At the age of sixty, I can’t say I remember many things vividly. Eight years has certainly felt like a long time. Eight years since I saw the slave being sold down by Mississippi. He was young and strong, a handsome man. I still see his face in my mind’s eye. “Sold!” cried the auctioneer. The young man turned around and was led off in shackles. I could see the scars where he had been whipped all over his back. As he was led away, he turned around and caught my eye. His eyes were full of pain and wisdom, sadness, and deep, deep anger. They weren’t the eyes of a nineteen-year-old boy, but an eighty-year-old man who has had more than his share of trials in life. These eyes challenged me. “Do something! Help me!” But I just stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. After a minute he closed his eyes, as if he was tired of the world. I walked away with my handkerchief over my mouth. I felt like I had witnessed something horrible. That was the first time I had seen a colored person as more than a slave. Unlike most people, I identified that man as more than the first part of the name, colored, but by the second part, a person. When I looked into his eyes, I had seen myself. I could have been that man. If his soul was in my white body and mine in his black one, would he have felt the same way I do? Would he feel the same strange connection—we were both living together on this earth? It was after that encounter that I started helping slaves to safety. By now, I’d chance to guess I’ve helped about eighty-five men, women and children to freedom. There have been close calls, certainly Once, my nephew, Sheriff Paterson, dropped in on a late night visit. He leaned right against my closet door, which held the passage to the secret room. I swear I could feel the tension coming from two rooms over, where a mother and her three children sat quietly, holding their breath. But I am proud to say all of the slaves who have come to me have launched safely on their way to freedom. It is not until I usher them in that I see the girl is hurt Sometimes I wonder why I keep doing this. But every time a man or woman or family shows up on my doorstep, hope in their eyes and the word “freedom” melting off their lips, I feel a calling, an obligation to help these people live their lives. Who knows? Maybe someday the world will change and I will not have to hide these people in my closet. Maybe their grandchildren will go to college and have futures, like mine did. That is what I wish upon these people who cower behind a door in the closet this very second, clutching the sparse quilts and single candle I have provided them. I’d love to give them more, but if the room were to be searched, it would look suspicious to have more than that in there. At four-thirty in the morning, I hear a rap on the back door. Jack is here. I hurry the man and his wife out the door; watch Jack help them into a compartment underneath the false bottom of the wagon. Jack carefully rearranges the potato sacks. Hopping up into his seat, he urges the horses away and they ride away slowly. * * * FIVE DAYS LATER A black is prowling around my house. Now, I am not a superstitious woman, but this cat is by no doubt unsettling me. It just circles the house again and again, flicking its tail. I’ll try to get it out of my mind by baking some soda bread. That usually helps. At nine o’clock it’s storming badly Rain is splattering on my windows hard, and lightning lights up the rooms of my house often. I hear a knock at my door. There stand a woman and a girl, a mother and a daughter. It is not until I usher them in that I see the girl is hurt. Her mother is holding her up on her feet, but the girl cannot support herself whatsoever. Her knees sag and she sinks to the floor. The gash running down the side of her head is still spurting blood. “She tripped and fell,” cried her mother. She is going to say more, but I stop her. I give her a damp cloth and ice. “Try to numb it,” I command. “I am going to fetch a doctor.” The woman gasps. “But, Missus, we’ll get caught!” I have already made up my mind. The little girl lying on my floor needs help. I wrap my shawl around my thin shoulders and go out in the pouring rain. Thunder rumbles and lightning cracks, scaring the horses, but I urge them for-ward. The lightning strikes again and I catch a glimpse of the black cat. Its eyes glint in the sudden light. “Curse you!” I mutter. “You brought this misfortune!” I am soaked when I reach Doctor Shepherd’s house. Joseph Shepherd is an honest, good man who I value in the highest respect. If he turns me in I will not blame him. That is why, with my withered, arthritic hand shaking, I knock three times on his oak door. Mrs. Shepherd opens the door. She is in her bedclothes and looks quite surprised to see me. I croak out that it is an emergency, and I need Doctor Shepherd. Soon Doctor is rushing down the stairs, pulling on a coat and boots. I admire he is taking me seriously even when he doesn’t know what’s going on. Doctor Shepherd takes his own wagon to my home. I lead him in the front door, past the black cat that is sitting on my front steps. “Mrs. Pietas?”
November/December 2007
The Green Glass Sea
The Green Glass Sea by Ellen Klages; Viking Children’s Books: New York, 2006; $16.99 Suze reached in and picked up a book, riffling the pages with a thumb. The Boy Mechanic, she said, snickering. “Why do you have that?’ “They didn’t make one for girls,” Dewey replied. Have you ever done something that you really enjoyed, but you were the only one of your gender doing it? Well, know that you’re not alone, because Dewey Kerrigan, a character from The Green Glass Sea, and I feel the same way. Both Dewey and I enjoy doing what are considered boyish things. I like to run, bike, practice karate, and play basketball and soccer. Dewey likes doing things such as taking apart radios and going to the dump to get scrap hardware. In the 194os, it seems almost as if it were against the law for girls to be doing such things. In the book, Dewey is even referred to as Screwy Dewey. I suppose these thoughts and stereotypes have lessened over the years, but even now when I go to get basketball shoes, I get remarks such as, “I’m sure your brother will love these shoes.” In fact, I am an only child! Dewey is an only child, too. She obtained her love of boyish things from her father, because her mother was no longer a part of her life. Her mother abandoned Dewey and Mr. Kerrigan when Dewey was only two years old. Dewey is living with her scientist father in a secluded community called The Hill, in Los Alamos, New Mexico. The Hill is secluded because the people living there are some of the people who helped create the Manhattan Project (a.k.a. the atom bomb), which helped America win World War II. Having a father whose work was so closely related to the war meant that Dewey’s dad couldn’t share much about what was going on at work. This was a pity for Dewey because she was captivated by all the science and math involved in making the atom bomb. I can relate to this because my parents are government employees and they talk about work together and keep most of the stories concealed from me. One intriguing thing that I learned was that the creators of the atom bomb tested it out in southern New Mexico, before using it against Japan. What is left of the explosion looks like there is a… yes, you guessed it, a “green glass sea.” The story goes on to show that Dewey continues to be successful as a girl in a male-dominated world. I believe these types of stories help young people, like me, learn that we can achieve what we set our minds to do. Along the way, the story also helps us learn about history The author mixes fact with fiction in an interesting way. Ellen Klages, the author, deserves a pat on the back for this magnificent novel. She lives in my city San Francisco, so I hope to meet her someday. She is also working on the sequel to this novel entitled, White Sands, Red Menace. I truly enjoyed the story and I am certain that anyone nine or older who reads it will, too. Happy reading! Katherine Tracy, 11San Francisco, California
Whisper
Cura Smith, a gangly girl of twelve, was exploring the desert landscape of Arizona when she heard the sound that would alter her life forever. It was the soft, normally musical mew of a cat. However, that wasn’t what made Cura turn in anxiety. It was that the sound had an almost undetectable cry for help. It was in trouble. Cura spun on her heel and ran towards the mew, kicking up dirt as she did so. Gulping, her sweaty fingers pushed back an escaped strand of ebony hair. She could feel that she was getting closer—it mewed again. Cura skidded to a stop and stepped from behind a flimsy palo verde tree. A sight met her eyes that made Cura’s hair stand up on the back of her neck. A rattlesnake lay coiled up, ready to strike. A small, cream-colored kitten was shaking with fear, his back arched. He cried once more helplessly, and the snake jolted forward warningly, then shrinking back into its coiled form almost immediately. Cura picked up a large rock and held it thoughtfully at her side. If she hit it just right, the snake would die. But Cura wasn’t stupid. She let the rock hit the ground and ran towards her house as fast as she could. The house was large, and hard to find somebody in. Surprisingly, however, her father was pacing the backyard, a tape measure outstretched. Normally he was never home, always at work at his construction business. A shovel rested in the unfinished pool against a dirt wall. Cura sprinted outside instinctively. “Dad!” She waved her arms and ran towards him, breathless. “Dad!” Cura stopped and took a deep breath. “Rattlesnake… kitten…” she gasped. “Shovel…” A sight met her eyes that made Cura’s hair stand up on the back of her neck “What?” His eyes were full of concern and annoyance. “The shovel, Dad, grab the shovel!” Cura spoke with such urgency that he grabbed the instructed object and followed her where she ran. When they got to the kitten, he furrowed his brow and turned to his daughter. The kitten had taken it upon himself to climb the palo verde tree, and the snake was gone. “Why did you call me over here for no reason, Cura?” he demanded, eyes fiery Cura gulped. “I…” “He probably belongs to somebody, anyway!” “But…” Cura processed his statement and let confusion cross her face. “What?” Her father shook his head and looked at her. “Did you just call me over here to ask if you could have this kitten?” Cura’s eyes grew wide, and a tear rolled down her cheek, making her freckles shiny. “Would I do that?” she pleaded. “Dad, I’m telling you, there was this rattlesnake, and he was going to bite the kitten!” “Don’t you call me over here needlessly again, do you understand me?” “B- But…” “Do you understand me?” Cura hung her head. “Yes, Daddy.” He walked away, muttering under his breath. When he had completely disappeared, she gently plucked the kitten off the top of the tree and held him at arm’s length from her. She looked sadly into his blue eyes and questioned him. “I don’t even like cats,” she said softly. “Why do I feel inclined to help you?” The more Cura thought about putting the kitten down, however, the more her heart ached. She looked at the kitten’s neck, and found it collarless. It seemed as though there was nobody to care for him. Cura cradled the kitten in her arms and tickled his chin. He purred. “There’s no reason why I can’t take you home,” she said thoughtfully. He wriggled, as though understanding her words. “How did you get that snake to leave, anyway? You’re like the snake whisperer.” Cura gasped suddenly, as a new idea occurred to her. “That could be your name—Whisper!” Whisper meowed happily. She giggled. “OK, then Whisper it is.” They trotted off for home, and Cura veered sharply to the right, ducking underneath a window. Silently she opened the window to the laundry room and jumped inside clumsily, stumbling when she landed, though managing not to make much noise. She then snuck to the stairs, tiptoeing faster than most people could run. She wasn’t used to entering this way, because her parents were usually at work and there would be nobody in the house except for a fluttering note on the counter. But today was Sunday, and she had to be as inconspicuous as possible. Where should I put Whisper? she thought. Cura hugged Whisper closer to her body and sighed in frustration. I could put him underneath my bed—no, no… I could put him in the attic—that’s no good… The door opened. Cura’s mother walked inside, putting away fresh towels, and stopped curiously at the sight of Cura, wide-eyed and frightened. Her gaze traveled to Cura’s arm, which was cradling a cream-colored tiny thing… which meowed. She sighed indignantly. “Cura Harmony Smith, what do you think you’re doing, bringing that cat into the house? It probably has an owner or a disease or something…” “We could take him to the vet,” Cura suggested hopefully. “He’s not clean enough to have an owner, and he has no collar.” She paused and held Whisper to face her mother. He meowed again and her mother was bewitched by his big, blue eyes. “Please? Whisper was being cornered by a rattlesnake…” “Whisper, you say?” Her mother leaned over and placed the towels on Cura’s bed. “Please, Mom. We need to help him.” “Well, maybe you do, but I’m very busy…” “But I’ll buy the food and everything…” “Cura, I can’t. I have work tomorrow…” “Please?” Cura choked. “There’s nobody to take care of him! If we don’t help him, he’ll die. He was given a second chance at life, and I would feel awful if we forced him to throw it away.” She wiped away a tear. “Wouldn’t you?” Cura’s mother bit her lip, closing her eyes as if
