The Prophets(61)

He took a second to sit down at Paul’s desk. He leaned forward and spread his hands over its surface. No. He couldn’t imagine this being his destiny. It hovered too high and made him feel less corporeal—just like a cold sun’s silver rays could.

He stood up and was careful to return the chair to its previous position. He walked over to a shelf and discovered that it held precisely what he was seeking: inventory. The first books listed sacks of flour and sugar, hogs and horses, some of the furniture Ruth would allow very few people to sit upon, along with the purchase of some Negroes. When it came to the latter, there was no specificity. He could more readily identify the furniture based on the description than he could any of the slaves.

Timothy imagined, briefly, that Isaiah could have been his playmate at one time if he had been permitted to play with Negro children. Paul frowned upon any contact with Negroes that was not utilitarian, however shifty his definition of that word was. So Timothy endured loneliness, and loneliness never failed to make a child resourceful.

He scoured through stacks of books finally narrowing it down to about 1814, a year after his own birth. There were five births recorded in August alone. If Isaiah was born on the plantation, then it had to be 1814. If not, if Isaiah was purchased from another place, then it might have been in another ledger, the one from 1818 titled “Virgins,” in which Paul detailed how twenty slaves, chained together, had been brought in on an uncovered wagon from Virginia, which made stops in South Carolina and Georgia, the youngest among them a child of about three or four years of age. Timothy wondered why Paul titled the ledger so but eventually shrugged his shoulders, certain his father had his reasons.

As he turned through the pages of these documents, Timothy thought his father uncharacteristically sloppy: he didn’t write down any of the names of the Negroes he acquired, even though the first thing his father and mother always did was name the slaves upon their arrival. They said they did that to immediately gain mastery over them and erase whatever personality had been brewing on the passage over. In the ledger, Paul opted instead to identify them by ambiguous terms like “scar” or “watch,” so oblique as to be useless. How easy would it have been to write “Cephas” or “Dell” or “Essie” or “Freddy”? It didn’t matter in the end, Timothy supposed. Perhaps for his father, in the case of the record, the name of the tool was less important than its function.

Did Isaiah have any brothers? Was he born on this plantation? If not, did he remember his life before? Timothy decided he would ask.

On another day, Timothy pulled Isaiah away from his work. He sent Maggie down to retrieve him. When the two arrived at the back of the Big House, Ruth was standing on the porch, her arms crossed in front of her bosom. Timothy was standing behind her.

“Mag, I was calling you. Where were you? And who is this?” she said, sizing up Isaiah.

“I was fetching this here barn hand for Massa Timothy is all.”

“And what does Timothy want with this filthy creature?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. You best ask the massa himself.”

Timothy stepped forward.

“Mother, he’s my specimen. You know I paint these Negroes.”

Ruth sucked her teeth. “‘Negroes.’ You mean niggers. Call them as you see them. There’s no need for pussyfooting,” she said as she looked first at Timothy, then at Isaiah. “Well, don’t let him in the house. He’s liable to stink up the whole place. Settle any business right out here on this porch.”

Ruth stood on the porch eyeing Isaiah. Isaiah’s head was bowed and he was wringing his hands.

“Stop all that fidgeting,” Ruth said softly. “You’re making me—”

Timothy grabbed his mother by the arm.

“Mother, I think it’s best if you returned to your room. You need your rest. Maggie, would you take my mother back upstairs?”

“This is still my house, young man.” Ruth smiled. “And I will roam it as I please. Thank you kindly.” She unfolded her arms. “I wish you’d paint something else. All this beauty surrounding us and you find the ugliest thing in the world to waste paint on.”

Timothy’s face turned red before he composed himself.

“Mother, why don’t you go on inside? It will be dark soon and Maggie is about to serve tea and cookies. I’ll join you shortly.”

Ruth smiled a smile that told Timothy that she would pretend that he wasn’t trying to get rid of her. She patted him on the shoulder and walked slowly over the threshold and into the kitchen. Maggie followed her.

Timothy sighed.

“I apologize for Mother,” he said to Isaiah, who hadn’t moved an inch the entire time. He was still looking at his feet.

“No such a thing,” Isaiah replied, but he didn’t lift his head.

Timothy walked down the steps and walked up to Isaiah. He put his finger to his chin and lifted Isaiah’s head. Isaiah avoided eye contact, but wherever he would turn his eyes, Timothy would move there until, defeated, Isaiah looked him in the face.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Isaiah. I’m not like my family.”

Isaiah inhaled deeply, held it for a moment, and then let the air out slowly, silently. He scratched his head.

“Well, now. I had you summoned for a reason,” Timothy said. “I just have some questions.”