and Beanie, had an area and so did the youngest boys. As the only girl, I didn’t have to share my space. All I had was my pallet and some playthings, but I could waste away the day in there. 

There are fifteen of us at Tompkins’s: nine girls, six boys. We split our days between the classroom and working around town. During the day, we’re with the teacher in the classroom. At night, we split off into the girls’ and boys’ dormitories. That is where the headmaster and headmistress lecture us separately about being proper ladies and gentlemen. The social worker makes the working arrangements with the townspeople and hopeful parents.

Outside, Beanie catches a ball. Sweaty boys crowd him and cheer. He is their hero in this heat. 

In the classroom, the teacher reminds the group that the orphanage’s twenty-fifth anniversary is next month. The benefactors will be coming. They will check up on things and look for the best orphans. They’ll place these children in the best homes. Any issues with Madame will need to be resolved before then, she says. They’ll need to put on a good face for the white folks. 

“We need the benefactors,” she says, her voice higher now. “More money and supplies. Are our finances in order? The curriculum? Does Madame know anything about being twenty-five?”

“That sign has got to go,” the headmaster says. “We won’t get anywhere by calling ourselves prosperous.”

“Prestigious.” The teacher’s voice smiles. “I like Negro and prestige in the same sentence. Our benefactors care about our future. It’s a new day, my friend.” 

“No, it ain’t, sis. Them crosses burnin’ just as hot now as they were before the war. Nobody cares about the Negro but the Negro.”

“Oh, stop it. The president cared.”

“And what happened to him? We need to humble ourselves. Can’t be too boastful.”

“Then you set Madame straight. Keep her from talking crazy. Get some decent food.”

“Don’t be critical,” the social worker says. “She’ll come in here. Then you’ll wind up like Dr. Tompkins.”

The teacher clicks her tongue. “Rumors. I pay no mind to that silly talk.”

“Right. And I’m a man. I don’t run from little girls.”

The social worker giggles, sounding like a little girl herself.

“Alright, Mr. War Veteran,” the social worker says. “Little girls don’t scare you. Neither do the Rebels. But what about that cat?”

He clears his throat. “Alright, sis. You got me there. Let’s talk about something else.”

They laugh, and the afternoon bell rings.

* * *

Two weeks until Daddy returns. Meanwhile, Beanie feeds me fruit and calls me crazy.

The fruit is because the orphanage’s food is terrible. The watery grits, chewy salt pork and smelly stew turn my stomach. I mainly eat cornbread and rice. Beanie takes extra morsels of fruit from his work in town and gives them to me. 

He says I’m crazy because I don’t want to be adopted. He won’t rest until we leave here, even if that means a new family. 

We’re sitting on the back steps of the orphanage. Tompkins’s has three connected buildings. A long schoolhouse is in the middle, with Madame’s office and living quarters above it. The boys’ and girls’ dormitories are on both sides. There are many unused rooms, locked entrances and exits. 

Tonight, Beanie is hopeful. He puffs out his chest and calls himself a man. The headmaster told him that’s why he hadn’t been adopted yet. These parents are looking for small children and babies. He is too big and strong for a good home. 

“I’m better off on my own. I could get real work and stop slaving for these white folks. I’d come back for you. How’d you like that?”

“I’d burp on you like the rest.”

“C’mon, Myree. You want to leave here too.”

“I ain’t joking. You gonna treat me better than my real Daddy? He told us to wait for him. I’m listening. We’ve got a family.”

“You’re a fool.”

“You are. He’ll be flying up that road screaming for us. I’ll jump in the wagon real quick, bags or no bags. With or without you.”

“Where we at? Not visiting Granny or the uncles. We’re at an orphanage. There’s no coming back from that. He signed papers. He dumped us. He’s got a new family with Miss Nancy.”  

We have this argument a lot. He starts telling me all the reasons why Daddy is no good. I don’t remind him of the tears in Daddy’s eyes when he dropped us off, or how he told us that we were the best part of him. Then Beanie will mention Miss Nancy and that she’s taking Mama’s place, just like her children are taking our place. We’re usually so angry by then that it ends the conversation.

Tonight, I don’t fight. Mama taught me to take my mind away when I feel my fire. I think of the letter I started writing to Daddy earlier. We like to count. Daddy showed me how to detail my life using numbers instead of words. We call it an inventory. We’ve been writing this way since he brought us here. 

The remaining mint plants in Mama’s garden: Three. 

The families that have visited us: Six. 

The buckets it takes to catch raindrops from our leaky roof: Four. 

The number of steps it takes me to reach the Tompkins’s mailbox: Thirty-seven. Twenty-two if I walk fast. Thirteen, if I do the run-jump technique Beanie taught me. 

The biscuits Miss Nancy has burned. Nine.

“This Miss Madame. She wants to keep you?”

“She feels sorry for me. Calls me out of class to clean up. That’s it.”

“Get in good with that. You need to get in front of the right people. Stop counting on …”

He sees the tight look on my face and stops. He shakes his head and reaches into his knapsack.  “You want an apple? Or should I give it to someone with more sense?”

I nod, mainly because I know who this someone is. It is the longhaired girl who sleeps one row ahead of me. She is Beanie’s age – thirteen – and she tried to befriend me when she learned that he is my brother. Back home, older girls did this all the time to get close to my brothers. I didn’t like it then. I like it even less now.

Beanie hands me a dusky apple. It is dry but it is the best thing I’ve eaten today. This is my seventh apple from him. He has also given me three bananas, four pears and two plums. I’ll try to remember this for my letter. Mama liked that I was a numbers person. She always took me to the market so I could practice. She said I was best for addition and multiplication, but Daddy was good at subtracting and dividing. 

“I’m meeting some good folks tomorrow. Nice, churchgoing people.”

“How you gonna win them over?”

“Without my cute baby sis? I don’t know.” He gently tugs my braid. “Mama would approve. You should come.”

We get quiet. He shouldn’t have mentioned Mama. Now I feel her soft hands wrap around mine. Her heartbeat sings in my ear. Her chin was long and sharp like a V, just like Beanie’s. She was small, but we treated her like she was big. Daddy looked at her like he was smelling roses. 

Beanie stares into the evening, and I follow his gaze. There is nothing to see but a pink sky and trees. Behind the forest, there is a path leading to the town. The townspeople use this path to drop off babies. They come through the front walkway, past the small entrance sign and the mailbox, to pick up new ones.

He pulls me to my feet. He licks his thumb and presses his damp finger into the crevice of my cheek. I do the same to his. Mama used to do this as we left for school. My brothers and I all have a single dimple—either in the chin, cheek, or under an eye. Beanie and I have ours in the same space, in the middle of our right cheekbone. We joke that we are the other set of twins. 

The shadowy figure of a girl approaches. She is here for Beanie, so I must go. I say good night and head to my room. Upstairs, I’ll cover her pillow with a blanket until she returns. 

* * *

“Mighty warm for the cloak room.”

I sit up and wipe the crumbs off my lap. Madame is here, and she is looking at me. She isn’t asking a question, but she seems to want an answer. I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong. It’s a normal afternoon. Beanie and the orphans are outside. I’m in my hiding place. The headmistress and teacher were in the classroom earlier, but they’re gone. 

Madame sits across from me and sets a basket of strawberries on her lap. She fans herself with her hat. With her dark glasses, she looks like a blind sharecropper. Her dress shifts around the middle, and I see the bulge in her tummy that’s been whispered about.  

“Yes’m. I thought this was the mud room. I’ll go.”

“Cloaks, mud, boots. Whatever. It has many names. Don’t leave, Myree. Have you eaten?”

I nod. My lunch was a dry piece of cornbread. She hands me the basket, but I shake my head. Mama taught us never to accept food, no matter how hungry we are. Madame plops a strawberry in her mouth. I want to jump in and grab it.

“This heat is heavy. It’s like God tied the sun to my back. It’s blazing. I haven’t sweat this much since the plantation.”

“And not when you ran away? I heard it was the hottest day of the year. Sweat poured off you while the dogs chased you.”

“I didn’t run. I was kidnapped. There’s lots of stories about me. Ignore them; I do.”

Madame eats two more strawberries. I swallow and pretend I am tasting them too. I don’t mind this heat, and I tell her so. I’d rather be hot than cold. The heat means summer, swimming, and sweet tea. The cold means winter, soup, long underwear and fighting over blankets. 

Then the snow. There is the last New Year’s Eve service we attended with Mama. On the walk back, she coughed blood onto the white ground. Later, everyone—aunts and uncles helping around the house, the medicine woman delivering herbs, the choir singing hymns, the minister and his wife praying and finally, the pallbearers—left white footprints. 

Madame leans back and her feet just miss mine. The strawberries are so close I could lick them. She thanks me for the work I’ve done. I don’t say anything because I’m a terrible cleaner. Even Mama said so. But Madame has been able to find her things easier. Big Bette is warming to me too. 

Suddenly, Mama’s hand is on my shoulder, reminding me of my manners. “I need to thank you. Ma’am. For what you did that day. With that man. I was scared. You came in for me real good.”

“Be precise, Myree. You need to thank me? Or are you thanking me?”

“Sorry. Yes. I’m thanking you. Ma’am.”

“No need. Nobody hurts my children, hear? That’s what you are. One of my children. My children of Prestige.”

Her voice snaps on the t and g, and I want to say it too. She pats my shoulder and stands. I squeeze her hand. “Can I be of some value to you? My Daddy’s coming for us soon. We’ll be gone by the time the crackers get here.”

 “Crackers?” 

“The white folks. The ones who pay for this place.”

“Quakers. They’re called Quakers. They’re our benefactors.”

“Right. Them.” I release her hand and stand. If I could see her eyes, I’d know if I’m winning her over. But those glasses show nothing but blackness. “I’m not learning anything new. Ma’am. I’m a whiz at math. I get by alright in everything else.”

“I’m not interfering with your classroom time. It’s a new day for the Negro. We want more from you than just getting by.”

“Yes’m.”

She shifts her lips from side to side. “Your ambition impresses me. Take it further. What can you offer me?”

I tell her about my skill with numbers. She’s not impressed, even when I say I handled the family budget. It’s a fib, but I’ll say anything to stop cleaning. Then I point to Madame’s belly. I describe the ways I helped Mama when she was carrying my younger brothers. 

This gets her attention. “You’re the first to mention the baby. The staff doesn’t. Yet you and your nine-year-old self, you say what they can’t.” 

“Eleven. Ma’am. That’s just my way. And I’d say you’re having a boy. It’s all in your lean.” 

Madame smiles down at her stomach. I remember fixing ginger tea for Mama and rubbing her big brown belly with oil. In these private moments, we braided each other’s hair and she taught lady lessons. She said my body would produce blood, then milk, and that I shouldn’t fear either. That womanhood, and motherhood, is powerful. 

“Sorry for being personal. Ma’am. Mama warned me about my mouth.”

“Girl talk is good with girls. Even better with a woman.” She drops her hands to her sides. “My employees don’t like me. They loved my husband. Everybody did. They won’t warm to me.”

“They think you killed him.”

 “What?”

“Nothing. Ma’am … Sorry! I didn’t mean it.”

“Either you said nothing, or you didn’t mean it. Which one?”

The afternoon bell rings. The orphans are laughing and loud. They don’t see us, but we can hear them.

“I hear a lot of talk. Nonsense news, Mama would call it. It’s nothing.”

“Again. What did you hear?”

“They think … some say … that you killed him.”

Madame slaps me. It hurts my feelings more than my face. I lean my head to the side and keep it there. I don’t want to embarrass her by showing how weak that was or worse, that I can handle more. 

She storms off and leaves the strawberries behind. I don’t touch them.

* * *

“Madame lost her pet.”

That’s the bedwetter talking and I pretend not to hear her. The other girls are slipping into their nightclothes. I am lying on my bed, re-reading Daddy’s letters. There are nine of us in this small room. There are two windows in the back, and one dresser for everyone. We sleep in a circle. My bed is between the bedwetter and the snorer. Each night, they tie up their hair and talk over me, but not to me. Tonight, they want my attention. I don’t care because I know Daddy will be here in one week.

Everyone noticed that Madame hasn’t sent for me lately. I’ve had to do regular work, in the classroom and out. The teacher had me writing vocabulary words on the blackboard. The social worker sent me into town twice to help with families. I wasn’t used to this. I misspelled fortnight and everyone laughed. A town mother got mad because I questioned her offer to take me in, not as an adopted child but as a help mate. When I reminded her that slavery is illegal, she slapped me, much harder than Madame. She growled and told me to stop being picky. Niggers don’t even want niggers, she’d said. 

“More like she got rid of it.” The snorer adds.

“Right. You’ve got to be crazy to make Madame mad.”

I have gone to Madame’s office a few times. Big Bette rested at my feet while I arranged the mail and newspapers. I do enough to let her know I’ve been there. It’s my way of apologizing. Once, I found her glasses on her chair. I lifted them to my face, and Big Bette hissed. I won’t try that again. 

“Her Daddy’s coming. She don’t need nobody else.”

I’m holding Daddy’s last letter so tight, it shakes. There are seven in all. He has fourteen from me. This last one has forty-three words, while the first one had one hundred eleven. In his shorter letter, he promised to come by the end of the month. It was dated June 20. June is gone and July has just one week left. That’s how I know he’s on his way.

“When she leaves, I’ll stretch out.”

“Yeah?”

“Her bed’ll be empty, right? Imma push it next to mine. Then roll and roll and roll.”

And pee and pee and pee, I think. Back home, I would’ve been on them good, even though they’re bigger than me. 

Mama hated when I tussled. She wanted me to keep my nails clean and have tea parties with dainty girls. My girlfriends have always been like me, more rough and tumble than raised pinkies and teacups. The kind who play stickball and don’t cry at the sight of blood. 

They giggle and start talking about ways to impress the benefactors. One plans to wear her best dress so she could get placed in a doctor’s household. The other will practice her curtsy until the big day. Closer to the window, the longhaired girl buries herself under the covers. Her bonnet is so big that she looks like a mushroom. I wonder what she and Beanie talk about. Has he given her as much fruit as he’s given me, or more?

I know Beanie will be happy when Daddy returns. He’ll toss his head in the air, looking all prideful, until Daddy slaps him on the back. I’ve missed ya, Bean-Bean. I bet he’ll start crying then. He’s a softy; tenderhearted, as the twins called it. The longhaired girl will make things difficult. He won’t want to leave her. Daddy won’t want to take her. 

“Bedtime, girls.” The headmistress pops in and blows out the last candle. “Good people come tomorrow. Pray you’ll go home with one of them. Hitch yourself to a good horse. Ride it into sunset.”

She closes the door behind her. Once her footsteps fade, someone neighs. Everyone laughs. This happens every night. 

In the shadows, the longhaired girl reaches for her shoes. I know where she’s headed. This happens every night too.

* * *

I wake sick with fever. My sheets are slick with sweat, but I am shivering. The headmistress places a damp cloth on my forehead. “She worked in town. I bet she caught something from those nasty children. And they complain about us. Lordy be.”

There are lights shining in my eyes and blurry blobs around me. Something cold is pressed on my chest. I’m told to breathe but it hurts.

“Undress her, sis. I’ll clear the room. Too many germs. Can’t nobody stay here but her. You got somewhere for the others?”

“We’ll find something.” She sits me up, and the room spins. “Oh Myree. When’s the last time you ate? She’s bone thin.” 

The headmaster rolls up his sleeves and shakes his head. “I’ll get supplies. Let’s get the sickness out first, then we’ll fatten her up. She’ll need real food. No more Tompkins’s slop.”

“Beanie … Tell him … I’m dying.”

“Tell him yourself.” The headmistress pulls my nightgown over my head. “Ain’t gonna be no corpses here.”

* * *

The hours are days, and the days are weeks. 

I drift in and out of sleep in an empty room. Sometimes it’s day; sometimes it’s night. At times, I’m at our old house helping Mama make biscuits. Or I’m on our porch, counting the clouds with Daddy. Sometimes Mama is reminding me that we should love Daddy extra hard because nobody else did. He’d been sold off from his people as a boy. Everything he knows about family, he learned from us. 

My fever breaks, and I get a better sense of the real world. They suspect my illness came from the household with the mother who hit me. She and her sons developed the same symptoms but healed faster. They had a better diet, the headmistress says. She tells me someone wants to see me and helps me to my feet. I suspect it is Beanie, but she offers nothing as she washes my face and lays out a fresh dress.

We go through the hallway and down the corridor toward the middle building. When we reach the stairwell, I try to stop but she pulls me forward. She tells me I’ll be fine. Then she takes me into Madame’s office, and leaves. 

“Better?”

Madame sits behind her desk. Sunlight streaks through her window. Big Bette hurries toward me and bunts against my leg. “Yes. Ma’am. I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden—”

“I’ll tell you what they say.”

She pauses, and I get nervous. She’s still upset with me. She could hit me again, harder this time. She could even throw me out. How would Daddy find me then?

“Your father is never returning. He’s broke. So broke that he’s been dropping his children off, two at a time. The twins are grown and gone. You and Benjamin are here. The youngest boys went to another orphanage a few towns over. One was adopted and moved west. All your father has left is Nancy and her children. He can’t afford them either. He’s as good as gone.” 

My throat tightens. I press my chin into my chest.  “Ma’am … that’s not true …”

“That’s what they say.” She rubs her stomach and pushes her glasses on her nose. “Nonsense news, you called it. Your turn.”

I don’t hold back. The gossip doesn’t slip out of my mouth. It runs, jumps, and somersaults into the air. I tell her everything I’d heard since we moved to Tompkins’s: That she’s too young to act this old. Prestige is something that will never come with a bunch of Negroes. She looks like a witch with her dark glasses and cats. That she should focus on finding a new husband and turn the orphanage over to the Quakers.

My eyes are wet when I finish. She is a blur. “Well. They sound dumb. Don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“I wear these glasses for two reasons. My eyes are distracting. And I have a temper. They say I got it from my African grandfather. The whites couldn’t control him. I have to fight to stay in control. My Mama was the same way.”

“Your eyes, Ma’am? You got your eyes from your grandfather? You’re not being precise.”

Half of her mouth smiles. “My temper. I got that from him. Nobody knows where my eyes came from. When I was young, a girl taunted me. I hit a lot harder back then. They had to pull me off her. It was awful. These glasses protect me from getting teased. And they keep me from lashing out.”

Madame sets her glasses on the desk. She leans toward the window, and I see that her eyes are green. She turns, and they are brown. Her left eye is green. Her right eye is brown. She puts them back on. 

“Your eyes are nice. Ma’am.”

“My husband thought so. He was the first to compliment them. So, when he …” She wipes her eyes under her glasses. “Doctor said it was a heart attack. He went to sleep and didn’t wake up. He was in peace. Anyway. We’ll pay no mind to what they say. It’s just foolish talk from fools. I’m no witch.”

“You’re not.” I swallow hard before continuing. “And my father will return.”

“Right.”

We shake on it.

* * *

The mudroom is being used again. Someone dug up the Prestige sign and set it on a bench. It is a flimsy thing that comes up to my stomach. The sign’s five words are red, white, and blue. I stare at it while listening through the wall. The lunch talk has been getting interesting. 

Madame has been meeting privately with the staff. Then they talk in the classroom about what was said. They all want various things from the benefactors, including another teacher, another cook, and more books. They read a draft of her speech. The headmaster warned her about the tone. 

“She wants to say look at my smart, intelligent, Negro children who will take over the world. Y’all know what’s wrong with that, right?”

“It is a different style than her husband’s,” the headmistress says. “He’d thank them for coming. Show them around. Collect the money and send them away. A true servant of the Lord.”

“Exactly, sis. But she wants to show off her prestige …”

“You know the word now?” The teacher cackles. “She could tone it down, but why? Our people are excelling. We’re in Congress. Congress. Don’t you read the papers?”

“Don’t you read the papers?” The headmaster clears his throat. “I don’t want to attract attention. The white man’s still in power. He’ll gobble up what little bit we’ve got. Then make us beg for it back.”

The social worker says that he has a point. Their voices rise and the afternoon bell rings. 

I enter the classroom and the adults are still there. The loud chatter reminds me of home. Madame said Daddy would return for me, and I believe her. I’ll finish writing my inventory tonight and mail it in the morning. If there is no letter for me, I’ll continue to look for Daddy on the thirty first, which is in three days. The Quakers won’t be here until after I’m gone. 

The teacher claps everyone to attention. The headmaster and social worker leave. The headmistress stops and turns to the class. “My Bible says humble yourselves to the Lord and nobody else,” she says. “Remember that.”

* * *

In the morning, I decide to skip class and head to the mailbox. The other girls have returned to the room, but the beds are spread further apart. They keep their distance, even the snorer and the bedwetter. Beanie says they think Madame put a spell on me. 

We dress as a group, then head to breakfast. When we’re finished, they go to the classroom, and I slip out the back door. Beanie searches the crowd for me. I feel guilty, until his gaze settles on the longhaired girl. He doesn’t need me at all.

Outside, it is warm but not as hot as it has been. I’m excited to spend the rest of the summer at home. Hopefully, Miss Nancy and her children are gone.

At the gate, the mail boy digs through his bag. I hand him my letter and offer to take the Tompkins’s items from him. He grunts and tells me to let him do his job.  

He drags his horse up the road, and I follow. Large envelopes with extra stamps stick out from the top of his bag. I recognize those. 

 “Kinda early for bills.”

“No, late. They woulda been here two days ago. I had a lame horse.”

“Today’s not the third.”

“It’s the second.” He wipes his brow. “We try to get them to you by the first, but things happen. If y’all mad, complain. Just let me work.”

My insides shake, so I wrap my arms around myself to keep them steady. I must’ve gotten the days confused when I was sick. If today is the second, yesterday was the first. And the end of the month is gone. Our father isn’t coming back for us. I take my letter back and run off. If today is the second, the Quakers are coming. 

* * *

Number of tears I cry after learning the truth: Five, but the last one dissolved mid-cheek.

Number of pieces I rip my letter into: Seven, then I throw them to the ground. 

Number of minutes of steps I take before I calm down: Nine, then my walk becomes a run.

* * *

My fellow orphans are wearing white and standing tallest to shortest. Beanie is at the head of the boys’ line. Nobody turns around when I step out of the classroom.  

In the distance, the wagon carrying the Quakers approaches. We form two lines that create a path into the building. They’ve been given strict rules about today. I didn’t pay much attention because I didn’t expect to be here. I should be at my own house, sipping sweet tea with my family. Instead, I realize I probably won’t see my brothers or father again. Beanie is all I have left. And I wonder if I have him. 

The headmaster opens the wagon door. Two men help an older woman out. They look small, white, and breakable. They’re not worth our fuss. 

Beanie doesn’t see me, but I’m looking at him. His sharp chin is raised high, my twin dimple twitching in the sunlight. He recognized our father’s lies early. Maybe that’s why he latched onto the longhaired girl, to build his own family. 

Soon, he will leave here a man. He will work and build the home he promised. Then he’ll return for me. Or her. Or her, then me. Or just her. A man needs a wife more than he needs a child. I’ll find my own family. That’s what Madame did after she was kidnapped. Same with our father when he met Mama. I can do the same once I get the right people’s attention. I’m aiming for Madame, just like Beanie said. 

The line breaks into a V. Madame and the staff shake hands with the three guests. A boy looks at me, then nudges another who does the same. Soon everyone is looking in my direction. They’re staring at the object I’m carrying. 

The longhaired girl catches Beanie’s eye, then nods toward me. He smiles, and I try to memorize every trace of it. I want to tell him I’m fine. I can stand tall without him propping me up.

The adults walk down the aisle of us orphans. The headmaster scowls at me. The sun gleams off Madame’s glasses. 

 Madame steps away from the others and stands beside me. She points to the wooden sign I’m carrying, and thanks me for finding it. 

She turns to face the Quakers, one hand on her belly and another on my shoulder. “We’re now the Tompkins’s Negro Orphanage of Prestige. A lot’s changed since your last visit. Come on in, and I’ll tell you about the children who make us successful.”

About the author

Shanteé Felix is a communications professional who holds a Master of Arts degree in English from Morgan State University. Her work has been published in Dim & Flaring Lamps: A Historical Fiction Anthology of America, Stories That Need To Be Told 2018, Philadelphia Stories and Sigma Delta Tau’s The Rectangle. She is currently researching the Reconstruction era for a novel-length work. 

About the artist

Sandra Eckert is a retired art teacher. She has a deep love for nature and living things. She lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania with her husband, Peter, and her rescue dogs, Jack and Teddy.