The Prophets(88)

Either she was free or worse. It was futile to contemplate, but then Adam’s entire existence was futile, so he continued. And he could do that in relative peace as he sat in the coach, directing the horses to whichever place the Halifaxes wanted him to go. He, by birth if not by law, was a Halifax too. But still: he had to be careful. Eyes always ahead. Face always front. He couldn’t give even the slightest impression that he was glancing to the left toward the wild and creamy hydrangeas that lined parts of the dusty path, or toward the right, where the cyrilla gathered like family with forgiving yellow fingers that pointed casually toward the ground. Least of all could he reveal that he, indeed, saw the sun rise and set, and noticed that what each did to the sky differed in ways that entire volumes could be written about and he could write them. Not to mention what a tender blanket nighttime was.

The horses provided a kind of shelter. Their rhythm remained steady and so the coach rocked and it made Paul, Ruth, Timothy, and, sometimes, James, prone to napping. Paul snuggled into himself with a frown. Ruth, a dreary smile. Timothy had always a sketch pad about to fall from his lap. And James, even in slumber, maintained the tightest grip upon his rifle.

When they returned to Empty, they each seemed angry that the ride had come to an end, as though the plantation had somehow made them feel that no rest could be had. This struck Adam as arrogant. How could they dare think of anything they did as work, or that they were entitled to rest because of it? Meanwhile, niggers—sometimes he liked that word and sometimes he didn’t—worked their (our?) fingers into knots such that even a welcome embrace was painful.

He, like everyone else, had that weight to carry and nowhere to put it down except in bittersweet repetition. So he would just unfasten the horses and stroke them gently on the nose. Always he would ask them the same question: “You ready to eat?”

Then he would lead them back to the barn and steal a moment to drink sweet water with Isaiah and Samuel.

He couldn’t understand the fuss, the whispers that had grown and threatened to be heard by the wrong Halifax. So what if in the silent dark they intertwined? What difference do that make? Don’t people gotta do what they gotta do to make it another day? You can’t expect all this work to get done and misery be the only massa to oversee it. Even a nigger need a reprieve. Otherwise . . .

Otherwise what? Even Adam knew that had to remain unspoken until it didn’t. That was the only chance at triumph.

All three of them drinking from the same pail with the same ladle, passing the sweetness between them, one behind the other, interrupted only when nibbling on the corn bread Maggie snuck them earlier, and they were anxious to share. She would always treat those boys like they were her own, sneaking them things she thought no one else knew about. Adam guessed it only went unpunished because it was seen as no different from fattening hogs. Since Isaiah and Samuel were better fed, their bodies were better defined. Between the food and the work, they were sinewy and slick with sweat. Only by their faces could you tell that they were still just boys.

“What it feel like,” Adam asked quietly, knowing full well the answer would never satisfy. “To have each other?”

Samuel winced, but Isaiah broadened his chest.

“Like it supposed to,” Isaiah said. Samuel shifted his foot back and forth on the ground, creating an arc in the dust.

“But you not afraid they might tear you apart?” Adam could find no more delicate way to say it and thought they might appreciate his direct approach because it acknowledged their bond as a fact rather than a problem.

Samuel looked at him. “Afraid? No. Not afraid. Other stuff, but not afraid.”

“What other stuff?”

Samuel only grunted. Adam knew that to mean that it didn’t matter. They had enough. Good God: it was enough! But how? How could they not need more of everything: more love, more life, more time?

It didn’t go unnoticed by Adam the stark contrast between himself and Isaiah and Samuel. It began with the skin. Of theirs, one was a deep cavern without lamplight to guide, the other a midnight sky, but without any stars. He saw his own as a starry night without any sky. All three were impossible, but there they were, connected by terrain and grievance, and also by the thickness of lips that outlined the mouth in a most peculiar way. Adam’s were pinker and, too, the dead giveaway.

When he wet his hair and pushed it back, there were moments that toubab women had looked at him as though he had potential, until, upon closer inspection, his lips revealed the crime in such an assessment. There was nothing he could do about the lips unless he tucked them inside. But he eventually had to talk and they would reveal themselves again. If women could discern, so could a catcher or lynch mob. The lips were the sole betrayer since birth.

He knew then, at least, that his mother had a mouth shaped like truth because his was too. But truth called attention to itself in ways that were usually detrimental for the teller. His admiration for Isaiah and Samuel magnified because there they were in that barn, dim in the shadows of a truth that openly vexed anyone accustomed to lies. They were in the midst of each other and that hurt Adam as much as it pleased him.

Would he find someone with whom he could bide? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been with women before, maybe even loved one or two of them. He just couldn’t get past not having the choice. It was always there on the women’s faces, too. Unwillingness wore a woman in a way that made him want to weep. And sometimes he did. Though none of that altered his actions—threat of whip or not.