THIRTEEN FOR DINNER

Nineteen

NINETEEN

       I’m thinking my best chance of survival might be launching into Martin Luther’s I have a dream speech. I memorized it last year for a presentation I did during black history month. It’s never been heard in this time period and I figure I could improvise and win them over but I don’t get the chance. I’m ushered in the shack, but before the private meeting can take place Lunar voices his objection.

            “Why you bring that crazy girl here? She gonna get us all killed!”

            “Now Lunar,” Emily says in a calm unthreatening manner, “You are just going to have to trust me on this. We can use her help with the amount of cargo we have coming through in the next few weeks. There are not enough of us to pull this off and you know it. I do believe her coming to us is a God send.”

            I can tell Lunar adores Emily by the way he is looking at her. And the way she speaks to him with a slight smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eye convinces me she feels the same way and is a dead giveaway to the affection they share for each other.  She continues on with the plan, speaking in codes; some of which I understand from history class but some I don’t. Cargo of course represents escaped slaves, and the station master would be the person who hides slaves in their home. In this case it is her. No one would ever expect the gentle Miss Faulkner, so fundamental information is always at her disposal.  She does this very intuitively, utilizing the secret passages running throughout her home allowing the escapees to spend the night in luxury in the third floor bedrooms which are never used, a blatant disrespect of her parent’s trust.           It’s sweltering in the small hovel, I’m miserable and the stares of Lunar’s brothers do nothing to calm my nerves. I sit up straight trying to exemplify perfect posture thinking I might come across as self-assured and intimidating instead of crazy. It doesn’t take long before Emily draws me into their plans, still ignoring their obvious disapproval of my involvement.

             “This is where you come in dear,” she says reaching over and touching my hand. “Tonight at ten, exit your room through the big mirror. Pull on the bottom left of the frame and it will open. Take the stairway down and follow the passage all the way to the end. It dumps out at the carriage house. Lunar will deliver the cargo to you there. Take them up the passage to the third floor, sixth door on the left. It will be marked bed 23, bookcase. It empties through some book shelves into a bedroom. I will have provisions waiting for them in there. Tell them to sleep, and at four in the morning escort them back to the carriage house. Jeb will meet you and take them from there.”

            I hope no one sees my trembling. I can’t do this. I simply can’t go traipsing through that foreboding mansion in the dead of night. And what if I am caught? What then? I want to protest but they are all looking at me; skepticism carved into all their faces except Emily’s. I am not sure why she thinks I am so wonderful but she does have complete confidence in me. I do hate to let her down but I am ready to give a valid reason why I shouldn’t participate, like blame the non-existent baby growing in my womb, when Jeb speaks up.

            “Naomi died last night. She died feelin’ real proud knowin’ you took up for her. She left this world knowin’ they some good white folks that care ‘bout us.”

            “Was it my fault?” is all I can say remembering Potbelly made her walk all the way home because of what I did.

            “You meant well ma’am,” His words fall like a gavel on a judge’s bench convicting me of her death. My face burns hot in shame and the small room falls quiet.

            “Maybe I shouldn’t help,” I manage to squeak out. “I’m afraid I might do more harm than I would good.”

            “We all do the best we can,” Lunar says. “You just gotta pick your battles, and when you’re pickin’, only pick the ones you think you can win. You aint ever gonna succeed goin’ up against someone like Mr. Butler in public. Our best fighting is done in secrecy; we triumph by not drawing attention to our plight.”