Читать книгу Journey of a Cotton Blossom - Jennifer Crocker-Villegas - Страница 11

4

Colds, Cries, and Sweet Lullabies

When Joseph was just a baby, he was no more than a nuisance to Mrs. Kingsley, even though the only way she knew he existed was when she heard him cry a few rooms over. Mrs. Kingsley and the women of her social circle did not dare raise children even if they were their own. Why in the world would they waste their effort on children when they had nannies and maids? That’s what the help is for, right?

Joseph spent most of his days with his nanny, Berta. Without Berta, he would never have known the touch of a loving hand or an embrace. The Kingsleys surely were not giving those out. Berta loved and raised Joseph as her own. She always kissed his soft, sweet head before putting him to sleep while singing to him the song her mother had once sung to her, a familiar African-American lullaby that had been passed down for decades:

O, go to sleepy, sleepy, li’l baby,

’Cause when you wake,

You’ll git some cake,

And ride a li’l white hossy.

O’ de li’l butterfly, he stole some pie,

Go to sleepy, li’l baby, and flew so high

Till he put out his eye.

O, go to sleepy, li’l baby.

This was an old lullaby that had been passed down when Berta’s mother was a little girl. If it were not for Berta, Joseph would have been a different man when he grew up—very different—but he had Berta’s guidance as a young boy. The love and guidance of someone can make all the difference in the world for a child, and it did for Joseph.

Berta was an elderly lady of seventy-three years old, and a rough seventy-three years it had been. She had lived most of her life in Clarksville. Her skin was worn from all the years out in the sun. Her hands were rough from the hard life of working the fields day in and day out, but they were gentle enough to rock Joseph to sleep every night. She was moved out of the field and into the house to work once Joseph came into the home. What great luck it was, she thought when she was put inside to raise Joseph. Someone of her age should not be out in the sweltering sun doing hard, manual labor.

After meeting Joseph and seeing how the Kingsleys treated him, she learned her move inside was not just about her at all; it was about God wanting them to save each other. Berta always looked tired and worn, but whenever she laid eyes on Joseph, her eyes had a sparkle in them. There were countless times that Berta risked her own life to protect Joseph from the strikes of Mrs. Kingsley. She would use her own body as a shield for little Joseph, each time risking retaliation that could result in her death.

Mr. Kingsley was not home often. When he was, he was too interested in his whiskey to care about the boy. You could say that Mr. Kingsley forgot that Joseph was alive, which was a sad truth and a blessing all in one. That was one less person from whom Berta had to protect Joseph.

Mrs. Kingsley and Berta early on came to a mutual understanding about Joseph. One night when Joseph was only two months old, he developed an awful cold. All night, he screamed. No matter what Berta did, she could not comfort the boy. She rocked him, gave him milk, and even gave him an old cold remedy her mama had used on her when she was a young girl. Nothing seemed to ease his pain, so scream he did.

The screaming woke Mrs. Kingsley, a hideous beast when awakened. She was like a bear being disturbed from its winter’s slumber. She rose out of her bed sniffling and rabid. She flung on her pale blue night coat while shoving her long, bony toes into her silken, laced night slippers. She then proceeded to storm down the staircase, screaming.

“Shut that fucking little nigger up before I shut him up myself!”

Clearly, the Christianity was seeping from her pores as she shrieked with fury about this tiny baby scalding with fever. She burst into the nursery where Joseph and Berta were. Still screaming, she picked little Joseph up and violently shook him.

“Shut up, I say, shut up! You will listen to me, nigger!”

She threw him down and raised her hand back as far as she could with the full intent of striking this two-month-old baby boy until he submitted and did as he was told. Just as her hand was coming down knuckles first, she felt an abrupt force grab her. Berta had tired of using her back as a shield, so she grabbed Mrs. Kingsley’s wrist as hard as she could and, in a deep, almost possessed-sounding voice, said, “If you evuh touch dis boy like dat again, I will kill you. I know dat dey will kill me fo it, but I have lived my life. Dis boy has not, and I will make sure you are dead cold before deys ever make it to me.”

Mrs. Kingsley turned white as a ghost, even whiter than she already was, if you can imagine that. She turned around without saying a word and quietly went back up the stairs to her room, most likely not to go right back to sleep. Surely she was just lying in her bed awake, stricken with fear, reliving every moment of what had just happened and knowing Berta meant every damn word. For weeks after that, Mrs. Kingsley had fingerprint-sized bruises on her wrist as a gentle reminder of the lesson she had learned that night. Mrs. Kingsley never again laid a hand on Joseph as long as Berta was around.