The Prophets(62)

Isaiah remained silent.

“Who’s that other Negro who works with you in the barn?”

Isaiah grabbed his own thigh and squeezed.

“Samuel, suh.”

“Is he your brother?”

“No, suh.”

“I’d like to meet him. Will you take me?”

Isaiah walked very slowly to lead the way. Timothy rushed ahead of him, forcing Isaiah to speed up. Through the wide-open door of the barn, Isaiah could see Samuel’s flickering silhouette against the walls, dancing alone to lamplight.

Samuel had been down at the river, too, the day Timothy called all of them forth, had also been pored over by him and thoughtfully rejected. They were bathing, modesty a sliver of a thing among them. It was a rest day, so they could do with their time what they wished, within limits. No one could leave the plantation without a pass, and passes were almost never given. But they could sit with their families and friends at the edge of the river and fish. They could gather around a campfire and roast walnuts. They could come together in the clearing and lift their voices to God. And they could bathe.

And on that particular morning, they bathed en masse. Probably those who wanted to be clean for Amos’s service—even though they would only mess themselves again by sitting on the ground, on rotting logs, or on mossy rock as the sun tried to break through tree boughs to give great Amos the glow.

None of it really made any sense to Timothy. He had watched them once, in a circle, beneath trees, listening to what sounded to him like nothing. Yes, certainly there were good Negroes, and maybe even some of them deserved to be free or returned to where they were snatched from, but what heaven would have them sitting side by side with decent Christians? The most they could hope for was an afterlife of shelter and enough food to fuel the toil that would be their lot for all eternity.

He interrupted their bathing, but all appeared forgiven because they seemed so glad to see it was him and not his father or James. So they lined up and Timothy recalled that, among the bunch, it was only Samuel who sulked.

Samuel stood up when he heard their footsteps tramping over the dusty trail from the Big House. He held up the lantern and saw Isaiah and Timothy walking toward the barn. He frowned and looked to the darkening sky. Then he slouched and lowered his head.

Timothy waited for Isaiah to run out in front of him to open the gate. Timothy might have simply climbed it had he not been so tired. He walked inside and stepped on a pile of horse shit.

“Christ Jesus,” he exclaimed. “Ugh. Lord have . . . Isaiah, I thought you two were supposed to keep this place . . . Shit. Help me . . .”

Timothy pointed down to his boot. Isaiah dropped to his knees and unlaced it. Then he tugged on it, though it wouldn’t budge. Finally, Samuel came out with the lamp. He set it on the ground and helped Isaiah pull. With one great heave, they got it loose, all three of them landing on their asses. Timothy laughed.

“My word.” He chuckled at them.

Isaiah got up and ran to retrieve a bucket of water. He left the boot on the ground. Timothy rose and dusted himself off. Then he looked at Samuel, who stared aimlessly in the lamplight.

“Good evening, Samuel,” Timothy said. Samuel jumped as if awakened from slumber. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, suh,” Samuel replied.

“Well?” Timothy rushed.

“You Massa Timothy, suh,” Samuel said, and added, “Good to have you back home, Massa.”

“Well, thank you, Samuel,” Timothy offered and straightened his back. His face brightened. “I wish I could say I was glad to be back. I miss the North so—cold as it is. Alas, here I am.”

There was silence between them. Isaiah came back with the bucket and he and Samuel knelt and began to clean the boot. Occasionally, Samuel would steal upward glances. Timothy watched as they worked in tandem, with perfect rhythm, like they had been made that way: arms moving, elbows jutting, hands swishing in water, fingers grasping the bucket’s edge, occasionally touching as one silently gave the other a cue in a language only they understood. They were together in a way he hadn’t ever witnessed, every separate motion building upon the other to form something that seemed to sway to its own music, back and forth, like the sea. For the first time, since arriving home, he felt like an intruder. He didn’t dislike the feeling, but the silence unsettled him.

“I’ve been painting Isaiah, you know,” he offered finally. “Out there, over by the field.”

Samuel stopped washing the boot. He took his hands out of the bucket and shook them to get the excess water off. He stood up and wiped his arms.

“Painting him, suh?” Samuel looked at Isaiah. Isaiah stood up and handed the boot back to Timothy. Samuel looked Isaiah up and down and then turned back toward Timothy.

“But I don’t see a lick of paint on him, Massa.”

“What? No,” Timothy said, laughing. “I’ve been painting pictures of him. You know, like paintings that you hang on a wall.”

“Oh, I see. That’s mighty fine, suh. Yes, indeed.” Samuel glanced toward Isaiah, who was giving him a stern look.

“Yes, well, maybe I can paint you, too, one of these days,” Timothy added.

“Yes, suh.”

“If you’d like.”

“Yes, suh.”

Suddenly, Timothy found himself disturbed and tried to discover why. He stared at the two Negroes in front of him. Something about them was nagging at him. Samuel was obedient enough, tall even when slouching. But he seemed, still, not to see him, to look past him, the smile on his face strained. Samuel was the color of an eggplant, violet more than black, and sturdy. He was about Timothy’s height and had just the whitest teeth. Shocking, those teeth were, because most boys Timothy knew had teeth that were either weed green or pallid yellow.