The Yellow Mulatto
(Winter of 1867)
Piece Three of Three
“Gee, it’s nice to see you, Jamaica,” said Emma Hightower (Jamaica was a mulatto from Jamaica, and had worked for the Hightower’s two seasons now, lived in a hut, next to Granny Mae Walsh.) It was a brisk Alabama, afternoon. She put her arms down she had been doing some housecleaning, Granny Mae Walsh was down visiting someone in Shantytown, “I’ve been thinking about you all day, you must be cold in that hut of yours? How you been?”
“Oh I’ve been pretty well, Miss Emma, but I was hoping I could get some firewood from yawall, perhaps make a fire inside my stove to keep warm, this is one god-forsaken cold day.”
“Yes,” Emma agreed, “but you been staying well,” and his teeth was chattering, disorderly, and couldn’t answer.
“Yes, ma’m, but—cold!”
“Oh, stop the uneasiness, come-on in out of the cold,” she said. He moved his head about to see if anyone else was in the house, and noticed there was no one.
“I sure would like to get warm but you’re all alone, and if some one came by, and I don’t want any more trouble, I had enough with Ned and Haiti, and the sheriff means business, and I’m what he calls one of those yellow niggers, or mulattos, and he don’t take kindly to us.” Then he hesitated, and said, “I sure would like to warm though, just a bit, and get some of that dry wood youall use for your hearth.”
Emma opened the door a little wider and carefully stepped back to allow him room to come in.
“How you been lately, Miss Emma?” he asked, hoping to keep things simple, warm up a bit, and get on out of there, “Where’s Mrs. Ella?”
“Mother’s down in Ozark at the store buying whatever, only god knows what!”
“I sure would appreciate that wood, Miss Emma,” said Jamaica, “What’s the matter with you Miss Emma, your arms look weak and hanging too loose to do any good?”
“I’m not used to housework I guess, and all this dust and cleaning gets to me I reckon.”
“Yes, Ma’m,” he said, “but if you let me help, you can be done in no time and that’ll pay for the wood, and you can take a nap, let me do it all.”
She glanced at Jamaica, “Perhaps,” she said, and she went into the bedroom and laid back and fell to sleep, and Jamaica washed the dishes, and wiped down everything noticeable, and swept the floor, mopped the floor, and then he sat back for a brief moment in a chair, fell to sleep.
It was pert near four o’clock when there was a hard knocking at the door, and Emma woke up, looked out the window, it was Pick Ritt, and the Sheriff, Pick liked Emma, and he was out on a social call, and the Sheriff had been over at another plantation, evidently they had met one another, while going opposite ways, and figured they’d stop at Emma’s for coffee, say hello.
She plum forgot Jamaica was in the house doing the house cleaning, and went directly to the door, on the way the sheriff could see her through the window, and she had glanced to the side of her, and noticed Jamaica had fallen to sleep, and started to panic, stutter, and opened the door, it really was too late to not open it, “You’re looking mighty fine, Pick,” said Emma, “and you also, Sheriff.” They both laughed a bit, “Are you here on business or just visiting?” asked Emma.
“I guess just visiting,” said the sheriff, and then noticed some boots extending beyond a chair, between the kitchen and living room. Without being asked, he stepped on in, looked around the corner, “Say! Emma, what’s that nigger doing in your house?”
“That’s Jamaica, he works here, and came over to get some firewood, he was cold, and I let him warm up, and he ended up doing some housework for me to pay for the wood, and I guess fell to sleep.”
“I know who he is, Miss Emma, and what he is, and he’s no better than a yellow mule, a crossbreed between a horse or a donkey, that’s what he is, but what’s he doing here?” asked the Sheriff (Jamaica stood up promptly, with a frightened look). Pick Ritt, stood in shock, he was cold, “Are you a nigger lover too?” he questioned Emma.
“You damn men, you’re sleeping with those Jackson girls, both lightly colored, and you judge me?” Pick stood unarmed, as if he was put in place, in the corner—acted as if nobody knew, “But a yellow skin,” said the Sheriff.
“He hasn’t done a thing but warmed up a bit, I didn’t know he fell to sleep, but so did I, in the bedroom—alone!”
“Yeh?” he said, shoving her to the side, “You best be out of town by twilight, or I’ll have you boiling hotter than you ever figured a nigger could be cooked, you should have some sense, you know you ought not to be in here, I can learn you quick, and I will after twilight, cause I’ll be back.” Then when Pick and Emma were trying to straighten out things, the Sheriff kicked him a good one in the groin, and Jamaica limped out to get his things in his hut.
(Winter of 1867)
Piece Three of Three
“Gee, it’s nice to see you, Jamaica,” said Emma Hightower (Jamaica was a mulatto from Jamaica, and had worked for the Hightower’s two seasons now, lived in a hut, next to Granny Mae Walsh.) It was a brisk Alabama, afternoon. She put her arms down she had been doing some housecleaning, Granny Mae Walsh was down visiting someone in Shantytown, “I’ve been thinking about you all day, you must be cold in that hut of yours? How you been?”
“Oh I’ve been pretty well, Miss Emma, but I was hoping I could get some firewood from yawall, perhaps make a fire inside my stove to keep warm, this is one god-forsaken cold day.”
“Yes,” Emma agreed, “but you been staying well,” and his teeth was chattering, disorderly, and couldn’t answer.
“Yes, ma’m, but—cold!”
“Oh, stop the uneasiness, come-on in out of the cold,” she said. He moved his head about to see if anyone else was in the house, and noticed there was no one.
“I sure would like to get warm but you’re all alone, and if some one came by, and I don’t want any more trouble, I had enough with Ned and Haiti, and the sheriff means business, and I’m what he calls one of those yellow niggers, or mulattos, and he don’t take kindly to us.” Then he hesitated, and said, “I sure would like to warm though, just a bit, and get some of that dry wood youall use for your hearth.”
Emma opened the door a little wider and carefully stepped back to allow him room to come in.
“How you been lately, Miss Emma?” he asked, hoping to keep things simple, warm up a bit, and get on out of there, “Where’s Mrs. Ella?”
“Mother’s down in Ozark at the store buying whatever, only god knows what!”
“I sure would appreciate that wood, Miss Emma,” said Jamaica, “What’s the matter with you Miss Emma, your arms look weak and hanging too loose to do any good?”
“I’m not used to housework I guess, and all this dust and cleaning gets to me I reckon.”
“Yes, Ma’m,” he said, “but if you let me help, you can be done in no time and that’ll pay for the wood, and you can take a nap, let me do it all.”
She glanced at Jamaica, “Perhaps,” she said, and she went into the bedroom and laid back and fell to sleep, and Jamaica washed the dishes, and wiped down everything noticeable, and swept the floor, mopped the floor, and then he sat back for a brief moment in a chair, fell to sleep.
It was pert near four o’clock when there was a hard knocking at the door, and Emma woke up, looked out the window, it was Pick Ritt, and the Sheriff, Pick liked Emma, and he was out on a social call, and the Sheriff had been over at another plantation, evidently they had met one another, while going opposite ways, and figured they’d stop at Emma’s for coffee, say hello.
She plum forgot Jamaica was in the house doing the house cleaning, and went directly to the door, on the way the sheriff could see her through the window, and she had glanced to the side of her, and noticed Jamaica had fallen to sleep, and started to panic, stutter, and opened the door, it really was too late to not open it, “You’re looking mighty fine, Pick,” said Emma, “and you also, Sheriff.” They both laughed a bit, “Are you here on business or just visiting?” asked Emma.
“I guess just visiting,” said the sheriff, and then noticed some boots extending beyond a chair, between the kitchen and living room. Without being asked, he stepped on in, looked around the corner, “Say! Emma, what’s that nigger doing in your house?”
“That’s Jamaica, he works here, and came over to get some firewood, he was cold, and I let him warm up, and he ended up doing some housework for me to pay for the wood, and I guess fell to sleep.”
“I know who he is, Miss Emma, and what he is, and he’s no better than a yellow mule, a crossbreed between a horse or a donkey, that’s what he is, but what’s he doing here?” asked the Sheriff (Jamaica stood up promptly, with a frightened look). Pick Ritt, stood in shock, he was cold, “Are you a nigger lover too?” he questioned Emma.
“You damn men, you’re sleeping with those Jackson girls, both lightly colored, and you judge me?” Pick stood unarmed, as if he was put in place, in the corner—acted as if nobody knew, “But a yellow skin,” said the Sheriff.
“He hasn’t done a thing but warmed up a bit, I didn’t know he fell to sleep, but so did I, in the bedroom—alone!”
“Yeh?” he said, shoving her to the side, “You best be out of town by twilight, or I’ll have you boiling hotter than you ever figured a nigger could be cooked, you should have some sense, you know you ought not to be in here, I can learn you quick, and I will after twilight, cause I’ll be back.” Then when Pick and Emma were trying to straighten out things, the Sheriff kicked him a good one in the groin, and Jamaica limped out to get his things in his hut.
No: 604 (2-14-2010)
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