Kindred Read Free

youngster at heart. Rozina sprang into action as the doctor prepared to stick his index finger into the porridge.
    “No pokin’ yo’ fingahs een de fud!” She waved her giant brass and iron ladle menacingly at him. “Seddown!”
    The thirty-five year old Dr. Twain deposited his tall, rangy, angular frame into a country pine chair. He waited as any child would, folding his big, square, slightly rough, hands in front of him on the table. Possessed of a kindly, pale, mien, light brown hair and a pleasant disposition, many women wondered why he was not married. It was simple. He did not want to be. He liked his work too much to subject a woman to its demands. Medicine was his mistress.
    “Well, ’Zina, now that I have been properly chastened, feed me please!”
    Rozina scooped out two ladles of porridge and portioned out a generous amount of spoon bread into the English cream ware in front of him. The delectable aroma wafted up his nostrils and made his mouth water. His flush of embarrassment had waned, bequeathing bright, red marks on his pale cheeks.
    “’Zina, no one can make spoon bread like you.” He picked up the Dutch brass and copper milk jug. “Did Kindred get the lemon balm?” he asked pouring a fountain of milk over the porridge. “I have some, but may need more for Mrs. De Groot’s boils.”
    “Nah. Lattuh.”
    Douglas grunted and shrugged his shoulders in reply between hefty spoonfuls of porridge, bites of spoon bread, and drafts of hot tea. Loud belches testified to Rozina’s hearty cuisine.
    “Twain, wut you got een min’ fuh Kindred and Joshua?”
    “Well today, they have lessons in the morning.” He took out his timepiece. “More chores when they come home ....” He trailed off, returning his attention to breakfast.
    “Dat ent wut I meen, suh.” Rozina wiped her hands on her apron as she drew near Dr. Twain. “I meen, fuh dey libs. Wut iz yo’ plan?”
    Douglas looked up from his dishes and faced her unwavering gaze and knitted brow. He drained his cup and set it on its saucer.
    “To make them examples. Show this small corner of the world that all people are capable of learning and making valuable contributions to society.”
    “Dis’ laa’n.” Rozina rocked on her heels. “Wut dey gwine do wid it?”
    Now Douglas had a knitted brow as he searched for the correct explanation of his good intentions. “’Zina, we and they know that they breath rarified air. They know that their lives are very different from other Negroes in this region. Perhaps they will aid their brethren in the future. In the meantime, learning will help them live productive lives and be happy.”
    “Wid who? Weh dey gwine fin’ peoples like dem? How dey gwine lib?” She spoke with a quiet, but desperate will. “You got anuddah batch you razin up?”
    “’Zina, what is this about?”
    “Uh set up nights frettin’. Kindred and Joshua, uh know’um who hates dem, but who will lub dem? Ma heart, dey be. Will dey ebbuh meen dat ta sumbody else?” She started to cry softly. Dr. Twain bolted from his chair and hugged Rozina.
    “’Zina, ’Zina, ’Zina.” He stood back, took both her hands and patted them. “They are unique, I know. There, there. Dry those tears. They will do fine. Why, who knows what strides the colonies will have made by the time they are grown?”
    Rozina managed a sardonic laugh.
    “Wut ebbuh dese ‘strides’ be, colluh folk gwine be part? Nebbuh! Not unless dese ‘strides’ need cleanin’ or cookin’.” She wiped her eyes with her apron. “So, wut iz yo’ plan fuh dem?”
    Dr. Twain had had many a kitchen chat with Rozina, but never one as unnerving as this. All these years he thought his actions heralded his purpose. He just wanted a chance to do good instead of talking about doing good. He always thought of Rozina as a wise old aunt, the children as if they were his own. His own . His face lit up.
    “’Zina, I have stumbled upon the plan you so dearly demand.” He