The Prophets(78)

It was thin and shocking set against the backdrop of the wilderness. He had it built there, far enough away from the house that the odor didn’t overwhelm. Not too far from the flowers so that they, too, could be the arbitration between what stank and what bloomed. He burst into it and closed the door behind him. He put the lantern down. The smell in that summer air, the insects that buzzed and clicked; he didn’t bother to check for snakes because there was no time. He couldn’t get his trousers down fast enough as the suspenders took too long to unfasten. When he felt the warmth begin to slide down his leg, he nearly took the Lord’s name in vain. Though he was sure vanity had nothing to do with it.

“Maggie! Maggie!” Paul cried.

She arrived not as quick as he would have it. She knocked on the red door.

“Massa? You call for me?” she asked, holding another lantern up.

“Did you bring a cloth?”

“No, suh. You need a cloth, suh?”

“I wouldn’t have called you if . . . never mind. Hurry and get one. Send Essie if you can’t move quickly. Go!”

After a moment, Essie knocked on the door.

“Massa, I has the cloth Maggie sent . . .”

Paul opened the door and saw her lantern first. “Yes, yes. Now give it here.”

Paul grabbed the cloth and it was dry.

“Where . . . this . . . no water. You didn’t wet this? Where is my bowl with water?”

“Oh, you wanted water, too, Massa?” Essie put her hand to her mouth. “Maggie said you only asked for a cloth. So that’s what I did. I hurried and brought you this cloth.”

“Blasted!” Paul exclaimed. “Maggie! Call Maggie. Maggie!”

“Maggie!” Essie joined in.

Maggie returned.

“Maggie, get me a bowl of water immediately. And another pair of britches. And be hasty about it. “Essie, here.” Paul took off his pants, suspenders dangling from them. “Go and tend to these. Make sure you wash them thoroughly.”

Maggie looked back. She and Essie glanced at each other. “Yessuh,” Essie said, as she walked off holding the pants out, away from her.

Maggie returned shortly.

“Here, suh,” she said, as she placed the bowl and her lantern down on the ground.

Paul handed her the cloth and she dipped in the warm water and handed it back to him. He looked at her with narrowed eyes and a crumpled brow.

“You don’t expect me . . .”

He stood up, turned around, his ass now at the level of Maggie’s face.

“Clean me.”

He cupped himself in front as Maggie, in upward strokes, like one would with a baby, wiped his bottom, and the muddy stream down his leg, shiny in the lantern light. When she was done, she threw the soiled rag into the bowl and handed Paul the trousers.

“Where are my suspenders?” he asked, as he pulled the pants up, which were spacious around his waist and wouldn’t remain up.

“Massa, suh, I reckon you gave them to Essie for cleaning?”

“Dang it!” Paul shouted. “Move,” he continued as he pushed past Maggie and stomped his way back into the house, holding his pants by their uppermost edge so they wouldn’t fall down around his ankles.

He wanted to blame them. So he had them stand there in the kitchen as he walked back and forth, looking at them as though it were they, not he, whose words weren’t clear and thus left open to interpretation. He would have the doctor to visit and give him something for his stomach—a soothing tea, a healing rub perhaps. He had run out of both since the last time. He looked at Maggie and Essie. Their heads were bent, but they were holding hands.

“Stop that,” Paul snapped, pointing to where their hands were cupped. They released. “Heh,” he spat. “I like to beat you both where you stand,” he said as he paced. He looked them up and down in their twin white dresses, in their twin black skins, though one taller and thicker than the other, one whose body was more familiar. “Maggie: No more cranberry sauce with dinner,” he said finally. “Or maybe it was those blasted greens; the way you spice them . . .”

Maggie nodded. “Yes, Massa,” she said, looking over at Essie quickly before returning her gaze to the floor. Then: “Oh, Massa, so sorry! Your shoe,” she continued, pointing downward.

At the tip of Paul’s black boot, a brown splotch.

“Give those to me, suh. I shine them for you,” Essie said and knelt down to take them from his feet. Maggie joined her.

Paul held on to a nearby wall as they unfastened and removed his shoes. Three lanterns lined up on the floor gave them all a warm glow. He liked Maggie and Essie there, stooped, crawling around at his feet. But there was something odd: They were both kneeling, clearly. But briefly, for just a blink, he could have sworn it was they who were standing.

And that it was he who was on his knees.



* * *



—

“YES, COUSIN. I do need a drink,” Paul said after James asked.

He and James left the cotton sacks to James’s men, walked over to the barn, climbed atop the horses, led to them by one of the niggers who had performed all of his duties well, save one. And just a moment before, Jesus was offered as a possible solution for that by another nigger, the lot of whom was so low and insignificant beneath Jesus’s consideration that it made even James laugh. But it made Paul think.