Lincoln in the Bardo(42)
Of course, there was always a moment, just as an order was given, when a small, resistant voice would make itself known in the back of my mind. Then the necessary job was to ignore that voice. It was not a defiant or angry voice, particularly, just that little human voice, saying, you know: I wish to do what I wish to do, and not what you are telling me to do.
And I must say, that voice was never quite silenced.
Although it did grow rather quiet over the years.
But I must not over-complain on this score. I had many free and happy moments. On Wednesday afternoons, for example, when I would be given two free hours to myself. And all day, every third Sunday, if things were not too hectic. Admittedly, my enjoyments during these respites were rather trivial, almost childish: I will walk over and talk to Red. I will go to the pond and sit a bit. I will take this path, and not that. And no one could call out, “Thomas, come hither” or “Thomas, if you please, that tray” or “Thomas, that vegetable bed needs tending, fetch Charles and Violet and put them to work, will you, old boy?”
Unless, of course, such an interruption was necessary. In which case, naturally, they might, indeed, interrupt me. Even on a Wednesday afternoon. Or a Sunday. Or late upon any night all. As I was enjoying an intimate moment with my wife. Or was lost in a much-needed sleep. Or was praying. Or on the privy.
And yet, still: I had my moments. My free, uninterrupted, discretionary moments.
Strange, though: it is the memory of those moments that bothers me most.
The thought, specifically, that other men enjoyed whole lifetimes comprised of such moments.
thomas havens
How came you to reside in our pit, sir?
elson farwell
I was in town. On an errand. I experienced a pain in my chest, and— thomas havens
Did they not seek you?
elson farwell
They sought me mightily!
They seek me still, I am sure.
My wife leading the effort, Mr. and Mrs. Conner showing their full support.
It is just—they have not found me yet.
thomas havens
This fellow was crisply shoved aside by a young mulatto woman in a white smock and a blue-trimmed lace bonnet, trembling wildly, of such startling beauty that a low murmur arose among the white supplicants.
roger bevins iii
Go ahead, Litzie. It’s now or f—–ing never.
betsy baron
litzie wright
Silent.
eddie baron
As always.
betsy baron
What the f—– musta been done to her? To shut her up so tight?
eddie baron
Stepping up beside the mulatto came a stout Negro woman of some years, by all appearances a large, outwardly jolly presence in that previous place, who was not jolly at all now, but livid, and scowling; and her feet, worn to nubs, left two trails of blood behind her, and as she placed her hands (also worked to nubs) on the mulatto’s hips, in support, she left bloody prints in two places there on the pale smock, as the mulatto continued to thrum and shake.
the reverend everly thomas
litzie wright
What was done to her was done to her many times, by many. What was done to her could not be resisted, was not resisted, sometimes was resisted, which resulted, sometimes, in her being sent away to some far worse place, other times in that resistance simply being forcibly overcome (by fist, knee, board-strike, etc.). What was done to her was done and done. Or just done once. What was done to her affected her not at all, affected her very much, drove her to the nervous shakes, drove her to hateful speech, drove her to leap off the Cedar Creek Bridge, drove her to this obstinate silence. What was done to her was done by big men, small men, boss men, men who happened to be passing the field in which she worked, the teen sons of the boss man or of the men who happened to be passing, a trio of men on a bender who spilled out of the house and, just before departing, saw her there chopping wood. What was done to her was done on a regular schedule, like some sort of sinister church-going; was done to her at random times; was never done at all, never once, but only constantly threatened: looming and sanctioned; what was done to her was straightforward missionary f*cking; what was done to her was anal f*cking (when the poor dear had never even heard of such a thing); what was done to her were small sick things (to the accompaniment of harsh words from stunted country men who would never have dreamed of doing such things to a woman of their own race), done to her as if no one else were there, only him, the man doing it, she nothing more than a (warm, silent) wax figure; what was done to her was: whatever anyone wished to do, and even if someone wished only slightly to do something to her, well, one could do it, it could be done, one did it, it was done, it was done and done and— mrs. francis hodge
Lieutenant Stone (shouting, “Back, SHARDS, get ye back!”) double-timed up at the head of a group of burly white men (Petit, Daly, and Burns among them), who brusquely cleared the black supplicants away from the white stone home, pushing at them with fallen tree-limbs held horizontally at chest-height.
roger bevins iii
Cries of outrage sounded forth from the black contingent.
hans vollman
Ah, said Mr. Havens. Here, as there?
mrs. francis hodge
Not so f——ing rough!
eddie baron
We know them. They’re all right!
betsy baron
Petit, Burns, and Daly, broad red faces distorted with rage, stepped menacingly toward the Barons, causing that couple to recede meekly into the crowd.