The Prophets(20)

To give Paul the benediction he sought, a newly christened Amos would take Essie’s hand in marriage. A simple broom jump, as Amos had seen performed in kinship circles as a child. He had to, of course, first ask for Paul’s permission. These were traditions that followed strict rules and could only be ordained if the master of the manor gave his blessing. And while their ceremony could never be as astounding as a toubab’s—there would be no horses or trumpets, no impeccably tailored clothing, no one coming from far to join in the merriment, and Essie’s parents wouldn’t be on hand to give her away because, as it turns out, they were given away themselves—there was no better view than the waters of the Yazoo, rushing not at all haphazardly to meet the grand Mississippi before, finally, joining in their long journey to the Gulf of Mexico.

It was that last thought, not the door opening onto Paul’s private study—a room lined, on two sides, floor to ceiling, with volumes and volumes of books—that made Amos gasp. Though Paul smiled and Amos took that to mean that he thought the inhalation was a tribute to the grandeur they both stepped into. With a flourish, Paul stepped behind a dark maple desk, on top of which there were neat stacks of papers and, to the right, a closed jar of ink with a pen laid neatly on top of it. Paul sat and gestured for Amos to step forward. Crushing his poor hat between both hands, crumbling it as though he was about to discard it, Amos took timid steps and kept his eyes to the ground as Paul lit a candle in a brass holder.

“Tell me what you know about the Christ,” Paul said, louder than necessary.

Amos knew that Paul liked to hear himself speak, was dazzled by the display and encouraged, by the embellishments biblical references allowed him, to opine without regard to the desires of his audience. Essie talked about how Paul hogged the ears of his guests at the parties he and Ruth would sometimes host. That was when he would have the most people in the Big House, and give them the best dresses to wear so as to impress his guests, who saw beauty in white cloth against black flesh. Wide-eyed and gaping, the contrast seemed to bring them a kind of comfort that Essie could only guess at.

They all saw it, though, Essie said. How Paul’s guests would yawn and roll their eyes and pull their watches from their pockets, pretend to be called elsewhere, give every indication that they had heard enough. But none of that stopped Paul. If they were in his house, they were honor bound to be taken by the words God Himself put in his mouth.

Amos observed something more: how Paul was delighted by his ability to connect these words of accumulation, dominance, and piety in the language of his birth. And not for the first time, Amos envied him. What must it have been like to wake up each day and greet the morning with the tongue of your mother’s mother’s mother? Hell, to even know who your mother’s mother’s mother was!

“What I’m telling you, nigger, is that this journey you are set to embark on is not a fool’s errand. If you are called, your allegiance is to the Almighty and your loyalty is mine for all eternity, for it is I who permitted it.”

Amos bowed his head deeper into his chest and mumbled, “Yes, Massa.”

“What you say?”

“Yessuh, Massa,” Amos said louder, his hands now fidgeting at his sides.

It wasn’t the first time he felt a twinge in the pit of his stomach that he had tried to avoid interpreting as defeat. To stand there, head necessarily bowed before the man who spoiled his soon-to-be broom-wife—no, spoiled himself! What Paul committed was an act against his own humanity, and no manner of expertly tailored clothing or well-enunciated diction would change that. Nor would any perfectly framed renderings of him and his family—all of them looking at the viewer, hiding smiles, with the “lady,” as they called her, seated, as was her right to be, and her husband and son flanking her as though their role was to guard her against anyone looking at them. This painting, taunting anybody who gazed upon it, hung above a fireplace that had the audacity to be roaring in August.

Nah. None of that shit would spare him. Neither would the stacks of coin, nor the promissory notes, nor the wagons full of people, nor the acres and acres of land that held the dead and dying but remained a fetching green nevertheless. None of this gave Paul immunity from what would be an honest comeuppance if only Amos fell full into his part; fell so hard, in fact, that he would lose himself to the descent, become it even, wingless to the very bottom of it, if that was what was required to keep Essie from the heart of the bull’s-eye. So head bowed, yes, head bowed. Let Paul’s fury see where the crown should go.

For months, Amos learned from Paul, word for word, what Paul called “the book of creation and the source of names.” At night, Amos had shared some of what he learned with Essie, spoke, also, to her belly so that their child would know. She was fascinated by it all because she hadn’t heard the stories quite in this way before. Amos realized that he gave the words a rhythm that Paul couldn’t. This pleased Amos. And that was when he began to feel it: lifted.

He had almost reached the summit when Essie gave birth to a disappointment. Amos looked at the baby’s skin and knew its origin immediately. The midwife wept; the child screamed; and Essie yelled, “Solomon!” Amos stepped back, inhaled deeply, and then let it out quickly.

He knelt down next to Essie. He understood what she was suggesting because he knew the story all too well. Split a baby in half? “No ma’am. So sorry. We can’t. Can’t do that and keep you safe, too. Trust me. I know it.”