Waving

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1851

Every Sunday for as long as she can remember, Stephanie Gillis has gone to church with her family. The nearest church is a good distance away, fifteen or so miles, but Father is a devout Christian that has been going to church all his life that "won't let a little distance get between them." It doesn't matter if they are sick or busy. And so, every Sunday, they will dress in their Sunday best, hitch up the old carriage, and go to attend the sermon. Stephanie thinks the sermon is long and boring, but she is a good little girl with manners so she never says anything.

Sometimes on the Sundays, at least once a month, a little slave boy will wave at her as she and her family leave for church in the carriage.

And she will always wave back.

"Why do you wave back?" her older sister, Phoebe, asks. "Stephanie, you know we are not supposed to associate with the Negros. They are below us."

"It's polite to wave back," she answers, ignoring the feel of her sister's glare on her neck. "And he has a very nice smile."

Every time. For as long as she can remember.

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She supposes she has a life easier than most. Father is a very successful plantation owner, and they are wealthy. She lives in a huge manor with several rooms, and their plantation is thousands of acres wide, with hundreds of slaves to manage their crops. Sometimes on the ride to church, she will gaze out and see the other children, skinny and dirty and in the sun without a bonnet. These are the children of the poor people, the small farm owners.

Still, it's hard to remember that she has an "easy" life when her governess, Mrs. Freebody, is scrubbing at her with a rough sponge pad and yelling at her for going outside and playing again.

"Miss Gillis!" Mrs. Freebody is saying, "Your constant 'adventures' outside are not—"

"Ladylike," she interrupts, and then she feels herself going red because interrupting is not considered ladylike either.

Mrs. Freebody rolls her eyes.

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Eavesdropping is not ladylike either. But then again, Stephanie has never been a lady.

One of Father's business friends, a Mr. Rowse or something, has come to visit tonight. And he wishes to speak with Father "privately" about "pressing matters." A conversation just begging to be listened to.

"Henry, I assume you know why I'm here?" she hears Mr. Rowse say.

"Trouble in the North?"

"Spreading to the South."

After that, they speak too quietly for Stephanie to hear anything. And soon after, Phoebe catches her and takes her away to her room.

"What were they talking about?" she asks Phoebe. "What trouble? What trouble?"

"Don't ask questions, Stephanie," Phoebe replies. "It is not our matters. It is the matters of the adult men."

Nobody bothers to tell anything to young eight-year-old girls.

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Usually on Saturdays, she goes outside and plays in the garden and climbs trees—by herself, of course. It is very rare that a playmate comes over, because plantations in the South are so isolated and everyone lives so far away. Not to mention most of the "friends" that come over are snobbish and ladylike. They do not want to play in the dirt and dig up flowers or do anything fun. They want to drink tea and speak quietly indoors.

But today her governess refuses to allow her to go outside. Usually she can sneak off, but today Mrs. Freebody is giving her the glare of a hawk. So she stays inside, working on her embroidery.

"Every fine lady knows the art of embroidery," Mrs. Freebody drones. Stephanie gazes out the window. It's such a lovely day. Not a cloud in the sky. And instead she's cooped up. Also outside are several Negros, picking tobacco. Poor slaves, she thinks. They have to pick tobacco instead of playing in the trees. But then again, they are slaves. She has been told several times that slaves are not quite human; they are animals, like oxen.

But she remembers the young boy that always waves at her in the carriage, and she thinks that surely, they cannot be too different.

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1852

Every Sunday for as long as she can remember, Stephanie Gillis has gone to church with her family.

At least once a month, a little slave boy will wave at her as she and her family leave for church in the carriage.

She still waves back.

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Being sick feels awful, she thinks as she lies in bed. Her throat is sore, her body feels heavy, and her head is throbbing. She cannot do anything except lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Or, as her governess suggests, work on her sewing. She would rather stick the needles in her eyes, to be honest. So whenever her governess comes near, she closes her eyes and pretends to fall asleep until she hears footsteps going outside.

There come footsteps again. Must be Mrs. Freebody. Again? she thinks exasperatedly.

But then she hears a small boyish voice—different from the annoying falsely sweet voice of Mrs. Freebody's. "Wake up, Miss Stephanie. I have brought chicken soup."

She opens her eyes and sees in front of her a young Negro boy, offering a piping tray of chicken soup.

"Thank you," she says.

"There is no need to thank me, Miss Stephanie," replies the slave. And she opens her mouth so the slave can spoon-feed her. And that is when she gets a closer look at the boy and realizes that she knows him.

"You're the boy that waves at me on Sunday."

He nods and looks quite pleased that she recognizes him.

"What is your name?" she asks, although she knows she shouldn't be speaking to slaves, let alone be asking them for their name. But she's bored and tired and the boy seems as if he will make good company.

"Davis, Miss," he answers.

She nods, and she's quite surprised that the slaves speak English so well. She always thought slaves couldn't speak—they never talked, and whenever they did, they never said much. She studies the boy as he silently feeds her, gentle and obedient, the way all the slaves are.

"Do you work in this house?"

He nods.

"Every day?"

Again, he nods. "Yes, Miss, every day in this house, cleaning and washing and doing household chores, excepting the occasional Sunday."

"How come I never see you working in this house?"

"A good slave is neither noticed nor heard," he answers, as if the response has been drilled into him a thousand times. And she feels sympathetic, because she has oftentimes heard a similar thing from her governess: little girls are seen and not heard. But the slaves have it worse, she supposes, because they also have to work.

"How old are you?" she asks. She honestly should stop speaking to the boy, but she can't help it.

"Eleven," he answers.

"You already work?"

He looks at her as if she has grown another head. "Of course I work, Miss. I have hands and health, and the Master would be upset if I did not work." And she realizes that the boy is really only two years older than her, and she finds it amazing that he does all the work with no complaints. The older boys that sometimes come over as playmates usually romp around outside and climb trees with her.

"Do you like it?"

"Working?" he asks, and she nods. Then the boy shakes his head. "Do not tell anyone, but I only do it because I must. I-I like to climb trees." And he gives a toothy grin.

And that's when she realizes something else—the boy is a lot like his age. A lot like her. But he is black, and she is white; it seems impossible. So she pushes the thought out of her head and shuts her mouth. If she asks more questions, she is worried at what she will find out.

The boy finishes feeding her the soup, fluffs her pillows, takes the finished tray, and leaves, silently.

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After that, Stephanie sees him everywhere—well, not everywhere, but in a lot of places. He really does work in the house every day. And he's there in the shadows, scrubbing at the floor she always thought was effortlessly spotless. Or he'll be wiping the windows or hanging laundry to dry outside.

And not only that, she starts to notice all the slaves—standing in the shadows, silent and not to be noticed, polishing the chandelier—setting the table—cooking in the kitchens—dusting—sewing—cleaning the sinks—always there, working, silently, without a single complaint.

And then she begins to talk to them, when no one is watching. She doesn't say much because most of the slaves aren't very responsive. They seem frightened of her, to be honest. Davis, she realizes, was a rare case. So she begins to talk to him, when nobody else is around.

"Hey Davis," she says one day. "Who is the girl that comes with you to the carriage, on the Sundays?"

"My older sister, Charlotte, Miss," he answers. "She works in the fields, and she is the kindest, most wonderful sister you could ask for."

She wishes Phoebe was like that.

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1853

Every Sunday for as long as she can remember, Stephanie Gillis has gone to church with her family.

At least once a month, a little slave boy will wave at her as she and her family leave for church in the carriage.

She still waves back.

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One day, Davis walks up to her, when no one is watching of course, and asks her if she wishes to speak.

She's surprised, because usually she's the one to approach him, but of course she agrees. Davis sighs with relief.

"If I may ask, Miss Stephanie, do you have a hair ribbon you could spare?"

"What is it for, Davis?"

"The birthday of one of my dearest friends, Elizabeth, is approaching. I wish to get her a gift," he answers.

Automatically she reaches for her hair and unties the ribbon that fastens it—a pretty sky blue thing. She offers it.

"Oh, I couldn't take it. I was speaking of some scrap ribbon—"

"Oh, take it," she insists.

He shyly takes it. "Thank you, Miss Stephanie. You are much kinder than many of the others."

She opens her mouth as if to protest, because really, her family is a nice bunch, when she realizes that maybe it's true—they aren't very kind to slaves. "And you are much more open and brave than many of the others," she says instead.

And then he opens his mouth to protest, but then he shuts it, as if rethinking it. "I think you are right, Miss. Maybe this is why we Negros and you whites never quite get along. But I hear that up North—"

At the word North, she brightens up, because she's overheard the rumors too—the rumors that a Negro is not just a slave but also a human, and that she can speak to one without being yelled at. But just then she hears Mrs. Freebody looking for her, so she offers a hasty goodbye and scurries off before anyone will see.

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He's not there.

Not at the carriage waving at her.

Not in the house silently working.

Not anywhere around for her to secretly talk to.

He's gone.

After around a month of absolutely no sign of him, she begins to get worried. Why isn't he anywhere to see?

She makes an offhand remark of this to Phoebe one day. "Where is the Negro?" she asks. "The one that used to wave at me."

Phoebe frowns. She has been becoming more and more absentminded and distant since she became engaged, to a man who was really quite rude and not even very handsome. Stephanie knew that Phoebe was only marrying him for money. It's a quite silly reason in Stephanie's mind, but Phoebe says that she'll understand when she's older.

"Oh, I don't know. Ask Father. And stop playing with your curls."

She stops playing with her blonde curls. She can't help it; it's what she does when worried. She looks at Phoebe again, who is gazing at her reflection in the mirror and realizes that her older sister will be no help. Perhaps she should go to ask Father. She does not approach Father often, for Father is often busy and does not like being bothered, but today she must know.

So she gathers up her courage and knocks on the door of his study. "Are you busy, Father? May I enter?"

Father looks up from the various papers on his extremely cluttered desk. "Oh, hello Stephanie. Yes, please enter. I suppose I can spare a few minutes. Why did you come visit me today?"

She takes a deep breath. "Father, I want to know what happened to the Negro."

Father's eyebrows knit. "Which slave?"

"You know, the one that would wave at me…" Seeing the blank expression on Father's face, she elaborates. "A little twelve-year-old boy. Davis."

Realization dawns on her Father's face. "Oh, that Negro? I sold him."

He… what?

Why would Father sell him? Why would Father take him away from the plantation to somewhere far away? Father rarely sells slaves. And Davis was a good one, as far as she knew, always around working and loyal and kind. And how can Father say it in such an offhand tone? She recalls the sister Davis tenderly spoke about, the friend that he wanted to give the ribbon too, and realizes that somewhere there is a family crying about him, that he must be crying too, that—

"Oh, do not look so surprised, Stephanie," says Father. "Twelve years old and still too skinny to do field work! He was bound to be sold. Anyhow, one slave is much like another. Like one dog is like another. They are all the same."

For the first time in her life, she feels like yelling at Father. She never does—as unladylike she is, disrespecting Father by yelling at him is one of the greatest sins of all.

"Now, if that is all you wish to know, leave," Father says, going back to the papers on her desk.

She hates herself for what she does next. "Yes, Father."

And she leaves the room.

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1854

Every Sunday for as long as she can remember, Stephanie Gillis has gone to church with her family.

There is no one to wave at anymore.

She still waves back.

Dedicated to my most amazing friend Estuti. To you I give this fic to make up for my lack of Hershel/Claire and Avengers and 39 Clues.

Also, I don't pretend to be a historical expert, so if you find any historical inaccuracies, let me know. I would love feedback on this. Read and review!