My Name's Not Friday

by Jon Walter

  Now I don’t know the rules of this. I don’t know how I should be speaking to a boy that just paid six hundred dollars for my company. I don’t know what I should be saying or what I should be thinking. All I know is he should leave me alone. He ain’t got the right to mess with my head. It don’t matter how much money he has – it don’t make it right. So I don’t say a word, I just stare at my toes, pretending I ain’t heard him, though both know of us know I heard him well enough.

  Next time he pokes a little harder. ‘How old d’you think I am?’

  I put a finger to my shin and shrug my shoulders. Just a little. Hardly enough to be seen.

  ‘Take a look and make a guess. Go on. You won’t be right. Hardly anyone ever is, not if they’re being honest.’ He leans over, puts a hand upon my knee and shakes it like he’s waking me up. ‘Hey, Friday! You’re a shy one, aren’t ya? Look at me. Come on now. I ain’t gonna bite.’

  ‘Gerald?’ Mrs Allen shouts back to him from the front of the wagon. ‘You leave that boy alone!’

  I raise my eyes and Gerald’s smile ain’t unfriendly. I size him up and he’s just a little pipsqueak of a boy to look at, a little older than Joshua but not as old as me.

  ‘Fourteen?’ I reckon on exaggerating, so as not to cause offence.

  Gerald looks disgusted with me. ‘Now you ain’t being honest.’ He shakes his head. ‘I wanted you to be honest and that’s a ridiculous answer. We both know it. Try again and this time be honest cos you won’t hurt my feelings, I can promise you that. You won’t tell me nothing I ain’t heard before.’

  ‘Nine.’ I guess again quickly.

  That makes him happier. ‘See! I knew it!’ He laughs out loud. ‘You don’t have any idea, do you? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m twelve. Same age as you, only I’m small for my age, that’s what the doctor says. Won’t be for ever though. He says I should be having a spurt come along anytime now. I bet you already had yours, haven’t ya?’

  I don’t know ’bout no spurts and I look at him, confused.

  He tilts his head. ‘You are twelve aren’t you? That’s what Mr Wickham said. I remember it clearly.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You suppose so?’

  ‘I don’t exactly know. Not for sure.’ I struggle for the right words, not knowing what I can or can’t say. ‘Well, I expect it were different to yourself …’

  A faint blush comes to his cheeks then disappears. Did I just embarrass him? Maybe I did. He says, ‘I understand. Well, the thing is, you look twelve. That’s what matters the most, and I’d say you look about that age.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I don’t know why I called him sir. I look away, taking a sudden interest in the landscape, which is greener now we’ve left the town. We’re passing fields that are dotted white with cotton buds and sometimes there are lines of people, women and men, with sacks strung from their shoulders, their backs bent double and their heads close to the bushes. They must be slaves. I know they are – though there ain’t no chains or manacles. I rub an idle finger around the top of my foot. I could jump over the side of this wagon if I wanted and I reckon they’d be hard pushed to catch me cos I was always the fastest runner at the orphanage.

  Better not. Better to stay put a while and think things out.

  Up front of the wagon, Mrs Allen raises her voice and it catches my attention. ‘Why did you allow the men to leave early yesterday?’ she demands. ‘I saw Connie and Isaac outside their cabin at seven thirty, and I couldn’t find Levi for love nor money. He wasn’t in the barn with the gin and he wasn’t anywhere near the house.’

  Hubbard answers her with a calm and steady voice. ‘I sent Levi into town, miss.’

  ‘Well, you should have asked me before he went. I want Levi out in the fields. I want him working all the hours God gives us. We picked less yesterday than we have for the previous three days and yet I told you to keep everyone out in the fields till sunset. How is it possible they pick less cotton when they have more time? Can you tell me the logic of that?’

  ‘I said they wouldn’t like the change, miss. I warned you. They’re not used to working a gang. They’re used to tasks. That’s how Mr Allen always ordered it. If I give ’em tasks, they do the work double quick so they can have some time of their own, but if I take that away from ’em, then they ain’t got no reason to work fast. Now we changed, they don’t have no incentive.’

  Mrs Allen curls her little hands into fists. ‘But they don’t need no incentive! Good God, man, there’s a war on! Ain’t that incentive enough?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. You’d think it would be, but—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear no ifs and buts, Hubbard. When people are taking liberties it’s your job to stop it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I understand that. But if you want my advice, ma’am …’

  Mrs Allen shakes her head quickly and the sunlight makes it golden, just the same is it does for Gerald. ‘Now you listen to me, Hubbard. You can advise me all you like, and I’m glad that you do, but the fact remains that the yield should be greater. It’s simple mathematics, Hubbard. That’s all it is. If you can’t see it, then I will find a man who can and I’ll answer to Mr Allen for my decision. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I understand you perfectly.’

  ‘I want every person picking two hundred pounds of cotton tomorrow. I want it put through the gin and bundled.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She rests her hands back in her lap. ‘I hold you responsible to do your own job, Hubbard, so please don’t let me have to speak to you of this again.’

  Hubbard don’t shift his eyes from the road and he don’t raise his voice. ‘I hear you, Mrs Allen,’ he says calmly. ‘Two hundred pounds, miss. I heard that, right enough.’

  I turn back to see Gerald staring at me all over again. It makes me uncomfortable and I don’t know where to look cos it feels like he’s staring right through to my soul and it ain’t right. He takes a baseball from the pocket of his grey tunic and holds it up for me to see. ‘You look like a handy pitcher to me. You got good long arms. I bet you could pitch as fast as the best of ’em if you wanted.’

  This time Mrs Allen turns right round in her seat to scold him. ‘Will you leave that boy alone, Gerald! I’ve told you already! Don’t you go getting ideas about him being your new plaything because he ain’t. He’s here to work, same as all our Negroes. That’s why I allowed you to buy him – just you remember that. It’s about time you took on some responsibility around the place, and you can’t do that if you’re off playing with the slaves.’

  Gerald puts the ball back in his pocket, all indignant and surly. Now I’m the only one in the cart she ain’t turned on, and I won’t give her cause, not if I can help it. We cross a wooden bridge and it goes over a lazy ol’ river, where the weeping willows dip down into the water. A half-mile further on, Hubbard turns the wagon onto a long dirt driveway, all lined with sapling trees, and the sight of the big white house makes my heart skip a beat.

  That house is made of painted white boards with doors and shutters the colour of ripened corn. It has a tall and striking roof, and although it’s not grand, it’s bigger than most of the houses in Middle Creek and set nicely in its own space. A red maple tree grows on the green lawn out in front, and that big ol’ tree must give plenty of shade from the sun on a hot day.

  This ain’t what I expected. I thought I’d end up somewhere that looked like a prison, but this is, well … it’s heavenly. It really is. I didn’t ever think I’d live in a place as pretty as this one.

  An old lady is out the front, sweeping leaves from the veranda, and she lays aside her broom as the wagon approaches, then reappears at the back door just as Hubbard brings the cart to a stop beside a little black buggy with a tall white mare standing upright in the harness.

  Mrs Allen is all vigour and thrust and she jumps down from the wagon without assistance. ‘Winnie?’ she addresses the old girl. ‘Will you call out Har
riet to occupy Gerald before he finds a bat and ball from somewhere? Take him into the house, will you? Sicely can unload the shabby. No, better let Hubbard do it. Would you do that, Hubbard? Deliver it to the parlour table and we can move it to the hallway once we have set up one of the rooms for sewing.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ says Hubbard as he secures the horse.

  Winnie says, ‘The preacher’s here to see you, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you, Winnie. I recognize his carriage. Have you prepared lunch for us?’

  ‘It’s all ready, ma’am. We were just waiting on you.’

  The old lady waits for us two boys to step down into the yard and she shepherds Gerald away into the house without another word. Hubbard walks across the yard to an outhouse and returns with a man in a leather apron. He wipes his hands down the front of it, then helps Hubbard lift the cloth from the wagon and they walk it into the house, one of ’em at each end to carry the heavy load.

  I’m still standing at the back of the cart like a spare piece, not knowing where to go or what to do.

  ‘Friday.’

  I hear the name but I don’t pay no heed to it.

  Mrs Allen shakes me by the shoulder. ‘I said, Friday? Come along with me, if you please.’

  She walks me to the cookhouse that is situated next to the back door of the main building and the smells that reach me through the open doorway are delicious. I can make out bread and some sort of broth and all of it makes my stomach churn like it’s the Devil’s own pot.

  Inside the building there’s a large kitchen. A long table runs right down the middle of the room. Its top is laid with open pots and large brown jars and there are platters of food all ready and waiting to be eaten. A big plate of breaded ham has sliced pickled cucumbers that smile up at me from around its rim and there’s a board with thick hunks of bread. A woman stands at a range and stirs a pot in the dim light, the steam rising up around her, all full of flavour and good things. Mrs Allen calls out to her. ‘Hey, Sicely. This here’s Friday. He’s new from the auction. Have him help you with the lunch, will you?’

  Sicely turns and looks me up and down like she don’t approve of me one little bit. And I can see she ain’t a woman either, not fully grown at least. She’s only a year or two older than me. My stomach suddenly makes the noise of a train pulling up at a platform and I smile weakly, knowing everyone heard it. The girl makes a face like I’m some bullfrog bought in from a pond, but Mrs Allen puts a kind hand on my shoulder. ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘I had a bit of bread for yesterday’s breakfast, ma’am.’

  I swallow hard and her fingers squeeze my shoulder softly. ‘Good Lord! Give this boy some bread and soup, then have him help you serve at lunch. I’ll get Winnie to come down.’ She walks back outside, calling for Winnie before she reaches the back door. ‘Winnie!’ She’s got a voice as loud as a man’s when she shouts. ‘Winnie, where are you? I want you back down here!’

  Sicely turns back to the pot, saying, ‘Get yourself some bread,’ as she ladles a hot spoonful of the soup into a bowl she has to hand. I reach out and take a hunk and I have it heading towards my mouth when she shrieks at me. ‘Not that bread! What you doing eating the bread laid out for lunch?’

  I put it back from where I took it.

  ‘Don’t put it back! What you doing putting it back? Who’s going to want a piece of bread that you already touched? You should have cut yourself a piece of your own from the loaf out back. Anyone would know that.’

  I pick up the bread again, not knowing if I should eat it or not, so I just keep a hold of it, all the while pretending it ain’t even there in my hand. Now I see the loaf she meant. It’s right there on the wide windowsill, sitting on its own board with a sharp knife lying next to it.

  ‘This the new boy?’ Winnie comes through the door at my back. She’s got the kind of face it takes a whole lot of years to make, like the bark of an old oak tree. She’s as wide as an oak at the waist as well. She views me with deep-set eyes that shine brightly between the creases of her skin. ‘Let the boy eat, Sicely, and hurry up about it.’ She lifts my hand till my lips touch the crust. Then she goes and gets that bowl of soup and puts it on the table in front of me.

  Well, that food is just about the nicest thing I’ve had in a long time. I hurry through it, slurping down quick spoonfuls and wiping my bread around the bowl once it’s gone.

  Winnie clears up after me. She tells me to help with lunch and I follow Sicely into the house and through to the dining room, her carrying the platter of ham and myself with a tureen of soup so big it makes me nervous to carry it in case I trip and drop it, only I don’t trip, I get it safely onto the middle of the table in one piece. Sicely scolds me anyway. ‘It don’t go there. If you’d come from a decent house you’d know that I serve it from the side and bring the plates to table.’

  She sure can be severe. I pick up the tureen and take it over to where she points, and when I’ve set it down again she says, ‘No point in sending you back for the bread and butter cos you’ll probably come back with eggs and jam. You better stay right where you are while I go back for it.’

  So I do. I stand in the big room on my own, my hands folded behind my back for somewhere to put ’em, my bare feet flat upon the polished floorboards. The room is pretty, with pale blue walls and lots of light from the four tall windows that look out across the lawn at the front. It’s more homely than grand, I suppose. There are pictures on the walls and shelves full of knick-knacks. I notice little statues of animals. They got a glazed china horse and a rabbit sitting up on its hind legs, its ears bent forward, pretending to listen. At the orphanage we didn’t have no clutter.

  The table here is long enough for eight places, each of ’em laid with a full set of cutlery and a tall cane-backed chair standing behind. Above the table hangs a large wooden fan. The room is divided into two by a closed set of sliding doors and there are voices from the other side, the preacher with Mrs Allen, and I can’t help hearing what they say.

  ‘Unlike some of our community, Mrs Allen, I am of the opinion that our Negroes should be delivered the word of God, particularly now that we are at war. The Yankees will have filled their heads with ideas of freedom, you can be sure of that, so we should be making sure they understand the dignity bestowed by the Lord on those that serve.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ replies Mrs Allen.

  ‘Did I tell you that the number of slaves running away has doubled since the war began? There isn’t a day goes by that our patrols don’t find some runaway darkie skulking in a barn, trying to make his way north of the lines. I have found ’em myself, and I can tell you, there won’t be jails that are large enough, Mrs Allen, you mark my words.’

  Outside the window, the leaves of that maple ripple like a wave, all restless in the breeze.

  ‘I can assure you they won’t be my slaves.’ Mrs Allen exclaims. ‘As you will know, my husband has always run this plantation upon progressive ideas. We treat ’em with a firm hand and a fair measure of respect, so they’ve got no reason to run away. And yet it’s true that with Mr Allen gone they have had little instruction in the Bible of late. I suppose I could make a point of reading to ’em. Do you think that might help? We could set aside time after the evening meal. What do you think, Mr Chepstow? Does that strike you as a good idea?’

  The footsteps of the preacher pace just the other side of the partition door. ‘Well, that’s right and proper, Mrs Allen, but the word of God can only be delivered of its true force through a direct link, a preacher like myself, whom He has entrusted with His wisdom and knowledge. Take, for example, the choosing of texts …’

  Sicely enters the dining room again, this time carrying a platter of sliced bread and a porcelain butter dish. ‘What you doing, standing there listening?’ she hisses like a snake. She puts down the bread and butter and moves towards the double doors, pushing me to one side as she knocks, then slides ’em open. ‘S’cuse me, ma’am, but lunch is ready.’

&nb
sp; When they come on through to the table I see Gerald is there with ’em. He’s changed into a clean shirt and his black leather shoes squeak when he walks. He looks bored as he takes a seat beside his stepmother, who places her hand upon his, indicating that he should remain silent until she has finished what she is saying.

  ‘Of course, you are absolutely right, Mr Chepstow. Abolition would be a disaster. If they were left to fend for themselves they would die of starvation. I’m sure of it. The best place for them is here, working beside us in our homes and in our fields as God intended, the two races working together for the good of both.’ She lifts a forkful of ham to her mouth, but leaves it poised. ‘They must surely understand that the Yankees will not win this war. They cannot. God will not allow it. And the Negroes must be made to see it is in their own interests to work hard alongside us and hope for a swift conclusion.’

  Sicely meets my eye and looks down at her feet, meaning for me to come and stand beside her, which I do. She leans across and whispers in my ear, ‘You oughta be fanning.’

  I don’t know what she means. I think I must be standing wrong and I move my feet apart so my toes point outward. Sicely leans across and unties a rope from where it is fastened to the wall, and I look up and see that the rope goes through a pulley and over to a big old wooden fan that hangs above the table. She puts the rope in my hand. ‘Pull it,’ she tells me quietly, and then she stands on my toe for good measure, though it could have been an accident. I tug that rope, not too hard, and that big wooden fan begins to swing in its metal frame above the table.

  Mr Chepstow has a finger to his preacher’s collar as he leans closer to Mrs Allen. They’re still talking ’bout the war as Master Gerald helps himself to ham. He takes a slice of the cucumber and a piece of the bread. Across from him, the preacher half turns in his chair and flicks a finger at Sicely. ‘Would you find me some mustard?’

  Sicely goes to fetch it, leaving me alone by the wall, still pulling on that rope to make a breeze.