The Prophets(22)

Amos opened his eyes and looked at Samuel. “It don’t get no plainer than this: you gotta give Massa babies.”

Samuel leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Amos’s. He seemed to inspect it, search it for something. When he found it, he raised an eyebrow.

“What he promise you? Extra vittles? A pass to town? Freedom papers? Show me when a toubab ever keep they word.”

Amos smiled. He leaned back and nodded his head.

“Be Auntie’s daughter Puah is just at that age, you know,” he said. “You could give Massa some sturdy children with her.”

Isaiah looked at Samuel, whose darting eyes seemed to be communicating without words. Amos looked at them directly.

“What you say?” he asked. Neither Samuel nor Isaiah answered.

“I don’t understand why y’all make this so hard,” Amos said casually. “Y’all ain’t being asked to do what no man ain’t never been asked to do before. What make y’all so different?”

Silence.

Isaiah looked at Samuel. Samuel grumbled.

“Why you putting this on us, Amos?”

Amos saw Samuel standing steady for a moment, then watched as he stormed outside, stooped, and picked up the nearest rock he could find. It was of moderate size, smaller than the palm of his hand, and fit snugly inside it. He came back into the cabin. He raised his arm and threw the stone at Amos, just missing his head. Purposely missed, because at that close range, it was a sure shot. Nevertheless, Amos fell backward, then stood up quickly. He made no move toward Samuel. Isaiah touched Samuel’s tensing arm and Samuel snatched it away before running back out of the shack, leaving Isaiah alone with Amos.

Amos dusted off his pants. He chuckled a bit before walking toward Isaiah.

“That one got some temper, huh? You gotta show him how to keep that in check. If you won’t, the lash will.”

Isaiah said nothing. Amos put his hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. Isaiah looked at it. He removed Amos’s hand, but gently, without malice. He didn’t look at Amos when he did it. He was watching the spot where there should have been a door, but there was only a blue cloth. Amos moved into his line of sight. He tilted his head slightly and looked into Isaiah’s eyes.

“You remember, right? The wagon. You remember?” Amos was bent. He held out his arms, like he was carrying, no, cradling a child in them. Nothing was there, but something was there.

Isaiah’s eyes widened; his mouth opened and, at first, made no sound. Then:

“That was you?” he said, his voice quivering when it finally formed words. “I don’t understand. Why you never tell me? Why you wait so long?”

Isaiah moved closer to Amos. Amos stood his ground.

“I . . .”

“You told me you tell me my name. You said a promise. You said.”

“I was waiting ’til you reach the age of manhood. I ain’t wanna waste something like this on a boy. It be too big for him to carry.”

“You knew it was me and you ain’t say nothing?” asked Isaiah, voice trembling.

Amos placed his hand back on Isaiah’s shoulder. “I knew it was you and was fixin’ to tell you when the time was right.”

“Time right now, ain’t it? So tell me.”

“When you earn it, I tell you.”

“Which is it? Manhood time or when I earn it? You talk slippery.”

“Come to the woods on Sunday,” Amos said finally, resting his arms at his sides. “Son.”

“My. Name!” Isaiah shouted.

The tears had made their way out. There were streaks down his face now. Though they brought Amos no joy, he smiled again. Isaiah could be reached, he thought.

Isaiah was quiet. His gaze returned to the cloth, which had begun to move a little in the breeze.

“I know more than your name,” Amos said. “Talk to Samuel about Puah. And we find you somebody. But not Essie. Not Essie, no more.”

Isaiah looked at Amos as though he couldn’t speak an answer. Isaiah closed his eyes. Amos watched as he muffled a covenant with despair. But the sound, not as mellow as birdsong, nor as thunderous as a midday storm, could be heard, resting somewhere between the two, and made Amos long for the old place—Virginia. The longing was misplaced. That wasn’t home and neither was this: not these shores, certainly, but which ones, exactly, he knew he would never know, and that was where the pain was.

Isaiah opened his eyes.

Amos’s mouth opened slightly, as though to whisper or to kiss, his tongue not restful behind his teeth. Then he closed it quickly. What he wouldn’t give to have his pain eased, too. He shook his head and let out a frustrated breath.

“Puah. And we find somebody for you. But not Essie.”

Isaiah walked outside. He looked down briefly. Amos could see in the slump of his shoulders that the boy whom he had once lifted up was now pressed under the weight of Amos pushing him down. And no matter how necessary, Amos felt a little broken himself for this. Suddenly, Isaiah took off, ran in the direction of the barn, disappearing behind the clouds of dust his feet stirred up. Now it was Amos’s turn to stare at the blue cloth, moving slightly in a too-gentle wind.



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A FEW DAYS AFTER Samuel almost smashed a rock into his head, Amos walked, with only minor trepidation, to the barn. He was praying the entire time so he ignored the children playing in the weeds and the folks who waved to him as he passed their shacks. They would have to forgive his rudeness. When he reached the fence of the barn, he saw Samuel and Isaiah kneeling near the barn door, a slop pail between them. He refused to be seduced by their glowing.