I couldn’t even move a hair in this little space, branches on top of me like they were. I caught myself breathing too quick and tried to slow it down. Everything was moving too fast for me. I wasn’t used to all this rushing ’round, trying to make other men’s wishes come true.
I had my own wishes that needed coming true. But I didn’t see anyone lining up waiting to help me out. Lord, the only one that had helped me out was Mister Sinclair himself. And that thought turned over and over on itself in my mixed-up brain, like a fatty piece of bacon in a sizzling-hot pan.
Half an hour went by, and I still could see folks out walking ’round the streets like regular people, happy on a Sunday, and here I was, stuck in a bush.
I saw a woman carrying a pot of something down the lane, and she walked right on up to the preacher’s front door. I heard him talking to her kindly on the other side of the cabin, and I heard her answering him with a big, shiny voice. She went on and on—sounded like she wanted to do more than cook him his meals. Then I heard the door close again. Must be nice to have women bring you your meals all cooked up. Must be one of the perks of being a preacher man out here.
I watched her meander back down the lane again, her rump bumping slow from side to side. Soon I caught the scent of cooked pork through the windows, and it made my own belly start growling like a dog. But I didn’t have a thing to eat or drink. What I wouldn’t do for a bowl of boiled oats and butter right about now, I thought. Even some well water would do. It was hot as blazes, even under all those bushes.
I tried not to think about those things for a while. I tried not to think about anything at all. Sitting there by my lonesome was not helping matters, though. I began to think on good ol’ Robinson Crusoe, and his twenty-odd years of alone time.
Would anyone even miss me if I went away that long? Would Abby miss me if I got shipwrecked on some wee bitty island? We hadn’t known each other long, it was true. But I already felt as close to her as I’d ever felt to anyone, or anything. I wondered what she thought about me, if she ever did.
And yet, if she could see me sitting here in this bush, spying on a preacher man, she’d be shocked into hating me. After all we’d talked over, she’d gather up those skirts and books and papers and strut back into that cottage, never to be seen again. I don’t think I could bear it if she ever found out about this.
Another hour, and still no sign of the preacher. I figured he lived there by himself, no sign of offspring, and women visiting with food. His yard in back was clean, no junk littering his land, unlike ours. Just the outhouse and a little shed and a few stumps. Even had some blue hydrangea bushes planted next to the house.
Pap and I had a big shed, a stable for Junie, boats and boat parts scattered all over, and nets and poles and old tools and a big garden with all manner of vegetables and herbs and whatnot. Trees big and small grew willy-nilly over it all, and dropped their own mess of pinecones and leaves and needles and deadness in the mix.
I wondered what the differences in the yards meant, what they told or didn’t tell about the folks that owned them. Sometimes things that are too neat and orderly set my teeth on edge. A big mess is a sign of life, to me.
After a while the flies and gallnippers found me, like they knew I couldn’t move a muscle, somehow. They swarmed off the marshes and took to biting me all over, so I spent my time slapping at ’em and cursing as quiet as I could. I made it into a game, seeing if I could swat the buggers before they stung me. I won the game thirty-six times before I stopped counting.
I heard Elijah moving about in the house, pushing back a chair or scraping a plate, cleaning up his pork dinner. But he never saw fit to come outside. Part of me wished he wouldn’t ever show his face, and this awful thing would just be done with, but the other part of me wanted to go in there and rip off his undershirt, lay eyes on his back once and for all, and skedaddle out the front door. But Mister Sinclair wouldn’t take to that at all. Had to be done expert.
I fingered the glossy yaupon leaves in front of me. I’d never really sat and looked at one before. Bankers made tea from these leaves, and so did the Indians before us, but uppity folks from the mainland like other kinds of teas better. Pap and I still made it right regular, because it perked us up in the mornings. And too, it’s said to have medicine qualities. I could’ve used some right then, for certain.
But my stomach had long ago given up on me and had quit its churning. I was empty as a bell. The Croatan Sound lapped the shore so gentle, and the gulls were crying so soft. Soon the lack of shut-eye lay heavy on me, so I curled up best I could and fell asleep, but with one ear pricked to the house.
I felt to be sleeping on Tessa, by my cranked-up posture. But I didn’t feel the water under me, swaying me with a lullaby. Just the hard earth, a slab of unfeeling soil. I tried to see it with some emotion like love, as Abby did. A giver of food, a drinker of sun and water. And it helped me to relax some.
I imagined Abby’s arms around me, and her kissing my neck with those rosy lips, and I soon got hard, thinking on such an unlikely occurrence. So I went back to thinking of the land with a little more dislike, and the hardness went away.
Every once in a while I heard the comings and goings of creatures in the scrub brush, tiny feet scrabbling on sandy leaves. Felt their eyes take in my shape, wonder if I was friend or foe. I dreamed that I was one of them, gnawing flesh off bones with sharp little teeth and claw hands and scurrying through hedges, looking for trouble.
When my body saw fit to arise, dusk had arrived, silvery-blue. Soon it was night, stars and moon showing themselves through the bush leaves. With the change in light, I could see the reverend had lit a lamp. An orange glow now shone out the two back windows.
I wiggled back out the bushes and stood up, my joints cracking like Pap’s. It felt so good to stretch I almost cried out. I pissed a few yards away into the sand, then I tippy-toed up to the back window, my heart hammering hard. I looked over the ledge to see what I could see, hoping to God there was a naked man in there somewhere.
And then I had to rub my eyes to make sure I wasn’t seeing double. For there were books, books, and more books. Books of all shapes and sizes and colors were all over the room, stacked to the ceiling in some places. He likely couldn’t walk ’round the room without stepping on a book.
The man had gathered a library in his own little house, and who would have known? Wearing a full set of clothes, the preacher himself sat at a table reading by a conch-shell oil lamp.
Now, I knew enough to know that books alone surely don’t make a man. But this number of books, I had to wonder. A nauseated feeling washed over me, so that I almost bent double. Mister Sinclair had said Elijah liked his learning, and now, here was proof of that particularity. Learning was every which way you looked.
I stood outside the back window for a time, just watching him read. Every few minutes he’d stand up and look around in the piles for another book. Then he’d sit down again. He read late into the night, but I kept my knees locked and my eyes steady on his back, wishing I could see through the cloth of his white shirt.
Eventually he quit his reading and doused the lamp. I heard the rope bed creak as he sat down to take his boots off. Then, with a sigh, he laid back. In a minute he was snoring, the memories of what he’d just read likely swimming through his brain like flotsam.
I cursed to myself and stumbled back to the bushes quiet as I could on my tired legs. I crawled in again, ignoring the smart scratch one of the branches gave my forehead when it snapped back into place. I curled up on the sandy earth and put my hands over my eyes.
I laid like that for I don’t know how long. But I still couldn’t black out the unlikely picture of all those books from my sight. The ground under me seemed to spin a little, with my eyes closed like that. I started to feel sick all over. No food or drink, no place to stretch out. But was it all that, the missing of those simple comforts?
Not hardly. I couldn’t feature what I was doing there anymore,
spying on a black preacher with a habit of reading. I had sunk to the bottom, for sure. And just when I thought I was raising myself up a little.
The darkness pushed on me, the bushes around me with branches like claws. The sound water smashed the shore too close near me, and the gull cries and bullfrogs and crickets sounded harsh and full of hate.
I started to sob like a youngun that’s just gotten the switch. A strangled sob, trying for silence over the hard stab inside. Tears slopped down wet as an oar splash, all over my neck.
Why was it so hard to get ahead in this world, is what I wanted to know. I had hurt my pap bad, I knew. I thought of his sagging face as I cried, as if I’d killed him myself. I couldn’t stop thinking on the two of us, all different ages and sizes, together on Tessa. Fishing, talking, sleeping the years away.
Just being there on the boat, on the water, after Ma died had helped us both get over it. We didn’t even want to go back home. I remembered Ma, with her vegetable garden, her scavenging habit. If she wasn’t at home she was out on the beach, looking for washed-up treasures. Now she was just a brown-face blur in my mind, and up and down the shores she’d held my hand in hers, blue-veined and short-nailed. I could hardly remember her face, but I did recall that.
I’d gone and ruined those memories of simple times with my sky-high hopes, and they used to bring me a good measure of peace.
And now this shecoonery, some other men’s business, not mine. I couldn’t help thinking how I would feel if something bad happened to this man, this man I was spying on. This man I was hunting like a prize buck. If I knew Mister Sinclair, the man would be hanging from the nearest tree in a matter of days.
Did he deserve the punishment that would surely come his way? I reckoned it was punishment enough just being a hunted runaway in a white man’s world. Justice was a squirrelly concept these days. Just when you thought you’d trapped it good, it snuck out a hole you never knew was there.
But next to all that was the dislike I felt for my own self. I’d always felt friendly with myself. I always knew I was trying my best. I’d cut myself some slack if the going got hard. But tonight my actions disappointed me, and the reasons for my behavior were far-fetched indeed.
I couldn’t make myself walk away, though. I just could not leave that bush. I was weaker than I ever thought I was. My eyes saw not one thing, not even the branches in front of them. It was all dark.
The morning came around, after a long night of back spasms. My head swooned with lack of sustenance.
But the sky was yellow as a daisy, and already warm. The birds peeped in the trees like nothing unlikely was going on, just another day to sing their songs to. The sound clapped happy onto the sand just as it always did. It all made me feel even worse, if that was possible.
Just as I was getting ready to crawl out and do my business, I heard the back door bang and saw the preacher make his way toward the back of the yard. He had a red flannel and a towel with him, and a mess kit for shaving perched atop the bundle. Could it be? Looked like he was set to bathe!
I stopped my breathing quick and bade my body not to make a sound, for he was nearing right close to my hiding spot. But he passed on by through a little bare spot in the foliage, heading directly to the sound.
The shore was a few hundred yards from where I sat, so that early-rising neighbors or passers-by couldn’t see a man bathing. I myself couldn’t see him, so I had to crawl out from the bushes and maneuver myself across the land on my belly to get a better view. Anyone could see me, crouched in the open like I was. I was so scared, feeling like a baby turtle scurrying across the sand to the sea before it got gobbled up by the gulls.
But before I could even suck in my breath, the preacher pulled off the thin shirt he had on. And there was the scar. I saw it plain as day, like the preacher was putting on a show for me. I knew it was the capital letter B, and it was as long as my hand, formed into a raised silver scar on coal-black skin.
The mark looked old, like it had been there for years. But it had healed perfect, the lines of the branding iron fashioned just so. It must have hurt like the dickens, going on.
The preacher peeled off the rest of his clothes and put them in a pile in the sand, flashing buttocks and hamstrings slick as porpoise skin. This would have bothered me, on another kind of day, looking on a naked man.
But today I couldn’t notice anything except that B. I couldn’t take my eyes from it. Some slave owner had insisted on its appearance, just had to see his own initial marking what he thought to be his property. It made the letter B appear the devil’s letter, as good as a pitchfork or snake in conveying evil intent. B used to be a sweet letter, to me. Baby, butter, bluefish, even Benjamin. Such good, simple words.
I wondered what the preacher must think when he saw that letter mixed up in other words. Bible words. Words that are supposed to be good. I wondered if it gave him pause in his sermoning.
The naked preacher took a few steps into the shallow water, gripping his flannel. But the beauty of the morning grabbed his attention so that he stopped and stared around him. The sound stretched out in all directions, and every inch of it glittered in the new sun.
He stood there knee-deep in the swishing water a good long while. I wondered if maybe he was recalling the gunboats and dead soldiers that littered the water just a few years prior. Or maybe he was remembering the hundreds of boats full of runaways, making their way to the island in the darkness of night. Maybe he had been on one, with hope in his heart for better days ahead. Or maybe he was just appreciating the beauty of it all, and was thanking God for sparing him this long.
I saw him hold out his arms, as if dancing with an invisible partner. And then I heard his prayer, just a set of mumblings from where I crouched. I heard him call out “Amen.” And that’s when he broke my heart.
He set to washing himself with the flannel, a few strokes under his arms and a swipe at his groin, while I crawled back into the bushes for the last time. I heard him strop his razor, heard the water splash and drip. I reckoned there was nothing like bathing in the cool Croatan Sound in the early-morning light to set a happy mood for the duration of the day. I just hoped he’d stored a lifetime of such happy moods in his heart, to ready himself for what lay ahead of him.
After he shaved, he dressed again and began to walk back up the yard. He was about halfway up when he stopped in his tracks and looked straight to the bushes where I sat. He must have heard me, but I can’t say how he did. He looked and looked, and I stopped breathing. He was close—too close even for blinking. I stared, and saw that he was a good-looking man. His skin was smooth across his high forehead and wide cheekbones, and he had full, even lips, like the kind carved on some statue of old.
I saw him smile, but if it was to me in the bushes or to himself, I couldn’t say. He walked back into the house, humming a tune to himself. I sat there a long while in my cold sweat, ’til I was sure he wasn’t going to come after me with a hatchet.
Back at home that afternoon, I cooked up the most fish I’d ever put in one skillet, mixed in some cut-up onion and celery and salt and pepper, and ate every single bite before I could feel how full I was. Washed it all down with a whole bucket full of well water, too.
I belched like a drunk and stretched out on my old pallet, never knowing it could feel so soft before last night. It was curious to me, but my entire mind had gone blank. Just empty of all thoughts, good and bad both. I rested like that for a while, savoring the feel of stuff in my belly and breathing the familiar air of my cabin.
Then I got up and took off my shirt and britches and went back outside, out behind the shed, and filled the bucket with more water. I found a old rag—a shirt sleeve in a previous life—and dipped it in the bucket. Then I lathered up a chunk of cracked soap in it and scrubbed it all over myself, ’specially my fingers and toes. I rubbed so hard my skin turned raw as a sunburn, as I tried not to think about a red flannel splashing sound water over a scar in the shape of the letter B.
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br /> I looked into a old rusty mirror that hung from a nail in the shed, hardly recognizing myself, the faraway look in my eyes. I combed back my wet yellow hair and put on a old cotton shirt Eliza had mended a couple years back that was now the best one I had.
Near my feet was a bucket of yaupon leaves, already crushed and ready for sweating in the hogshead. I looked askance at the bucket, for I didn’t think I’d ever be able to drink that tea again.
Then I climbed atop Junie and made for the cottage to meet up with Mister Sinclair, to give him the good news.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Abigail Sinclair
August 2, 1868
It was now that I began sensibly to feel how much more happy this life I now led was, with all its miserable circumstances, than the wicked, cursed, abominable life I led all the past part of my days. And now I changed both my sorrows and my joys: my very desires altered, my affections changed their gusts, and my delights were perfectly new from what they were at my first coming, or indeed for the two years past.
—ROBINSON CRUSOE
I COULDN’T GET USED TO SUNDAY WORSHIP AT THE HOTEL. WE DINED there so often, it just didn’t seem right to call on God there as well.
I looked around at all the men and women, singing and reciting their very hearts out in their Sunday best, and wondered if I was the only one whose stomach was having a difficult time distinguishing between suppertime and worship time.
But my fellow worshippers were in their own hell. Most of them appeared more than a bit pickled from the previous night’s celebrations at the hotel. It was a good thing that most of the revelers had only to drift their way from a hotel room to the dining parlor on Sunday morning, or else I doubted they would ever make it to church. Even at the cottage, we often heard the band’s music until the early hours of the morning.
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