James

THE CORN BREAD was wrapped in a thin towel and I had to keep shifting hands because it was hot. I considered having a taste because I was hungry, but I wanted Sadie and Elizabeth to have the first bites. When I stepped through the door, Lizzie ran to me, sniffing the air like a hound.

“What’s that I smell?” she asked.

“I imagine that would be this corn bread,” I said. “Miss Watson used your mama’s special recipe and it certainly does smell good. She did inform me that she made a couple of alterations.”

Sadie came to me and gave me a kiss on the mouth. She stroked my face. She was soft and her lips were soft, but her hands were as rough as mine from work in the fields, though still gentle.

“I’ll be sure to take this towel back to her tomorrow. White folks always remember things like that. I swear, I believe they set aside time every day to count towels and spoons and cups and such.”

“That’s the honest truth. Remember that time I forgot to put that rake back in the shed?”

Sadie had the corn bread on the block—a stump, really—that served as our table. She sliced into it. She handed portions to Lizzie and me. I took a bite and so did Lizzie. We looked at each other.

“But it smells so good,” the child said.

Sadie shaved off a sliver and put it in her mouth. “I swear that woman has a talent for not cooking.”

“Do I have to eat it?” Lizzie asked.

“No, you don’t,” Sadie said.

“But what are you going to say when she asks you about it?” I asked.

Lizzie cleared her throat. “Miss Watson, dat sum conebread lak I neva before et.”

“Try ‘dat be,’ ” I said. “That would be the correct incorrect grammar.”

“Dat be sum of conebread lak neva I et,” she said.

“Very good,” I said.

Albert appeared at the door of our shack. “James, you coming out?”

“I’ll be there directly. Sadie, do you mind?”

“Go on,” she said.

—

I WALKED OUTSIDE and over to the big fire, where the men were sitting. I was greeted and then I sat. We talked some about what happened to a runaway over at another farm. “Yeah, they beat him real good,” Doris said. Doris was a man, but that didn’t seem to matter to the slavers when they named him.

“All of them are going to hell,” Old Luke said.

“What happened to you today?” Doris asked me.

“Nothing.”

“Something must have happened,” Albert said.

They were waiting for me to tell them a story. I was apparently good at that, telling stories. “Nothing, except I got carried off to New Orleans today. Aside from that, nothing happened.”

“You what?” Albert said.

“Yes. You see, I thought I was drifting off into a nice nap about noon and the next thing I knew I was standing on a bustling street with mule-drawn carriages and whatnot all around me.”

“You’re crazy,” someone said.

I caught sight of Albert giving me the warning sign that white folks were close. Then I heard the clumsy action in the bushes and I knew it was those boys.

“Lak I say, I furst found my hat up on a nail. ‘I ain’t put dat dere,’ I say to mysef. ‘How dat hat git dere?’ And I knew ’twas witches what done it. I ain’t seen ’em, but it was dem. And one dem witches, the one what took my hat, she sent me all da way down to N’Orlins. Can you believe dat?” My change in diction alerted the rest to the white boys’ presence. So, my performance for the boys became a frame for my story. My story became less of a tale as the real game became the display for the boys.

“You don’t says,” Doris said. “Dem witches ain’t to be messed wif.”

“You got dat right,” another man said.

We could hear the boys giggling. “So, dere I was in N’Orlins and guess what?” I said. “All of a sudden dis root doctor come up behind me. He say, ‘Whatchu doin’ in dis here town.’ I tells him I ain’t got no idea how I git dere. And you know what he say ta me? You know what he say?”

“What he say, Jim?” Albert asked.

“He say I, Jim, be a free man. He say dat ain’t nobody gone call me no nigga eber ’gin.”

“Lawd, hab mercy,” Skinny, the farrier, shouted out.

“Demon say I could buy me what I want up da street. He say I could have me some whisky, if’n I wanted. Whatchu think ’bout that?”

“Whisky is the devil’s drink,” Doris said.

“Din’t matter,” I said. “Din’t matter a bit. He say I could hab it if’n I wanted it. Anything else, too. Din’t matter, though.”

“Why was dat?” a man asked.

“Furst, ’cause I was in dat place to whar dat demon sent me. Weren’t real, jest a dream. And ’cause I ain’t had me no money. It be dat simple. So dat demon snapped his old dirty fingas and sent me home.”

“Why fo he do dat?” Albert asked.

“Hell, man, you cain’t get in no trouble in N’Orlins lessen you gots some money, dream or no dream,” I said.

The men laughed. “Dat sho is what I heared,” a man said.

“Wait,” I said. “I thinks I hears one dem demons in the bushes right naw. Somebody gives me a torch so I kin set dis brush alight. Witches and demons don’t lak no fires burnin’ all round ’em. Dey start to melt lak butta on a griddle.”

We all laughed as we heard the white boys hightail it out of there.

—

AFTER STEPPING ON them squeaking boards last night, I knew Miss Watson would have me nailing down those planks and fixing that loose step. I waited till midmorning so I wouldn’t wake any white folks. They could sleep like nobody’s business and always complained to wake up too early, no matter how late it was.

Huck came out of the house and watched me for a few minutes. He hovered around like he did when something was on his mind.

“Why you ain’t out runnin’ wif yo friend?” I asked.

“You mean Tom Sawyer?”

“I guessin’ dat da one.”

“He’s probably still sleepin’. He was probably up all night robbin’ banks and trains and such.”

“He do dat, do he?”

“Claims to. He got some money, so he buys himself books and be readin’ all the time ’bout adventures. Sometimes I ain’t so sho ’bout him.”

“Whatchu mean?”

“Like, he found this cave and we goes into it and have a meeting with some other boys, but we get in there it’s like he gotta be the boss.”

“Yeah?”

“And all because he been reading them books.”

“And dat sorta rub you da wrong way?” I asked.

“Why people say that? ‘Rubbing the wrong way’?”

“Well, the way I sees it, Huck, is if’n you rake a fish’s back wid a fork head ta tail, ain’t gone matter much to him, but if’n you go ta other way…”

“I git it.”

“It seem sumtimes you jest gotta put up wif your friends. Dey gonna do what dey gonna do.”

“Jim, you work the mules and you fix the wagon wheels and now you fixin’ this here porch. Who taught you to do all them things?”

I stopped and looked at the hammer in my hand, flipped it. “Dat be a good question, Huck.”

“So, who did?”

“Necessity.”

“What?”

“ ’Cessity,” I corrected myself. “ ’Cessity is when you gots to do sumptin’ or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Else’n they takes you to the post and whips ya or they drags ya down to the river and sells ya. Nuffin you gots to worry ’bout.”

Huck looked at the sky. He pondered on that a bit. “Sho is pretty when you jest look at the sky with nothin’ in it, jest blue. I heard tell there are names for different blues. And reds and the like. I wonder what you call that blue.”

“ ‘Robin’s egg,’ ” I said. “You ever seen a robin’s egg?”

“You right, Jim. It is like a robin’s egg, ’ceptin’ it ain’t got the speckles.”

I nodded. “Dat be why you gots to look past the speckles.”

“Robin’s egg,” Huck said, again.

We sat there a little longer. “What else be eatin’ you?” I asked.

“I think Miss Watson is crazy.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Always talkin’ ’bout Jesus and prayers and such. She got Jesus Christ on the brain. She told me that prayers is to help me act selflessly in the world. What the hell does that mean?”

“Don’t be swearin’ naw, Huck.”

“You sound like her. I don’t see no profit in askin’ for stuff just so I don’t get it and learn a lesson ’bout not gettin’ what I asked fer. What kinda sense does that make? Might as well pray to that board there.”

I nodded.

“You noddin’ that it makes sense or don’t make no sense?”

“I’m jest noddin’, Huck.”

“I’m surrounded by crazy people. You know what Tom Sawyer did?”

“Tells me, Huck.”

“He made us take an oath in blood that if’n any of us tells gang secrets, then we will kill that person’s entire family. Don’t that sound crazy?”

“How you take a blood oath?” I asked.

“You’re supposed to cut yer hand open with a knife and shake with everybody else what done the same thing. You know, so your blood gets all mixed and mashed together. Then you’re blood brothers.”

I looked at his hands.

“We used spit instead. Tom Sawyer said it would do the same thing and how could we rob a bank wif our hands all cut up. One boy cried and said he was going to tell and Tom Sawyer shut him up wif a nickel.”

“Ain’t you tellin’ me yo secrets right naw?” I asked.

Huck paused. “You’re different.”

“ ’Cause I’m a slave?”

“No, taint that.”

“What it is, den?”

“You’re my friend, Jim.”

“Why, thank ya, Huck.”

“You won’t tell nobody, will ya?” He stared anxiously at me. “Even if we go out and rob us a bank. You won’t tell, right?”

“I kin keep me a secret, Huck. I kin keep yo secret, too.”

Miss Watson came to the back screen and hissed, “Ain’t you done with that step yet, Jim?”

“Matter fact, I am, Miss Watson,” I said.

“It’s a miracle with this here boy yakking your ear off. Huckleberry, you get back in this house and make yer bed.”

“I’m jest gonna mess it up agin tonight,” Huck said. He shoved his hands in his britches and swayed there, like he knew he’d just crossed a line.

“Don’t make me come out there,” she said.

“See ya later, Jim.” Huck ran into the house, running by Miss Watson sideways like he was dodging a swat.

“Jim,” Miss Watson said, looking back into the house after Huck.

“Ma’am?”

“I hear tell Huck’s pappy is back in town.” She stepped past me and looked at the road.

I nodded. “Yessum.”

“Keep an eye on Huck,” she said.

I didn’t know exactly what she was asking me to do. “Yessum.” I put the hammer back in the box. “Ma’am, what I s’posed to keep my eye on, zackly?”

“And help him watch out for that Sawyer boy.”

“Why fo you tellin’ me all dis, missum?”

The old woman looked at me and then out at the road and then up at the sky. “I don’t know, Jim.”

I studied on Miss Watson’s words. That Tom Sawyer wasn’t really a danger to Huck, just a kind of little fellow sitting on his shoulder whispering nonsense. But his father being back, that was a different story. That man might have been sober or he might have been drunk, but in either of those conditions he consistently threw beatings onto the poor boy.

CHAPTER 2 THAT EVENING I sat down with Lizzie and six other children in our cabin and gave a language lesson. These were indispensable. Safe movement through the world depended on mastery of language, fluency. The young ones sat on the packed-dirt floor and I was on one of our two homemade stools. The hole in the roof pulled the smoke from the fire that burned in the middle of the shack. “Papa, why do we have to learn this?” “White folks expect us to sound a certain way and it can only help if we don’t disappoint them,” I said. “The only ones who suffer when they are made to feel inferior is us. Perhaps I should say ‘when they don’t feel superior.’ So, let’s pause to review some of the basics.” “Don’t make eye contact,” a boy said. “Right, Virgil.” “Never speak first,” a girl said. “That’s correct, February,” I said. Lizzie looked at the other children and then back to me. “Never address any subject directly when talking to another slave,” she said. “What do we call that?” I asked. Together they said, “Signifying.” “Excellent.” They were happy with themselves, and I let that feeling linger. “Let’s try some situational translations. Something extreme first. You’re walking down the street and you see that Mrs. Holiday’s kitchen is on fire. She’s standing in her yard, her back to her house, unaware. How do you tell her?” “Fire, fire,” January said. “Direct. And that’s almost correct,” I said. The youngest of them, lean and tall five-year-old Rachel, said, “Lawdy, missum! Looky dere.” “Perfect,” I said. “Why is that correct?” Lizzie raised her hand. “Because we must let the whites be the ones who name the trouble.” “And why is that?” I asked. February said, “Because they need to know everything before us. Because they need to name everything.” “Good, good. You all are really sharp today. Okay, let’s imagine now that it’s a grease fire. She’s left bacon unattended on the stove. Mrs. Holiday is about to throw water on it. What do you say? Rachel?” Rachel paused. “Missums, that water gone make it wurs!” “Of course, that’s true, but what’s the problem with that?” Virgil said, “You’re telling her she’s doing the wrong thing.” I nodded. “So, what should you say?” Lizzie looked at the ceiling and spoke while thinking it through. “Would you like for me to get some sand?” “Correct approach, but you didn’t translate it.” She nodded. “Oh, Lawd, missums ma’am, you wan fo me to gets some sand?” “Good.” “ ‘Gets some’ is hard to say.” This from Glory, the oldest child. “The s’s.” “That’s true,” I said. “And it’s okay to trip over it. In fact, it’s good. You wan fo me to ge-gets s-s-some s-sand, Missum Holiday?” “What if they don’t understand?” Lizzie asked. “That’s okay. Let them work to understand you. Mumble sometimes so they can have the satisfaction of telling you not to mumble. They enjoy the correction and thinking you’re stupid. Remember, the more they choose to not want to listen, the more we can say to one another around them.” “Why did God set it up like this?” Rachel asked. “With them as masters and us as slaves?” “There is no God, child. There’s religion but there’s no God of theirs. Their religion tells that we will get our reward in the end. However, it apparently doesn’t say anything about their punishment. But when we’re around them, we believe in God. Oh, Lawdy Lawd, we’s be believin’. Religion is just a controlling tool they employ and adhere to when convenient.” “There must be something,” Virgil said. “I’m sorry, Virgil. You might be right. There might be some higher power, children, but it’s not their white God. However, the more you talk about God and Jesus and heaven and hell, the better they feel.” The children said together, “And the better they feel, the safer we are.” “February, translate that.” “Da mo’ betta dey feels, da mo’ safer we be.” “Nice.” —

HUCK CAUGHT ME as I was hauling sacks of chicken feed from the buckboard to the shed in the back of the Widow Douglas’s house. He was studying on something intently and I could tell he wanted to talk.

“What be on yo mind, Huck?”

“Prayers,” he said. “Do you pray?”

“Yessir, I prays all the time.”

“What do you pray fer?” he asked.

“I prays for all sorta things. I pray once that the lil’ girl February would get better when she be sick.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, she be better now.” I sat on the buckboard and looked at the sky. “I pray fer rain once.”

“Did it work that time?”

“It did rain, sho nuff. Not right away, but ’ventually.”

“Then how you know God done it?”

“Reckon I don’t. But don’t God do everything? Who else make it rain?”

Huck picked up a rock, studied it in his hand for a bit, then hurled it at a squirrel high on an elm branch.

“Wanna know what I thinks?”

Huck looked at me.

“I thinks praying is for the people round you what wants you to pray. Pray so Miss Watson and Widow Douglas hears you and ask Jesus for what you knows dey wants. Make yer life a sight easier.”

“Maybe.”

“Ever’ now and den toss in something like a new fishin’ pole or like dat so they can scold you.”

Huck nodded. “That makes sense. Jim, you believe in God?”

“Why, sho nuff I does. If dere ain’t no God, den how we get this here wonderful life? Naw, you run on and play.”

I watched as Huck ran on down the street and turned out of sight around the corner in front of Judge Thatcher’s big house. Old Luke came up behind me as I was about to hoist the last sack up on my shoulder.

“You startled me,” I said.

“Sorry about that.” He hopped up and sat his short body on the wagon bed. “What did that little peckerhead want?”

“That boy’s all right,” I said. “He’s just trying to figure things out. Like the rest of us, I guess.”

“Have you heard about that McIntosh brother down in St. Louis?”

I shook my head.

“Free man. Light like you. He got himself into a scuffle at the docks and the police came and got him. He asked what they were going to do to him for fighting. One of the police said they were probably going to hang him. The brother believed him. Why wouldn’t he? He pulled out his knife and cut them both.”

A white man walked up and for some reason studied the horse hitched to the wagon. Luke stopped talking. We tried to not make eye contact with the man. We had been talking, so we had to keep talking.

“Go on,” I said to Luke.

“Okee. So, blue gum monkey on up da alley jes lak Lucifer done bit on da broomstick. And dem charlies be down on him like white on rice. I means dey be on ’em lak dem bubbles on soap.”

I nodded.

“Hey,” the white man shouted.

“Suh?” I said.

“This here horse belong to Miss Watson?”

“Naw, suh. The buckboard be belonging to Miss Watson. Da horse be dat of Wida Douglas.”

“You think she wanna sell him?”

“I wouldn’t know dat, suh.”

“You ask her when you see her,” he said.

“Yessuh, I sho will.”

The man looked at the horse one more time, spread the animal’s lips with his fingers and then walked away.