He was breathing heavily now but didn’t let that prevent him from reaching Timothy’s door, which he kicked open. The room was dark, there wasn’t even a bit of moonlight coming in through the window for him to see the outline of things. He walked quickly into the room and bumped into the bed. He ran his hands across the bed but felt nothing. He climbed on the bed and crept across it quickly; too quickly, and his foot got caught in the blanket and he twisted and turned and fell off the side. He landed on something, something soft and wet. He felt around; it was a body and it was sticky. He got on his knees and looked close.
It was Timothy.
He tried to pick him up, but he was heavy, so he only got the top half of the body onto his lap. He touched Timothy’s face and felt a deep, soggy gash in it. It took his breath away. He jumped up, dropping the body to the floor.
He looked up, his lips quivered like a cowardly man’s, and he shook his head slowly, disbelief grabbing him soundly. He screamed.
For the first time, he cursed God, over and over again. Then he stopped midcurse, because that was when he saw it.
From the corner of his eye. Some sparkling thing. A twinkle. A spark. A sudden flash. An elusive memory. A silver fish in a stream. Sunlight at the edge of a wave. A thunderbolt in a passing cloud. The last note in a song.
He raised his gun just as he caught, briefly, the night. Yes, unbelievable, but true: the night was coming at him and it had teeth, gleaming teeth that had apparently kept their brightness from a steady diet of white flesh.
Adam
There was a line that ran down the middle of Adam.
It was so thin that no one could see it, not even Adam. But since he could feel it, like a wire that had been held over the fire until orange and then laid upon his most sensitive spaces in the center of him, from his forehead to his crotch, he knew it was there.
It ached. Sometimes, it throbbed. Even though he appeared whole in everything he did, whether he was cleaning the coach or driving it, the line split him in two. Inside him, it erected a border, a wall, that separated his lungs, which had longed for each other but were trapped on either side of it, making breath short always. It cut off his heart from the right side of thinking, so the left side often made decisions without it. Acts without compassion to balance them were the genesis of cruelty.
Right eye knew not what left could see, left being so prone to releasing a tear when it saw the Sunday people and left ear heard the Sunday songs. Right didn’t understand. Saw only a blank space, heard only blue, and found, in fact, that these things provided no clarity, which meant in no uncertain terms that it was primarily a waste of time.
The left hand was reckless. Adam had fought for it not to be the dominant force when he practiced, in lamplight, the forbidden arts. It was bad enough that he could spell his name and write it in the most elegant script—every loop, hump, and slanted line a masterpiece, which meant that no matter who owned him, whether it was his father or not, there would always be a piece of him unchained, and a piece was enough. But to allow it all to flow through the left hand, which was the portal through which the devil himself made his way from flames to dry land: this magnified the danger, but also the thrill.
Nevertheless, it took Adam great effort to hold himself together because there was no place where he wasn’t pulled apart. He could only ever hear the Sunday songs from a distance because the Sunday people—well, they never told him that he couldn’t sit with them among the spotted shadows and creeping moss, but the circle seemed to close in front of him whenever he came near, and their skittering eyes seemed to suggest that he hadn’t gained their trust. He could sing too, if only they would let him sing.
He was one of the few people allowed in the Big House, but he wished he hadn’t been. Ruth laid elegant traps. Once, she hid silverware and claimed he had stolen it. Had Maggie not interrupted, holding the spoon high, talking about, “Missy Ruth, it right here. Funniest thing, too: it, plain out in the garden. Beats me how something this fine get out there,” it would have certainly cost him in lashes.
He chose the coach. The coach, too, was in the middle. Between the house and the field, but also, frequently, on the road.
He couldn’t be sure that he was the first. It was possible that there was a girl before him whom Ruth got to before the little thing even had the chance to play and prosper. Before she even had been given a name. So he thought of her as Lilith, his older sister who died so that next time, his mother would be wiser. His mother, whom he didn’t remember. Where she was now, he couldn’t say. Maybe she bore the brunt of it so that he would be spared. That could have been the trade: her life for his. And then perhaps she was taken to auction, breasts still filled with baby’s milk made specifically for him, which leaked when she heard the crowd jeer because it sounded so much like an infant crying. No dress to stain, the milk dripped down her ribs, then her thighs before hitting the wood planks of the block to be absorbed by heat and dead trees.
And perhaps she felt dead herself, cleaved from her baby—if he was her only one. Or she could have felt very alive once she saw his coloring and realized that he would never be as dark as she, and would always only ever remind her of her torment and tormentor.
Could she have escaped? Gone north through some kind of brilliant subterfuge that covered her trail and disguised her scent from dogs? Mint leaves and onion root used to stunning effect to confuse and repel. Nights inside the deepest caves with God knows what or high up in trees where biting ants were only the beginning.
Either she was free or worse. It was futile to contemplate, but then Adam’s entire existence was futile, so he continued. And he could do that in relative peace as he sat in the coach, directing the horses to whichever place the Halifaxes wanted him to go. He, by birth if not by law, was a Halifax too. But still: he had to be careful. Eyes always ahead. Face always front. He couldn’t give even the slightest impression that he was glancing to the left toward the wild and creamy hydrangeas that lined parts of the dusty path, or toward the right, where the cyrilla gathered like family with forgiving yellow fingers that pointed casually toward the ground. Least of all could he reveal that he, indeed, saw the sun rise and set, and noticed that what each did to the sky differed in ways that entire volumes could be written about and he could write them. Not to mention what a tender blanket nighttime was.
The horses provided a kind of shelter. Their rhythm remained steady and so the coach rocked and it made Paul, Ruth, Timothy, and, sometimes, James, prone to napping. Paul snuggled into himself with a frown. Ruth, a dreary smile. Timothy had always a sketch pad about to fall from his lap. And James, even in slumber, maintained the tightest grip upon his rifle.
When they returned to Empty, they each seemed angry that the ride had come to an end, as though the plantation had somehow made them feel that no rest could be had. This struck Adam as arrogant. How could they dare think of anything they did as work, or that they were entitled to rest because of it? Meanwhile, niggers—sometimes he liked that word and sometimes he didn’t—worked their (our?) fingers into knots such that even a welcome embrace was painful.
He, like everyone else, had that weight to carry and nowhere to put it down except in bittersweet repetition. So he would just unfasten the horses and stroke them gently on the nose. Always he would ask them the same question: “You ready to eat?”
Then he would lead them back to the barn and steal a moment to drink sweet water with Isaiah and Samuel.
He couldn’t understand the fuss, the whispers that had grown and threatened to be heard by the wrong Halifax. So what if in the silent dark they intertwined? What difference do that make? Don’t people gotta do what they gotta do to make it another day? You can’t expect all this work to get done and misery be the only massa to oversee it. Even a nigger need a reprieve. Otherwise . . .
Otherwise what? Even Adam knew that had to remain unspoken until it didn’t. That was the on
ly chance at triumph.
All three of them drinking from the same pail with the same ladle, passing the sweetness between them, one behind the other, interrupted only when nibbling on the corn bread Maggie snuck them earlier, and they were anxious to share. She would always treat those boys like they were her own, sneaking them things she thought no one else knew about. Adam guessed it only went unpunished because it was seen as no different from fattening hogs. Since Isaiah and Samuel were better fed, their bodies were better defined. Between the food and the work, they were sinewy and slick with sweat. Only by their faces could you tell that they were still just boys.
“What it feel like,” Adam asked quietly, knowing full well the answer would never satisfy. “To have each other?”
Samuel winced, but Isaiah broadened his chest.
“Like it supposed to,” Isaiah said. Samuel shifted his foot back and forth on the ground, creating an arc in the dust.
“But you not afraid they might tear you apart?” Adam could find no more delicate way to say it and thought they might appreciate his direct approach because it acknowledged their bond as a fact rather than a problem.
Samuel looked at him. “Afraid? No. Not afraid. Other stuff, but not afraid.”
“What other stuff?”
Samuel only grunted. Adam knew that to mean that it didn’t matter. They had enough. Good God: it was enough! But how? How could they not need more of everything: more love, more life, more time?
It didn’t go unnoticed by Adam the stark contrast between himself and Isaiah and Samuel. It began with the skin. Of theirs, one was a deep cavern without lamplight to guide, the other a midnight sky, but without any stars. He saw his own as a starry night without any sky. All three were impossible, but there they were, connected by terrain and grievance, and also by the thickness of lips that outlined the mouth in a most peculiar way. Adam’s were pinker and, too, the dead giveaway.
When he wet his hair and pushed it back, there were moments that toubab women had looked at him as though he had potential, until, upon closer inspection, his lips revealed the crime in such an assessment. There was nothing he could do about the lips unless he tucked them inside. But he eventually had to talk and they would reveal themselves again. If women could discern, so could a catcher or lynch mob. The lips were the sole betrayer since birth.
He knew then, at least, that his mother had a mouth shaped like truth because his was too. But truth called attention to itself in ways that were usually detrimental for the teller. His admiration for Isaiah and Samuel magnified because there they were in that barn, dim in the shadows of a truth that openly vexed anyone accustomed to lies. They were in the midst of each other and that hurt Adam as much as it pleased him.
Would he find someone with whom he could bide? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been with women before, maybe even loved one or two of them. He just couldn’t get past not having the choice. It was always there on the women’s faces, too. Unwillingness wore a woman in a way that made him want to weep. And sometimes he did. Though none of that altered his actions—threat of whip or not.
He envied Isaiah and Samuel. Willingness radiated off of them in heat. It caressed their words, even the harsh ones. It adorned their hands, especially when they touched. They looked into each other’s eyes and, despite all of Samuel’s efforts to the contrary, something opened. How blessed Adam felt to be a witness to pure intention! He could carry this with him everywhere, even to his grave when it was time. No matter where they buried him—if they buried him: chances were that he would probably die at the end of a noose and swung from a tree before being lit aflame and foraged for parts—he would be aglow with the possibility he was shown, not the residual embers of an unkind torch.
He had it there with him, Isaiah and Samuel’s gift, in front of the saloon, where he waited patiently for Paul. Watching the people come to and fro, through the swinging, creaking doors. They were laughing or stumbling. They were by themselves and they were in groups. Or they were arms-locked with lovers who were most likely only embraced for that solitary evening. All of this—the noise, the swinging, the high-stepping—was so different from Empty. Full, maybe.
Adam hoped that when Paul finally emerged from this lively place, he didn’t come out too drunk. Toubab were unpredictable by nature and even more so after they had spirits. Adam reckoned that was probably because the spirits had such a cavern to fill that they had to work extra hard inside of them, and that additional inner labor is what made toubab outwardly meaner.
He had to be especially careful now in the bustling center of Vicksburg. The town kept its energy into the wee morning hours thanks mostly to the saloon, which drew toubab from neighboring towns and even from as far as Alabama. Usually, Paul would be leaving, finishing up whatever business just as things began to become merry. Adam only knew of the town’s unrelenting character because he would, in the dead of night, drive James there, when James would pretend the coach was his, and he would spend his meager wages on liquor and women, which seemed to make him feel like a better man.
Things were most lively on Saturday evenings. That was strange given that these were the same people filling the churches the next morning. Then again, they said Jesus turned water into wine for just such frivolity and commanded the Sabbath for rest. So what were they doing in church anyway? Ah, yes: they were asleep.
A stranger approached. Adam quickly looked down.
“Excussse me. Can you point me in the direction of the nearessst outhoussse, pleasse?” the man slurred at Adam.
Lips safely tucked into the moisture of his mouth, Adam pointed toward the road, going back in the direction of Empty. It was a dark stretch of road that seemed, at a point, to be swallowed up by the woods. The man looked out at the path. He shivered and then smiled. He turned to Adam.
“Blacker than a nigger’s pussy down there. And where exactly you say the outhouse is? I don’t see it.”
Adam raised his head and glanced at the man. He had already wet his pants, so an outhouse wouldn’t be any good to him.
“Down the road and just ’round the bend on the right, suh.”
“‘Suh’?” the man said as he stumbled back a little. “What you call me?”
“I think you best head on now,” Adam said, his chin tucked into his chest. He made a movement toward his hip as though he were packing something that he didn’t have. He settled his shoulders, squared his chest, and lifted his face, finally, and looked the man in the eyes.
“Go on now.”
The man looked on with blurry eyes. He moved a step closer to the coach and squinted. His lips parted as though he were about to ask Adam a question, a question that Adam knew before it could be uttered. The man snarled a bit, then eventually waved Adam off. He turned and looked at the darkness, then walked wobbly toward it.
Adam exhaled deeply and wiped the sweat from above his lip with the back of his hand. The motion angered him. He held his moist hand up before his face. He gazed at it. It didn’t make any sense. Even at night, it was the same color as any toubab, and yet he wasn’t one. He was only what could be seen in the shape of his mouth. He covered his mouth with his hand. Now what was he? Well, what he looked like was a fool aghast or a fool with a secret. But either way, a fool.
He noticed how the noise worked here. It was localized, coming not from every direction, but only from the saloon. Meanwhile, they were surrounded by a circle of quiet. Not that the woods were devoid of sound, but simply that the sound wasn’t an intrusion. It moved with the pulse of everything, including Adam’s heartbeat. It was like all of creation was inhaling and exhaling. Even the darkness seemed to move, but he knew this to be a mere trick of the eyes. He saw them back on Empty, in the dark of his shack, which wasn’t filled with children, though he had them. They were elsewhere now, if they were still alive. He had only ever seen one of them. A girl. A color in between his and the mother’s, whose name wa
s lost now to memory. And that didn’t matter because the name was chosen by Paul anyway and she likely never had her own name in the tongue of her mother, who was likely dead. A blessing.
In the dark of his shack, he had seen the movement of shadows that should have been still. The swaying imitating the dark rhythms of trees; that made sense. But why should the dark refrains of the door or the squares cut out of the wall for ventilation also be moving when what they were representing were stone-still? A game of the mind. That’s all it was. Loneliness could do that to you. In the solitary moments, reality became undone and the physical laws ceased to abide by their promises, especially in that time between woke and slumber, which is when the boundary between here and there was at its thinnest. It was sly the way owls seemed to speak human tongues and figures long gone appeared out of nowhere to visit for a spell. Yet by the time you blinked or wiped the crust from eyelashes, everything returned to boredom. Adam sighed and learned to ignore the temptation that would lead him to believe that this was anything more than cruel teasing.
He thought that all this pretend movement would have given him the desire to move himself, but it just made him tired. He simply wanted to close his eyes even if there was danger in it. In slumber, there was . . .
What?
Rest for the body maybe, but nothing for the weary. His head nodded forward and then jerked back up. His eyes were dreary. He worried about how he might look to the festive toubab, even as they were distracted, for a night, by the smoke and spirits. He feared the thing hidden somewhere in the bowels of their laughter, that thing that made them say to niggers what they would say to themselves if they had any courage, what they used to say to one another before niggers became an unfortunate disruption. If they noticed him now, barely able to hold his head up straight because the night struck him, they would say niggers were lazy, but they would be incorrect. Niggers weren’t lazy; niggers were tired. Bone tired. And when they finally weren’t anymore: fire.
The Prophets Page 28