Marlen Suyapa Bodden - The Wedding Gift

Copyright 2009 Marlen Suyapa Bodden

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1-4392-5583-0

ISBN-13: 9781439255834

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009908831

Dedicated in loving memory of my parents, Maria Borjas Bodden, who showed me the meaning of strength, and Hall James Bodden, who taught me how to tell a story.

Contents

I give special thanks to my husband, Timothy Rogers, my editor-in-chief, in-house counsel, my love, and my rock. Thanks to my extended family for their steadfast support and encouragement throughout the years: the Boddens, Rogers, and Lambes; Lynne Burgess, my first reader, for her eagle eye and keen insight; Mildred Berendsen, Tonya Bolden, Lucy Abbott, Virginia Dean, and the Chapin sisterhood; and Frances Peake, Bianca Proctor, Joshua Goldfein, Jane Bock, Joannah Dickinson, Amanda Moretti, Sensimone Williams, and Michelle Sagalyn. To Meredith Sue Willis, a wonderful writer and teacher, I send my gratitude for inspiring me to complete my novel.

The reader is invited to visit my website for the history behind The Wedding Gift in photographs, illustrations, maps, and a bibliography: www.marlenbodden.com

Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord. Psalm 19:14

IT IS DAYTIME, BUT THE PATH IS DARK. THE STENCH of decomposing vegetation mingles with the scent of ripe muscadine grapes. Ruby-throated hummingbirds chirr. The trunks of bald cypresses and tupelos are swollen with water, their branches leaden with pitch-green moss. Two cottonmouths slide by me, and then bloodhoundsI do not know how manysurround me, and my sight dims until all I can see are silver outlines of the dogs. As I twirl amid the animals, I hear their labored panting and images flood my brain of conical teeth tearing off my face. Sweat soaks through my ladys maid garment. I yell, Help, please, somebody help me.

No one answers, and I wonder when the hounds are going to rip my flesh into strips. The palms of my hands dry and I take slower breaths. My vision returns. One hound is about two yards in front of me, and three dogs are farther away, at the bogs edge. Each beast is black and tan, with pendent ears, and weighs about 150 pounds. I step toward the swamp and the dogs snarl. I move back and they are quiet. Then I slowly back away from the swamps edge. The dogs do not move. When I am twenty yards away, I turn. I run and I run, even though I do not hear the hounds chasing me. I run until my chest and feet hurt, and then I fall to the ground and rest.

I wipe my neck with a handkerchief and make my way to Allen Hall, the masters residence, where my mother, Emmeline, my sister, Belle, and I toil. It is 1852, and I am sixteen. We belong to Cornelius Allen, Esquire, master of a 7,800-acre plantation called Allen Estates in Benton County, Alabama. He owns more than four hundred field hands and more than two hundred other slaves who labor in the stables, the smokehouse, and the dairy as carpenters, seamstresses, gardeners, cobblers, making leather goods and furniture, and in other trades. Twenty-five of us work in Allen Hall. My mother manages the kitchen and a house that has a ballroom, a library, guest quarters, and family apartments.

My mother told me never to go to the swamp, but she did not say that the warning was because bloodhounds are stationed there to prevent us from escaping. In two years, I will learn that slave catchers also use the dogs to catch slaves when they flee.

THIS CHRONICLE COMMENCES WITH THE MONARCHS of my heart: my mother, the woman who gave me light, and my sister, to whom I clung in dire times. Both were beautiful, with delicate features and dark skin. I, however, am tall and big-boned and, as the Alabama newspapers described me, yellowish. Like the man who fathered me, I have a pointy nose and meager lips.

I do not know precisely how old I was when I realized that I was a slave, but I think that I was six, the year I began helping with cooking, cleaning, and all that we had to do in the Allen household.

One morning, when we were still sleeping, someone knocked on the door of our cabin. My mother rose and wrapped herself in a shawl, telling us to do the same and to sit at the table. When she opened the door, two men were standing outside holding lanterns and guns. I trembled and Belle held my hand.

Why they here, Mama?

Shush, baby. Dont say nothing.

Your key, one man said.

Yes, sir, my mother said.

My eyes were sensitive to the light from their lanterns. I heard them walk everywhere, near the beds, cabinets, and in the kitchen area. One of the men had a persistent cough. Their rancid smell permeated the cabin. The lock clicked and the lid creaked when they opened the chest where my mother kept the money that she earned from trading baked goods, quilts, and dried cooking herbs in town.

When they were gone, my mother sat at the table and put her arm around me. She was shaking.

Why those men come here, Mama?

Mr. Allen tell them to.

But why?

Stop asking questions, Sarah. He tell them to and nobody got to tell us why.

One afternoon, I filled two pails at the well behind the kitchen. Two boys, about my age, were there playing with clay marbles. An overseer approached.

What you little niggers doing?

They did not answer him.

You hear me, you black bastards?

The boys continued to ignore him.

You fucking niggers say something when I talk to you.

He slapped and kicked the boys, and the boys and I screamed. I dropped my buckets, spilling water. I heard people running and my mothers voice rising above the clamor saying that she was coming to me.

She told someone to take the boys to our cabin. She kissed me and carried me home, but when she tried to put me on our bed, I grasped the sleeve of her dress.

Sarah, baby, you going to be all right. Stay here. Let me go look after the children.

The boys were crying.

Your mamas going to be here soon. Now let me see how bad you get hurt, she said to them. Im going to clean and put something on your cuts so they can heal. Its going to sting a bit, but you all is big boys and I know you going to be strong.

When the boys mother arrived, I recognized her voice. She was one of the washerwomen for Allen Hall.

Miss Emmeline, thank you for looking after my boys. Thank God you was there and that man didnt do no worse to them.