Mothers

Words by Shanteé Felix

Art by Kaci Ellison

Blessing’s daughters didn’t hear her coming from behind, so they continued to dangle their feet from the oak tree branch. The afternoon heat and their inability to sit still was evident in the coiled beads that formed on top of Nicole and Victoria’s freshly braided hair. Nine-year-old Nicole had one shoe off and was leaning on her big sister’s shoulder as they stared at the ground.

They smelled like sweat and grass and looked common country, when they had been scrubbed, powdered, and ordered to sit still and be ladylike. A visitor would think they were everyday pickaninnies instead of the children of the estate. It took everything in Blessing not to grab the sashes of their dresses and drag them inside. That’s what Aunt Grace would’ve done to her, back in the old days.

Earl Jr. often reminded her that those days were gone. They were New Negroes. Their children were not property, so no need to treat them as such. They had a maid and a cook, so they didn’t have to do the backbreaking chores Blessing had done as a child. They were free and powerful and they had to play the part. That meant going to the right schools and impressing the right people, which made today even more important.

Blessing followed the girls’ eyes to the ground and understood. That’s where Dottie—their grandmother and Blessing’s mother—squirmed with her breasts and midsection flat in the dirt. It was an escape scenario the old woman often reenacted. They never tired of it, but Blessing did.

“I had to wiggle myself on outta there,” Dottie said in her slow, raspy voice. “They thought we were animals, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to get in the dirt like a snake. I had to move at night too. The dark was good to me. Nobody was gonna find my black tail in the darkness.”

“Were you scared, Granny?” Victoria asked.

“So scared it felt like somebody was squeezing my insides.” Dottie perched up on her elbows and looked at each girl. This was the part where her voice got low and serious. “I felt fear with every footstep I took. But I had to go; I had to be free.”

“Why didn’t you take Mama with you?” Nicole asked.

And suddenly, Blessing was interested in the story. As much as she criticized her youngest child for being nosey and mouthy, she was thankful for it today. Dottie was a newcomer to their family. Blessing connected with her after placing advertisements in colored newspapers where she described herself as a former slave seeking her mother. Dottie responded and after some letters back and forth—Dottie used an intermediary—she left her rooming house in Philadelphia to live with them in Cushion, Delaware.

This old woman encouraged her grandsons to climb to the highest tree branch, danced with her granddaughters in slow, rickety motions and sang loud and off key with the maid and cook. She charmed Earl Jr. and his mother, Miss Fern, with complimentary nicknames (Handsome for him, and Madame for her). With Blessing, all she did was ask pointed questions. Why’d you marry a man so old? When will you have another baby? You’re just getting started with five. Who is the real woman of the house, you or Madame? Can’t you walk any faster? Christmas will be here tomorrow.

Blessing answered when she could. Earl Jr.—a free man about thirteen years her senior—was her only way out of slavery so she accepted his proposal without hesitation. She avoided mentioning the three pregnancies that ended in tragedy and that she was the woman of the house, while Miss Fern provided guidance. She told Dottie her bad foot gave her a slow gait, and left it at that.

Whenever Blessing asked about their past on the Eden Plantation – Did you really toss me in the blackberry bushes and run off? I had to fight kids who called me Blackberry Blessing. Did you know I got frostbite that nearly killed me? I was saved, but not my toes.—Dottie didn’t respond.

None of Blessing’s questions would be answered today either. The sound of approaching horses ended the conversation. She cleared her throat to make her presence known to Dottie and the girls. Victoria and Nicole hopped out of the tree while Dottie stood. Victoria had the good sense to avert her eyes and apologize for getting dirty. Nicole slipped on her missing shoe and offered no excuses. Blessing dismissed them all with a wave. Her only concern now was impressing the visitors, members of the Cushion Heritage Society.

Blessing swept up her skirts and spun into a curtsy as the horse-drawn carriage stopped in front of her. She said a quick prayer that she could impress their guests. Miss Fern had been trying to become a member for years but said it was difficult because this family was not without scandal. When Earl Jr. learned about this appointment, he arranged for a visit at a horse farm in the next county. He wanted to take the children with him, but Miss Fern insisted that the girls stay. Victoria and Nicole needed to be introduced to the right kind of people, she had said.

Two men stepped out—one tall and lean, the other slightly shorter—dressed in white robes. They looked like they were going to perform in the children’s Easter pageant as opposed to supper in the Vernon household.

Nicole tugged at the shorter man’s gown. “Are you Jesus?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Victoria pulled her sister away. “Everybody knows Jesus ain’t Black.”

The two men exchanged glances. Blessing’s heart quickened. She knew they were being judged, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of Nicole’s boldness, Victoria’s ain’t, or the girls’ unkempt appearance. She recognized Warren, the taller one. Miss Fern introduced them at the market a few weeks ago. Blessing noticed men like him, men like her husband, who were not handsome in the traditional sense but wore the essence of strength and freedom. Warren and Earl Jr. never toiled on a plantation, and it showed. They walked as if they’d never been whipped, tipped their hats like they’d never been taunted and spoke as if they’d never been spat at.

That day at the market, Warren tipped his hat to her mother-in-law and said he’d heard the family was doing extraordinary things. Miss Fern said it was true, and if he wanted to find out more he should visit. The Society sent a membership letter of interest to the house a short time later.

“We’re looking for Mrs. Vernon,” Warren said, as if he’d never met Blessing before. “I believe she’s expecting us.”

Before Blessing could respond, Miss Fern appeared on the front porch and waved them over. Her ringlets of hair were piled on top of her head and the sun struck her in such a way that her emerald eyes sparkled. Her appearance made Blessing think of the volume of poetry her late father-in-law, Big Daddy, had written about their courtship. Good hair ’n green eyes, lawd a’mercy, I coulda died.

Warren tipped his hat. “Mrs. Vernon. So good to see you again. This is my associate, Carl. We were just getting acquainted with your …”

“Family,” Miss Fern said, as she gestured to everyone. “We’re all family here. Won’t you come in? Excuse the walkway. We hired a new boy and he still isn’t used to our standards for upkeep.”

Blessing stared at the ground as the men walked past her and climbed the stairs to her home. She was the woman of the house, yet she was still the barefoot slave girl who greeted guests on the Eden Plantation. It had been fifteen years since Earl Jr. bought Blessing’s freedom then took her here, to this free town, and introduced his bride to his mother and sister.

Miss Fern and Tillie dusted her off and spruced her up. Tillie taught her to read and how to be free. Miss Fern demonstrated how to run a household, and dressed Blessing in the clothes her older daughters left behind.

Still, Blessing didn’t need either one of them to tell her that she shouldn’t be ignored, not in her own house. She was Mrs. Vernon. Miss Fern was the Widow Vernon and Tillie, when she was there, was Miss Vernon. Yet these were titles even the household staff didn’t follow, even after all these years. They continued to refer to Miss Fern as Mrs. Vernon. They didn’t use Blessing’s name at all. Miss Fern told her it wasn’t the staff’s responsibility to give her a title; it was Blessing’s job to earn one and make sure they didn’t forget it.

A jolt of pain surged from her right foot, and Blessing winced. All her life she had to deal with either aches or sensations from her bad foot and the two toes that were taken from it. Sometimes she could feel so much activity from her missing toes—tingling, itching, stretching and curling—that she had to rip her boot off to make sure they were still gone. When the pain was at its worst, Aunt Grace would rub her oils on her foot and tell her to be strong, that Master Willis didn’t care about her tears.

Victoria hurried to her side. “Mama, is it your bad foot? I picked some fresh leaves this morning. I can start brewing your tea. That’ll help.”

“You just worry about you and your sister,” Blessing snapped. “I told you not to get dirty and look at you. Go freshen up before they think you’re the help. Nana was counting on you.”

Crestfallen, the girl left. Blessing regretted her harshness. She wanted to tell Victoria, just like she told all her children, that they didn’t know how good they had it. The fact that Victoria knew she was eleven years old, could read and write, had all her fingers and toes and a Granny and a Nana, this was a lifestyle foreign to Blessing.

Earl Jr. tried to give Blessing what she’d been missing. When they met, he was thirty and he estimated she was seventeen. He later designated their wedding day, September 5, as her birthday. For their anniversary each year, Blessing blew out a candle and the children helped her figure out her new age.

Dottie was quiet but her face spoke volumes. It told Blessing she was reacting too harshly for a minor incident. Blessing rolled her eyes. Her children were too old for tenderness. She had to be hard on them today—especially her daughters—because the world would be harder on them tomorrow, whether they were New or Old Negroes.

Blessing held out her arm to her mother, and the old woman took it. Dottie tried to walk toward the porch stairs, but Blessing’s strength kept her still. She gestured toward the dirt stains on Dottie’s dress. “We need to get you right, too,” Blessing said. “The maid has something you can wear. We’ll go around back.”

“Fine with me,” Dottie said. A spring breeze blew as they passed the cookhouse, the stable, the barn, the chicken coop and then they reached the back entrance. The maid stood there waiting, a grim expression on her face.

Dottie turned to Blessing. “Who are we showing off for today? Them saditty boys? Or Madame?”

“Miss Fern wants what’s best for the family. Getting into this club is what’s best.”

“And what you think about what’s best?”

“Listening to Miss Fern is what’s best.”

Dottie chuckled, but there was no humor in her eyes. “Here I thought you had too many women living here. I was wrong. Y'all ain’t got but one.”

* * *

In the parlor, Miss Fern took charge. She directed Warren and Carl to seats near the fireplace, and the maid showered them with coffee, salt pork, and cornbread. This meeting had been rehearsed so many times that Victoria and Nicole knew to take their places near the bookshelves, while Blessing and Dottie sat closest to the guests. Everyone knew to remain still, sit up straight, and avoid addressing the maid by her name. They shouldn’t show any levels of intimacy with the domestic staff.

Big Daddy’s legacy could both hurt and help their membership, Miss Fern had said. Earl Vernon Sr. was a slave who bought his freedom, taught himself to read and documented his life in poetic verse. He was as renowned for breaking wild horses as he was for gambling. While he could’ve bought their house the traditional way, he won the deed in a card game. The previous owner was Cushion’s only doctor and many townspeople shunned the family because of his removal.

Whenever the conversation switched to Big Daddy, the girls were to pick up one of his books and read an underlined passage. When Miss Fern mentioned her son, Blessing was supposed to apologize for Earl Jr.'s absence and say that he was training their sons in the family business, horses. If any of the questions became too personal or controversial, they were to smile and follow Miss Fern’s lead.

“Thank you for having us in your lovely home,” Warren said. “Some Society members will always think of this as Dr. Botkin’s house, but we’re long past that. The late Mr. Vernon got the deed fair and square.”

Carl grunted. “Is that what we’re calling gambling now?”

Miss Fern’s smile never wavered. Always obedient, Victoria reached for one of Big Daddy’s books, but Miss Fern shook her head. She introduced Victoria and Nicole as her precious granddaughters, Blessing as her lovely daughter-in-law, and Dottie as Blessing’s long lost mother. She mentioned all the things that made their family extraordinary: Earl Jr.’s success at raising and racing horses (much like his father), her granddaughters’ skills on the piano, and Miss Fern’s ability to make dolls out of colorful pieces of yarn.

What she left out was just as extraordinary. Miss Fern told Blessing she wouldn’t be mentioning her healing tea or Tillie’s work with the Freedmen’s Bureau. Blessing knew not to bring up Tillie, since that would lead to questions about why she no longer lived there. Still, she was proud of her tea. She brewed it from the leaves in the backyard and drank it whenever her foot ailed her. Blessing had the children inhale its steam when they were ill and applied warm compresses of it to Earl Jr’s sore back.

Miss Fern feared the tea would make them seem country, and low class. Blessing almost told her about the tea’s other powers, but decided to keep that quiet for now. Blessing and Tillie were the only ones who knew how to use it to prevent pregnancy.

Carl nodded toward Dottie. “This is the slave, eh?”

“Forgive my comrade’s lack of tact,” Warren said. “We haven’t had a slave come through Cushion in many years. Forgive us if we stare, ma’am. When we ooh and ahhh, it’s all about awe. We don’t intend any disrespect.”

Blessing wanted to remind them that she had been enslaved and so had Miss Fern, but she did not. One of the first rules Miss Fern had given her about hosting is that the guest is always right, especially when the guest is a man. Her phantom toes tingled again, and she gripped the arm of her chair to let the wave pass.

“I’m Dottie. And yes, I was a slave. Property of Master Willis Burton. I’m here now, what’s left of me. Just plain skin and bones, bruises and blood, spit and shit.”

Miss Fern gasped. Warren chuckled and asked Dottie if she’d ever heard of the Victory Communities. She hadn’t, and he began telling her the same story Earl Jr. told Blessing when he offered to buy her freedom. He promised to take her to a world where most people looked like her and were just as powerful, or even more powerful, than her master. That was the first time she heard of Cushion or the concept of Victory Communities.

When the British established the Thirteen Colonies, a deal was made so that each one would have a designated area for certain Africans and Indians to live. These communities were not for just any Brown, Black, or Red person, but for those with skills that made them valuable. The idea was to populate these areas with the best of the best, and keep them separate from their counterparts who were being brutalized.

In a Victory Community, Black men could own property, their children could attend the best schools and their wives could have their own maids. The first time Blessing stepped into Cushion, it was just as Earl Jr. described it. The streets were filled with Black men and women who were just as fashionable as Master Willis and Miss Jane. The Vernons lived within the hills, the prosperous area of Cushion. Their maids, butlers and domestic servants dwelled beneath them, in the flat area of town.

Miss Fern impressed Blessing the most. The widow not only told her maid where to scrub and what to cook, Miss Fern also got on her knees and fixed her employee’s mistakes. That was the difference between a Cushion household and the white folks’. Your maid looks like you, so when she fails, consider it your own failure, Miss Fern taught her. Let the Miss Janes and Master Willises of the world abuse and torture their housekeepers, while the Cushion residents treated theirs like family. The Vernons’ maid seemed to appreciate this. At the end of each night, she rewarded Miss Fern with a warm blanket and a hot toddy.

“We’re descended from powerful people,” Warren said. “Our Society decides who comes to our community. We say who stays, and who goes. It’s an influential position. Today we’re here to consider this family as members.”

“Oh, nobody can kick us out,” Nicole said. “When Big Daddy got the house, we got special papers. Right, Nana? The doctor signed something that said we could stay. No matter what.”

Miss Fern rubbed her throat and kept her eyes on Warren. “Certain exceptions were made for us, yes. But I’m sure if anyone looked into my late husband’s pedigree our living here wouldn’t even be a question. He was a slave turned entrepreneur, a poet, the best horse trainer this side of the Mississippi—”

“An opportunistic card shark who conned a brilliant man out of his house,” Carl said.

“If he was so brilliant, then how’d he lose his house?” Dottie asked.

Miss Fern reddened, and Blessing stared at the ground.

“And question about your little club,” Dottie continued. “If we get in, are we gonna have to dress like that?”

Warren looked down at his gown, as if just realizing their unique attire. “We’re wearing our meeting outfits. We only put this on when visiting potential members. So no, you wouldn’t have to wear this. It’s very comfortable, though. And it’s fashionable in Africa.”

“Yeah? And when’s the last time you went there?”

Dottie laughed, and eventually Warren and Miss Fern joined her. The maid refilled drinks. She told Blessing her tea was being prepared, but it would take a while. Blessing realized Victoria must have requested it, and that made her feel worse for being sharp with her earlier.

“Regarding your potential membership,” Warren said, turning to Miss Fern. “If approved, you all would help us decide who comes to our community. Yes, there are aspects of your lives that we find impressive. And there are other parts where we’re not so sure.”

Carl clasped his hands together, almost giddy. “And that’s where I come in. Dottie, is that what you’re going by these days? We’re here because we don’t believe you’re who you say you are.”

* * *

Blessing sent the girls to their room, but she knew they were listening from the top of the stairs. That’s how they learned of Dottie’s existence, and the real reason their Aunt Tillie had to leave and never return.

Once the maid closed the door behind them, Carl shared the story of Black Blake, the town fisherman. His background was like Blessing’s. He was brought up on a plantation and had been separated from his natural parents. After years of searching, he was reunited with his biological mother, who moved in with him and his family. Eventually, he gave her a large sum of money to pay off a debt, and she disappeared.

“Vanished,” Carl said. “The sheriff told him this isn’t new. There’s a group they’re calling Mothers of the Night. They’re looking for people who are looking for their mamas. Especially those lost from the slave day. Poor Blake is realizing this woman probably wasn’t his mother at all. Look at this story. Doesn’t the description sound familiar?”

Carl handed a folded newspaper to Blessing. The article described the Black Blake case in detail. The sheriff described the woman—“Marge”—as a petite, deep-brown elderly woman with a bent back and missing teeth. She and her fellow Mothers of the Night had been scanning the newspapers, seeking potential victims.

Dottie stood and kept one hand on the chair for support. “If I was gonna pretend to be somebody, why would I pick ol’ Dottie? If I was in the pretend business, I’d scrub these scars off, put on a nice dress and talk pretty like Madame. But what’d I do? I came here old, busted, beat down and broken.”

Blessing passed the newspaper to Miss Fern. She thought about Dottie’s reluctance to answer direct questions about the past, aside from mentions of Aunt Grace and Master Willis. When they first met, Blessing didn’t feel the instant connection she expected, nor did she see an image of herself in Dottie. In fact, she was unimpressed with this ancient waif of a woman and her unreliable memory. Tillie pointed out how Victoria and Nicole had Dottie’s sharp chin, that Blessing’s oldest son inherited her sharp cheekbones and that her protruding ears seemed to pass down to her other two boys.

“This doesn’t mean much,” Blessing said. “The description sounds like every former slave I ever met.”

Carl sneered at her. “You were practically a baby when she left. You don’t even know what really happened to your toes.”

Blessing clasped her hands across her midsection to hold herself back from pummeling Carl. How much more did he know about her past? She wanted to counter his vitriol by telling him about Dottie’s bond with her grandchildren and the physical traits they shared. She couldn’t talk about her own memories of her mother. All she recalled were hazy images of a woman’s calloused fingers caressing her face and braiding her hair. She realized now that these memories, much like the stories about her abandonment in the blackberry bushes and toes lost to frostbite, might not be memories at all. They could be stories she’d been told so often that they latched onto her mind.

Dottie folded her arms. “What else you know, little man? Seems like we don’t need to read no newspaper. You know our whole story, don’t you?”

“Mothers don’t leave their children often,” Carl said. “They’re still telling Blessing’s story over at Eden. Poor child tossed in the sticker bushes in the cold. All these years, her Mama is nowhere to be found. But now Blessing married well, has this nice house and all of a sudden, she appears.”

“What else you know? Won’t you tell her who her daddy is? Or how she got her name? Ain’t too many slaves named Blessing.”

“I’ll let you handle that one. Dottie.”

Dottie moved her arms up to her shoulders, forming an X around her body. She told them that Master Willis was focused on breeding strong black bucks. He considered summer breeding season and he’d toss some girls in the cabin with his prized buck. Then he’d wait for their strong sons to be born. Edward was Dottie’s prize, and he was sold off shortly after their rendezvous.

“At the end of my pregnancy, Master Willis’s cousin was visiting from Alabama. We knew he wanted to buy slaves, so we braced for it. After I gave birth, I heard Master Willis asking my midwife about the baby’s health. He said his cousin only wanted boys—strong bucks—so to consider myself lucky. My midwife, Grace, told me I should name the baby Blessing. So I did.”

Dottie dropped her arms, one at a time. “I’m not a praying woman, but I’m no crook. If I say that’s my child, then that’s the truth as I know it. I birthed lots of children. I wish I could see them too. But Blessing here is the only one who came calling. For that, I’m grateful.”

Miss Fern shifted in her seat. “Gentlemen, what does this mean for our membership? Do we get in if we convince you Dottie is who she says she is? We could introduce her to Black Blake. That would put this whole thing to rest.”

Carl looked at Warren and nodded toward the door. They stood.

“It can’t be salvaged,” Carl said. “There’s too much controversy here. There’s the history with the house, then this business with Tillie. Did you think we wouldn’t find out about her and the stable boy?”

Miss Fern followed them to the doorway with Blessing close behind. “These are minor things, I assure you,” Miss Fern pleaded. “Do you want us to turn Dottie in to the sheriff? We’re willing to do anything.”

Carl stopped and turned toward Miss Fern. In this sudden switch of stance, he stomped on Blessing’s bad foot. In an instant, a sharp, sizzling pain sped from her phantom toes to her heel to her spine until it exploded within the crevices of her scalp.

“GODDAMMIT!”

Carl removed his foot and apologized, but the curse felt so freeing that Blessing screamed it again.

“Get out of my house,” Blessing snapped. “Take your newspaper, your book, take it all. Get out. Don’t you dare come back.”

Warren looked to Miss Fern, as if she could save them. Dottie stepped between them. “You hard of hearing? Now get!”

They left, and Dottie hurled insults after them. Dazed, Miss Fern watched them go, her eyes glassy and lips trembling. The widow wouldn’t look at her daughter-in-law, and Blessing was fine with that.

While at the door, Blessing felt a pair of eyes on her. When she turned toward the top of the stairs, Victoria was looking at her, awestruck.

* * *

Dusk fell. Blessing sat on the front porch and listened to the crickets and the clatter of the maid collecting dishes. When Warren and Carl left, Miss Fern retired to her bedroom, but Dottie grew energized. She called Victoria and Nicole downstairs. The maid fed them a dessert of blackberry rolls, but Blessing declined. Instead, she poured a cup of tea and slipped outside.

Blessing removed her shoe and propped her bad foot on the railing as she sipped her drink. She gazed out at the trees that dotted their property. She stared at the spot Dottie stood on a few months before, when they first met in person and Dottie agreed to move in with them. Wearing an old dress and carrying a tattered suitcase, the old woman quivered when she saw the house her daughter and grandchildren were living in. “I crawled out of Satan’s ass, and now I’m climbing the steps to glory,” she shouted as Earl Jr. led her inside.

The door creaked open, and half of a blackberry roll flew into Blessing’s lap. She turned around and saw the girls standing there, looking sheepish. Blessing waved them over. Victoria sat to her left, leaving no room for Nicole. Blessing pulled the younger girl into her lap and pressed her head to her breast. She squeezed Victoria’s hand. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this close to her children, particularly her daughters.

“I thought we were in trouble,” Victoria said.

“Everybody’s in trouble tonight. Even me,” Blessing said. “So I figured I’d give you two a break.”

“Is Granny really your Mama?” Nicole asked. “Are we gonna get into that fancy club?”

“Stop eavesdropping,” Blessing said. “But no, we’re not getting into that club. That’s for the best.”

“And Granny?” Nicole repeated. “Should we call her something else?”

“Granny is still Granny.” Blessing squeezed the girls tighter. She wanted to tell them that she would never leave them the way Dottie left her babies, that they belonged to her in a way that wasn’t as fragile as Dottie’s family ties. Dottie’s babies weren’t hers; they were Eden’s. Dottie’s body wasn’t hers; it was Eden’s. Yet the words froze in Blessing’s throat. She took a long sip of tea.

The sky was pink with a scattering of white clouds. Earl Jr. and the boys would be home soon. If they arrived with a new horse, father and sons would spend the next few days together, trying to train it. If they returned empty handed, Earl Jr. would work with their existing horses and try to decide which one was best to race. Either way, their rejection from the Cushion Heritage Society would be the last thing on his mind.

The maid stepped outside and asked Blessing if she needed anything else. By the way she fastened her bonnet and draped her shawl over her shoulders, it was clear she wanted this to be a short conversation.

“You handled everything well, just like you do every night,” Blessing said. “Tonight was certainly interesting. Thanks for your hard work.”

The maid nodded. “You’re welcome. Night. Mrs. Vernon.”

About the author

Shanteé Felix is a writer living in the Baltimore suburbs. She studied creative writing at Morgan State University and her work has been published in Stories That Need To Be Told 2018, Philadelphia Stories and Sigma Tau Delta’s The Rectangle. Her writing has been listed as a finalist in the Tennessee Williams Fiction Contest and the Marguerite McGlinn Prize for Fiction. This is her first piece of historical fiction.

About the illustrator

Kaci Ellison, a mother of two children from rural Western Kentucky, lives in a log home on 10 acres of forest. The homestead is also home to bunnies, chickens, a cat, and a dog. An art major from Murray State University, she works as a home designer for Champion Homes. Her hobbies include gardening, illustrating, hunting, fishing, running, and watching her children play sports.

Kaci Ellison is enchanted by nature. She loves bird watching. Sunrises and sunsets remind her everyday is a new beginning. Kaci is passionate believer in God. She believes everyday kindness is the lifeblood of our own happiness.