Rivers Under Water

By Angie Montgomery

Over the course of three generations, a Black woman searches for love, spiritual liberation, and physical satisfaction in the Deep South.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543933505

Angie Montgomery

Angie Montgomery is an author/playwright/teleplay writer who lives in Manhattan with her husband.

Book preview

(2003)

Chapter One (1863)

She came from a rare line of women with narrow teats; ancestors who were so concerned with maintaining the unblemished nature of their nipples that they fed their children milk from the crevasses of their teeth. They were convinced that all nourishment that was noteworthy and memorable came through the mouth and a lip-lock of this nature was as commonplace as standing up and giving birth to a child.

A pensive stare through the trees, past the hanging bodies and snarled twine, and you immediately knew she was too beautiful to be raped for comfort. She was young, a woman in training, a blessed effigy in an abyss of callous feet and soiled head wraps; men who long lost the nerve to protect their women and children from the master class, and as a result, had settled with tapping on a banjo or choking back moonshine.   

From afar and up-close, she looked nothing like them; her gait made no mention of a desire to flee to the north, her eyes always found the ground when someone made mention of the blue-boy soldiers who may or may not be close to finding her Master’s entrance into the bayou. In the right light, which usually came this many times a day, the Overseer had to remind himself that although she was the color of a gardenia and represented all things cream, he could not take tea with her under the poplar because that lone wave near the root of her hair meant that she was African and, consequently, not privy to a place on the pedestal enjoyed by his mother and soon to be married sister.     

But like so many men who toiled for the planter class and worked endless hours so as to not miss the rare chance to break bread at the Master’s table and explain exactly how he was maximizing profits, the Overseer was lonely. And since she understood the importance of covering her face in nightingale droppings and wearing her gingham dress slightly askew, he gave into his basest emotions and romanced her. In his dreams and notions, he asked her to be his wife; she delicately accepted his proposal, promising to honor him and their offspring and give up her life for his well-being. In his imagination and in real-life, he trusted her; and believing himself to be one of the few white men in the Confederacy with outstanding judgment, he ordered her into the parlor of the great house.

#

Get.     

The Overseer found the lone pleasant bone in his body and held her arm through the entrance of the door with such tenderness that in another time, he would have sighed in her ear and rested his sullen head on her shoulder. His prints were still holding her arm when Master Randolph surprised him with an offer.       

You want some tea, Captain?     

Nah Sir. Gotta get back and man the hen house. You know how the niggas get round the eggs.     

The Master just remembered something.     

We was eighteen eggs off of our estimate last month. Get those niggas to quit their stealin‘. Best make better use of the fretters. Seem they don’t fear you none.         

The Overseer wanted to give life to what he thought everyday; five men were needed to do his job, his wrist found a new level of stiffness with each passing whipping, and his wildest dream was to marry this nigger woman, open her legs and traverse the places that no one talked about. But out of fear, he handed over his dearest.     

This the nigga gal who ‘posed to keep the flies off ya. And then he left.   

The Master took off his frock coat. He was old and glossy and looked as if he had paid too much attention to the sun. He stared into her eyes and wondered about the pinkness in her lower lip.     

I know you. You that nigga gal that saves her money from pickin’ tobacco just to buy a bolt of crimson. What’s your name?     

She couldn’t look at him. She only repeated what she was taught for many years to say.     

You are my Master.     

He walked up to her. His lengthy digit traced the rose in her cheek.     

Ain’t you the rarest find? As pretty as my youngest daughter. You know the Bible?     

A little.     

Any nigga that works in my house, near the perimeter of me and my family got to be familiar with the Good Book. Who’s your favorite figure? And don’t say Jesus because in my house we follow the Old Testament.     

She glanced outside the window and saw the tobacco leaves as they hovered in the humidity; six to seven feet high, they were pronounced and glorious, tall enough to fiddle with heaven. Some of the leaves were so bold that they held the slaves by the neck, pushed their faces into the earth and created a shiftless buoyancy of bodies that made the Overseer long for the re-opening of the slave trade so he could swap-out this lazy lot and start all over again. She thought of what it would be like to smell the Dead Sea.   

I know about Moses. My mama told me he died and never saw the promise land.     

Girl, ain’t no such thing as the promise land. And their ain’t gonna be no such day where you just a slave to the Lord. You ever been kissed before?     

No, Master.     

He was so fascinated because this slave had debunked the memories of all his paramours and the ghosts of his two dead wives; no one he had bedded on the back of his prized horse or his chopping table could be mentioned in comparison. This was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He smelled the nape of her neck to see if she had lied about being sullied, but all his nose could sense was a hint of peaches and moon flowers. He pulled away and looked at her.     

What is your name?     

She arched her back in the shape of a bell.     

I am the servant of the house of Master Randolph. I have no name.     

And with that, he was determined not to love her.     

Get to the dining quarter. I have my whisky and tea in an hour.

#

It was the soil alone that was the most enraged. No one had taken the time to speak to it since it was blamed for the worm infections among the slaves, but it wanted to make several points abundantly clear: its filth was