The Whip by Karen Kondazian Page B

afraid of anything different than themselves. I saw it in the eyes of the white folk in the big house that my mama worked in. They looked at me like I was a small black animal to be petted and fed, so I could grow up strong to tend their crops. You know how I learned to read? In a tool shed. At night. My mama, because she was smart, was secretly taught to read by her missus, so she could help the white children with their studies. After working hard for sixteen hours, she would sit there with me late at night on the dirt floor of that little shed, by the light of a bit of candle she had ‘borrowed’; and when the candle burned out, the lesson was over. In Mississippi it is against the law to learn to read if you are a Negro. If they’d ever caught her, she would have been horsewhipped within an inch of her life. Or cat-hauled. You know what cat-haulin’ is? It’s a form of punishment where a tomcat is used to claw at the back of the slave. I was ten the first time I saw cat-haulin. My mama wanted her son to be free. She always said she’d rather be whipped to death than allow her son to grow up to be the property of another man. When I was twelve, she told me to run away…helped me run away. I’m one of the fortunate ones. I’m no man’s chattel. Life gave her that much. Course, she never knew it. I don’t even know what happened to her.”
    Seeing the pain on his face, Charlotte didn’t know what to do. She sat there with tears in her eyes. She was so moved by this man. She would take his demons and his fears.
    “I’m so sorry, Byron. I don’t know what to say. If you want me to go I will. But I want to stay here with you.”
    Byron just stared into the fire. “Charlotte, I don’t want you to go, but you need to go. And don’t come back.”
    Without another word, she pulled on her hat and coat and walked out. The white snow and the black sky with its tossed handful of star points glittered. She wept her way home, tears freezing on her face, her head down against the snow all stirred up by the night wind skittering around in powdery curlicues and tendrils, sifting through her clothing and down her neck.

Twenty-Nine
    It was a bad surprise when Charlotte stepped upto the back kitchen door and turned the knob. The door was bolted. She tried it a second time. Surely this was just someone’s oversight. Then she noticed her packed carpetbag was lying to the side of the door. There was an envelope with her name scrawled across it in Mrs. Bidwell’s flowery script. It was pinned to the side of the bag. Her hands shaking, she tore off the envelope and read the note enclosed; “You are not welcome here anymore…Mrs. Flora S. Bidwell.”
    Charlotte stood there for a long stunned moment, shivering. She was panting. Every time she took a breath, the cold hurt deep inside.
    She grabbed her bag and ran out to the barn. Her nose was freezing. She tried to whistle, but her mouth was too cold. She rubbed her lips hard with her gloved hand and tried again. A sharp whistle—whit, whit, whoo. No answer. She whistled again.
    Charlotte heard Lee’s whistle back. She pulled open the barn door, starting inside. Something was thrashing by lantern light under the dark blanket on Lee’s cot. There was an empty liquor bottle discarded in the hay nearby. Lee’s head poked out from under the blanket. Another fair-haired head appeared beside him. She could not make out the face. Christ, Lee was up to it again.
    “Come on in Char,” Lee said. “I got room for one more. It’s been a long time.”
    Embarrassed, she turned and walked out of the barn.

    At Byron’s cabin it was quiet. She knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again, harder, and called out his name. Eyes full of sleep, he opened the door. His face was stern but he let her in. The interior of the shack was lit by the glow of the fire. It was warm.
    “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said, her teeth chattering. “I know you told me not to