Wash

by Margaret Wrinkle

  WASH

  WASH

  A NOVEL

  MARGARET WRINKLE

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  New York

  Copyright © 2013 by Margaret Wrinkle

  Photographs copyright © 2013 by Margaret Wrinkle

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or permissions@groveatlantic.com.

  FIRST EDITION

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Epigraph from THE FAMISHED ROAD by Ben Okri, copyright © 1991 by Ben Okri, A Nan A. Talese book. Used by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited. Interested parties must aply directly to Random House, Inc. for permission.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9378-0

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

  841 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com

  13 14 15 16 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For all those in Deads’ Town

  and for us, the Living.

  In that land of beginnings spirits mingled with the unborn. We could assume numerous forms. Many of us were birds. We knew no boundaries. There was much feasting, playing, and sorrowing. We feasted much because of the beautiful terrors of eternity. We played much because we were free. And we sorrowed much because there were always those amongst us who had just returned from the world of the Living. They had returned inconsolable for all the love they had left behind, all the suffering they hadn’t redeemed, all that they hadn’t understood, and for all that they had barely begun to learn before they were drawn back to the land of origins.

  There was not one amongst us who looked forward to being born. We disliked the rigours of existence, the unfulfilled longings, the enshrined injustices of the world, the labyrinths of love, the ignorance of parents, the fact of dying, and the amazing indifference of the Living in the midst of the simple beauties of the universe. We feared the heartlessness of human beings, all of whom are born blind, few of whom ever learn to see.

  from The Famished Road by Ben Okri

  Prologue

  Pallas

  It was one of his early trips to Miller’s when I first laid eyes on Wash. Pretty soon, I learned to be gone when they brought him. Made sure to be out gathering or else seeing about folks. But that first Friday afternoon when Richardson sent Wash over here to do his business, I was home and I saw it all.

  Watched him ride in on that wagon while I started my fire. Stood there stewing some goldenseal and saw Wash dip one shoulder to duck inside that small side door of Miller’s barn, with Richardson’s man Quinn following right behind him step for step.

  Richardson’s horses, one rust and one a faded gray, stayed tied to that shaded post all day. His wagon stood close by the barn while they loaded it down till it sagged. One hogshead of tobacco, high as my waist. Bolts of the same cloth they’d be wearing next year. Three casks of apple brandy. All in barter.

  I knew everything from the beginning. Can’t say I didn’t. But it’s like Phoebe told me, everything’s fine so long as you find a way to manage it. It’s when you can’t see what you’re dealing with that you head into trouble.

  Somehow it fell to me to carry Wash his supper. Everybody else stayed crossways with him but I was curious. Took him some field peas and greens with two slices of smoked ham. Miller made sure about the meat. When I got to the stall they kept him in, Quinn sat by the door on a crate. He tipped his square chin up at me as he reached out for one of the two bowls I carried. He pulled the latch back on the bottom door till it swung open and nodded for me to go in.

  I bent to step under the top door he’d left bolted shut. With the late light, I couldn’t see Wash too good but I felt him there. Heavy, like something fell off a shelf, and sitting real still. Then he came clear. Sitting on the floor in the deep straw, leaning his back against the far wall, resting his elbows on drawn up knees. He wasn’t doing nothing but watching his fingers twirling a piece of straw.

  Even from where I stood, I could see the scar snaking through the edge of his hairline. Deep enough to hold water. Right at his temple. Everybody told a different story on what happened but it should have killed him sure enough. Made me wonder who it was had managed to keep him here on this earth and what he could see out of the one good eye he had left.

  At first, he seemed to me like all the rest of these men, worn out from a long day, except he wasn’t sitting around with the rest of everybody. Tired feels less worn out when you got a few folks to sit with. Have a sip. Try and shake the day off.

  It didn’t hit me till I stood there holding his supper in my hand, watching him twirl his piece of straw. Wash was further from having folks than just about anybody I ever came across. Nobody to sit with at the end of this long day or any other day either.

  I always thought I was the only one who stayed steady looking back at the world from the far end of a long rope. But watching him sit there on the floor of that stall, finally looking up at me with that one good eye and his other eye roaming the dusty wall over my shoulder, I caught myself wanting to trace that R brand fading into his cheek with my finger. I could tell he’d looked down a long rope himself and likely still did most days.

  He must have took hold of my thoughts, because without ever moving, he bristled like a cat. Slammed his eyes shut right in my face, even as he stayed steady watching me. Made me feel like I’d stepped inside his yard without asking. What set me back even more was the way he looked at me after he got all bowed up. Sat way back inside himself and ran his eyes over me, just as cold as you want to be. Like he was adding up some parts.

  I been looked at like that plenty and didn’t need any more of it, so I edged over to set his bowl down beside him. Then I stepped away, careful not to turn my back on him. It wasn’t till he reached to take the bowl and was well into eating when he stopped and looked at me again.

  I don’t know why I was still standing there. I turned right around and left. Ducked under that top door and bolted the bottom one behind me. Both that day and the next till Wash was good and gone.

  That’s how things went between us at first, but it’s a whole different story now.

  Richardson

  When Quinn came to me with this idea for Wash, I turned away from it. I remember thinking, surely not. But he kept after me, saying supply was drying up and we could make a killing.

  We sure as hell needed to make something. My place had fallen apart after I rode off to soldier in 1812, determined to whip England once and for all. Forever trying to make my contribution in what turned out to be a damn useless war.

  It took me three years to get home and three more to drag my place back into some kind of working order
. But I had set too many deals in motion at once and when the bottom fell from the market, there I sat. Dogpaddling. Trying to paper us out of the hole.

  I remember even the day. It was hot as hell and dry. We had been without rain for nearly sixty days and my palms stuck to the pages of my letterbooks, leaving sweaty smears alongside my columns of numbers. Quinn came into my office with his jaw set.

  No matter how short and bandy legged, Quinn was often right. That’s why I’d taken him on as a partner despite his lack of capital. His father was my father’s overseer but Quinn came West aiming higher. Soon as he closed the door behind him, he started in on me, relentless as a terrier. Talking incessantly about the waves of settlers moving through west Tennessee into the new territories of Arkansas and Louisiana. What they could mean for our markets.

  “They’re all headed for the South West, trying to get in the cotton game. All that new land going to cotton, you’d have to be blind not to see what will happen to our prices. They’ll drop till there’s no way for us to make any money. As for negroes, they’ll go sky high. You know they will.”

  As I ran my eyes over my columns which so steadfastly refused to add up, I had to admit he had a point. What I couldn’t get over was how easy it laid itself out before me. Stared straight at me, tugging on my sleeve. Even as I resisted Quinn’s logic, I was counting the numbers in my head. How could I not, with the debts I carried?

  “It’s right there for the taking,” Quinn told me again and again until I turned my mind to face it.

  Send Wash over to my old friend Miller’s on a Friday, put him with three or four per day. Even if only some take, that will mean ten new negroes, worth two hundred apiece once weaned. And with his midwife Pallas on hand to catch every single one, Miller can get the whole two hundred for each before he has to spend anything at all.

  “Two thousand to him has got to mean at least two hundred for us. Even in barter, it’s worth it. You know it is.”

  Two hundred to me for sending Wash over to Miller’s on a Friday. Over to Miller’s and then over to the next place and the next.

  I do question what I would have done if I hadn’t already been wondering how to handle Wash. With the way he kept cutting the buck and tomcatting around, I knew I had to do something or my whole house was liable to come down on me. You can’t let just one get away with it. That’s like having a crack in your cup. Before you know it, all your water runs out.

  I saw it so clearly. My wagon taking him there and back, the money in my hand. And Wash thrashing and cussing but somehow fitting the shoe right to his foot, almost in spite of himself. Making it fit.

  We all did it. It’s just that some of us did it more and better. Smoother somehow. Quinn called it the Red Sea. Said the way parts for me. Says I was born to it. Not only the silver spoon but the cup and the bowl too.

  I don’t know about that. All I knew was I needed money and I had to do something about Wash. I remember thinking this work might even appeal to him.

  Wash

  Richardson had me at the top of his page. I knew it clear as day before I ever saw his damn book.

  That man wrote everything down. Somebody brought a mare to put with his stud, he’d fetch his paper down to the barn. Unroll it all crackling, then tack it up on the wall where they could go over it together. Start with the name of that Eclipse racehorse written at the top, then branching down and down till his finger found his stud, with all those lines left empty for time to come. Not that I can read, but I can sure watch a man pointing to a word and saying it.

  I knew where he was headed before the thought ever crossed his mind. It was me leading that gray stud into the sun. Walking him out for his neighbor Carpenter to see. Horse was past twenty but still acting bold so I looped the chain over his nose. Rested my palm on his withers to keep him calm.

  I felt their eyes on me too but that was nothing new. Some folks stare at you like to eat you up. Hunting some knowing behind your eyes just as hard as they don’t want to find it.

  It was him seeing me with that horse. I know it sure as I’m standing here. It was Richardson watching me work his stud for Carpenter come to breed his mare that hooked the two ideas in his mind. After that, it was just a matter of time.

  See, I know how they do. White folks like to stay in those books. They carry and they keep and they dig in their books, like nothing matters that don’t get written in some book somewhere. Like that’s the only way they can know for sure what happened.

  They’ll write down who they are and what they did. And their daddies and theirs too. Put it all in a book, then close it up and put it on the shelf. Just to know it’s there so they can sleep at night. Like if they don’t get written down somewhere and they shut their eyes for a minute, they might disappear.

  But there ain’t no writing this down. No book to put this in. Some of us shut our eyes at night and wake up in the morning, not written down nowhere. And still don’t disappear.

  Nobody who was not here will know what went on. Life looks different from the inside than the outside, but they think all they got to go on is what gets written down.

  This story will come out. That’s what I tell myself. Won’t be till after we’re dead and gone, but we won’t really be gone cause it don’t work like that. All these books and all these white folks, thinking the world is forever passing away. All trying to make their mark, trying to be a big man.

  But ain’t none of us going nowhere. We stay right here. All of us, all the time. Black and white and everything in between. All together, all the time.

  Time treats me different even now. I can’t stand outside my story to save my life. I keep trying to tell it without falling right in, but soon as I start to look back, I’m neck deep before I know it. Current catches me and I’m gone. Each one of those Friday afternoons when he sent me off in that damn wagon sits right here, breathing close on the back of my neck.

  Part One

  Sunday, August 17, 1823

  Two days’ ride northeast of Nashville

  It’s well past suppertime and still the heat shimmers heavy without a breeze, even high on this bluff where Richardson’s broad stone house sits facing east over the river bending below. After this long dry summer, his wagon creaks cresting his last hill as late light spikes through the clouds. Quinn brings Wash back from another weekend away.

  Richardson strides out to meet them, moving easily through the empty quiet of this Sunday evening. One foot in front of the next. Battered handmade boots caked with dirt. Fawn britches worn to bagginess over bony knees. At seventy, his leanness has become extreme but he still appears fit and graceful as long as he moves in the service of a clear intention. Sharp brown eyes under hooded lids and a pronounced widow’s peak. He had been handsome once but disappointment and disillusion, along with two harsh stints as a prisoner of war, have long since knocked the gloss off.

  Sweat has darkened the collars of all three men and horseflies torment the sticky haunches of the team. They stomp the ground where Quinn has pulled them up to wait. Wash refuses to meet Richardson’s eye as he slowly unfolds to his full height, standing in the wagon bed, swaying slightly to keep his balance amidst the jerking of the horses, looking older at twenty six than most men at forty.

  Richardson has owned Wash since before he swam snug in Mena’s belly but the young man has never once met his gaze. Even in full sun, Wash keeps his face hard to read. Holds his head a little tilted so eyes snag on the deep scar denting his temple instead. After stepping down from the wagon, Wash crosses the parched grass toward the biggest barn. Richardson, hawkish from years of vigilance, turns to watch him go then drags his attention back to Quinn who sits high on the wagon seat, holding the reins bunched in one hand and digging in his chest pocket with the other.

  A lock of steel gray hair hangs over Quinn’s low forehead as he hands Richardson the thin banknote folded around a small square of thick paper listing the names. Both documents are battered and grimy from the long ride in that s
weaty pocket. Richardson takes the papers and heads for the house, leaning slightly forward as if this will help him cover the necessary ground more quickly. He can already feel the liquor loosening the perennial tightness in his chest as he scans down the list written in Quinn’s rough letters.

  Minerva, Phyllis, CeCe, Molly, Dice, Charity, Vesta.

  A big operation to have so many at childbearing age. At least he hopes they are. He has long since left the details to Quinn and it worries him some. But not enough to go himself to make sure. Not anymore. He reminds himself to have Quinn get the ages of these women who, along with Wash, have been hauling them slowly out of debt for more than five years now.

  It’s not only the money, although that lies forever at the heart of the matter. Richardson’s interest runs deeper. He wants to know what happens and how. Which woman holds onto her child and which does not, and not just because he will need to write a refund. He wants to know, how does a child of Wash and Molly’s turn out? Or one of Wash and CeCe’s?

  Richardson wonders whether any of them will carry Mena’s face. He can still see her standing on that block down in Charleston all those years ago, so clear and somehow unbroken, with Wash already on his way. That very first time he saw her, Mena had rested her eyes on him until he felt as pulled as a fish on a hook. Her unbidden image blooms so vividly up through the years that Richardson has to shake his head to knock it loose.

  As he enters his house, he calls down the hall, “Emmaline, I am unavailable.” Her yessir gets lost in the thunk of his boots on the stairs. Nine long strides carry him across the echoing ballroom to the small room off the far end where men gather after dinner to smoke and drink and talk politics. His office is downstairs by the back door but this tucked away place where his books line the walls has become his refuge.

  He shuts the door behind him, steps straight to the low liquor cabinet to pour himself a slug of bourbon and then stands by the window, holding his drink cupped in his palm, watching the gray wood of his big barn start to silver in the coming twilight. As he listens to the thump and rustle of his large family settling in, he knows the high window under the eaves on the far side of the hayloft is falling dark as a fist, and he knows Wash is likely sitting there in it, watching the night draw near, just like he is.