The Prophets(64)

He would paint Isaiah tomorrow.

And why shouldn’t he? It wouldn’t be long before he would begin to receive visitors. For surely his parents wanted, needed grandchildren; they weren’t shy about making this known. Pestering him about whether he had met any fine ladies during his studies, travels, and such, before deciding, ultimately, that it didn’t matter, that what he couldn’t find he hadn’t the experience to do in any regard. And they, his parents, would be better at selection.

There would come young women, girls really, all with the right breeding—with the right shade of red hair, or blond to match his own; with exceptionally green eyes, or blue like his; and bosoms that had just begun to rise at about the same time that he discovered the sizzling thing that dangled between his legs; girls whose eyes would flutter when he walked into the room; whose private parts would glisten with his grin; who might recoil internally and hold back tears so as not to offend their parents or their hosts. They would be paraded before him as though his choice mattered and, once chosen, he would be forced to marry her for whom he had no desire.

And why not with a Negro? Color stopped neither his mother nor his father. There were blond-haired, blue-eyed Negroes with near-white skin who walked just like him, had the same smile and the same square shoulders as he did, the same knobby knees and the same splotchy birthmark on the chin. Only the tight curls of their tresses—and, sometimes, their thick lips and broad noses—gave Timothy relief when he passed one of them. His parents thought he didn’t know about Adam, the coach Negro, but he did. Had always suspected it, but knew for certain on the ride into town to see him off to college. The way his mother snapped at Adam and the way she tried to distract Timothy; it was all so very obvious then. Adam looked too Halifax not to be one. There were probably more. He wasn’t an only child after all, but wished he could have been.

He had seen enough. He backed away from the barn and tiptoed off to the river. When he was right about at the spot where he had called all of the Negroes out of the water just days ago, he stooped and splashed his face with water. He took off his pants and attempted to cool the heat between his legs, but it only grew. So he felt himself, over and over again, until he could feel himself no longer.

Drained, he trekked back to the Big House, climbed the stairs slowly, reached his room, and fell face-first into his bed. He hadn’t slept that well since he returned home. He dreamed of writhing bodies and drool. Only the sun pouring through his window a short while later, its heat beating down on his head, woke him. Temporarily blinded, he rubbed his eyes. When his vision adjusted, he surveyed his room. The painting of Isaiah, not quite finished, but finished enough, stared back at him. He blushed and turned his face.

When Isaiah arrived later that morning, Timothy came down to greet him. With Ruth still soundly asleep, Timothy led Isaiah up the stairs and into his room.

“Have you ever been in the house before?” Timothy asked Isaiah.

“No, suh.” Isaiah looked around as though he were trying to memorize every detail.

“This is my room. You like it?”

“I never seen nothing like it. Almost as big as the whole barn.”

Timothy laughed and then closed the door. There was a skeleton key in the lock. He quietly turned it.

“Do you know how to read, Isaiah?”

“Oh, no, suh. No nigger is allowed to read.”

“Do you want to know?”

“No, suh. No use in it.”

“Well, I’m going to teach you anyway. Our secret.”

“Why, suh?”

“Because I like you, Isaiah. I think you’re a good boy.”

Timothy walked over to a shelf and pulled the Bible from it.

“Here. Come sit with me on my bed.”

“I dirty, Massa. I don’t wanna—”

“Never mind that. Just come.”

Isaiah took unsure steps toward the bed and hesitantly sat upon it, right at the spot where Timothy was indicating with his beating hand. Timothy looked Isaiah over and reaffirmed for himself that he was a splendid physical specimen. He examined his crotch. Negroes didn’t wear undergarments, so it was not difficult to see what was beneath. Timothy rubbed his eyes. It couldn’t be. But wait: it moved! He was certain. Snaked through his pants leg and came to rest on his right thigh as if contemplating an escape route before daring to venture any farther and becoming lost.

By golly, it moved!

He touched Isaiah’s arm and marveled at his skin. Seduced by his dark edges, by the sweet curves of his blacker-than-black. He had an overwhelming desire to fall into himself darkly and be lost.

“Massa?”

“I want to see it. Please take off your clothes.”

Isaiah hesitated. Opened his mouth but neglected to speak any words. He unfastened his shirt. He let it fall to the floor. Timothy leaned in close to Isaiah and squinted, examining him until he came to Isaiah’s back.

“Did my father do this to you?”

Isaiah said nothing.

“Why would he do something like this?” Timothy asked as he kissed the welts.

Isaiah shivered. “I thought you said you wanted to paint me, Massa.”

Timothy kept kissing his back.

“Massa, I thought you was gon’—”

“Shhh. Isn’t this better?” Timothy asked, but it was not a question.