Beatrice of Saddle Hope

     I am a writer, have been since I was a little girl. Sometimes a story works its way into my heart and I can't get it out. I have to write it or feel the words swelling inside my stomach, pushing their way out of my throat and my head and my fingertips. It's like magic.
     Once upon a time, I wanted writing to be my profession. But most people don't make a living writing, so the Lord and I have been talking, and we've decided that I will always write, but not necessarily as a career. So I have been thinking about using my blog to share some of my stories, too, not just my thoughts. If you're curious, read on. This isn't the whole story, just the beginning. The rest will come later, but let me know what you think, anyway! :)

Beatrice of Saddle Hope©

Saddle Hope, North Carolina, 1965

        I knowed Miss Beatie from the time she was five years old. She used to ‘scape the big house and run through the field all the way to my shack. I would take her back to her folks ever’ time, and ever’ time she’d come right back. I only knowed who she was ‘cause her daddy, Mr. James Stewart, was the preacher in town. Only for white folks, though, so I never heared him preach a sermon.

          Whenever I’d bring her back to the house, her mama jest thanked me quietly. Her daddy, he take her by the arm and look at me with eyes so filled with hate I thought I might catch fire. That look made me feel like I was a bad person jest for being borned black. As I’s leavin’ the house, I could hear her tiny wails of protest for whatever punishment he’s givin’ her. Made my heart jest squeeze up right tight. Such a pitiful sound.

          Some men came to my shack last week to ask what I knowed about Miss Beatie. Said they were from some fancy New York newspaper. Told me they was writin’ ‘bout her life. When I asked why, they said it was ‘cause she had been a famous writer and had just died. They wanted to know about the true Beatrice Stewart from the people that loved her most of all. None of her family that was still alive would talk to ‘em and somehow they got my name. I didn’t ask how, jest said I’d tell ‘em what I knowed. Said it probably wasn’t nothing a fancy newspaper wanted, but they asked to hear it anyhow. So I said ok. And I telled ‘em I couldn’t do no writin’ or readin’. They said they’d come by once a week and take down whatever it was I had to say.

          There was two men who comed to my house that first day. The man with the typewriter, his name was Beau. He was a mute, but could hear better’n a hawk in a rainstorm. The other man would be askin’ me all the questions ‘bout Miss Beatie. His name was Horae Littlefeather. He was a big man that kinda looked like one o’ them bulldogs. Big belly and a big face with jowls that jiggled when he laughed. Turned out to be one o’ the nicest men I ever did meet.

          That first day, they didn’t stay long. Tol’ me to jest think on my memories o’ Miss Beatie and they’d be back in a day or two. The whole day, I thought all I could, diggin’ ‘round real hard in this ol’ frizzy head o’ mine. I came up with some right nifty stuff, too!

          While I waited for Beau and Mr. Littlefeather to come back, I couldn’t help wishin’ I knowed how to read an’ write. There was no guaranteein’ I’d be able to hold onto anythin’. My ninety-four year old memory won’t the sharpest no more. I prayed that the good Lord would store ‘em for me. And I waited.

_____

          Two days later they finally did come back. They asked if I remembered ‘em and I said o’ course I did. They asked if it was a good time and I cackled and said ain’t no reason it wouldn’t be. Got all the time in the world, I do.

          Beau and Mr. Littlefeather came into my shack and acted like it was some fine Southern mansion. Complimented my feed sack drapes, thanked me heaps for they bitter coffee, and didn’t say nothin’ when my table leg plumb near came off. I’s just worried my old chairs wouldn’t hold Mr. Littlefeather bein’ so big as he was. Beau was okay, though. He was a skinny little thing.

          The men took the two chairs and I sat on an old milkin’ stool. When Beau was ready, Mr. Littlefeather started askin’ me questions. First, he asked me ‘bout me. My name, how old I was, how long I’d lived in Saddle Hope, if I had any family.

          “Well, my full name is Edith-Grace Rose Lee and I’m ninety-four years old. I’ve lived in Saddle Hope my whole life. My mama and daddy were slaves for Miss Beatie’s grandparents. I was raised here in this little shack.”

          “Did you ever work for Miss Stewart’s family?” Mr. Littlefeather asked.

          “Nope. When Beatie’s daddy got the house from his daddy, Mr. Stewart fired all the help. He jest let me keep livin’ in this little shack since it won’t exactly his property. See, my mama and daddy earned it working for the first Mr. Stewart for so long. Gave it to ‘em as their own little piece o’ land. He was a good man. Beatie’s daddy ain’t want nothin’ to do with black folk so he never tried to make me leave. Never even talked to me.”

          “So if you didn’t work for the Stewarts, when did you first meet Beatrice?”

          I told him the story about how she ran through the field and stumbled upon my house. She was five years old, lost, and upset. I took her inside and made her a glass o’ milk. She jest sat and watched me with big, round eyes.

          “What’s a matter, baby? Ain’t never seen no negro woman a’fore?” I asked her, smiling a little bit.

          She shook her head hard and fast, pretty blond curls swingin’. “Daddy says black people are black ‘cause God hated them. He says God cursed them.” Her voice was sweet and clear. She looked at me curiously.

          I couldn’t be mad at her for somethin’ she couldn’t understand, so I jest laughed. “Not at all. God made our skin black ‘cause He thought we needed to look extra special. My mama used to tell me it was ‘cause He knew we needed extra protection from the sun.”

          She wrinkled her nose. “Then I wish I was black, too. My nose gets red in the sun all the time.” She stopped. “What’s your name?”

          “Edith-Grace Rose Lee. You can jest call me Edith-Grace.”

          “That’s a pretty name. Mine’s Beatrice Catherine Stewart, but my family calls me Beatie. I’m five. How old are you?”

          I laughed hard. She was a smart one. “Well Miss Beatie, I’m old enough. You like flowers?”

          Milk forgotten, I slapped my mama’s old straw hat on her head and took her out to my garden. We looked at my flowers and vegetables, three chickens, crabapple tree, and my old cow, Bessie. Then I taked her home, right on up to the front door, bold as you please. Her daddy was none too happy. It was months ‘fore I saw her again.

          Miss Beatie was the second of seven chil’en so she was expected to fend for herself, ‘specialy as she got older and more siblin’s started comin’ ‘long. She became one o’ they mamas. Mrs. Stewart was too busy with the house and havin’ more babies that she didn’t much care for the children herself. Lots of that fell on Miss Beatie’s little shoulders.

          “Why you want to know ‘bout Miss Beatie if she wrote a book ‘bout her life?” I asked in the middle of a thought. I didn’t think to ask a’fore.

          Mr. Littlefeather looked at Beau, then at me. “She just wrote short stories, nothing really about her own life, that we know of anyway. Whenever anyone tried to interview her about her past, she would always say no. She’d tell us it was too painful. When she got sick, she said you were her best friend and knew all there was to know about her. She said to ask you when she was gone. It was her last request that you tell her story since you knew her better than anyone. She told us that you two hadn’t spoken in a while, but she had faith that you would still do it.”

          The room went a little blurry and I tried to keep my sadness from leakin’ out my eyes. “What’d she die from?” I’d been afeared to ask that question before, not sure if my poor old heart could handle it.

          He was real quiet when he answered, “Lung cancer. She fought it as long as she could. The treatment just didn’t work. That was one special lady, your friend. Her stories had real heart and touched so many people.”

          I had a hard time lookin’ him in the eyes after that. My whole body hurt thinkin’ ‘bout Miss Beatie bein’ sick. “I think I’m done for today, Mr. Littlefeather.”

          He nodded. “I understand. It’s a lot to take in. Would you still like us to come back again?”

          “Yes. I just need some time.”

          Promisin’ to come back soon, Beau and Mr. Littlefeather packed up their things and left my little shack.

          For a long while after they’d gone, I sat outside and stared across the field at the big house. It was empty now. No one had lived there for nigh on fifteen years or so. If I closed my eyes and concentrated real hard, I swear I could hear her laughter, the sound of Miss Beatie’s voice. Memories, like ghosts, blew in on the breeze, haunting me.

          I opened my eyes and I could see Miss Beatie runnin’ through the sunflowers. I could feel her huggin’ me ‘round the knees, feel her hot tears on my old blue dress. I could see her writin’ and smilin’ at my little table. And now she was dead. The tears were wet and hot on my cheeks. I hadn’t even got to say good-bye.

          I knew it would be right hard to tell her story, but I knew I had to do it. Not for anyone but Miss Beatie. She had been like my own little girl. This would be my good-bye to her.