Kindred

by Octavia E. Butler

  “Come back and be enslaved again?”

  “Yeah. But still … This is dangerous talk! No point to it anyway.”

  “Sarah, I’ve seen books written by slaves who’ve run away and lived in the North.”

  “Books!” She tried to sound contemptuous but sounded uncertain instead. She couldn’t read. Books could be awesome mysteries to her, or they could be dangerous time-wasting nonsense. It depended on her mood. Now her mood seemed to flicker between curiosity and fear. Fear won. “Foolishness!” she said. “Niggers writing books!”

  “But it’s true. I’ve seen …”

  “Don’t want to hear no more ’bout it!” She had raised her voice sharply. That was unusual, and it seemed to surprise her as much as it surprised me. “Don’t want to hear no more,” she repeated softly. “Things ain’t bad here. I can get along.”

  She had done the safe thing—had accepted a life of slavery because she was afraid. She was the kind of woman who might have been called “mammy” in some other household. She was the kind of woman who would be held in contempt during the militant nineteen sixties. The house-nigger, the handkerchief-head, the female Uncle Tom—the frightened powerless woman who had already lost all she could stand to lose, and who knew as little about the freedom of the North as she knew about the hereafter.

  I looked down on her myself for a while. Moral superiority. Here was someone even less courageous than I was. That comforted me somehow. Or it did until Rufus and Nigel drove into town and came back with what was left of Alice.

  It was late when they got home—almost dark. Rufus ran into the house shouting for me before I realized he was back. “Dana! Dana, get down here!”

  I came out of his room—my new refuge when he wasn’t in it—and hurried down the stairs.

  “Come on, come on!” he urged.

  I said nothing, followed him out the front door not knowing what to expect. He led me to the wagon where Alice lay bloody, filthy, and barely alive.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered.

  “Help her!” demanded Rufus.

  I looked at him, remembering why Alice needed help. I didn’t say anything, and I don’t know what expression I was wearing, but he took a step back from me.

  “Just help her!” he said. “Blame me if you want to, but help her!”

  I turned to her, straightened her body gently, feeling for broken bones. Miraculously, there didn’t seem to be any. Alice moaned and cried out weakly. Her eyes were open, but she didn’t seem to see me.

  “Where will you put her?” I asked Rufus. “In the attic?”

  He lifted her gently, carefully, and carried her up to his bedroom.

  Nigel and I followed him up, saw him place the girl on his bed. Then he looked up at me questioningly.

  “Tell Sarah to boil some water,” I told Nigel. “And tell her to send some clean cloth for bandages. Clean cloth.” How clean would it be? Not sterile, of course, but I had just spent the day cooking clothes in lye soap and water. That surely got them clean.

  “Rufe, get me something to cut these rags off her.”

  Rufus hurried out, came back with a pair of his mother’s scissors.

  Most of Alice’s wounds were new, and the cloth came away from them easily. Those that had dried and stuck to the cloth, I left alone. Warm water would soften them.

  “Rufe, have you got any kind of antiseptic?”

  “Anti-what?”

  I looked at him. “You’ve never heard of it?”

  “No. What is it?”

  “Never mind. I could use a salt solution, I guess.”

  “Brine? You want to use that on her back?”

  “I want to use it wherever she’s hurt.”

  “Don’t you have anything in your bag better than that?”

  “Just soap, which I intend to use. Find it for me, will you? Then … hell, I shouldn’t be doing this. Why didn’t you take her to the doctor?”

  He shook his head. “The judge wanted her sold South—for spite, I guess. I had to pay near twice what she’s worth to get her. That’s all the money I had, and Daddy won’t pay for a doctor to fix niggers. Doc knows that.”

  “You mean your father just lets people die when maybe they could be helped?”

  “Die or get well. Aunt Mary—you know, the one who watches the kids?”

  “Yes.” Aunt Mary didn’t watch the kids. Old and crippled, she sat in the shade with a switch and threatened them with gory murder if they happened to misbehave right in front of her. Otherwise, she ignored them and spent her time sewing and mumbling to herself, contentedly senile. The children cared for each other.

  “Aunt Mary does some doctoring,” said Rufus. “She knows herbs. But I thought you’d know more.”

  I turned to look at him in disbelief. Sometimes the poor woman barely knew her name. Finally I shrugged. “Get me some brine.”

  “But … that’s what Daddy uses on field hands,” he said. “It hurts them worse than the beating sometimes.”

  “It won’t hurt her as badly as an infection would later.”

  He frowned, came to stand protectively close to the girl. “Who fixed up your back?”

  “I did. No one else was around.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I washed it with plenty of soap and water, and I put medicine on it. Here, brine will have to be my medicine. It should be just as good.” Please, heaven, let it be as good. I only half knew what I was doing. Maybe old Mary and her herbs weren’t such a bad idea after all—if I could be sure of catching her in one of her saner moments. But no. Ignorant as I knew I was, I trusted myself more than I trusted her. Even if I couldn’t do any more good than she could, I was at least less likely to do harm.

  “Let me see your back,” said Rufus.

  I hesitated, swallowed a few indignant words. He spoke out of love for the girl—a destructive love, but a love, nevertheless. He needed to know that it was necessary to hurt her more and that I had some idea what I was doing. I turned my back to him and raised my shirt a little. My cuts were healed or nearly healed.

  He didn’t speak or touch me. After a moment, I put my shirt down.

  “You didn’t get the big thick scars some of the hands get,” he observed.

  “Keloids. No, thank God, I’m not subject to them. What I’ve got is bad enough.”

  “Not as bad as she’ll have.”

  “Get the salt, Rufe.”

  He nodded and went away.

  8

  I did my best for Alice, hurt her as little as possible, got her clean and bandaged the worst of her injuries—the dog bites.

  “Looks like they just let the dogs chew on her,” said Rufus angrily. He had to hold her for me while I cleaned the bites, gave them special attention. She struggled and wept and called for Isaac, until I was almost sick at having to cause her more pain. I swallowed and clenched my teeth against threatening nausea. When I spoke to Rufus, it was more to calm myself than to get information.

  “What did they do with Isaac, Rufe? Give him back to the judge?”

  “Sold him to a trader—fellow taking slaves overland to Mississippi.”

  “Oh God.”

  “He’d be dead if I’d spoken up.”

  I shook my head, located another bite. I wanted Kevin. I wanted desperately to go home and be out of this. “Did you mail my letter, Rufe?”

  “Yeah.”

  Good. Now if only Kevin would come quickly.

  I finished with Alice and gave her, not aspirins, but sleeping pills. She needed rest after days of running, after the dogs and the whipping. After Isaac.

  Rufus left her in his bed. He simply climbed in beside her.

  “Rufe, for Godsake!”

  He looked at me, then at her. “Don’t talk foolishness. I’m not going to put her on the floor.”

  “But …”

  “And I’m sure not going to bother her while she’s hurt like this.”

  “Good,” I said relieved, believing him. “Don
’t even touch her if you can help it.”

  “All right.”

  I cleaned up the mess I had made and left them. Finally, I made my way to my pallet in the attic, and lay down wearily.

  But tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep. I thought of Alice, and then of Rufus, and I realized that Rufus had done exactly what I had said he would do: Gotten possession of the woman without having to bother with her husband. Now, somehow, Alice would have to accept not only the loss of her husband, but her own enslavement. Rufus had caused her trouble, and now he had been rewarded for it. It made no sense. No matter how kindly he treated her now that he had destroyed her, it made no sense.

  I lay turning, twisting, holding my eyes closed and trying first to think, then not to think. I was tempted to squander two more of my sleeping pills to buy myself relief.

  Then Sarah came in. I could see her vaguely outlined in the moonlight that came through the window. I whispered her name, trying not to awaken anyone.

  She stepped over the two children who slept nearest to me and made her way over to my corner. “How’s Alice?” she asked softly.

  “I don’t know. She’ll probably be all right. Her body will anyway.”

  Sarah sat down on the end of my pallet. “I’d have come in to see her,” she said, “but then I’d have to see Marse Rufe too. Don’t want to see him for a while.”

  “Yeah.”

  “They cut off the boy’s ears.”

  I jumped. “Isaac?”

  “Yeah. Cut them both off. He fought. Strong boy, even if he didn’t show much sense. The judge’s son hit him, and he struck back. And he said some things he shouldn’t have said.”

  “Rufus said they sold him to a Mississippi trader.”

  “Did. After they got through with him. Nigel told me ’bout it—how they cut him, beat him. He’ll have to do some healing ’fore he can go to Mississippi or anywhere else.”

  “Oh God. All because our little jackass here drank too much and decided to rape somebody!”

  She hushed me with a sharp hiss. “You got to learn to watch what you say! Don’t you know there’s folks in this house who love to carry tales?”

  I sighed. “Yes.”

  “You ain’t no field nigger, but you still a nigger. Marse Rufe can get mad and make things mighty hard for you.”

  “I know. All right.” Luke’s being sold must have frightened her badly. He used to be the one who hushed her.

  “Marse Rufe keeping Alice in his room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lord, I hope he’ll let her ’lone. Tonight, anyway.”

  “I think he will. Hell, I think he’ll be gentle and patient with her now that he’s got her.”

  “Huh!” A sound of disgust. “What’ll you do now?”

  “Me? Try to keep the girl clean and comfortable until she gets well.”

  “I don’t mean that.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “She’ll be in. You’ll be out.”

  I stared at her, tried to see her expression. I couldn’t, but I decided she was serious. “It’s not like that, Sarah. She’s the only one he seems to want. And me, I’m content with my husband.”

  There was a long silence. “Your husband … was that Mister Kevin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nigel said you and him was married. I didn’t believe it.”

  “We kept quiet about it because it’s not legal here.”

  “Legal!” Another sound of disgust. “I guess what Marse Rufe done to that girl is legal.”

  I shrugged.

  “Your husband … he’d get in trouble every now and then ’cause he couldn’t tell the difference ’tween black and white. Guess now I know why.”

  I grinned. “I’m not why. He was like that when I married him—or I wouldn’t have married him. Rufus just sent him a letter telling him to come back and get me.”

  She hesitated. “You sure Marse Rufe sent it?”

  “He said he did.”

  “Ask Nigel.” She lowered her voice. “Sometimes Marse Rufe says what will make you feel good—not what’s true.”

  “But … he’d have no reason to lie about it.”

  “Didn’t say he was lyin.’ Just said ask Nigel.”

  “All right.”

  She was silent for a moment, then, “You think he’ll come back for you, Dana, your … husband?”

  “I know he will.” He would. Surely he would.

  “He ever beat you?”

  “No! Of course not!”

  “My man used to. He’d tell me I was the only one he cared about. Then, next thing I knew, he’d say I was looking at some other man, and he’d go to hittin’.”

  “Carrie’s father?”

  “No … my oldest boy’s father. Miss Hannah, her father. He always said he’d free me in his will, but he didn’t. It was just another lie.” She stood up, joints creaking. “Got to get some rest.” She started away. “Don’t you forget now, Dana. Ask Nigel.”

  “Yes.”

  9

  I asked Nigel the next day, but he didn’t know. Rufus had sent him on an errand. When Nigel saw Rufus again, it was at the jail where Rufus had just bought Alice.

  “She was standing up then,” he said remembering. “I don’t know how. When Marse Rufe was ready to go, he took her by the arm, and she fell over and everybody around laughed. He had paid way too much for her and anybody could see she was more dead than alive. Folks figured he didn’t have much sense.”

  “Nigel, do you know how long it would take a letter to reach Boston?” I asked.

  He looked up from the silver he was polishing. “How would I know that?” He began rubbing again. “Like to find out though—follow it and see.” He spoke very softly.

  He said things like that now and then when Weylin gave him a hard time, or when the overseer, Edwards, tried to order him around. This time, I thought it was Edwards. The man had stomped out of the cookhouse as I was going in. He would have knocked me down if I hadn’t jumped out of his way. Nigel was a house servant and Edwards wasn’t supposed to bother him, but he did.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Old bastard swears he’ll have me out in the field. Says I think too much of myself.”

  I thought of Luke and shuddered. “Maybe you’d better take off some time soon.”

  “Carrie.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tried to run once. Followed the Star. If not for Marse Rufe, I would have been sold South when they caught me.” He shook his head. “I’d probably be dead by now.”

  I went away from him not wanting to hear any more about running away—and being caught. It was pouring rain outside, but before I reached the house I saw that the hands were still in the fields, still hoeing corn.

  I found Rufus in the library going over some papers with his father. I swept the hall until his father left the room. Then I went in to see Rufus.

  Before I could open my mouth, he said, “Have you been up to check on Alice?”

  “I’ll go in a moment. Rufe, how long does it take for a letter to go from here to Boston?”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Someday, you’re going to call me Rufe down here and Daddy is going to be standing right behind you.”

  I looked back in sudden apprehension and Rufus laughed. “Not today,” he said. “But someday, if you don’t remember.”

  “Hell,” I muttered. “How long?”

  He laughed again. “I don’t know, Dana. A few days, a week, two weeks, three …” He shrugged.

  “His letters were dated,” I said. “Can you remember when you received the one from Boston?”

  He thought about it, finally shook his head. “No, Dana, I just didn’t pay any attention. You better go look in on Alice.”

  I went, annoyed, but silent. I thought he could have given me a decent estimate if he had wanted to. But it didn’t really matter. Kevin would receive the letter and he could come to get me. I couldn’t really doubt that Rufus had sent i
t. He didn’t want to lose my good will anymore than I wanted to lose his. And this was such a small thing.

  Alice became a part of my work—an important part. Rufus had Nigel and a young field hand move another bed into Rufus’s room—a small low bed that could be pushed under Rufus’s bed. We had to move Alice from Rufus’s bed for his comfort as well as hers, because for a while, Alice was a very young child again, incontinent, barely aware of us unless we hurt her or fed her. And she did have to be fed—spoonful by spoonful.

  Weylin came in to look at her once, while I was feeding her.

  “Damn!” he said to Rufus. “Kindest thing you could do for her would be to shoot her.”

  I think the look Rufus gave him scared him a little. He went away without saying anything else.

  I changed Alice’s bandages, always checking for signs of infection, always hoping not to find any. I wondered what the incubation period was for tetanus or—or for rabies. Then I tried to make myself stop wondering. The girl’s body seemed to be healing slowly, but cleanly. I felt superstitious about even thinking about diseases that would surely kill her. Besides, I had enough real worries just keeping her clean and helping her grow up all over again. She called me Mama for a while.

  “Mama, it hurts.”

  She knew Rufus, though. Mister Rufus. Her friend. He said she crawled into his bed at night.

  In one way, that was all right. She was using the pot again. But in another …

  “Don’t look at me like that,” said Rufus when he told me. “I wouldn’t bother her. It would be like hurting a baby.”

  Later it would be like hurting a woman. I suspected that wouldn’t bother him at all.

  As Alice progressed, she became a little more reserved with him. He was still her friend, but she slept in her trundle bed all night. And I ceased to be “Mama.”

  One morning when I brought her breakfast, she looked at me and said, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Dana,” I said. “Remember?” I always answered her questions.

  “No.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Kind of stiff and sore.” She put a hand down to her thigh where a dog had literally torn away a mouthful. “My leg hurts.”