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Then I have another question. Can you read? The question surprised him. A flash of fear crossed his face. Reading was illegal for slaves in Virginia. But after a long moment, he said softly, “Yes, miss. I taught myself. I know it’s not allowed, but I couldn’t help it. Books are gateways to places I’ll never go.”
What do you read? Everything I can find. Old newspapers. Sometimes books I borrow. I read slowly. I haven’t studied well, but I read. Have you ever read Shakespeare? His eyes widened. “Yes, miss. There’s an old copy in the lab that no one touches. I read it at night, when everyone’s asleep.” It features Hamlet, Romeo, and Juliet.
The Tempest, his voice grew enthusiastic despite himself. The Tempest is my favorite. Prospero controlling the island with magic. Ariel longing for freedom. Caliban treated like a monster, yet perhaps more human than anyone else. He stopped abruptly. Excuse me, miss. I talk too much. No, I was smiling.
I smiled genuinely for the first time in this bizarre conversation. Keep talking. Tell me about Caliban. And something extraordinary happened. Josiah, the enormous slave called the Brute, began to speak of Shakespeare with an intelligence that would have impressed university professors. Caliban is called a monster, but Shakespeare shows us that he was enslaved, his island stolen, his mother’s magic ignored.
Prospero calls him a savage, but Prospero has come to the island and claimed ownership of everything, including Caliban himself. So who is the monster, really? You see Caliban as a person who inspires pity. I see Caliban as a human being, treated as less than human, but human nonetheless. He died as if they were slaves. I’m done. Yes, miss.
We talked for two hours about Shakespeare, books, philosophy, and ideas. Josiah was self-taught; his knowledge was fragmentary, but his mind was sharp, his thirst for knowledge evident. And as we talked, my fear melted away. This man was no brute. He was intelligent, kind, thoughtful, trapped in a body that society looked upon and saw only as a monster.
Josiah, I finally told him, if we do this, I want you to know something. I don’t think you’re a brute. I don’t think you’re a monster. I think you’re someone stuck in an impossible situation, just like me. His eyes suddenly filled with tears. Thank you, miss. Call me Elaner when we’re alone. Call me Elilioner. I shouldn’t, miss. It wouldn’t be appropriate.
Nothing in this situation is appropriate. If we’re going to become husband and wife, or whatever this arrangement is, you should use my last name. He nodded slowly. Elener, my name and his deep, gentle voice sounded like music. Then you should know something too. I don’t think you’re unfit for marriage. I think the men who rejected you were fools.
A man who can’t see beyond the wheelchair, the person inside it, doesn’t deserve you. That was the kindest thing anyone’s said to me in four years. “Will you do it?” I asked. “Will you accept my father’s plan?” “Yes, without hesitation. I will protect you. I will take care of you, I will try to be worthy of you, and I will try to make this situation bearable for both of us.”
We sealed the deal with a handshake, his enormous hand engulfing mine, warm and surprisingly gentle. My father’s radical solution suddenly seemed less impossible. But what happened next? What did I discover about Josiah in the months that followed? That’s when this story becomes something no one could have predicted. (Clears throat.)
The agreement formally took effect on April 1, 1156. My father performed a small ceremony—not a legal wedding since slaves could not marry, and certainly not one that white society would have recognized—but he gathered the household staff, read Bible verses, and announced that Josiah was henceforth responsible for my care.
Speak with my authority regarding Elena’s welfare. My father told everyone present, “Treat him with the respect his position deserves.” A room was prepared for Josiah, adjacent to mine, connected by a door but separate, maintaining a semblance of decorum. He moved his few personal effects from the slave quarters—some clothes, some secretly hoarded books, the tools from the forge; the first few weeks were awkward, strangers trying to navigate an impossible situation.
I was used to having maids. He was used to heavy labor. Now he took care of intimate tasks, helped me get dressed, carried me when the wheelchair was unusable, assisted me with needs I never imagined I could express to a man. But Josiah approached everything with extraordinary sensitivity. When he had to carry me, he asked permission first.
When he helped me get dressed, he looked away whenever possible. When I needed help with personal matters, he respected my dignity even when the situation was inherently indecent. I know this makes you uncomfortable. One morning I said to him, “I know you didn’t choose this. Neither did you.” He was rearranging my bookshelf.
I’d mentioned wanting to have it alphabetized, and he’d taken it upon himself, but we’re managing. Really? He looked at me, his huge frame somehow nonthreatening as he knelt beside the shelf. Elanor, I’ve been a slave all my life. I’ve worked grueling labor in heat that would kill most men. I’ve been whipped for mistakes, sold and cast out from my family, treated like a voiced ox.