The Prophets(86)

“Us, Massa?” Adam interrupted before he caught himself.

“Has blessed us with the answer to my prayers. Isn’t He amazing, Adam? Doesn’t He give so much to His children, His blessed children who He has charged with stewardship of all things earthly?” Paul finally removed his hands from Adam’s face and they slipped to his chest. “Oh, sometimes I can shout, Adam,” he said. “Sometimes, I feel that I could just stand in the middle of everything, like your grandfather did, and shout to the whole entire world that there is no greater gift than to be in God’s favor. No matter how low you may fall. No matter how many times you stumble, there is no greater knowledge than knowing that everything you do is in service to God Almighty and is, therefore, righteous. That’s why your grandfather did it. I never did tell you how he spun ’round with arms extended and laughed into the sky. That’s how I know God. That’s how I know He will make a way. Just when you think there is no portion, He will come to move mountains and reveal treasures for your chest only. You may half know this. But I hope at least some of it is getting through. You aren’t us, but you aren’t them, either. So maybe I’m not wasting my time by telling you this. And if I am, no one would believe you, anyway. So it doesn’t matter.”

They stared at each other in the lantern light, two faces that were reflections of each other to even the least discerning eye. Paul saw it clearest now. In another life, they might have been actual father and son rather than the hush-hush kind. Paul swallowed the notion that Adam made a more suitable offspring than Timothy. He would shit it out later.

The light between them had started to dim and the shadows had weakened. The dark had begun to claim them.

“I think the lantern need more oil, Massa,” Adam said quietly.

“More,” Paul replied, just as quietly, just before the light went out completely and the two of them breathed heavily in the dark.



* * *



—

THE MOON, sliced in half by the encroaching darkness, was nevertheless suspended high up in the night. It could be seen through the boughs of trees, threaded against it, as Adam steered the horses slowly up the trail to the Halifax property. Adam sat erect and cautious in the driver’s seat as Paul lay back in the coach, looking straight up into the sky through its opening.

He was in and out of consciousness. His head was pounding, but he ignored it. Instead, he looked at the half-moon. He raised his palm to the sky and blotted it out, then put his hand back down. It was easier than he thought to pull the moon out of the sky. He looked at his dirty hands and then down at his torn clothing. Empty pockets. No pocket watch. To find one’s self the winner even when life had designated you the loser. If his trip to the saloon taught him anything, it taught him that. Slumber finally caught up to him. The moon he saw now was inside his head, still half, but less bright.

The horses moved slowly by Adam’s hand. The road was gentle and rocked Paul and the half-moon that was now inside him. Other than the half-eaten moon that had now left him, Paul didn’t remember much about the ride other than how comforting it was, and he was startled not just by what seemed too quick a journey (and whiskey-induced slumber was always the best kind), but by Adam, who was now leaning in near his face. Too close.

“What are you doing?” Paul asked.

He sat up, finally. Adam moved back a bit, faced the ground, and said something Paul had no interest in hearing. They remained like that—ground-seeker and gazer—until discomfort set in. Paul then told Adam to take him to the house. Adam walked to the horses, grabbed their reins, and led them through the gate he had obviously opened while Paul slept. They approached the house. Adam helped Paul out of the coach.

“You need me for anything else, Massa?” he asked.

Paul shook his head because he didn’t have the patience for words and moreover didn’t wish to waste them. He stumbled less and walked slowly toward the house.

“You all right?” Adam asked.

Paul just waved him off. Adam led the horses by their reins, coach still attached, over toward the barn.

Paul continued walking, now more steadily, toward the house. All of the lights were out, except for a warm, dim glow coming from Timothy’s room. He hated that Timothy stayed up so late and painted by such low light. The quickest way to harm the eyes, he thought. Then he saw tussling shadows in the window just as the light went out completely. Pigs squealed and he perhaps heard hooves and cowbells.

His heart became a fist in his chest, trying very hard to batter its way out. He removed his pistol from its holster at his hip and ran to the house, moving quicker than his body would normally allow. He tripped on the first porch stair and banged his knee. He crawled up the next four stairs and stood, finally, at the top and stumbled into the entrance door, pushing it open with such force that it hit its adjoining wall and swung back into Paul’s face. Annoyed, he pushed it out of his way, but gentler this time, and started for the inside staircase. He called for Maggie but didn’t wait around for her to show up. He took the stairs two at a time and stumbled, again, at the top for being unable to see in such thick darkness. He called for Maggie again, this time waiting for her to arrive with a candle or lantern, which he would snatch from her the moment she appeared. But she didn’t. He would remember that come sunrise. He took off down the hall toward Timothy’s room, calling for him and for Ruth as he sped down the long stretch of it. Where was Ruth?