The Amethyst Heart Read online

  “I took a long bath,” the apparition said. “Found this nightgown in the dresser upstairs. It’s okay for me to borrow it, isn’t it?”

  Amethyst shook her head to clear her mind. “Little Am?”

  The girl shrugged. “Yeah?”

  “You look so—so—”

  “Go ahead and say it. Different.”

  “A lot different. You look positively radiant.”

  It was true. The child had shampooed her hair and pulled it back so that it no longer draped over her face like a shroud. Gone was the pasty makeup and black eyeliner. Every trace of the ghoul had disappeared, except the black fingernail polish. She looked young, fresh . . . and positively lovely. Her brown hair shone with coppery glints in the lamplight, and the wide, dark eyes dominated an unblemished face.

  “Don’t make a big deal of it, all right?” Little Am said curtly. “I don’t have any clothes or makeup here—I had to do something.” She twisted in her chair.

  “You look cool,” Amethyst said with a little laugh. “Way cool.”

  Little Am giggled, and for the first time all day, she sounded like what she was—a teenage girl on the verge of young womanhood. A surge of pleasure and love rose up in Amethyst’s heart. This was her great-granddaughter, her namesake. The zombie had vanished. Maybe there was hope for the girl yet.

  “I washed my underwear and left it to dry over the shower rod. Is that okay?”

  “Of course. Did you find everything you need?”

  “Everything but a blow-dryer. I guess I can do without one for a couple of days.” Am flung her legs over the arm of the chair and sighed. “Whew. This has been some day.”

  “The best birthday I ever had.”

  “Didja see Con’s face when you came out with that shotgun? I thought he was gonna pee in his pants.”

  “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “You bet.” Am nodded vigorously. “It’s about time he got what was coming to him.”

  Amethyst frowned. “You know that’s not why I’m doing this, don’t you?”

  The girl leaned forward. “Not so you can get back at Grandpa Con for what he’s trying to do to you?”

  “Revenge is a poor motivation for any action,” Amethyst sighed. “God doesn’t put vengeance into human hands, and when we take it for our­selves—”

  “I don’t believe in God,” Am interrupted.

  “You don’t?” Here was a twist Amethyst hadn’t expected. “Didn’t Con and Mimsy teach you about God?”

  “Yeah, well, they tried, sort of. Dropped me off at Sunday school when I was little. Went to church once in a while—Christmas and Easter, mostly. But it didn’t take.”

  “What do you mean, it didn’t take?”

  “All the God stuff. It was so . . . boring. And they sure don’t believe it themselves. Con’s god is his work, and Mimsy—well, I guess she’s her own god. The universe revolves around her, anyway.” She shook her head. “If I was God, I sure wouldn’t want to listen to that whining all the time.”

  Amethyst stifled a laugh. The girl had a point about Mimsy’s constant shrieking. But her heart sank within her to realize that Little Am was growing up without any spiritual foundation.

  “Tell me what you think about God,” she ventured.

  The girl rolled her eyes, and for a moment the zombie appeared again. Then her expression cleared, and she looked straight into Amethyst’s face. “I told you, I don’t believe in God. I’m an atheist.” She said the word proudly, as if it were a major accomplishment.

  “It takes a lot of faith to be an atheist,” Amethyst said.

  Little Am frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Everybody needs some kind of faith to live by,” she answered. “Faith in God, or faith in yourself. Faith in fate or destiny. I’d like to hear about this God you claim not to believe in.”

  “You mean like what I was taught in Sunday school?”

  “Or what you learned from your grandparents. Whatever you’d like to tell me.”

  Am thought about this for a minute and then said, “Okay. Well, God is this big dude on a throne in heaven—a really, really old geezer. He says he loves everybody, but then you find out it’s only the good people he loves—you know, preachers and nuns, people who do right, go to church all the time, that sort of thing. If you get out of line—wham! You’re done for. Punished. Headed for hell.” She paused. “Con and Mimsy say they believe in God, but they don’t much act like it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. God hates teenagers.”

  Amethyst sat back in her chair. “Really?”

  “Well, sure. God—if there is a God, and like I said, I don’t believe there is—can’t stand loud music and stuff. Or sex. Especially sex. God hates sex.”

  “That’s odd. I thought God started the idea in the first place.”

  The girl gave Amethyst a curious look. “You sure don’t talk like you’re ninety-three.”

  “I’ll consider that a compliment. Go on.”

  “I’m done, I guess. Now you’re going to try to convince me I’m wrong, right?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Why should I? If the Almighty really is like the deity you describe, I wouldn’t want to believe in him either.”

  “But you do believe. You said so.”

  “I believe in God, but not in the god you’re describing.”

  “So what other kind is there?” Just a hint of a sneer crept into the girl’s voice.

  Amethyst smiled. “A God who is loving and just and fair. A God who doesn’t hate teenagers or sex or rock music. A God who cares deeply about the things that affect our lives.”

  “Like you trying to hang on to this old house?”

  “Yes, I think God cares about that. But for me, there’s a lot more at stake in this house than just a valuable piece of real estate and a collection of antique furniture. Those are just possessions. What’s more important to me is the heritage this house represents—our family’s history, and our family’s faith.”

  Little Am leaned forward, and a glimmer of interest illuminated her dark eyes. “You mean like stories of stuff that happened here?” She gazed around into the darkened corners of the room. “Murders and ghosts and stuff like that?”

  “Not ghosts, exactly, but stuff like that, yes.” Amethyst peered at her great-granddaughter’s face. “Didn’t Conrad ever tell you about the history of this house?”

  “He never told me anything except to turn the music down.”

  Amethyst laughed. “And you really want to hear this? It’s rather a long story.”

  Little Am gave a shrug. “Hey, it’s only eight o’clock. You don’t have a TV. The doors are locked, and I’m a hostage. What else am I gonna do?”

  “Maybe . . .,” Amethyst mused. “Maybe it would help you understand why this house is so important to me—and to you.”

  “Go for it.”

  Amethyst took a deep breath and settled back into her chair. “Well, it all began right here, in this very room, almost exactly a hundred and forty years ago. . . .”

  Part 2

  LIBERTY

  “Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free . . . To share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house . . . and not to hide yourself from your own kin?”

  Isaiah 58:6-7

  6

  The Physician

  April 1853

  Silas Noble stood on the stoop of the run-down log cabin and gave an exasperated sigh. This wasn’t what he had been led to expect. Not at all.

  He reached into his leather bag and pulled out a copy of the letter he had received six weeks ago, shortly after he had completed his medical training in Baltimore:

  Rivermont Plantation

  Cambridge, Mississippi

  To Dr. Silas Noble from Col. Robert Henry Warren, Esq.

&n
bsp; 5 February 1853

  Dear Dr. Noble:

  We have learned of you through correspondence with your school in Baltimore, an institution well known, even as far away as Mississippi, for the quality and dedication of its physicians. We understand you are nearing the completion of your medical training, and we wish to invite you to establish your practice in Cambridge County, Mississippi. There are numerous large plantations in the county and outlying areas, families with children, and we are greatly in need of the services of a young and energetic physician. You may not be aware of it, but you come highly recommended, and this county could do with a man of your caliber and commitment.

  I understand that you are planning to marry within the year, and I anticipate you may wish to purchase property in the area. I am prepared to offer you a modest, fully furnished house with fifty acres of land for a reasonable price. It was my grandfather’s original plantation home, and it sits on an oak knoll on the south end of my property. I am sure you will find it suitable for your needs.

  If you agree to accept our offer, kindly apprise me of your intentions. When you arrive, I will send a driver to the rail station to convey you to Rivermont and will provide one of my best nigras as a personal attendant.

  Sincerely yours,

  Col. Robert H. Warren, Esq.

  A furnished house at a reasonable price. Silas groaned inwardly. He supposed it was a reasonable price, all things considered. But it had been his life savings, money he intended to use to make a home for Regina so he could send for her and they could be married.

  Now his fate had been sealed. He had agreed to the bargain sight unseen, but instead of the grand old plantation home he had envisioned, he was faced with a log house with a plank floor and holes in the chinking the size of his fist.

  It wasn’t that Warren had deceived him, exactly. Clearly these people in Cambridge County needed a doctor and had been desperate to get him. But when the carriage had pulled into the long drive that led to Rivermont, he had entertained visions of his “modest” house being a smaller version of that magnificent jewel, with its wide front porch and fluted columns.

  Robert Warren was an aristocratic gentleman with soft, pale hands and an aura of refined elegance. He had greeted Silas at the door and led him to an opulent parlor decorated in rose and green and cream. Mrs. Warren, a bustling, effusive woman, had sent one of the house slaves for coffee and pie and made over him as if he were a long-lost relative.

  Silas sat in that parlor, sipping coffee and gazing in wonder at the display of wealth, convinced that he could send for Regina immediately. In this place, with these lovely people, he could offer her the kind of life she was accustomed to—a life of graciousness and hospitality, a life of ease and comfort.

  Then he got his first glimpse of the house he had purchased from Robert Warren.

  It was his, all right. He had the deed in his suitcase. A house and fifty acres. But what a house! One large rectangular room with a stone fireplace, a tiny sleeping alcove, and a rough kitchen with a small wood stove along one wall. With a bit of fixing up, it might be adequate for a bachelor doctor who needed only minimal accommodations. But he couldn’t bring a wife here to live. Especially not Regina.

  “Needs some work, don’t it, Massah?”

  Silas turned. The big colored driver, the same one who had picked him up at the depot and delivered him to Rivermont, stood behind him with a wide grin on his face.

  “It’s not exactly what I had hoped for,” Silas admitted.

  “Massah Robert’s grandpappy, he built this place when he first come. Live here for a while, he did, whilst he was having the big house on the river done up.”

  “I take it Colonel Warren’s grandfather didn’t have a wife and children.”

  The black man threw back his head and laughed. “Naw sir, I reckon not—not when he lived here, anyways. Later on, though, he ’bout filled up that big house. Had hisself ten chillun, and nine of ’em lived. Law, there’s prob’ly a dozen Warren grandchillun spread out all over the county, each one of ’em with his own big plantation, just like Massah Robert.”

  “You’re privy to a lot of Mr. Warren’s business, aren’t you?”

  The dark eyes flitted to the ground, but Silas saw the man’s barrel chest swell with pride. “Yessir, Massah, I reckon I am. My daddy worked the land for Massah Robert’s daddy. Massah Robert, he trusts me—I reckon that’s why he lent me to you to help out some. I’s born on this plantation—and I ’spects to die here.”

  Silas scrutinized the big black man. He stood well over six feet, with a solid, square jaw, clear eyes, and massive shoulders. “What’s your name?”

  “Sir?”

  “I asked your name,” Silas repeated.

  “I’s called Booker, Massah.”

  Silas smiled and scratched his head. “Not Master. Doctor. My name is Dr. Silas Noble.”

  “I knows, Massah.”

  “Seems to me like you know just about everything, Booker. But please, don’t call me Master.”

  “Yessir, Massah Doctor.”

  Silas shrugged and gave up. “Where’d you get a name like Booker?”

  A gleam of pleasure passed over the slave’s countenance. “My mammy, she was a real smart woman. Taught me to read.” He paused. “I can write my name and even do a little ciphering. Massah don’t mind, so long as I don’t raise no fuss about it and don’t teach none of the others. Maybe that’s another reason he give me to you, you being a educated man and all.”

  “What do you read, Booker?”

  “Only got one book, Massah Doctor. My mammy’s Bible.”

  “And you read that?” Silas gazed at the slave in wonder. Back in Baltimore, Silas had attended church with Regina—an ancient cathedral with high stained-glass windows and a massive pipe organ. He appreciated the ritual and loved the music, but that was about as far as his religion went. The few times in his life he had tried to read the Bible, he had found it mostly incomprehensible.

  “Ever’ day. Sun don’t rise without me putting a few verses in my heart. Seems to me the Lord gots something to say to his chillun, and we’s obliged to find out what it is.”

  “Do you understand it?”

  “I understand enough to get by. Some of the words is real hard, but that don’t matter. I get the hope, and that’s what counts.” Booker scratched his head and peered at Silas. “You a Christian man, Massah?”

  Silas felt an uncomfortable chill run up his spine, and he fidgeted. “I guess I am, Booker. I try to be a good man, to do what’s right.”

  A strange expression passed over the black man’s face, and he averted his eyes. “Mmm-hmm.”

  For a brief instant Silas felt like one of the cadavers he had examined in medical school—cut open, with his innards exposed to scrutiny. He didn’t like the feeling one bit. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “So, I guess we’d better get my belongings into the house and clean it up a bit.”

  Booker didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at Silas and jabbing the toe of his boot into the dirt. Finally he asked, “You really a doctor?”

  “Yes, Booker, I am. That’s why I came here, to serve as a physician to Colonel Warren’s family and the other plantation families in the area.” He shook his head. “I had planned to send back east for my fiancée as soon as I got settled. But I guess the wedding will have to be postponed. I certainly can’t expect her to live here.”

  Booker’s expression brightened, as if he had just been struck by an idea. But he kept silent.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing, Massah.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, I’s just thinking, and—”

  “And what?”

  “You sure you a doctor? You seem right young—meaning no offense, Massah—”

  Silas laughed, relieved to be back on more comfortable ground. “None taken. Yes, I’m young—I’m twenty-five. But I’m sure I am a doctor. Very sure, Booker.”

  The black
man’s expression went grave. “My woman, Celie, she expecting a baby in a coupla months.” He paused and took a deep breath. “She done had two babies, and both of ’em died. One of ’em was strangled by the cord.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Booker. If I can be of any help—”

  Booker shrugged. “Massah, he pay for a doctor when a big buck gets hurt, so’s not to lose a good field hand. But he don’t pay for no nigra babies to be born. If Middie can’t do it, well, the babies just go on and die.”

  “Who’s Middie?”

  “She’s the one who helps with the birthin’.”

  Silas chuckled. “Let me guess. She got her name because she’s a midwife.”

  Booker shook his head and smiled faintly. “Naw. Her name’s Midnight, cause she real dark, and cause that’s when babies seem to come around here.”

  Silas stared at the big black man, and his mind turned over all the changes in his life. Two weeks ago, he was in Baltimore, in the hub of city life, celebrating his completion of his medical training, making plans with his fiancée for their wedding. Now he was standing in the middle of an oak grove on the porch of a log cabin, having a conversation with a slave about a midwife named Midnight. What next?

  “So I’s thinking,” Booker said, bringing Silas back to the present, “maybe we could strike us a deal.”

  “A deal? What kind of deal?”

  “When Celie’s time comes, you help her out. I can’t pay, ’course, but I got something you need more’n money.”

  Silas found himself intrigued. “What’s that?”

  The Negro pointed to his head with his forefinger. “Know-how. You take care of my woman, and I’ll build you a house. A real house. Not as fancy as Massah Warren’s RiVermont, but a fine house, sound and sturdy, with big rooms and a curved stairway and a nice wide front porch for rockin’.”

  Silas’s heart leaped within him. “You can do that?”