Joseph spent most of his days with his nanny, Berta. Without Berta, he would never have known the touch of a loving hand or an embrace. The Kingsleys surely were not giving those out. Berta loved and raised Joseph as her own. She always kissed his soft, sweet head before putting him to sleep while singing to him the song her mother had once sung to her, a familiar African-American lullaby that had been passed down for decades:
O, go to sleepy, sleepy, li’l baby,
’Cause when you wake,
You’ll git some cake,
And ride a li’l white hossy.
O’ de li’l butterfly, he stole some pie,
Go to sleepy, li’l baby, and flew so high
Till he put out his eye.
O, go to sleepy, li’l baby.
This was an old lullaby that had been passed down when Berta’s mother was a little girl. If it were not for Berta, Joseph would have been a different man when he grew up—very different—but he had Berta’s guidance as a young boy. The love and guidance of someone can make all the difference in the world for a child, and it did for Joseph.
Berta was an elderly lady of seventy-three years old, and a rough seventy-three years it had been. She had lived most of her life in Clarksville. Her skin was worn from all the years out in the sun. Her hands were rough from the hard life of working the fields day in and day out, but they were gentle enough to rock Joseph to sleep every night. She was moved out of the field and into the house to work once Joseph came into the home. What great luck it was, she thought when she was put inside to raise Joseph. Someone of her age should not be out in the sweltering sun doing hard, manual labor.
After meeting Joseph and seeing how the Kingsleys treated him, she learned her move inside was not just about her at all; it was about God wanting them to save each other. Berta always looked tired and worn, but whenever she laid eyes on Joseph, her eyes had a sparkle in them. There were countless times that Berta risked her own life to protect Joseph from the strikes of Mrs. Kingsley. She would use her own body as a shield for little Joseph, each time risking retaliation that could result in her death.
Mr. Kingsley was not home often. When he was, he was too interested in his whiskey to care about the boy. You could say that Mr. Kingsley forgot that Joseph was alive, which was a sad truth and a blessing all in one. That was one less person from whom Berta had to protect Joseph.
Mrs. Kingsley and Berta early on came to a mutual understanding about Joseph. One night when Joseph was only two months old, he developed an awful cold. All night, he screamed. No matter what Berta did, she could not comfort the boy. She rocked him, gave him milk, and even gave him an old cold remedy her mama had used on her when she was a young girl. Nothing seemed to ease his pain, so scream he did.
The screaming woke Mrs. Kingsley, a hideous beast when awakened. She was like a bear being disturbed from its winter’s slumber. She rose out of her bed sniffling and rabid. She flung on her pale blue night coat while shoving her long, bony toes into her silken, laced night slippers. She then proceeded to storm down the staircase, screaming.
“Shut that fucking little nigger up before I shut him up myself!”
Clearly, the Christianity was seeping from her pores as she shrieked with fury about this tiny baby scalding with fever. She burst into the nursery where Joseph and Berta were. Still screaming, she picked little Joseph up and violently shook him.
“Shut up, I say, shut up! You will listen to me, nigger!”
She threw him down and raised her hand back as far as she could with the full intent of striking this two-month-old baby boy until he submitted and did as he was told. Just as her hand was coming down knuckles first, she felt an abrupt force grab her. Berta had tired of using her back as a shield, so she grabbed Mrs. Kingsley’s wrist as hard as she could and, in a deep, almost possessed-sounding voice, said, “If you evuh touch dis boy like dat again, I will kill you. I know dat dey will kill me fo it, but I have lived my life. Dis boy has not, and I will make sure you are dead cold before deys ever make it to me.”
Mrs. Kingsley turned white as a ghost, even whiter than she already was, if you can imagine that. She turned around without saying a word and quietly went back up the stairs to her room, most likely not to go right back to sleep. Surely she was just lying in her bed awake, stricken with fear, reliving every moment of what had just happened and knowing Berta meant every damn word. For weeks after that, Mrs. Kingsley had fingerprint-sized bruises on her wrist as a gentle reminder of the lesson she had learned that night. Mrs. Kingsley never again laid a hand on Joseph as long as Berta was around.
5
Tea Parties and Oak Trees
Joseph had an interesting childhood, to say the least. Growing up, he saw all kinds of politicians and other important people come through the doors of the Kingsleys’ home. Joseph and Berta would just sit on an old wooden bench in the foyer and watch all the important businessmen and the politicians come and go as deals were made and lost and drinks consumed, only to reappear hours later, in some cases, on the floor. Not all of the guests could hold their liquor. Many became sloppy very quickly and provided great entertainment for Berta and Joseph.
Joseph was now a young boy of ten. His days had come to include several things; schooling was one. A teacher hired by the Kingsleys came to the house to educate Joseph. They felt that if he were not well spoken enough to meet their standards, he would embarrass them.
Work was the other thing that filled Joseph’s days. He worked odd jobs in the house, but he knew that when Mrs. Kingsley was aggravated with him, he would get sent out into the sweltering sun to pick cotton in the field or perform whatever job could be forced on a boy of that age. This happened more often than not. He still had the light in his eyes and his strong spirit, but he no longer had that tender baby skin. His hands especially had lost everything childlike about them besides their small size. The hard labor stripped him of that. His hands were rough and rugged like a grown man’s hands, with blisters and calluses all over them. He was also quite muscular for a boy his age.
One particular summer day, he had been in the yard all day doing different sorts of chores, such as trimming bushes, chopping wood, and caring for the animals. He was exhausted. Then he heard his ill excuse for a mother, Mrs. Kingsley, yell his name. This was the only mother he had known since he was taken from his biological mother the day of his birth. He had not seen her since, nor did he know who she was, because she had been sent away after mentioning her rape. The kiss and tight embrace of Claudia’s motherly love had been stripped away from him.
Berta did her best to show him love. She did as best as she knew how within her restrictions. Being affectionate toward Joseph in the presence of Mrs. Kingsley was forbidden. This was just another way that Joseph was mistreated. Tragically, he didn’t know the difference between Mrs. Kingsley’s treatment and true motherly love.
Mrs. Kingsley screeched from the porch, “Come here, boy!”
Joseph knew he better make it fast before he angered her.
“I need my tea. The church ladies will be here shortly for our prayer meeting,” Mrs. Kingsley spouted. “Make it hot but not too hot, and don’t embarrass me as you did last time the ladies came by.”
Joseph always tried his best for her, but at times he would get nervous and clumsy, especially when people came by. He was still at that tender age where he wanted to please. He wanted everyone to be happy and proud of his work.
Mrs. Kingsley’s church lady friends arrived. They were a breed all their own, infamous for praising God’s name and, in the next breath, gossiping and judging the misfortunes of others. By the way, they believed that if someone was black, poor, or different from them, it was a vast misfortune.
All the ladies, Mrs. Kingsley included, always walked with a sense of entitlement and placed their indignant looks of shame upon others they deemed less worthy. These ladies would not