Whip Hadley's Alliance

Whip Hadley’s Alliance

Suzanne Marsh

Whip Hadley completed his MBA, living in a small garret. His writing career faltering, he had rejection letters and pink slips strewn all over the garret. He had to do something; he had student loans to repay. He found a job washing dishes in a deli near the garage. He worked the first shift, came home, and wrote. He required inspiration to write; there was nothing here in New York City to provide a decent setting for a novel he wanted to write. He sat at his worn desk, staring at the paper in his antique Royal Manual typewriter, which he had had for his entire career. Scratch observed Whip, knowing he could make suggestions and Whip would follow them; no wonder his novel was so poorly written. Scratch’s idea was to have Whip move to Saint Francisville, Louisiana; the novel he was going to help Whip write was about a nubile slave and her master, whom she feared. Whip made arrangements to move the following morning. He rented a U-Haul truck, loaded the truck with his few possessions, and he was on his journey to Louisiana. Scratch was delighted; this was going to be easy.

The drive took him down I-95 to I-10; he drove all night, arriving at the address for a small apartment in Saint Francisville; the cost was cheaper than the garret room. It was as if he was granted a wish to write an inspiring novel about slavery and the human toll. He unloaded the U-Haul, returned it to the rental place. It was a short six-block walk in a beautiful, picturesque town. Whip felt better already. New York was crowded and dirty. Here in Saint Francisville, it was warm, and the buildings were a historian’s dream. Scratch smiled to himself as he sat quietly in Whip’s pocket. Scratch knew that it would take time for Whip to discover the town, then Myrtle’s Plantation. Whip’s imagination was good, Chloe, the nubile slave girl story was too good not to allow Whip to see the entire story. Scratch would plant the seeds tonight for the novel and for Chloe. There were rumors that Myrtle’s was haunted; Scratch, being very mischievous himself, haunted Whip’s dreams. Olivia walked into the bar, and she scanned it to see who was there. Maybe someone interesting, someone who would treat her as a lady, should be treated.

Olivia Turner thought about conjuring up her friend Scratch; she needed a favor, and her voodoo shop was doing poorly. Scratch owed her several favors; it was time to collect on one. She began to chant:

“Scratch, Mister Scratch, I need you to come to me.” Scratch hated being summoned, especially when he was working on something of his choosing. He was beginning to enjoy himself using Whip as his new standard. He moved quickly out of Whip’s pocket, traveling to the voodoo shop. The moment he was in the door, he understood what the favor was; he would have to be quick about it; he could not leave Whip on his own for long. Olivia knew Scratch had arrived; there was a cold gust of wind entering under the wooden door. Scratch had been here many times over the years, he had kept Olivia youthful. She was eighty-nine now, and she had the body of a twenty-five-year-old. Scratch solved two problems: one, helping Whip write the novel; two, Olivia needed someone to look after her, and Whip was a good choice.

Later that evening, Whip walked down to a Cajun bar; he needed sleep and liquor. He was seated next to a window when in walked a beautiful woman. She sauntered over to his table:

“Hello, sir, would you be kind enough to offer a lady a drink?”

Whip was more than happy to oblige her; he stood up, pulled out a chair. He knew he would take her home for the night, maybe even longer. He required an assistant and lover. She went home with him. She was pleased Scratch had understood what she needed. Scratch was pleased with himself as well.

The early morning dawned, Whip smelled the coffee brewing, and held his head in his hands. He was hungover, and coffee would help. He padded into the small kitchen where Olivia had made the coffee; he asked her if she would like to accompany him to Myrtle’s, as he had research to do for his novel. Olivia had never been to Myrtle’s; however, she knew the story of Chloe. Whip, showered, and shaved; dressed well. They went down the two flights of stairs, and there she stared at the first-generation VW Beetle. Driving down the road, Whip began to plot the storyline.

They arrive at Myrtle’s plantation just in time to go on the second tour of the day. A young woman dressed in period costume began the tour in the living room, where a pianoforte was located. She stood by the piano forte as she began the story of Chloe, a nubile young black woman who was forced to have sex with her master, Judge Woodruff. Chloe’s one fear was that the Judge was losing interest in her. She began listening at the door to conversations she was not privy to. One afternoon, the Judge caught her, and he was so angry that he sliced off her ear. Chloe was shamed and began to wear a green turban to hide the missing ear. For this infraction, she could be sent to the cotton fields to labor. She concocted a plan; her reasoning was that if she could prove her worth to the family by healing them, she would retain her position in the house.

Cornelia Woodruff was going to celebrate her birthday in a few days. The Judge would be gone, but Sara and the children would be home. Chloe picked poisonous oleander, dried it, and crumpled it into a fine powder. She mixed that in with into the cake. Sara and the children died several days later; the field slaves knew the Judge would be furious. Later that night, the children died. The field slaves hanged Chloe, weighted her body with stones, and tossed her in the Mississippi River.

Whip had his story, and he drove home with Olivia snuggling next to him. Later that evening, after Olivia had gone to bed, Whip began to write. He typed in Chloe’s Misfortune, a good title, he thought. Scratch was delighted; he decided he would have Chloe herself appear to Whip. Then he had Judge Clark Woodruff, Sara, his wife, and their three children, Cornelia, James, and Mary, appear on the pages as Whip typed. His fingers were flying over the typewriter keys. Seeing them in his mind’s eye made it easier to write about them. Scratch laughed with amusement as he watched Whip’s eyes widen as Chloe spoke about her life as a slave at Myrtle’s. She showed him where her ear had been; then the crushed oleander. The rope that hung her and her body floated down onto the muddy bottom of the Mississippi.

Whip finished the novel five years later, and in that time, he married Olivia. Scratch visited them on occasion, and he did a good thing while attempting to help them both. He knew who he was and what evil he could do, but he had brought two people together and absolved Chloe of the crime she committed. Chloe had never wanted to harm anyone; that was true. ‘Life sure is funny,’ Whip thought as he read the letter from his publisher.