THIRTEEN FOR DINNER

Chapter Eight

EIGHT

            To prove his point we took the hour walk into town. There was no 7-11, no pay phone, no Dairy Queen, only wooden sidewalks paving the way to the only stores in town. On the left side of the street was a tobacco shop, the L. Fredrickson Feed and Grain, the Lamp Light Kerosene and Oil store, a dress shop, a haberdashery and a grocers market. Across the street on the right was a small hotel, the telegraph store, a post office, the county jail, courthouse and a bank.  The numbness of seeing my beloved hometown in such a manner was nothing like the shock of seeing a genuine slave store with a large hand painted sign that read, Auction and Negro Sales. I stood in front of the business, astonished.  Although I had heard about the atrocities of slavery my entire life, I realized it had never actually sunk in, that it all really happened. History was now a tangible reality, confronting me face to face and suddenly my fears multiply.

            “I want to go home,” I whispered.

            “In time.” Quillan says taking my hand and leading me away from the hideous store.

            We walk in silence; I’m not crying, or berating Quillan, demanding explanations to something I can’t begin to fathom. This behavior causes me to realize that I am traumatized. My body feels numb, other than my aching feet which have had their share of torture tonight from being forced in a narrow pair of stilettos, to running a marathon through thistles and weeds. I don’t want to talk or have to think; all I want to do is go to sleep, so I can wake from this horrific nightmare.

            Half an hour later we’re deep in the woods, standing in front of a dilapidated old shack which Quillan refers to as a “station.” It’s a secret place used in the Underground Railroad, a safe house of sorts, where the fleeing slaves can rest until their conductor moves them along to the next one. No one is using the safe house tonight so we slip in.

            Quillan lights a lantern and turns the wick down low, giving just enough light for us to see, but not enough to shine a beacon through the weathered boards, announcing our presence. The hovel is small, dirty, and smells of urine and body odor. In one corner is a water pump and in the other, a rickety looking full sized bed with a thin mattress and soiled blankets. I turn my nose up and want to cry. This is unacceptable. I cannot sleep here. I’m ready to pound Quillan in the chest and demand something better when suddenly I picture the little girl in the tunnel, clutching the hand of her guide, trusting him to lead her to a safe place. It must be the craziness of the night, I’m not sure, but I can see her sleeping peacefully on this bed, dreaming of a better day…a better life, a world without hate… a world without fear; and suddenly the bed looks very inviting and I crawl alongside of her and drift off to sleep.