CHAPTER 40
Thunderclouds rolled on the horizon as Juliet grabbed a pail, and made her way to the well. With each pump of the wrought iron handle her thoughts drifted to what life might be like as a person of free issue. One thing was for sure- the only diners she’d be preparing would be for her own family. She lugged the bucket into the kitchen, where she turned her attention to a mountain of potatoes that needed peeling. 
The day she discovered the abolitionist movement changed everything. On the one hand, she was enlightened. On the other, she was made aware of the terrible position she was actually in. Worst of all, Juliet’s literacy made her painfully aware of the words “Slave Auction” posted everywhere—in advertisements, on billboards, and on shingles above marketplace stores. In fact, she could have sworn those letters once adorned the shingle of Ellis & Allan. [2]
Even so, she herself had never been referred to as a ‘slave’. Everyone identified her as ‘a house girl’, or ‘a servant’, as though somehow that was any better. Yes, there were different duties, but at the end of the day, there was no getting around the fact that she could do little without someone else’s approval.
Juliet never knew her father, but she knew he was white. Whenever she asked about him, her mother would say, “Hush now. No good can come of asking such a question. You’re my chil’, and that’s all what matters.”
Juliet carried chunks of potato in her apron, dropping them into the awaiting pot. She removed a netted ham from the rafters, and began to unwrap it.
Juliet first learned about the American Colonization Society, and the movement to start a settlement called Monrovia, when she attended church. Two other parishioners, Mr. Teague and Mr. Cary, had already left for the new settlement, and despite rumors of unrest with local tribes, they promised opportunity. The letters, along with membership in the Female Missionary Society fueled Juliet’s anticipation of sailing away, but it was Father Courtney’s sermons that inspired her the most. 
Father Courtney [3] was a humble, and well-liked man, a fact made evident by the congregants of every color who sat along side one another at The First African Baptist Church. There was just something about the priest that made Juliet want to strive to be her best. But sometimes she began to have doubts about the whole thing too. Other than Mr. Teague and Mr. Cary, Juliet had never known anyone who had been to Africa. What would she find there? If living conditions were too hard? Then what? She couldn't come back. Then there were the people she was leaving behind. 
Although Juliet hadn’t seen Auntie Eu’ in over a year, knowing she was safe and well in the countryside was comforting. Dabney was like a brother. She’d never see him again. Ms. Fanny gave her money, and once-fine dresses not to mention she taught her to read! No one else tended to Ms. Frances. Miss Valentine tried, but as a perpetual houseguest herself, she was limited. Mister Allan was always away. Oh Mister Allan. How complex that man was. He had more or less saved her from the Ellis’, and horrible plantation foremen. Mr. Allan wasn’t exactly warm, but he also wasn’t demanding, or cruel. At least not to her. He never said as much, she knew he cared about everyone under his roof as best as he could, including her. Then there was leaving Eddy. He would take her absence the hardest. 
More and more in the past year he had been coming around the kitchen  late at night “just to talk”. The way he looked at her; the subtle things he said- she could see it plain- no conjure needed. Strangely, it was getting harder to fight her own instincts, especially as Eddy grew taller, and his swimmers physique filled out. Sometimes she wondered, maybe they could start a life together in Boston? How bad could it be? 
No one else really understood Eddy, or his need to belong, like she did. Then again he had opportunities, even if he failed to see them. Whenever she tried to point out his blessings, the words went through one ear and out the other. It was as though he actually his own self-pity. 
To hear Eddy tell it, they were two lost sheep each being kept by the Allans. That irked Juliet more than anything. Eddy could never know what it meant to be a servant; what it meant to be owned. Sometimes she wanted to scream at him, but whenever the feeling began to bubble up, she always managed to contain herself with a smile. A sharp pain shot through Juliet’s body and she looked down at her hands.
Watery blood dotted the cutting board. She grabbed a nearby dishrag.  The sweet taste of blood turned metallic, and it turned her stomach. She studied her scar-covered hands. White girls her age- their mothers too- had the soft, delicate palms of a baby. She, already had the wrinkled, ashen skin of a crone. She dressed her wound and carried on.
Thoughts returned to Eddy and his propensity for procrastination.  She knew his lackadaisical self better than he did; always lost in his silly stories. And yet, she saw them for what they really were- his means of escape. 
Escape. She understood the need for it all too well, but she’d need those papers. 
Weeks had gone by, and still nothing on the subject. Now, there was a deadline on that ship to consider. Father Courtney promised to hold a ticket as long as he could, but the passenger list was filling up. If Eddy didn’t do something soon, she would have no choice but to take care of it herself. 
Arranging the ham, potatoes, and vegetables, Juliet summed up her feelings. Despite the hole she’d be leaving the Allans in, and the fear of embarking on a one-way journey to an unknown place, she owed it to herself, and to the legacy of the women before her to seek independence. 
“That’s it,” she said. There could be no going back. No more waiting. Boston wouldn’t do. Monrovia was the only option, and she would get there even if it was the last thing she did. Juliet shoved the roasting pan into the oven, wiped her hands on her apron, and kicked the oven door shut with a defiant thud.