Charlottesville, VA – Past

 

Adam wandered around the expansive marketplace with a few of his classmates for an hour or so before they went their separate ways. The local college students often visited the mostly slave run market during the weekends in summer. Though he wasn’t considered a local, Adam had spent every summer for the last three years on the Charlottesville campus. The long distance and cost of traveling had nearly made him into a permanent resident, only ever escaping at the invite of a friend, or occasionally, one of his professors.

In spite of the fact that he’d mailed a letter home just the day before, he found a spot in the shade, far enough away from the din to concentrate, but close enough to keep watch, and pulled out a clean sheet of paper. He was homesick, more so than he could ever remember being before, and his frequent letters of late proved it, even though he courageously tried to deny it.

He was well into his third paragraph on both the glories and despairs of being a university law student when a commotion at the nearest fruit stand caught his attention.

“You either pay for them cherries or you put ‘em back, ya hear me?”

Adam watched as a burly, colored woman spoke up to a slender, white girl who appeared to be about his age, maybe a little younger. The girl’s cheeks turned scarlet and she took a step back, though she didn’t release the basket of cherries. “I, I’m . . .”

A crowd began to gather, and Adam didn’t miss the look of panic on the girl’s face. Jumping to his feet, he dug into his pocket for the few coins he’d brought along with him. “Here it is,” he called, waving his hand in the air as he approached. “I’m sorry I took so long.” Stepping up beside the girl and casually taking her arm, he gave her a smile and then handed over the money for the fruit. “That should about cover it, I think.”

The colored women checked the coins in her hand and, seeming satisfied, returned to her cart. The girl glanced around anxiously until the crowd dissipated. “I, I have to go,” she said, then turned and quickly made her way toward one of the side streets.

“Wait a minute,” Adam called, running to catch up with her. “Hey,” he said, putting a hand on her arm. She stopped, but kept her eyes on the ground. “I know I pretended to know you back there, but we haven’t actually been introduced. My name’s Adam Cartwright.”

The girl stammered for a moment, twisting her hands around the handle of her basket. “My name is, it’s . . .”

Adam could barely hear her as a noisy cart rolled by. “I’m sorry,” he said, “did you say your name is Sissy?”

The girl looked up for the first time and met his eyes; for a moment she seemed to study him. He smiled at her and nervously reached out for some of the cherries. He stuffed them in his mouth and then chuckled as he wiped the trickling juice from his chin. He was glad to see her shoulders relax and the corners of her mouth turn up. “Yeah,” she answered. “You can call me Sissy.”