The Prophets(67)

Samuel straightened his back. He searched Isaiah’s face for a reason. Maybe the bump of the chin, a nose twitch, maybe the curl of his lashes would tell him something about why this man had decided, out of nowhere, to crush him and take his time doing it.

“When you went to him, you walk or run?” Samuel said. He looked at Isaiah with sharpened eyes. “And you get on me ’bout Puah?”

Isaiah’s mouth opened and his tongue looked for the proper words, but found none. The space in front of him narrowed. His vision, a border, however imaginary. For a moment, there was silence and all either of them could feel was heat emanating from nowhere and from each other. Isaiah decided surrender was a better option than retaliatory action. He went to touch Samuel’s knee, but Samuel jerked it away just as Isaiah reached out. Isaiah smiled, shook his head. His eyes blinked slowly, heavily. He yawned. He stood up as though he were about to walk away, but he merely turned his back to Samuel and looked toward the barn door. On each hand, his fingers wiggled quickly, like someone trying to bide his time but who couldn’t figure out what to do with his body as he waited. He started to mumble.

“The men got no curve. Not a one. From the back of they necks to the tip of they heels is a straight goddamn line. Strangest thing you ever did see.” He chuckled. “They ask a heap of questions. He ask me ’bout you and so I tell him. Ain’t no use in lying, he say. Because I seen with my own eyes, he say. So I tell him: ‘Samuel? He touch my shoulder. I open him up. I open him up wide. So he can feel everything. He collapse in on me. And everything feel good.’”

“Why I have to hear this?”

“You asked.”

“Not for this.”

Samuel turned his head. He scooted over, closer to the bucket of water. He grabbed the ladle and took a gulp of water. Then he dipped it again and took another. Then another. Then another. He could hardly catch his breath. Isaiah turned slightly to see Samuel’s face, bronze in the lamplight; beads of sweat spotted his forehead; his nostrils were flaring. Isaiah wondered if he should keep talking.

Samuel looked up at him. He pushed himself back, away from the bucket. He wanted to get up, to grab something and destroy it. Instead, he just sat there, not wanting to look at Isaiah anymore, not even wanting to smell his scent, which wasn’t his scent. Isaiah moved back over toward him and got down on his knees.

“You mad at me?” Isaiah said to Samuel, looking into his face as though some blemish on his skin might hold the answer.

Samuel looked toward the doors.

“Don’t be mad. Never mind what I say ’bout Puah. I . . . I didn’t wanna die. To you, I freely come.”

Samuel continued to stare at the doorway. Then, slowly, his eyes moved over to the wall where the tools were hanging, then over to the bales of hay. Finally, he locked eyes with Isaiah.

“Talk to me, Sam. Tell me something good,” Isaiah said as he took one of Samuel’s hands in both of his.

Samuel bit his bottom lip. He looked at an object hanging on the wall. He let his eyes linger over the ax. He admired its shape, longed to wield the sharp edge of it. He crossed his legs. Isaiah remained on his knees and so he was raised higher than Samuel. Samuel put his hand on Isaiah’s thigh.

“This bump right here,” Samuel said.

Isaiah smiled and touched Samuel’s waist.

“This curve right here,” Isaiah replied.

“The way your left arm move.”

“How soft your lips is.”

“Your pointy elbows.”

“Your big forehead.”

“Back of your neck where skin meet hair. ’Specially when you walking away.”

“When you touch me here.”

“The time I were too sick to move and you fetched me sweet water for wildflower tea.”

Isaiah threw his arms around Samuel. He held him for a moment before weeping into his shoulder. Samuel held him tight, then he pushed him back so that he could see his face. His hands caressed his chest, then moved down to his navel. Isaiah reclined and Samuel moved forward and then rested his palm against Isaiah’s firm belly. With his finger, he traced the boundaries of Isaiah’s body.

“What you do to me?” Samuel asked.

He caressed Isaiah’s face and Isaiah leaned into the caress. Isaiah smelled Samuel’s hands, kissed them, then grabbed them and pressed them into his face.

“I didn’t mean . . .” Samuel said.

“Folks never do.”

Isaiah rolled over onto Samuel. He paused for a moment, hovered there slightly, enjoying the feeling of being taller for once. He descended a bit, leaned in, then a bit more, wondering if Samuel would let him without demanding that he go to the river and scrub the filth from himself. Finally, their navels touched. Breathing into each other, their bellies fluttered at the same time; sweaty, every time they inhaled, one’s flesh would peel from the other’s and it tickled. They laughed quietly.

Isaiah dove into Samuel, lips and teeth against his neck, hands gripped around his wrists. Samuel raised his legs and wrapped them around Isaiah’s waist. With a heave, he turned them both over so that he was on top again and Isaiah’s back was against the ground. Isaiah’s foot knocked over the bucket. Samuel turned to watch the water soak into the dirt. Isaiah grabbed him and pulled him down so that their bodies pressed. Samuel writhed gently. He smiled. He looked at Isaiah.