Brushed by the Butterfly's Wings

     The following Sunday Matilda did something that deviated sharply from her usually placative manner;  she brought up a topic that would almost certainly lead to dissension.  Everybody had been eating and chatting happily when, out of the blue, she asked, “Papa, when you were a youngster at the Abbott place, do you remember a slave named Strawberry?”

     Although the question had come from his and Ellen’s only child -- the child they’d thought they would never have and the one person in the world he always treated with patience -- Edgar Abbott’s eyes grew stern, and his mouth became rigid.

     “Yes, Matilda.  My Papa owned a slave by that name, and I remember him all too well.  He was a smart-alecky nigger.  Nobody could tell him anything.”  As he answered his daughter’s question, Edgar glared at his long-time adversary, Jake Edenton, and added, “Strawberry ran away.  He escaped.  And though some of us suspected, we never knew for sure how he did it.”

     His eyes returning to Matilda, he said, “But in the long run, I don’t suppose it was a terrible loss.  It may even have saved us some trouble.  He was a lazy, trifling sort and a hot-head, to boot -- always trying to get out of work -- he didn’t know his place at all...”

     Matilda bristled.  “And what exactly was his place, Papa?”  Not waiting for him to answer, she went on, “Was his place that of trying to find his parents who’d been sold to separate slave holders?  Or was it carrying out his master’s every command?”

     Everybody except Peter, Mark and Beth -- none of whom ever paid much attention to the grown-up talk -- looked shocked at Matilda’s outburst.  Matt stared wide-eyed at his usually gracious wife.  Fire in his normally kind and soulful eyes, Grampa Jake glared at Edgar Abbott.  Grandma Ellen’s mouth fell open.  Even Edgar, who always sat next to the grandfather whose name he shared, looked anxious.

     “Matilda!  What’s come over you?”  As always, it took but a second for Ellen to get her mouth in working order.

     “Hush, Ellen!”  Edgar cast a forbidding look at his wife.  Then, regaining a modicum of composure, he looked at his daughter.  “Matilda, don’t you understand?  They were slaves, and slaves got sold when their owners deemed it good business to sell them.  It was a way of life -- and a very good way, I might add...

     “...But, tell me, what in God’s name caused you to bring this up?  Has that father-in-law of yours been telling you stories?  What do you know about slaves -- or about Strawberry, for that matter?  Best you tend to matters more suited to a lady.  Let’s end this conversation, child.”

       Defiance and tears rising to her eyes, Matilda shot back, “I’m not a child, Papa!  And I don’t care what you say, slavery was wrong!  Don’t you suppose slaves had feelings like everybody else?  How can you say slavery was a good way of life, when actually, it was an unforgivable -- a -- a -- despicable way of life!”

      Jacob glanced at his father, half expecting him to ease the tension by teasing Matilda about using big words when she became overwhelmed by contradictory feelings.  After all, he’d been known to do this on other occasions when his wife’s vocabulary exceeded its usual bounds.  But this time, Matt was not in a teasing mood.  Bewilderment spilling from his voice, he patted his wife’s hand and said, “Please, ‘Tildy -- let the whole thing rest for now.”

For what seemed an eternity, no one spoke.  Then finally, Matilda said, “I’m sorry, Papa.  Regardless of how I feel, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

     Concern.  Confusion.  Suppressed anger.  Edgar Abbott’s face reflected a myriad of feelings as he replied, “Then let’s forget it, my dear.”