Page 11 of For This We Are Soldiers
He returned sometime later as she made her last swipe of the dish towel around the last plate. “My timing is exquisite,” he joked. “I’ve administered powders and done bedpan duty,” he said, ticking the items off on his fingers. “Two out of three are asleep, and you must listen to the actor for a while. G’night.”
He tipped an imaginary hat to her. A moment later, she heard the door to Captain Dilworth’s office close.
He had left a kerosene lamp on the table in the corridor, a hospital lamp with four slatted sides for varying degrees of light. On the back of a blank prescription, she found a note.Take this with you,Suh had scrawled.
Ozzie closed two of the slats and carried the lamp into the ward. Feeling like Florence Nightingale at Scutari Hospital, she held it high and satisfied herself that the privates slumbered. Lysander Locke was wide awake. She pulled up a chair, made herself comfortable, and asked him why he couldn’t sleep.
“I am an actor. We are always awake in the evening. Curtain comes down at ten of the clock.”
“And then you sleep?”
“No, no. I smile graciously at well-wishers, remove my makeup, then toddle off to a nearby chophouse. In New York City, I take a hansom cab to Delmonico’s.”
She couldn’t overlook the wistful tone in his voice. “It’s been a while since New York City?” she asked, then could have bitten her tongue, because it sounded so heartless.
Lysander Locke sighed. Maybe he was more tired than he wanted to let on. “Far too long, my dear,” he said. “Denver wasn’t quite the cultural center I was led to believe.”
He didn’t say it with any self-pity, but Ozzie knew what he meant. She could have made some offhand remark, but something had happened between them. She wasn’t certain just what, but maybe it was her turn to talk. She took a deep breath.
“I know how that feels. Freedom is nice, but it’s not all that easy.”
Her words, softly spoken, seemed to hang there like mist. She gathered her nerve and looked at Mr. Locke, wondering what he was thinking.
He gazed back, his eyes so kind, even though she knew he must be in pain. “How did freedom come to you, Miss Washington?”
She told him about borrowing courage from some unused source to finally walk away from the LeCheminant plantation. “I think I was twelve. My mother would know for sure, but she was sold into East Texas when I was five.”
You can’t possibly want to hear this, she thought, and started to rise. There must be something she could fold, or put away, or straighten, and this man did need his sleep. He put out his hand, motioning down, so she remained where she was.
“Sold? Your mother?”
Ozzie nodded, startled that her eyes should start to brim. She knew she would never find her mother, though she thought about her every day. “She was a house Negro. Maybe she made Madam LeCheminant angry.”
“Your father?”
Ozzie shrugged. “Monsieur LeCheminant. That would explain the anger.”
Mr. Locke made a sudden noise that didn’t sound in the least theatrical.
“Never mind, Suh! That was life in the South.”
Through the years, she had given the matter some thought. Maybe Mr. Locke would find it interesting.
“I don’t know for certain, but I do know this: Whenever a new baby with light skin was born in the slave quarters, some house slave ended up on the auction block in Shreveport. Madame LeCheminant was not a kind woman. I have scars.” She stopped, certain she had said too much. “Well, Suh, everyone has scars. Some show and some don’t.”
When Lysander Locke spoke, his voice shook. “Did you … did you choose your last name?”
“I did,” she declared with pride, then looked around, fearful she had spoken too loud. Private Henry shifted positions, but Private Jones continued to snore.
“I gather your choice wasn’t LeCheminant?” the actor teased, but gently.
“Never,” she said emphatically, but quieter. “Some chose Jackson, or Lincoln, or Jefferson. Others gave me all sorts of suggestions, butIwanted to choose something for the first time in my life. Washington freed his slaves. I like it.”
“So do I, Miss Washington, but why Ozzie?”
“It’s really Audra,” she said with a laugh. “My mother named me, but Lalage LeCheminant called me Ozzie.” How much of the truth did the actor need? “I insisted that my name was Audra and got the hairbrush for being impertinent. I’m used to Ozzie now.”
“Do you never use Audra?” he asked. “It’s lovely.”
