The Grey Area

Chapter 1: The Grey Area

There are a million ways I could explain it and none of them would be right. How can you describe a thing that contains all the emotions of a person? Because they can also make you feel empty. A thing small enough to creep into a human’s heart so quietly and then grow into something they cannot control. Something that can take you the way you are and at the end, it leaves you as a completely changed person. Something so strong, it mulches you down to a shred of what you once were. However, it can also build you back up in a way that wasn’t comprehensible. That’s love! I once heard it told this way, there are two kinds of people in the world, the good and the bad.

Being good or bad wasn’t a colour: Sadly, my mother had been a slave for most of her life. She told me some people are blessed enough to see the grey area. She called it an are where black and white blend together and a human is just simply a human. She told me it was the same place God kept the solar eclipses, shooting stars, silver linings, rainbows and all the other mysteries most adults can’t explain or witness. I recall all these stories she’d tell me while cooking. Usually, it was just the two of us sitting on her rocker on the porch late in the evening, just as the fireflies began flickering in the sky. One night, I asked her if I was good or bad. She paused for a moment and studied me like she was evaluating the good and bad levels in my body. She then replied with a smirk: “I think you bad, Rocco.” I shot her a look, and she nearly fell laughing. Oh, that cackling laugh made me remember so well about her. “I think you bad, but!” She said with a lingering pause: “I think you can choose to be good. Just like your great grand-daddy.” She exclaimed with a little shiver in her shoulders to the words great granddaddy. Being a boy in his adolescent years I couldn’t understand what she meant at that time. Before her death, she told me one last story on that creaky old wooden porch. It was a story about my origins: From where I came from, my lineage, my heritage, and my legacy. She told me the story of the love Aaron had for Sarah.

This story took place in the grey area many years ago. There was a mysterious and unlikely love which was a neighbour to the shooting stars. It was also a once in a life-time shadow over the sun. It can take generations to neutralize our way of living before something so phenomenal can manifest again. Let’s say, you have to plant corn between harvests of cotton and to ripen the bad soil back to good. Through this tale, I have learned many life lessons but at a great cost. I have cultivated my ability to see things in the alleged grey area of which she spoke. But this story is not about me. It’s about two people.

It was a long time ago when the world was a quite young and naive. It was an unusually warm night in May of 1831 when Aaron Edwin was born. The pleading screams from a thin white house cut through the heat of the Virginia landscape that night. The air was still, and every soul was praying for a breeze; a drizzle and relent from the hot weather. A day and night had passed already since Miss Jenny went into labour. Having been full term in Spring, she was glad but the recent heat wave and drought acted as a difficult time. She was a small woman and considering the current conditions and environment as adverse. They didn’t think she was going to make it through the birth of her first child as it was accompanied by a complicated pregnancy. But there was something in her was stronger than it appeared. She fought through that delivery and after a long hard time, she finally held that baby boy in her arms with a big smile spread across her face. She waited six long years to conceive her first born and there it was. The fight was long and a test of her womanhood which was worth every excruciating moment.

Some women welcome childbirth and child-rearing while some women detest it. She was blessed to belong to the former. Her husband John Edwin was a big man, handsome and strong as a healthy horse. He was a hard-working farmer trying to keep his father’s estate afloat. John had been working at the farm since his father’s passing. Regardless of his early start in the farming work there hadn’t been many improvements in the estate. For as hard as he worked John drank even harder. Each effort his hand made his thirst craved to destroy. His temptress was the bottle. But when he laid eyes on his only son for the first time, He looked intoxicated without consuming a single drop of liquor. In that moment… they were all happy. That very night, it rained and it rained nicely.

Six months passed since the birth of Aaron Edwin. In the winter, the Edwin estate farm looked barren. The ground was covered with a thin layer of crispy ice that glittered in the bright sunlight. It was on a particularly beautiful day, close to Christmas that another baby was born. Morocco and Madalyn Pickerman, two young slaves on Mr. Edwin’s estate enjoyed the first sight of their second child but their first daughter, Sarah on that breezy December morning. For two years, things progressed in a monotone sort of way. The profits from the crops slightly increase as the harvest improved. Since the invention of the cotton gin, Mr. Edwin brought on more help and with the assistance of old Joe the Foreman. He helped him in reaping a crop of cotton alongside the familiar fruit and vegetable yield. They kept various kinds of livestock animals as well.

Throughout the years there were a few things that remained the same. The summers were still hot, the winters were still cold, and Mr. Edwin still favoured his trustee drink. His condition worsened little by little with each passing year. He realized that his 4-year-old son wasn’t capable of being what he wanted. The day he brought Aaron on the field, hoping to teach him the way of harvesting but Aaron pitched a dreadful fit. Mr. Edwin’s confusion paved the way for anger. He interpreted those signs as hatred for all things he loved as what Mr. Edwin wanted to teach were things crucial to manhood. Anytime he attempted to approach the boy with an important lesson, the boy would respond with fits or simply ignore him all together. Sometimes Aaron would make strange, loud noises for no reason or talk to no one at all. There was once where Mr. Edwin observed his son in a trance, fixated on the wall for hours. He drew back in confused horror when his son screamed in agony when something of a rough texture was lightly brushed on his skin. To this, Mr. Edwin arrived at the conclusion that his boy is either defected or possessed by a demon. So he ceased all efforts to connect with Aaron and instead treated him as something unclean. He ignored the boy or mistreated him out of frustration. Simply put, Aaron meant nothing other than worthless to him and he’d probably never amount to anything in his inebriated opinion.

Aaron sensed this obvious hatred and understandably favoured his mother. He even had Jenny’s piercing blue eyes and copper hair. She noticed this unusual behaviour very early and tailored her nurturing habits accordingly. Contrary to common belief she felt that Aaron was bright. At the age of 3 he could write all the alphabets and at age of 5 Aaron was able to read and memorize all her cherished cookbook recipes. Unlike her husband, she felt it was essential to encourage following through on his own interests. One odd day in May, he aspired to go outdoors for the first time. It was difficult to hide the excitement when his little fingers wrapped around her fore finger dragged her past the pig pen. John was repairing a fence not too far and noticed them. He was outraged and began cursing under his breath and took a swig from the flask in the pocket. Jenny introduced Aaron to a litter of puppies nearly three months old which flushed his face with happiness. He soon got attached to the smallest puppy from the litter, whom he named Lucky. Almost instantly, they both created a bond which made them feel inseparable.

Each night, John Edwin would drown himself in whiskey because of the surmounting stress of managing the ever-growing estate. Some nights where, after a tedious day of work he would reward himself with a large dose of alcohol subsequently throwing him into bouts of rage. In the beginning, when he’d be searching for the bottom of the whiskey bottle Jenny would retreat to the task of motherhood and housekeeping. She’d be the wall between John and her son as those dreadful nights grew more violent. His erratic behaviour became instinctive as time went by. The fresh hope of a bright future wilted and became a faded memory. One night, as she crouched in the corner of Aaron’s room consoling the weeping child from a beating, she was not quick enough to prevent. It wasn’t long till tears began to crawl on her face after reminiscing the past. Almost eleven years ago, around the time he was born, and there was a connection with John. It felt ghostly like an embracement is removed. The warmth eerily fades away as the cold air reclaims residency over the vulnerable flesh. The bond was a distant memory and hopeless ideal that shook her with remorse. This odd feeling felt almost habitual now. Jumping back to reality, the darkness began to spread the sky as the sun nearly set.

The next day was particularly rough for the slaves in the field who fell prey to John’s whip. For them, she winced and prayed for their swift recovery. There was a dark poisonous cloud following him around during the day. Another mood swing would make him use the whip on those poor souls, scarring their backs making it impossible to work. The estate would become short-handed for harvest. It was obvious from the looks of it that he had been drunk since breakfast. Her husband was hidden somewhere deep inside the shell that terrorized her home. With some luck, she barely saved Aaron from his vindictive hand as the poor child was not spared from the severe verbal abuse. Now, tending to neglected work in the kitchen, she muttered silent prayers, watching a pot of boiling water when he stumbled in and began groping her.

“John, mind this water, it’s hot.” She scolded while shoving him away.

The smell coming from him made it seem like he was working in the brewery for the entire day.

He stumbled backward with a distant grunt. “Or are you too drunk to see this fire here?”

She noticed the familiar glazed expression and the distant look in his eyes. Her muscles tensed as he fixed his gaze. “Woman, come here.” The words slithered through his teeth when he grotesquely grabbed a fist full of her copper hair. A cry echoed as he swung her across the wooden floor. Jenny’s head thumped against some shelves on the opposite wall, knocking down some kettles and bowls which made a large clattering sound. Aaron could’ve been heard lamenting in the other room but he chose not to come out. Their arguments were often distressful and disheartening. John didn’t bother to notice this. The intoxicated giant she once called love wiped his mouth with the back of the hand. He aimed with a finger while the rest held the bottle of whiskey. “You will show me some respect for all the hard work I do on this god-forsaken farm, for you and that no good dumb kid.” His slurred words cut a new wound in her heart, and she glared up at him through streaks of angry tears. Like a frightened fawn, she sat rankled on the floor, actively fighting the urge to panic. The sickening expectation of what was to come became obvious in her mind. She wished for enough strength to overpower this disgusting crude man. She had hardly healed from his last depredation. He stepped closer and towered over her, blocking out the orange light from the oil lamp hanging on the wall in the background. She swallowed down the anger and mustered all the remaining strength to stand up. Her petite height measured at his chest, Jenny swept back a stray lock of her hair and met his eyes with her clear blue ones.

“You work so hard,” she began, trying to steady her voice, “working day in and day out… providing for your family…sweating in that hot sun…tending to the business of the farm.” She said the words so softly trying not to let the terror emerge as she gently touched his arms. “You make it look easy, don’t you know. And I’m ever grateful, my John.” He mindlessly smiled with a drunken grin at these words.

Staring at her with an enraged eye recalling the days when she used to call him ‘my John’. It seemed like an ancient past, sitting behind the hay bales or bar when they were courting after he’d kiss her on those freckled lips.

“You got these strong arms and this mighty chest, your legs are thick as trees and your hands,” she ran the tips of her dainty fingers down the palm of his hands like those late nights to soothe him. She couldn’t help a twinge in her brow as the familiar motion brought back a warm feeling. Now, they are corrupted by the current set of events. “Your hands are doing wonders. They got skill in them.” He grunted, with pride.

Unbeknownst to Mr. Edwin, his wife had maneuvered into a position between the disgruntled drunk and the stove like a tiny spider, artistically webbing her catch. Using her sweet words and dusting him with heart-fluttering touches to distract him as the other hand tightened its grip on the handle of a boiling pot. “And we’d be nowhere without you. Why this farm would go to ruin if not for you and your wisdom. Your daddy would be proud of you for keeping this farm up like you have.” She stroked his cheek, and his eyes fluttered. “You deserve to rest peacefully, John. You deserve good things and some time off, don’t you? Let me get you another drink.” Her voice began to quiver again but it wasn’t noticeable, thanks to the drunken haze. When he leaned in for a kiss, the liquor on his breath became more prominent, and it became harder to breathe. Her controlled countenance broke, and she flung the pot at him! Despite his delayed reflexes, he managed to swing away from her. The pot only missed him by inches, but some of the scalding water found his arm. He bellowed in anger but before he could gather his senses, she came at him with the blunt side of the iron pot. This time, again the swing was fueled by tempest emotions, and it contained enough force to knock John Edwin back again.

He went staggering out the back door and fell face first into the dirt. If he were sober this agile and naturally athletic, it would have been impossible to hit him. There was finally something of this addiction to be grateful for. The alcohol tilting his balance from left to right, he staggered and flailed like a newborn colt trying to find its feet for the first time. On this strange full moonlight, the strange twilight haze illuminated the yard in a purplish-blue blush. Miss Jenny stood in the doorway, the orange backlight of the oil lamp in the house painted a fiery copper mane around her face, and the moonlight caught the blue in her eyes: she looked like an angel gone mad.

“You ever try to come back and lay a finger on your son or me, and I’ll do you even worse, you drunken bastard!” she screamed through her tears. She was shaking.

“You think you’re some kind of man because you work hard. What kind of man can’t even fight the liquor? You’re so drunk out of your mind that you’ve lost me! You can’t even look at your own son with love anymore!” she dropped the pot and allowed herself to free some tears.

John Edwin just sat in the dirt breathing heavily, trying to stop his vision from swirling. Jenny could feel the curious gaze of the slaves peeking out of their quarters and through the slits in their windows or from behind trees. Miss Jenny pointed into the empty abyss. “Get out of my sight and don’t even show your face again until you sober up. You ain’t no kind of man to me,” she shook her head in dismay. “My John.” She said in disgust. His face flashed a look of hurt which didn’t stop him from becoming enraged. After he barely managed to pick himself up, they stood there staring at each other for a long moment. Each of them, breathing heavily and holding their ground. No more words were spoken, and none were needed. Such strong emotion passed between them as the silence in those empty fields were deafening. Weight from the intense love they once shared held in stark contrast to the present sorrow and hurt. It held every soul witness to the grim episode in a frozen trance as if time stood still. John abruptly turned and limped away in the shadows. When he was out of sight, Miss Jenny’s legs buckled and she leaned against the doorway. Suddenly, old Joee appeared beside her as he had been a silent bystander throughout the event.

“You alright, Miss Jenny?” He asked quietly.

“He’ll go stay in the East house, I reckon.” She whispered, still glaring at his disappearing shadow.

Behind her, the Forewoman Dianne was consoling a whimpering Aaron. The young house maid, Silvy, hid behind her skirt.

Miss Jenny finally turned to old Joe, “I think I’ve lost him, Joe. I think he’s really gone this time. And nothing I can do will bring him back.”

“It was the drink that took him from you, Miss.” She looked out into the dark with a pinch of yearning.

Maybe she secretly hoped that the young, handsome, and promising husband would emerge out of the darkness with outstretched arms, beckoning for her trust and embrace. She may have physically thrown him out this night, but he had been rejecting her for years with that alcoholic affair.

“I’m afraid he’ll drink himself to death.” She chuckled a sad, short release of air, “hopefully before he comes back here to kill me for beating him out of the house.”

“Don’t you worry about that now, Miss.”

They both knew it was a real possibility that couldn’t be deterred. Then, a moment passed, and she took a deep breath and shook the idea away. She accepted reality like a burdensome thing, a heavy crown worn by a weathered queen who was utterly exhausted from her reign. She stroked her copper curls back and tied them up with a ribbon, wiped those tears off and walked back inside. Quickly resuming her ‘lady of the house’ poise.

“Aunt Dianna.” she turned to the heavy black woman. “Take Aaron back to his room, I’ll be there momentarily to see to him.” Aaron began wailing again. Jenny stooped down and coddled him and addressed with a soothing tone, “Aaron, tell Aunt Dianna how to make chicken dumpling soup.” He broke a weak smile and began reciting the recipe from his mother’s cook book with hick-up like sobs. When they were out of sight, Jenny took a breath of relief and reached for a towel.

“Silvy, help me clean up this water. Watch your step, child.”

“Let me get it, Miss Jenny, ma’am.” Said the girl hastily whipping out a rag from her apron.

Miss Jenny attempted to protest but the bountiful adrenaline still coursing through her veins turned her stomach which threatened to release her dinner in protest, so she paused. Old Joe spoke up in his soft manner, “I’ll fetch you some tea, ma’am. Rest yourself.” She nodded in agreement and lowered herself into a chair absentmindedly.

A cold breeze drifted through the open doorway and sent chills prickling over her skin. She shivered but flinched as old Joe put a blanket over her shoulders. She calmed down and weakly smiled at him. Tradition prevented her from voicing deep gratitude to the aged black man. He had been working on the farm since her arrival way back when she was freshly married and blindly in love. He stood in the doorway and inquired in a quiet, humble way. “Your tea will be a minute more, miss. Somebody went and spilled all the kettle water.” An expression of surprise appeared on her face, their eyes met, and a hint of a smile twitched Joe’s lips. Like flood gates bursting, she broke into laughter. A brief moment of releasing some bitter feelings and slightly healing at the same instant, gentle threads of laughter sewing up an open wound. Old Joe had a way of doing that to people.

As the feeling washed away her laughter subsided and the hand went to the back of a throbbing head, and suddenly sobs overtook her. She consistently wept clutching to the blanket until there were no tears left. Old Joe brought her a steaming cup of mint tea and a deep gulp reduced wailing to sniffles. Afterwards, she was too tired to stir up the energy to meet old Joe’s gaze. Handing the empty mug she quietly went to bed. Their unspoken but mutual understanding was enough to suffice. Old Joe tucked Aaron in that night, reading him a bed-time story and saying a prayer to protect him from nightmares. He had a way of creating peaceful order from chaos with the softest recommendation. Old Joe had a uniquely gentle way of speaking to you. This manner of conversing made you want to do whatever he suggested like he could persuade a cow to milk itself. But he did so in a humble way without the malice of manipulation or the alternative plan of a schemer.

It can be claimed that the farm solely existed because he was kept on as a hand, despite John’s efforts to drink it into the ground. Old Joe’s wisdom and kind assistance had become crucial to the survival of the estate and everyone including the Edwin’s knew it. Though he was a slave himself, he was revered by the other slave. Some of them had been victim to his lashes in the past. Mr. Edwin, without known cause or warning, would commence to whippings. Over the years, old Joe had gained respect from enforcing the order. The respect he earned gave goosebumps on the back of your neck when he walked by, but also made you hope for some praise. After the household was asleep and quiet, he and two of the other slaves closed the gates and secured the latches of the livestock in their pins for the night. They prepared for rain when the air became steady and clouds began to gather.

“Where Mr. Edwin be, Ol’ Joe?” asked Ruben, a slave boy about fifteen years old that came on board about roughly 2 years ago. He exchanged a nervous glance with Moses, a quiet twenty-seven-year-old slave.

Without looking at either of the boys, Old Joe simply replied, “He gone down to the summa house. Miss Jenny think some fishing and thinking do him good.”

The two exchanged another glance, and it was Ruben who spoke up again. “Well, I’m glad he was gone. That white man always is causing more trouble than worms in the cotton. Always yelling and beating us for no reason. Why he beat Henry so bad, he’s been laid up for….”

“Now bite your tongue, boy.” Old Joe’s abrupt tone was, so stern Ruben gulped down the knotted sentence that Jo cut off.

He was standing inches away with a gaze locked into those yellow eyes that could instill fear in your life. “You think real hard about what words you let out of your mouth. You can’t take them back.”

He slammed the latch closed that a frozen Ruben was holding. “Those words will get you whipped boy” Ruben shifted and his gaze hardened.

“He has been after Moe’s sister.” He said after a pause.

Moses stood with a furrowed brow and clenched fists, though Jo held Ruben in place with his gaze. “Mr. Edwin has been after her in the barn, Jo. It’s true. Right, Moe?”

“You both keep your eyes down and your work tight. You see your own way and don’t go doing something that will get you sold,” Jo looked at Moses. “Or killed. You understand?”

Old Joe made sure he had the attention of both the individuals. They nodded silently.

“I’ll make sure Joanna stay safe. Don’t you boys say a word about this. No white man gonna believe a slave or think twice about killing a talking negro. You gotta be smart.”

There was silence between them as the somber understanding settled. The wind rattled the tin sliding doors of the barn and the animals scattered, uneasily.

“Now, there’s a storm blowing in and you two jumpers better tie down them houses. Go!”

The boys hopped off and leaped away to do his bidding. Old Joe enforced the boys’ curfew by escorting them to their quarters, each of them shared a hut with their own family plus about two other slaves. This was a common practice on the farm. The huts were small and housed almost ten people in each. They were constructed of rough materials, not like the main house, clean and decorated with comfortable furniture.

He exchanged cautious words with the house mothers in such a way that made them forget their concerns and turned to find his own rest with, “Y’all ride the wind now. It’s going to be kicking’.” He held up the oil lantern as the last door bolted behind him. He turned towards the East, and the smile on his face faded away. A heavy rainstorm was about to come.