“No, suh.” Isaiah looked around as though he were trying to memorize every detail.
“This is my room. You like it?”
“I never seen nothing like it. Almost as big as the whole barn.”
Timothy laughed and then closed the door. There was a skeleton key in the lock. He quietly turned it.
“Do you know how to read, Isaiah?”
“Oh, no, suh. No nigger is allowed to read.”
“Do you want to know?”
“No, suh. No use in it.”
“Well, I’m going to teach you anyway. Our secret.”
“Why, suh?”
“Because I like you, Isaiah. I think you’re a good boy.”
Timothy walked over to a shelf and pulled the Bible from it.
“Here. Come sit with me on my bed.”
“I dirty, Massa. I don’t wanna—”
“Never mind that. Just come.”
Isaiah took unsure steps toward the bed and hesitantly sat upon it, right at the spot where Timothy was indicating with his beating hand. Timothy looked Isaiah over and reaffirmed for himself that he was a splendid physical specimen. He examined his crotch. Negroes didn’t wear undergarments, so it was not difficult to see what was beneath. Timothy rubbed his eyes. It couldn’t be. But wait: it moved! He was certain. Snaked through his pants leg and came to rest on his right thigh as if contemplating an escape route before daring to venture any farther and becoming lost.
By golly, it moved!
He touched Isaiah’s arm and marveled at his skin. Seduced by his dark edges, by the sweet curves of his blacker-than-black. He had an overwhelming desire to fall into himself darkly and be lost.
“Massa?”
“I want to see it. Please take off your clothes.”
Isaiah hesitated. Opened his mouth but neglected to speak any words. He unfastened his shirt. He let it fall to the floor. Timothy leaned in close to Isaiah and squinted, examining him until he came to Isaiah’s back.
“Did my father do this to you?”
Isaiah said nothing.
“Why would he do something like this?” Timothy asked as he kissed the welts.
Isaiah shivered. “I thought you said you wanted to paint me, Massa.”
Timothy kept kissing his back.
“Massa, I thought you was gon’—”
“Shhh. Isn’t this better?” Timothy asked, but it was not a question.
Isaiah sat rigidly on the edge of the bed.
“Relax.”
Isaiah stood up, which made his erection obvious. Timothy smiled.
“I saw you last night. In the barn. You and Samuel. I saw what you do.”
Isaiah turned away.
“Massa, I can’t . . .”
“Can’t?”
“What I mean is . . . Samuel is . . .”
Timothy stood up. He moved in close to Isaiah, close enough that their breaths mingled. Isaiah’s brow sweated profusely.
“You deserve someone to be gentle with you for once,” Timothy whispered.
Isaiah shook his head.
“Samuel . . .”
Timothy leaned in and kissed Isaiah on the mouth. Samuel’s name still on Isaiah’s lips, now trapped between them. Isaiah didn’t kiss back. Timothy used his own lips and tongue to pry Isaiah’s mouth open. Isaiah grunted.
“I can protect you from my father,” Timothy moaned, his body pressed into Isaiah’s.
While he didn’t wish to have Isaiah come to him out of obligation, it would be a suitable, less violent option should Isaiah choose not to come of his own free will. What he wouldn’t do was force him beyond that. Because what would be the point if Isaiah did not submit freely, if Timothy couldn’t have every last bit of him, including his will?
Timothy pulled down his trousers and lay ass-up on the bed. Isaiah squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. He wiped his brow and then lay down on top of Timothy. Beneath, Timothy thought of how he had relinquished himself to Isaiah; he was in his hands now. And something fluttered in his chest. He grabbed hold of it and when he opened his grip, there it was, duller than he imagined, but there: free. If he was to give this to Isaiah, then it could only come back to him, as all things did, manifold. To set another man free was to free yourself. This wasn’t just the clamoring of an indecisive North, no. Timothy felt the truth of that way down in his cave, which quivered now after having justly been shaken.
“Together, we can be set free,” Timothy whispered as he raised his head and closed his eyes. “Only together.”
Nebuchadnezzar
It had never dawned on Isaiah how things so close together could be so far apart. The barn was just yonder, a good stone’s throw from the Big House, and yet, when walked by legs, the distance between them felt like a journey. The house seemed to be at the bottom of some enormous mountain, or down, maybe, in some deep valley where the thinnest of rivers hid from the sky and wolves roamed. Down there, where you expected it to be warmer, and yet things were chilled enough to blue the hands and feet, and turn breath to smoke.
And here you were, lost and at a loss for how anyone barefoot and without tools could make his way out of it, climb surfaces that seemed too smooth to cling to or too solid to dig into, with nothing but what might be an errant star to guide you upward, into the place that is only marginally safer than the place you’re trying to escape.
What of the ascent itself? Isaiah had a strong mind, and he couldn’t figure out if it was at all worth it. A road that was supposed to be level was sloped and its incline became more difficult with each step. There was nothing to stop him from tumbling back down right as he reached the uppermost part of it. You could break your bones and then there would no longer be a point in getting up and trying again. You wouldn’t be able to. Couldn’t.
Yet, the yearning that pulled him at his center like a rope that had been thrown down from the mountaintop, from the level plains at the top of the ridge, from the places that were supposed to be cold but somehow, maybe because they were closer to the sun, were warm to every touch. The grass took on a different character: dewy and blue green instead of dry and gold. People and animals lived together in what he guessed you could call a kind of harmony, but it came from barest necessity rather than a haunting desire. There was one reason, and one reason only, to make the attempt to, wingless and unsure-footed, try to ascend any old way.
By the time the birds had finished singing, after they had completed their circling of his head, he remembered the pain. His own, yes, because it can only be tragedy to be forced, but doubly so when the body refuses to fail; also Timothy’s because he was unprepared. Isaiah hadn’t anticipated finding a hint of joy in being the source of it. Besides, whatever joy there was quickly faded once he realized that it was the kind of thing that Timothy had no objection to. It was all so very bizarre, and also very new to Isaiah, to learn that toubab had not only relished giving it out, but secretly—in their quiet places, out of the sight of anyone who might judge it horribly, use it against them, or give to them in a way for which they were truly unprepared—they were intent on receiving it.
Timothy cried, but his eyes also rolled into the back of his head just like Samuel’s and Isaiah did everything he knew how to do to ensure those faces, those expressions, Samuel’s and Timothy’s, didn’t merge. Somehow, he knew that once they did, only death would be able to untangle them.
He was halfway up the mountain—or midway out of the valley—when he realized that, outside this between time, he had missed a whole day’s work, hadn’t seen Samuel the entire day, had left him to do everything on his own, which was difficult because just about everything in the barn was a job for two people. It would be barely possible for Samuel to do it alone. He knew Samuel didn’t want to do any of it, period, but they had a system. Everyone knew that.
What they didn’t know wa
s that the system had been mapped out, mostly in stars, but also in owl hoot and iris scent, and placed over and under everything long before Samuel had the decency to bring the sweet water and Isaiah the thirst to drink it.
Gone all day! Sweat ran down Isaiah’s back. He wondered if Samuel would be worried, might think him hurt, dead, or worse. More likely, he might simply be angry. As children, they took to each other—at first, like the best of friends, until both of them got the scent under their arms and the little goat hairs at the southernmost edges of their chins. They went from looking as plain as soil to each other to something that could nourish. Not something, someone. And one Sunday, sixteen seasons ago, one hand not so accidentally placed on top of the other while at the riverbank—neither of them looking the other in the eyes, but gazing off to something on that other side, where the trees formed a wall that only a curious deer could penetrate—was all it took for their evening shadows to later dance.
As he crossed the fence, Isaiah realized that this was the first time he had been away from Samuel this long since memory, which discomforted him. It felt like a small yet jagged piece of flesh hanging from the finger, ripped off too quickly, pulling down the whole side of the digit, leaving a trail of raw burning, blood oozing out of it the same way mushrooms do from the earth: a pain that can’t be soothed but can only be coaxed into subsiding with promises.
This is what it would be like?
Isaiah imagined Samuel chained up in the bed of the wagon as Adam, the lightest-skinned person Isaiah ever did see who could still be considered a person, covered his long Halifax-but-not-Halifax face so as not to see the crumble of bones that Isaiah had become because they had used a hammer and chisel to split a rock from its base. When the image left him and he saw the barn come back into view, just like that, the danger Amos spoke of found its menacing shape. His heart punched his chest from the inside.
He quickened his pace. His breath came in slow, shallow huffs. His legs buzzed with impatience. The day’s stench was still on him. He briefly contemplated jumping in the river real quick before the sun dipped, before going into the barn and having to return Samuel’s gaze with his own altered one, but Samuel didn’t deserve to wait another second.
When he reached the doors, he was afraid to open them. How could he explain leaving his seed where he left it and that, in some small, irresponsible way, it felt like an act of liberation? He tugged at the door, but it was a halfhearted attempt. Samuel heard the noise and got up. He pushed the door open a little too hard and nearly knocked Isaiah down.
“What happened to you?” Samuel whispered as he helped Isaiah regain his balance.
Isaiah placed an arm around Samuel’s neck and leaned into him. Side by side, they walked into the barn. Isaiah fell limp into a haystack.
Samuel stood over him.
“Man, talk! What’s wrong with you? Where you been?”
Isaiah looked off toward the horse pens.
“We should open up those pens, Sam,” he said slowly. “Let the horses out. They look cooped up.”
“What?” Samuel walked over to the lamp that sat on the ground by the pens and lit it. He brought it back to where Isaiah lay and then sat down next to it.
“It can’t be comfortable, you know? Locked up in such a small space,” Isaiah continued.
“Heh. That toubab had you cramped up all day, huh? He paint you, what, sitting on some stool, not even letting you get a break for something cool to drink? Maggie couldn’t even sneak you some lemonade, could she? You gotta be meaner, man!” Samuel laughed. He looked at Isaiah to return the laughter, tried to find if the lamplight reflected in his eyes, but couldn’t.
“Yessuh. I tired. All-the-way-to-the-bones tired.” Isaiah attempted a smile.
Samuel’s eyes squinted. “You always asking me to talk. Usually, I can’t shut you up. Now you only telling me some of it,” Samuel said, louder than he intended.
Isaiah got up and walked toward the water bucket they kept against the front wall. He tripped over a shovel left lying in the middle of the barn and landed on his hands. He jumped up, dusted himself off, and felt around for the bucket. He grabbed it and walked back over to Samuel and sat down. He drank from the ladle in large gulps.
“You gon’ talk?”
Isaiah took another big swig of water and swallowed it all at once. It went down hard.
“I ain’t a animal, but I know. I know that when you trapped in a small space, you start getting used to being small. And people, they know, too, and they start treating you like a small thing. Even if you big like you are, Sam. They still treat you like something small.” Isaiah took a breath. “And at the same time they want you small, they want your thang big. You hear what I telling you?”
“I don’t understand all that,” Samuel said in a huff. “What you saying?”
“I here, Sam. They don’t know it, but I am.”
“I know it.”
“Do you?” Isaiah looked down.
“Did he . . . ?” Samuel moved closer to him.
“They say funny things.” Isaiah’s brow furrowed and he looked off into the past that had just materialized before him, but faded so that he could still see now. “Feel goodness in the most hateful things, Sam. Nigger, do this to me. Nigger, do that to me. They want you to treat them like an outhouse. And always, always talk about how big. Stretch me, they say. And I can’t stand to hear it or to watch them writhe. Giving them pleasure while all they give in return is grief.” Isaiah put the ladle back into the bucket. He scooped up another serving of water. “But still . . .”
Samuel straightened his back. He searched Isaiah’s face for a reason. Maybe the bump of the chin, a nose twitch, maybe the curl of his lashes would tell him something about why this man had decided, out of nowhere, to crush him and take his time doing it.
“When you went to him, you walk or run?” Samuel said. He looked at Isaiah with sharpened eyes. “And you get on me ’bout Puah?”
Isaiah’s mouth opened and his tongue looked for the proper words, but found none. The space in front of him narrowed. His vision, a border, however imaginary. For a moment, there was silence and all either of them could feel was heat emanating from nowhere and from each other. Isaiah decided surrender was a better option than retaliatory action. He went to touch Samuel’s knee, but Samuel jerked it away just as Isaiah reached out. Isaiah smiled, shook his head. His eyes blinked slowly, heavily. He yawned. He stood up as though he were about to walk away, but he merely turned his back to Samuel and looked toward the barn door. On each hand, his fingers wiggled quickly, like someone trying to bide his time but who couldn’t figure out what to do with his body as he waited. He started to mumble.
“The men got no curve. Not a one. From the back of they necks to the tip of they heels is a straight goddamn line. Strangest thing you ever did see.” He chuckled. “They ask a heap of questions. He ask me ’bout you and so I tell him. Ain’t no use in lying, he say. Because I seen with my own eyes, he say. So I tell him: ‘Samuel? He touch my shoulder. I open him up. I open him up wide. So he can feel everything. He collapse in on me. And everything feel good.’”
“Why I have to hear this?”
“You asked.”
“Not for this.”
Samuel turned his head. He scooted over, closer to the bucket of water. He grabbed the ladle and took a gulp of water. Then he dipped it again and took another. Then another. Then another. He could hardly catch his breath. Isaiah turned slightly to see Samuel’s face, bronze in the lamplight; beads of sweat spotted his forehead; his nostrils were flaring. Isaiah wondered if he should keep talking.
Samuel looked up at him. He pushed himself back, away from the bucket. He wanted to get up, to grab something and destroy it. Instead, he just sat there, not wanting to look at Isaiah anymore, not even wanting to smell his scent, which wasn’t his scent. Isaiah moved back over toward him and go
t down on his knees.
“You mad at me?” Isaiah said to Samuel, looking into his face as though some blemish on his skin might hold the answer.
Samuel looked toward the doors.
“Don’t be mad. Never mind what I say ’bout Puah. I . . . I didn’t wanna die. To you, I freely come.”
Samuel continued to stare at the doorway. Then, slowly, his eyes moved over to the wall where the tools were hanging, then over to the bales of hay. Finally, he locked eyes with Isaiah.
“Talk to me, Sam. Tell me something good,” Isaiah said as he took one of Samuel’s hands in both of his.
Samuel bit his bottom lip. He looked at an object hanging on the wall. He let his eyes linger over the ax. He admired its shape, longed to wield the sharp edge of it. He crossed his legs. Isaiah remained on his knees and so he was raised higher than Samuel. Samuel put his hand on Isaiah’s thigh.
“This bump right here,” Samuel said.
Isaiah smiled and touched Samuel’s waist.
“This curve right here,” Isaiah replied.
“The way your left arm move.”
“How soft your lips is.”
“Your pointy elbows.”
“Your big forehead.”
“Back of your neck where skin meet hair. ’Specially when you walking away.”
“When you touch me here.”
“The time I were too sick to move and you fetched me sweet water for wildflower tea.”
Isaiah threw his arms around Samuel. He held him for a moment before weeping into his shoulder. Samuel held him tight, then he pushed him back so that he could see his face. His hands caressed his chest, then moved down to his navel. Isaiah reclined and Samuel moved forward and then rested his palm against Isaiah’s firm belly. With his finger, he traced the boundaries of Isaiah’s body.
“What you do to me?” Samuel asked.
He caressed Isaiah’s face and Isaiah leaned into the caress. Isaiah smelled Samuel’s hands, kissed them, then grabbed them and pressed them into his face.
“I didn’t mean . . .” Samuel said.
The Prophets Page 21