Across the River - an 1800s Black / Native American Novella

Chapter 2

Naomi carefully tucked Johnny's arms into his jacket, then buttoned him up tight. His hat and scarf were the last two items to bundle him against the cold. His gaze did not turn from the small blue cloth horse he clung to tightly with both hands. He turned it over and over in his hands, marveling at its silky, black mane and its button eyes.

Naomi gave Johnny's dark, curly head a fond tousle as she sleepily yawned. It had taken her all night, but she'd manage to cut enough fabric from the bottom of her favorite blue dress to fashion the cloth horse and create the toy for her son. The summer dress would be shorter, certainly, but by the time it was warm enough to wear it again she was sure she'd be able to buy fresh fabric to add to its length. All that mattered today was the joy in her young son's eyes.

A rough cough came from the bedroom, followed by a snarl. "Naomi! You crow Lumbee squaw! Where the hell are you?"

She winced, then walked quietly to the doorway of the bedroom. "It's Christmas," she reminded Bill. "I'm taking the children to church."

"Damn preachers," he grumbled, pulling the blanket over his head. "They're licken' to bleed you dry, is all."

"I'll be back by lunchtime," she promised.

"You'd better. And don't let me catch you talking to those negroes, either. They's born across the river. We're better than them, and don't you forget it."

She pressed her lips together, then went back to her two young children. She drew Polly up in one arm, took Johnny's hand in her other, and stepped out.

The world was beautiful. It was decked in a stunning white frock, laced with sparkles, and the sky overhead was high and brilliant blue. The Blackburn Fork bubbled and burbled over its rocks, and a blue jay called out from a nearby pine.

Johnny looked up at her while they made their way along the deer path through the dense woods. "Mama, why does Daddy hate negroes?"

Naomi reflexively put a hand to her own face. Her father had been from Ireland, gathered up by the English for slavery, along with many other children from his village. And her mother's father had been Irish as well. But her mother's mother had been dark skinned, dark eyed, some sort of mix of negro and Indian. Her granny didn't even know her blood for sure – she'd been raised a servant and had never known her true parents. All she could do is guess by the chocolate-brown skin and long, straight, glistening hair.

Naomi took after her.

When Naomi had been young, it hadn't mattered much. She and her four older siblings had played, laughed, and taken it for granted that people came in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They had black friends and red friends, brown friends and pink friends. The country was not even twenty years old when she was born. Everyone was in the same rough-shod fix. Everyone pulled together to make it work.

But times were changing. With every passing year she could see the lines forming. The English were being separated out, treated differently - elevated. The rest – Indian, black, Irish – were becoming second-class citizens.

She wondered where it would lead.

Johnny pulled her hand. "Mama?"

"I'm sorry, sweetie, what did you ask?"

"Mama, does daddy hate me because my skin is dark like yours and not white like his?"

Naomi dropped to her knee, pulling her son close. "Oh, Johnny, of course not. He loves you and your sister dearly. He just doesn't like to show it much."

"But daddy said darkies – crows - were slow and weak."

She tousled his curly hair. "Daddy just gets grumpy sometimes, sweetie. My brother, William, looks like us – and so does his wife, Elizabeth. Do they seem slow and weak to you?"